J.T. Edson - Blonde Genius

Rosalie paid little attention to the familiar sights of the library, although some of the more glaring and clashing colours did nothing to lessen her headache. Instead, her full, horrified attention was focused upon the large, ornate desk. Or rather at her husband and the small, neat, dapper Anacropolis, who were standing at it with their backs towards her.

There could no longer be any slight, lingering fragile hope that Rosalie had misunderstood the remarks she had overheard. Or that the words had been said in a spirit of jesting.

Not when Fiorelli was holding out and admiring Miss Benkinsops highly prized family heirloom.

Rosalie would have recognised the wonderfully made, flawlessly set-up necklace in a collection of similar pieces from all over the world.

“I wonder what this’s worth?” Fiorelli commented.

“More than either of us, or the whole Syndicate could pay,” Anacropolis replied. “You’re sure she can’t come up with the money in time?”

“Not a hope of it,” Fiorelli declared. “Saunders cleared every last cent and all her jewellery out of the safe.”

A shudder ran through Rosalie and the hall seemed to swim before her eyes.

Was there no end to the depths of depravity to which her “husband” would be willing to sink?

“Has she any other resources she can tap?” Anacropolis inquired.

“Not if your sources of information are correct. You said that she’d spent everything, except for the schools Petty Cash fund, on the improvements.”

“That’s what my daughter said in one of her letters home.”

Rosalie was aghast at the words. More so as Melina Anacropolis was a prefect and the captain of the school’s hockey team.

“Smart kid you’ve got, Aristocle,” Fiorelli praised.

“She didn’t know what I’d do!” Anacropolis barked. “And I hope to God she never finds out that I used a piece of confidential gossip from her to her mother.”

Relief flooded through the listening “housewife”, At least that exonerated Melina. Rosalie was pleased to hear it, for the girl was in Mata Hari House, of which she herself had been captain.

“Hell’s fire!” Fiorelli ejaculated. “What if she borrows the money to pay us from Spender, Finnegan or Costello? Any one of them would hand it over if she asked. Or a dozen others I could name.”

“They would,” confirmed Anacropolis.

“Then we’re sunk!” Fiorelli croaked, being aware of how that would effect his career with the Syndicate.

“You don’t know Miss Benkinsop,” Ariacropolis said contemptuously. “Sure, Maxie Spender, or any of the others would lend her the money. As much as she wanted to ask for. So would the Syndicate, under different circumstances. But a lady like her wouldn’t ask anybody for a loan.”

“She won’t?”

“No, she won’t.”

“I would, in her place.”

“ She’s not you,” Anacropolis pointed out. “Miss Benkinsop would do anything rather than borrow money from any of us.”

“You’re right enough,” Fiorelli admitted, after a few seconds thought. He looked relieved. “She wouldn’t want to be in debt to them, any more than to us.”

“That’s right,” Anacropolis agreed. “She’d know that she couldn’t ask for a loan without folks wanting to know why she needs the money. Even if she didn’t tell them the truth, there’d be a lot of speculation and somebody might come up with the right answers. If that happened, Alfie, the Mediterranean Syndicate’s name would be mud all through the Profession. And you know what that would lead to.”

Standing miserably in the hall, Rosalie knew that every word she had heard was all too true. Miss Benkinsop’s pride would prevent her from asking the assistance of her friends in a matter of money. What was mote, she would realise how Fiorelli’s misbehaviour would be regarded by his social equals throughout the Profession. It would cause industrial strife and unrest at an international level. Being aware of how that would disrupt the smooth running of the school, and have an adverse effect upon the lives of many of her pupils, the headmistress would accept any sacrifice to avert it.

Hot with anger, barely able to control her feverish temper, Rosalie wished that she had not concentrated on the Arts while at school. If she had been a member of the Debating Society, and had kept up its standards of physical and mental training, she could have rushed into the library and tried to take back Miss Benkinsop’s property by force.

Lacking the necessary requirements for such a forthright line of action, Rosalie had just enough control over her emotions to restrain her rage. If she was to help her headmistress, and the good old school, in their time of travail, she must be more subtle and cunning than forceful.

A vague, but growing plan started to creep into Rosalie’s still throbbing head. In fact, her subdued physical condition had given the notion its impetus.

Hearing the sound of the front door’s handle being operated, Rosalie turned. She darted swiftly and silently across the floor. By the time Carrela had stepped into the entrance hall, she was on the stairs and giving the impression that she was only just descending.

“Good morning, Mr. Carrela,” Rosalie called, somewhat louder than absolutely necessary. Doing so hurt her head, but she regarded that as a small enough price to pay for the old school. “Is Mr. Fiorelli outside?”

“I’m in here, Rosie.” Fiorelli yelled from the library and she thought that she could hear, the sound of the desk’s drawer being opened, then closed.

“Are you busy. Alfie?” Rosalie inquired, striving to keep her voice at its usual loving and respectful pitch.

“No,” Fiorelli answered, after a pause in which Rosalie surmised that he had glanced at Anacropolis for a hint of how he should respond. “Come on in.”

Entering the library, using all her self-control to prevent her anger and perturbation from showing, Rosalie forced a smile to her lips as she looked at the two men. She was not unduly surprised to notice that the necklace was no longer in evidence. Nor was the portrait of Fiorellis ancestor moved along the wall to expose the front of the large, guaranteed burglar-proof safe which lay behind it.

“Good morning, Aristocle,” Rosalie greeted. “I didn’t know you were here.”

“I just dropped by to invite you and Alf out tonight,” Anacropolis replied, looking her over with polite approval. “That is, if you feel up to it, You don’t look your usual bright and beautiful self this morning.”

“I’m not,” Rosalie conceded, speaking from the depths of her heart. However, she did not offer the true explanation for her disturbed state of mind. “You know what it’s like at a Debating Evening, Aristode?”

“You’re so right I do,” grinned Anacropolis. “I wish I could have flown over with you. Was Matron in her usual excellent form at the Dispensary?”

“She was so good, I nearly flew back without waiting for Alfie and the jet,” Rosalie replied. Melina sends you and her mum her love. And Pea—Miss Pedlar says to tell you she’s doing ever so well in the Folk Dancing class.”

A look of consternation and worry crept across Anacropoli’s face at the reference to his daughter and her scholastic career.

“Go on, you ugly Greek bastard,” Rosalie continued mentally, using the kind of uncouth ethnic colloquialism which her former headmistress had always, correctly, abhorred. “Suffer! You deserve to, after what you’ve done to Benkers.”

At that moment, there was an unusually loud outburst from the watch-dogs. Their already blood-curdling snarls increased in volume and were augmented by human screams of pain. Shouts of alarm added to the noise. They combined to convince Rosalie that her skull was in imminent danger of exploding. Fortunately for her scheme the disturbance brought a natural reaction.