J.T. Edson - Blonde Genius

“What?” the executive growled. “With the crowd you’ve got here tonight?”

Once again, inadvertently but definitely, Fiorelli had overstepped the bounds of polite conversation and reached the dangerous marshlands of being ill-mannered, insulting and boorish.

“I’ll have you remember that they are the parents of my pupils, and my guests!” Miss Benkinsop answered, with such chilling disapproval that Fiorelli realised he had overstepped the mark. “In all the years this establishment has been open, there has never been an untoward incident within its walls.”

Standing at the right of the door, with Schulze leaning at the left, Carrela smirked and thought, “That’s what you think, lady.”

Having no desire to lengthen the time she was spending in such uncongenial company, Miss Benkinsop went to the Regency portrait. She could not help feeling puzzled by Fiorelli’s attitude. While he might merely be delighted by his good fortune in having made such successful wagers, she felt instinctively that he had some deeper, less innocent, reason for his obvious smug, self-satisfied pleasure.

Perhaps, she mused as she swung the portrait away from the wall, he was gloating over having successfully manipulated the result of the Debate in his own favour.

Unpalatable as such a thought might be, Miss Benkinsop had to admit that it might be true. Certainly Amanda’s whole attitude in the gym had implied that she was perturbed by the final events of the Debate.

If there should have been something underhanded, Miss Benkinsop had confidence in the School Swot’s ability to learn all the details. What happened next depended upon the strength of the evidence produced by Amanda. It would need to be cast-iron proof before Miss Benkinsop could take the appropriate action. Otherwise, the guests might believe that, unlikely as it would seem, she was trying to avoid settling a debt of honour.

Seeing nothing to hint that Saunders had paid her a clandestine visit, Miss Benkinsop twirled the safes dial to the required combination. She opened the door and glanced casually inside.

For a moment the full implications did not strike the headmistress.

“Oh well,” she was thinking. “It’s only money and the school can soon—”

With the sudden force of being kicked in the stomach by a previously docile and trusted hunter, Miss Benkinsop was struck by the full meaning of what lay before her eyes. She stared unbelievingly into the denuded safe. Only the various documents remained, items of value to nobody but herself. The money and—of vastly more importance to Miss Benkinsop’s way of thinking—her magnificent collection of jewellery had gone.

It was a shattering, devastating discovery!

One which would have struck a less strong character rigid.

It even produced a display of emotion from Miss Benkinsop.

Sucking in a deep breath, the headmistress stiffened as if she had suddenly been turned to stone. A low gasp of horror burst its way involuntarily from her lips. That, however, was the only sound she made.

Watching Miss Benkinsop’s every move, Fiorelli and his henchmen exchanged broad grins and winks when they observed how she reacted to the discovery of her loss. However, they felt slightly cheated, for they had expected a far greater exhibition of alarm and consternation.

Taking a moment to regain her composure, for it would never have done to exhibit an unseemly expression of her true feelings, Miss Benkinsop squared her shoulders and turned towards the men. Only the slightest narrowing of her eyes and minute tightening of her lips gave a hint of the sense of shock which had assailed her. In fact, the headmistress’s demeanour was so stolidly impassive that Fiorelli’s next comment—natural as it would have been if he was dealing with a less perfectly controlled woman—was practically an admission of guilty knowledge.

“What’s wrong, Miss Benkinsop?” the executive inquired, having schooled his swarthy features into a mask of what he believed to be scrupulous innocence.

“I’ve been robbed of everything.” the headmistress replied, with no more emotion than if she was inquiring after her visitors’ well-being.

“By God!” Fiorelli bellowed, simulating anger while his enforcers made equally angry noises in the background. “ I’ll take care of whoever’s done it?”

Seated alongside the pilot in the small, twin-engined aircraft which was winging its way through the night sky above the clouds, Gus Saunders looked nervously over his shoulder. The black document case was resting on the seat behind him. It was a most precarious and nerve-racking arrangement when he considered—as he was doing all the time—the nature of the case’s composition. No amount of assurances from the only other occupant of the machine could convince him that he was not in the most deadly danger.

“Where are we?” Saunders inquired quaveringly, trying to catch a glimpse of what lay below the clouds.

“Over the Channel,” replied the pilot; who had once been an ace in the Regia Aeronautica. He had, however, been shot down during the Battle of Britain and spent the remainder of the hostilities as a prisoner of war working in the officers mess of an R.A.F. fighter station. From his erstwhile enemies, he had cultivated a variety of tastes and expressions. “Had a wizard show over this way in ‘Forty-One. Bandits in every direction—I say, old fruit, why don’t you take your seat belt off?”

“N-no thanks,” Saunders replied, throwing another worried look at the case. “It’s not very warm in here.”

“Have it your way, old top.” the pilot drawled, dropping his hand to a red knob which he had so far studiously avoided touching. “It was about here that I was pranged by good old Duggie Bader.”

In actual fact, Wings had been shot down by an aggressive trainee gunner using the only weapon in an Avro Anson, but his version made it a better, more impressive story.

“Where?” Saunders asked, more to make conversation and turn his thoughts from the deadly case.

“You can’t see it too well from here,” Wings warned.

“Well,” Saunders said sarcastically. “I can hardly get out and take a look.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Wings replied and pressed the red knob. “Tally-ho, you chaps and all that rot.”

Actually Saunders did not hear the full speech. Following the dislodgement of the knob, there was a sharp, hard crack. The top of the cabin above the cat-burglar’s seat hinged upwards. Rising into the air, the sear carried its petrified passenger out through the opening. There was a shrill, terrified wail just before Saunders quit the aircraft, but the force of the slip-stream tore it away into nothing.

“You should be able to see where it happened on the way down,” Wings commented, drawing out the knob and causing the hinged section to return to its former position. “There’s service for you, old bean.”

Blissfully unaware that Fiorelli’s threat had—with perfect timing—just been fulfilled, Miss Benkinsop walked slowly back to her desk. Halting behind it, she drew open the right-hand drawer but neither put anything in, nor removed part of its contents.

Before any more could be said, there was a gentle knock at the door.

Without waiting for permission, whoever was outside prepared to enter.

Seeing the door opening, the enforcers moved around close together and faced it. Their right hands drifted upwards and across, ready to be inserted beneath the left arm-pits where the Lugers were awaiting their convenience. Neither man produced his weapon. Instead, seeing Amanda framed in the doorway, they allowed their hands to drop to their sides.

Stepping hesitantly into the study, the School Swot looked her usual sweet, gentle, beautiful and innocent self; conveying an impression that butter would have great difficulty in melting should she place some in her mouth.