J.T. Edson - Blonde Genius

“My good man,” Miss Benkinsop replied, in the chilling tone which had quelled many a recalcitrant pupil, “we have no desire to get away with anything. ”

“Then why the hardware?” Fiorelli demanded, mopping his brow with his hand.

“I just wanted to make sure that you would listen to my proposal,” Miss Benkinsop explained.

“All right,” Fiorelli grunted, looking from Miss Benkinsop’s to Amanda’s revolvers and back. Neither weapon was actually pointing at him and his men, but that did not render the menace any less real. “Talk ahead.”

“I was going to say, when I was so rudely interrupted by you and your ill-mannered louts, that I could not pay you at this moment. If you give me a reasonable amount of time, I feel sure that we could ascertain who perpetrated this outrage, secure the return of my property, and then I will pay you.”

“It’s not Syndicate policy to give time in cases like this,” Fiorelli protested. In fact, our regulations strictly forbid it.”

“That isn’t quite correct, sir,” Amanda remarked, in the most apologetic manner. “They state that a reasonable period of time may be allotted, providing the debtor can offer reasonable security.”

“What—?” Fiorelli gurgled. “How do you—”

“On the other hand, sir,” the girl continued, as if the interruption had not been made. “According to Paragraph Seven, Article Twenty-eight of the Mediterranean Syndicates regulations, no member will knowingly commit any act that will be likely to cause friction with the business organisations of another country.”

“How the he—!” Fiorelli began, but caught Miss Benkinsop’s disapproving glare and gesture with the revolver and revised his words. “How do you know about our regulations?”

“I had the honour of making them up for your predecessor, or his, I can’t remember which,” Miss Benkinsop answered. “And Amanda translated them into Italian, Spanish. Greek, Turkish and three Arabian dialects.”

“My Turkish translation wasn’t very good,” Amanda confessed, shame-facedly. “I made two errors in my conjunctive adjectives.”

“I’m still under the impression that one of them was correct in its context,” Miss Benkinsop objected. “But, to return to our present business—”

“I don’t see how I could give you any time, Miss Benkinsop,” Fiorelli put in, nervously eyeing the revolvers.

“Mr. Spender, Mr. Finnegan, of the Chicago Finnegans, and Mr. Costello from Madrid were asking if you would come to the Dispensary and drink Tess’s health with them, Miss Benkinsop,” Amanda remarked, as if just recollecting a message. “I wondered if, perhaps, you might consult one of them on your best line of action?”

A cold, disgruntled scowl came to Fiorelli’s face. Each of the names mentioned by the School Swot was prominent in the Profession and belonged to an organisation that would he just as interested as the Mediterranean Syndicate in laying hands on such a lucrative business as Miss Benkinsop’s Academy. Certainly, they would not approve of any other party taking control. As Amanda had pointed out, the Regulations were most emphatic about avoiding clashes of interests with their foreign competitors.

“All right,” the executive sighed. “How long do you want?”

“Will seven days be sufficient, Amanda?” Miss Benkinsop asked.

“I believe so. Miss Benkinsop,” the School Swot answered, sounding like a particularly determined sprite.

“Seven days it is,” Fiorelli declared, before any greater period could be suggested. “But will you pay us then?”

“You have my word that, if I don’t, the school is yours,” Miss Benkinsop stated. “Does that satisfy you?”

“It would satisfy me personally,” Fiorelli replied, trying to ingratiate himself. “But my board of directors would expect me to fetch back something in writing. You know how they are?”

“All too well,” the headmistress admitted. “Will you prepare the appropriate document. Amanda?”

“Yes, ma’am,”’ the girl consented and strolled to the desk. “How many languages do you want it in, Mr. Fiorelli?”

“Will English and Italian be too much for you?” the executive asked.

“I believe I can cope,” Amanda assured him.

“Perhaps you would accompany me to the Dispensary, Mr. Fiorelli? Miss Benkinsop suggested, determined to play the gracious hostess no matter how she felt about her guest of honour and his employees. “That will allow Amanda to concentrate without distractions.”

“Sure, Miss Benkinsop,” Fiorelli grinned, satisfied that there was no way in which the headmistress—even with the School Swot’s assistance—could locate the perpetrator of the outrage, or recover her property. He could afford to be generous. We’ll do that. No hard feelings, I hope.

“Not if you have Mr. Carrela and Mr. Schulze pay for the broken window, Miss Benkinsop replied.

“That’s hardly fair, ma’am,” Amanda commented, taking sheets of paper from another of the desk’s drawers. The pane was cracked in one corner. That’s why I selected it.”

“They can still pay for a new pane,” Fiorelli ruled. “Serves them right, too.”

After the grown-ups had left the room, Amanda sat at the desk. Taking a pen in each hand, she composed two legal documents which—on examining them the following day—the Syndicate’s senior legal adviser claimed could not be faulted under the laws of Britain or Cyprus.

With that work completed, Amanda spent several minutes examining the room. She scrutinised the safe and the portrait, then went to the window. Looking down, she checked up on a few facts which her memory recollected. While there were a few loose ends in her train of thought, she had a very shrewd idea of the whole sequence of events daring the evening.

Not until the guests had departed did the opportunity arise for Amanda to discuss the matter with her headmistress. They and the rest of the staff had seen the last of the cars depart. Allowing the other women to precede herself and Amanda along the driveway from the main gates, Miss Benkinsop brought up the subject.

“How did Penelope lose, Amanda?”

“I believe she was—I think the word is—‘nobbled’ ma’am.”

“I had suspected as much,” Miss Benkinsop admitted. “But how was it done? Certainly not by Miss Hammerschlagen.”

“No, ma’am,” the School Swot agreed, then showed signs of distress. “I fear that I’m to blame.”

“You, child?”

“Yes, ma’am. You may remember some time ago, I concocted a drug for that friend of yours in Newmarket; when he wished to play a practical joke upon one of his horse-racing compatriots?”

“Of course!” Miss Benkinsop agreed. “It was most successful, be assured me.”

“Was it?” Amanda asked, showing pleasure.

“Entirely. It acted perfectly and was completely undetectable. Just as you said it would be.”

“I’m afraid that I fibbed a little when I said that, ma’am,” Amanda confessed guiltily. “Provided one reaches the recipient quickly enough, one can see that the right pupil is slightly dilated. And the left pulse’s rate is some eight beats a minute slower than the rights. The effect only lasts for a few seconds, but it is quite discernible—”

“One is hardly likely to carry out such tests on a horse,” Miss Benkinsop pointed out. “I don’t believe that you fibbed and my friend most assuredly had no complaints. The traces soon go?”

“Within thirty seconds of the drug taking effect, they are starting to disappear. I was only just in time to see them.”

“But how did they inject the drug?”

“I devised a version of the Javanese b1ow-gun, camouflaging it as a cigarette-holder,” Amanda explained and produced such an item from the pocket of her blouse. “I—er—borrowed this from Mr. Schulze’s pocket while I was acquiring his Luger.”