J.T. Edson - Blonde Genius

Further conversation was precluded by the arrival of Miss Benkinsop, Fiorelli and Spender. Sensing that the Main Debate would soon be starting, the other guests headed for their seats.

“I’m pleased you’re looking so well, Rosalie,” Miss Benkinsop said.

“It’s the climate in Cyprus that does it,” Rosalie answered, shaking hands. “Alf and I have a villa there, you know.”

Watching the shapely and very beautiful “Mrs.” Fiorelli, Amanda could hardly hold down a smile. Clad in an exclusive Dior creation, wearing the most costly set of jewellery in the room, envied by every other guest for her social prominence, Rosalie still acted like a third former being called to account before the headmistress for misbehaviour.

After exchanging greetings with other guests, Miss Benkinsop sat in the centre seat of the north-side row. Fiorelli was at her right, Spender to her left. Amanda was placed between Fiorelli and Rosalie.

“Don’t you use this place as a gym any more?” Fiorelli inquired, looking around and noticing the apparently permanent manner in which the rows of seats were secured to the floor.

“Why shouldn’t we?” Miss Benkinsop countered.

“It must take you hours to shift this lot,” Fiorelli explained, waving a hand at the dais and seats.

“Not really,” corrected the headmistress. “Amanda designed and we had installed, a simple mechanism. When one throws a lever in the basement, the floor revolves in sections. The dais sinks down and its lighting canopy forms part of the gyms floor. The seats are swung underneath until they are required again. It makes cleaning up after a Debating Evening so much easier, too. All the staff need to do is sweep up the rubbish which falls into the basement.”

“What happens if somebody throws the switch, as a rag, halfway through a Debate?” Rosalie asked, thinking back to some of the equally irresponsible pranks she had played as a third- and fourth former.

“I should be most annoyed with whoever did it,” Miss Benkinsop replied. “Not that it could happen. Amanda had rather cunningly camouflaged the lever and protected it from mischievous fingers with a couple of her foolproof devices.”

“That’s a relief,” Rosalie sighed. “Unless they’ve changed since my day, I know what the Lower Third are like.”

“They haven’t changed too much,” said Miss Benkinsop. “Perhaps they’re not quite so inventive. Has Rosalie told you how she put itching powder in the previous English teacher’s ‘hoisting knickers’, Mr. Fiorelli?”

“No,” the man grinned. “What happened?”

“The results were—unusual,” Miss Benkinsop smiled. “Of course, amusing as it was, I had to discover the culprit and see that justice was done.”

“I couldn’t sit down for two days,” Rosalie admitted. “And wearing my G-string at Prep. was agony.” Then. seeking for a change of subject, she turned her attention to the School Swot. “What do you think of Penny’s chances, Amanda?”

“Well,” the girl answered, thoughtfully. “Tess is the more weighty debater, but she lacks Penny’s command and finesse.”

“Did you train her?” Spender wanted to know.

“Er—” Amanda replied, looking bashful and modest. “I gave her a few hints.”

“We have complete faith in Miss Hammerschlagen,” Miss Benkinsop explained. “But, in view of the importance the girls attach to the event, I considered it advisable that Arnanda should instruct her.”

“So you really fancy Penelope’s chances, Miss Benkinsop?” Fiorelli asked, grabbing the opportunity which the conversation was presenting to him.

“Implicitly!” stated the headmistress.

“Five thousand pounds-worth?” Fiorelli hinted.

“At least that much,” Miss Benkinsop replied.

“Higher, then?” Fioreui suggested, watching the adjudicator and contestants entering the dais.

“Well, as a general rule I don’t approve of wagering on inter-school events,” Miss Benkinsop warned. “But I feel that one should always show that one has faith in the girls.”

“Shall we say ten thousand, then?”

“Certainly. Its a nice, round sum.”

“That’s a lot of money for the Syndicate to lose, Alf,” Spender commented.

“I know Mr. Fiorelli can afford to lose it,” the headmistress put in calmly. “And, correct me if I’m wrong, Amanda, I believe the school’s Petty Cash Fund will just Cover it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Amanda agreed, having spent all of a second marshalling her facts. “With tonight’s takings, Petty Cash stands at ten thousand and thirteen pounds, seventy-eight pence. We expended rather heavily upon the improvements to the gym.”

“Ten thousand it is then,” Fiorelli declared, holding out his hand.

“No hard feelings when you lose?” Miss Benkinsop inquired, sealing the arrangement with a hand-shake.

“None at all,” Fiorelli assured her. “How about you?”

“I don’t really see any way I can lose,” Miss Benkinsop smiled. “But, in the unlikely event that I should, I trust I know how to behave like an English gentlewoman.”

“If you’ve got money to throw away like that, Alf,” Spender remarked. “I might put up ten grand on young Penelope myself.”

“You’re on, Maxie,” Fiorelli declared.

At that moment, the tannoy system boomed out its announcement of the Main Debate, Before settling back in his seat to watch, Fiorelli glanced to where Garibaldi was sitting. Catching the eye of the Syndicate executive, the Italian gave a knowing wink and gestured quickly with his cigarette lighter. The by-play had gone unnoticed.

Having placed the walkie-talkie in his jacket pocket, Gus Saunders made ready for his part in the Mediterranean Syndicate’s take-over bid. A glance at his wristwatch showed him that the five minutes had elapsed. Removing the jacket, he folded it and placed it on the ground under the bush.

Approaching the side of the mansion, with all the wary alertness of a hunter stalking some easily frightened game—or the watchful readiness for flight of a deer at the height of the hunting season—he paused beneath its unilluminated wall. For all his other failings, he was an artisan in his main line of work. In fact, if he had not been successful in applying for the soft- and hard-drugs concession at all the left-wing protest meetings, he might have qualified—by his expertise—for a place on at least the second row. So, as he stood and gazed upwards, it was with the eye of an extremely capable specialist.

Nothing about his close-range scrutiny caused him to revise the opinion which he had formed on reaching his place of concealment. That wall would be a double-dyed bastard to climb. Just about the only good point was that the bottom of the study’s window was open. If it had been closed—

Being aware of the penalty for failure—no flight from England or safe haven at the Syndicates headquarters on Troodos Mountain in Cyprus—Saunders did not care to contemplate the effect that finding the window closed would have had on his arrangements.

Sucking in a deep breath, Saunders exercised his arms, legs and fingers. As he made his final examination, selecting the original points of his climb, he wondered what else Fiorelli had in mind. Sure, the theft of Benkinsop’s family jewels and the schools Petty Cash Fund would be a shattering blow. Yet it hardly seemed, to Saunders’ way of thinking, that it alone would be sufficient to make her turn over control of the place to the Syndicate.

Putting the matter from his thoughts, for he knew that he would require a clear head during the climb, Saunders reached for the first of his hand-holds.

CHAPTER FIVE

“Miss Benkinsop, Mr. and Mrs. Fiorelli, my lords, ladies and gentlemen, boomed a feminine voice over the tannoy system. Benkinsop’s Debating Society presents the Main Debate of the evening.”