J.T. Edson - Blonde Genius

Although satisfied that the girl was alone, for she closed the door without anybody else following her, the enforcers continued to stand in her way. Normally Amanda would have requested that they moved, or gone around them. Instead, she advanced in such a way that it became obvious she must pass between them. Grinning in anticipation, the men started to turn inwards.

On reaching them, Amanda behaved in a most brazen and completely untypical manner. Watching the School Swot, Miss Benkinsop decided to reprove her for her behaviour at a more appropriate moment. Squeezing through the gap between the enforcers. Amanda turned so that her frontal regions were pressed first against Carrela’s then, then against Schulze’s. It was a sensation neither man would ever forget—for more than one reason.

Stepping clear of Carrela and Schulze. with her hands demurely concealed behind her back, Amanda moved aside until she stood in the corner of the room. Her whole attitude was of respect for her elders and, like any well-bred young Benkinsopian. she did not speak until she was spoken to.

“Well. Amanda?” Miss Benkinsop prompted.

“Penelope is perfectly all right. ma’am,” the School Swot replied. “There’s nothing seriously wrong with her.”

To Fiorelli, it seemed that a longer, more meaningful message had been passed from the pupil to her headmistress. Always wary, which accounted for his long life and success in the Syndicate, he sensed danger. Catching the attention of his men, he flashed them a signal which snapped them from their rapturous scrutiny of the School Swot. Give them their due, the enforcers returned their thoughts to duty with considerable promptitude.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Fiorelli Miss Benkinsop stated coldly. But, under the circumstances, I am unable to pay you—”

Having observed her opening the drawer, Fiorelli and the enforcers had drawn their conclusions as to what lay inside. On hearing the words, they believed that they knew what was going to be said—or, more to the point, done— next.

Carrela’s and Schulze’s right hands flashed speedily under their jackets. Then the two normally unemotional faces displayed consternation, disbelief and alarm.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“Are these what you’re looking for, gentlemen?” Amanda inquired, in her most elfin manner, bringing each dainty hand into view enfolded about the black butt of a Luger automatic pistol.

With hands clawing ineffectually at the slits of their empty holsters, Carrela and Schulze stared horror-stricken at the beautiful girl—and their own weapons, which were in her grasp.

“What—?” Carrela gasped, removing his hand. “How—?”

“D-do you know what they are?” Schulze croaked, snatching his fingers away from the holster as if its leather was red hot.

“I believe they are German Pistole Modell 1908 ( Parabellum ),” Amanda replied briskly. “Commonly called ‘Lugers’, which is an Americanised corruption of Herr Leuger’s, the designer’s, name. Calibre nine millimetre. Standard issue four-inch barrels, overall length eight and a quarter inches, weight thirty ounces. Magazine capacity, eight rounds. Accurate range, seventy-five yards; maximum range, with the lowest-powered ammunition, approximately twelve hundred yards. The mechanism is operated by the force of the recoil, locked by a Maxim-type toggle-link. The muzzle velocity—”

“Take it easy, girlie,” Carrela warned, satisfied that she did know what “they” were and eyeing the Lugers in Amanda’s hands with trepidation. “They’re loaded!”

“Mmmm!” the School Swot replied pensively, as she moved away from the wall. “Are they?”

Turning gracefully to face the window, with her elbows tucked tightly against her sides, Amanda pointed the weapons barrels at it. Without elevating them beyond waist level, she squeezed both triggers at the same instant. Two holes, about three inches apart, appeared in the upper, left-hand pane of glass.

Time after time, while the three men stared in fascination, Amanda’s fore-fingers worked in unison. The toggle-link actions of the mechanisms rose and fell so swiftly that the eyes could scarcely follow the movements and the spent cartridge cases poured from the ejection slots in a continuous flow. Deftly she controlled the recoils, returning the muzzles to alignment after each detonation. Shot after shot thundered, merging into a harsh rattle more reminiscent of a machine gun firing than a pair of automatic pistols handled by a dainty, beautiful girl.

At last the magazines’ cartridge carriers rose and halted the forward movements of the toggle-links. The pistols had been emptied far quicker than either Carrela or Schulze, the Syndicate’s two best enforcers, would have believed possible.

Not that the pair gave much thought to Amanda’s speed right then. Instead, they were staring across the room at the two only slightly enlarged holes in the window’s upper left pane. Then they scanned the wall on either side of it, and subjected the ceiling to an equally careful scrutiny.

There was not another solitary bullet hole to be seen! Yet Carella and Schulze were all too aware that their weapons had not been loaded with blank cartridges!

“I say!” Amanda ejaculated daintily, offered the Lugers to their owners. “They were loaded. Weren’t they?”

Numbly, acting almost like automatons, Carrela and Schulze grasped the barrels of the Lugers; and immediately wished they had not. Due to the rapidity of Amanda’s firing, the metal was very hot to their touch. They released the weapons quicker than they had taken hold.

Recovering faster than his employees, Fiorelli said something very rude in his native tongue. It brought a blush to Amanda’s cheeks, for she spoke and understood Italian very fluently. Not content with offending the School Swot’s susceptibilities, he also made what might have been the start of a hostile gesture.

Miss Benkinsop’s hands dipped into the open drawer. They emerged carrying two revolvers of the general shape used by the heroes and villains of numerous Western movies. Retaining the weapon in her right hand, she tossed the other in the School Swot’s direction.

“Amanda,” the headmistress called calmly.

Barely taking her eyes from the enforcers, the girl reached for and caught the revolver by its butt. Her forefinger deftly slipped through the trigger guard and she hooked the web of her thumb over the spur of the hammer.

“I—er—believe that this one is loaded too, gentlemen,” Amanda remarked, looking at the big, heavy handgun as if unable to decide how such an uncouth object had come to be in her possession.

Neither enforcer had needed to have that fact pointed out to him. Staring instinctively at the front of the cylinder, they could see the dull, truncated cone shaped grey lead heads of fat bullets. Other factors started to creep through their thoughts. While, at first glance, the revolvers had appeared to be Colt Artillery Model Peacemakers, certain significant structural details sprang to their attention. Unless Carrela and Schulze did not know their business, that revolver was a Ruger Super Blackehawk, .44 Magnum in calibre; the most powerful handgun in the world.

After Amanda’s demonstration with the two Lugers, the enforcers felt disinclined to discover whether she was equally efficient in the use of the big revolver.

Nor, if it came to that was Fiorelli willing to challenge Miss Benkinsop’s right to hold a lethal weapon. Even without being so vulgar as to point it in his direction, the headmistress exuded a grim and deadly menace.

“Whatever you’re meaning to do,” Fiorelli blustered. “You won’t get away with it. The Syndicate will see to that.”