The Spiked Heel

She did not consider herself that. She had begun showing her legs when she was fifteen, when she first realized she had something to show. She had abhorred the New Look when it popped onto the fashion scene, despising the long skirts that showed little more than her ankle. She’d cheated a little even then, wearing her skirts higher than most, but still not too high to be called unfashionable. And, oh, she had flirted, and she still flirted, and her legs were certainly her most valuable persuaders, but there was a vast difference between a girl who flirted occasionally and a girl who made it a profession. She showed her legs because they were good to look at, the way a girl with a thirty-eight bust favors low-cut blouses.

Well, in any case, there was no one to look at her legs now, not even Magruder. It was annoying, Aaron and Griff running around the factory costing samples like that. Of course, the samples were stunning, and, oh, that alligator lizard shoe had been a dream. In her mind, she formed a vague picture of herself modeling that shoe at the Guild Week showings, wearing a trim suit perhaps, a good Engish tweed maybe, or something with a man-tailored cut; those should go well with the reptile. She burst the bubble almost instantly, a little miffed because she knew her legs were a lot better than those of half the models Kahn used.

She took her purse from the desk drawer and reached for her lipstick, lipstick brush, and mirror. She touched up her lips idly, not feeling like working in an empty office. Working in an empty office was too much like work. She put the stuff back into her purse and then rummaged around among the items inside, as if she were seeing them for the first time. She fished out the identification card that had been issued to her just the day before. It had never occurred to her, before the card was issued, that anyone but a Julien Kahn employee would want to get into the factory. Besides, didn’t the watchmen know everyone who worked here?

And why would anyone want to sneak in? He certainly couldn’t sneak out again, not carrying stolen shoes or anything. Abruptly, she remembered the memo that had come around concerning the girl in Packing. That had been something, all right; why hadn’t the silly thing simply gone to Mauro in Wholesale Adjustment? He’d have fixed her with a pair of slightly damaged shoes at cost, and really the damage was usually so slight that no one could even notice it unless you pointed it out specifically. Well, perhaps the girl was an inborn crook; there were people like that, she supposed.

Perhaps that’s why the identification cards had been issued. Oh, not to prevent anyone from walking out with anything, because that was almost impossible anyway, although she had heard of girls walking out with shoes under their armpits, wearing heavy boxcoats, in the wintertime. But those were isolated examples, and she was sure the identification cards couldn’t stop something like that anyway. But supposing an I. Miller spy sneaked into the factory and stole all our patterns? Or someone from Andrew Geller’s. Now, that was something to contend with. Now that every employee had an identification card, it would be a little difficult for any unauthorized person to get in.

She looked at the celluloid card. The front of the card was printed with a very colorful design, and she studied that now. The card was mostly red, except for a white disk in its center. The red was a bright cheerful scarlet, and the white glistened like snow. In the center of the white disk, the artist had placed the bold black silhouette of a fashion shoe. It was really quite effective, and certainly distinctive. She turned the card over and read the back with her name and description, together with the department in which she worked. Of course, the watchmen never looked at the back of the card. During the past few days, she had only flashed it at the gate. Still, there was something very nice about having the card in her purse, like belonging to a sorority or something; oh, that was silly, but it made her feel that way nonetheless, sort of proud that she worked for Julien Kahn. She shrugged and put the card back into her purse.

When she looked up, McQuade was standing there. He gave her a start, and she sucked in an involuntary gasp.

“I’m sorry,” he said, smiling. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You came up so quietly, Mr. McQuade,” she said, letting out her breath.

He glanced around the office quickly. “All alone, Marge?”

“Yes,” she said, thankful for his presence. “Isn’t it a drudge?”