The Spiked Heel

“What is your name?” McQuade asked stiffly.

“Martha Goldstein,” the woman said.

“Where do you work?”

“In Shipping, sir.”

McQuade reached into the bottom drawer of Manelli’s desk, pulling out a red shoe which he swiftly placed on the top of the desk.

“Did you ever see this shoe before?”

Martha Goldstein started at the shoe. She began nodding before she spoke. “I think so, sir.”

“Yes or no?” McQuade said, his voice rising.

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you take a pair of these shoes home from the factory?”

The woman’s eyes widened. She stared at McQuade in disbelief, her lip trembling a little. Griff felt an overwhelming embarrassment for the woman. She was old enough to be McQuade’s mother, and he was putting her through…

“Yes or no?” McQuade shouted. “Tell the truth!”

“No, sir. No, sir, I never—”

“You realize the penalty for lying?”

“Sir? Sir, I never—”

“Did you or did you not take a pair of these shoes home with you?”

“No, sir, I didn’t. I swear it, sir. I never stole anything in my life. I been with Julien Kahn for sixteen years, and you can ask Mr. Hengman if I ever touched anything that didn’t belong to me. I’m a good worker, sir, and I’ve never given anybody no trouble. I wouldn’t touch anything that didn’t belong to me, sir, you can ask Mr. Hengman, he’ll tell you, just call Mr. Hengman and ask him, that’s all you have to—”

“You may go,” McQuade said. “Griff, see that she doesn’t talk to the other women outside. That’ll be all, thank you.”

Griff rose hesitantly, not wanting to be a part of McQuade’s inquisition, not wanting the woman to think he was in any way associated with the bludgeoning she’d just received. He led her to the door and opened it for her, and then walked out past Cara, feeling this deep shame inside him, and wanting to say something to the woman, something to squelch his own shame, and something to let her know he was not in any way connected with this. He could think of nothing. He led the woman out, and on his way back, he heard McQuade say, “Bring in the next woman, Griff, if you please.”

He avoided the eyes of the Puerto Rican girl sitting on the edge of the easy chair nearest Manelli’s door.

“Will you come in, please?” he said softly.

The girl rose. She was a young girl, and her face was white with fear. She went into the office, and Griff closed the door behind her and then went to sit beside Manelli. He was seized with a desire to run away from all this, but at the same time he was morbidly curious, as if McQuade held a sinister magnetism for him from which he could not pull away. He glanced up at the desk and saw that McQuade had removed the shoe.

McQuade stared at the girl silently for several moments. The girl was visibly trembling. She was not a bad-looking woman, with small perfectly formed breasts beneath the thin smock she wore. Her legs would have been good if they were not so thin. There was a small, healing scratch on her right leg, and the scratch somehow made her seem more vulnerable to McQuade’s penetrating stare. McQuade looked her over from her head to her toes, scrutinizing her face, and then her body, examining her like a man ready to buy a slave on the open market. His gaze seemed to pierce the girl’s body. She raised her hand, covering her small breasts, and then dropped it suddenly.

McQuade changed his tactics.

“You know why you’re here, don’t you, miss?” he asked. His voice was low but forceful, like the thud of a rubber-headed hammer.

“No. No, I do not, señ... sir.”

“What is your name, miss?”

“Maria Theresa Diaz.”

“You stole a pair of shoes, didn’t you, Maria?” McQuade said softly.

Maria blinked at him.

“You did, didn’t you, Maria?” he said hypnotically. “You stole a pair of shoes from the company, didn’t you? Where do you work, Maria?”

“I work een Packin’,” she said. Her lips trembled and she could barely get the words out. Griff thought she would collapse on the carpet. He tensed himself, ready to leap for her when she started to fall.

“And that’s where you stole the shoes, isn’t it, Maria? Isn’t that true, Maria? You stole a pair of red shoes in the Packing Department, didn’t you? Didn’t you, Maria?” He brought the Flare pattern to the top of the desk in one fluid movement, almost as if the movement were a part of his low, rumbling speech. “This is the shoe you stole, Maria. We know you stole it, Maria. You did steal it, didn’t you? Didn’t you, Maria?”

The girl’s lips moved. She tried to speak, but no words came to her mouth. She kept her eyes on McQuade’s face, as if she could not pull them away. Her entire body strained in an effort to take her eyes from McQuade’s face, but she could not do it.

“You did steal them, Maria, didn’t you?” he asked slowly and quietly. “We know you stole them, Maria, so you can tell us about it. They’re very pretty shoes, Maria, and we know you stole them, so why don’t you just tell us about it? You did steal them, didn’t you, Maria?”