J.T. Edson - Blonde Genius

“What’s wrong. Penny?” Porter asked, becoming aware that the head girl was standing at the wall and trying to open the communicating shutter to the Adjutant’s office.

“I was just wondering what’s behind here,” the girl replied truthfully.

“The room you’ve just left. It’s fastened on the other side.” Porter explained, then indicated Amanda’s paper. “This tells me all I’ll need to know all right, but—”

“I’m sure Miss Benkinsop can explain matters far better than Penelope or I, sir.” Amanda replied.

On her return, the headmistress was attired in a similar manner to the girls. There was no clue to what lay under her cover-alls. Saying that they would have to get going, Porter escorted them to the airfield. On the way, he learned why they had selected parachuting as the means of reaching their destination. Admitting that he could think of no other way out, he said that he would do as they wished.

“I’ll have to get the kite hack here in good time tomorrow,” the Group Captain went on, indicating a Vickers VC 10 which stood at the end of the runway. “He wants it back and you know how impatient these naval types can be.”

At first, Miss Benkinsop failed to catch the full implication behind the officer’s words. Then she looked more closely at the aircraft.

“ Pongo! ” the headmistress gasped. “If this is your idea of a joke—!”

“Won’t it do, Amelia?” Porter asked, grinning broadly at her consternation. “It should be all right. I’ve had the ground crew wind up the rubber bands and everything.”

“Y-you know what I mean!” Miss Benkinsop answered heatedly, directing her reluctant feet after the cheerful officer and delighted girls.

“This kite has to be flight tested, before we send it back,” Porter explained. “It wouldn’t do for Him to have to hop out and start cranking her up if the engines conked at twenty thousand feet, would it?”

“You’ve been watching those dreadful little men on the B.B.C.’s satire shows, Pongo,” Miss Benkinsop accused.

“I just thought I’d save the taxpayers some money and kill two birds with one stone,” Porter elaborated. “And, lets face it, old girl, who’d suspect one of these to be carrying civilian passengers?”

“You’re right, I suppose,” Miss Benkinsop conceded.

For all her usual calm assurance, the headmistress felt a little perturbed. Amanda, too, showed that she was very impressed as she boarded the aircraft; which belonged to the Queens Flight.

Only Penelope displayed no consternation. It took a lot to get that little Cockney sparrow down.

“’Ere, Amanda,” she said, as they boarded the VC 10. “I wonder if ’Es left one of ’Is polo sticks on board?”

While it appeared that He had not left a polo mallet, or any other type of memento aboard, the flight proved to be very comfortable and uneventful. Of course, in view of its usual passengers, one might have expected the facilities to be of a superior variety.

The two girls rested and tried, without success, to discover what kind of garments Miss Benkinsop—who they tended to regard as somewhat stuffy and old fashioned—considered correct for paying an informal visit to the Mediterranean Syndicate’s executive villa. While excellent as disguises to get them into military establishments, the uniforms would be most inappropriate. So they had already been removed and, carefully folded to prevent undue creasing, reposed in the kitbags with the other specialised items that might be needed.

Thinking about the equipment brought a pout to Penelope’s lips.

“I wish I’d got me Tommy-gun wiv me,” the head girl remarked.

“And I explained why you couldn’t,” Miss Benkinsop replied. “I don’t approve of such noisy contraptions, although I will admit that they have their uses. But a lady never takes one when she is making an informal visit.”

“It’s not as if we’ve been invited to go hunting, or anything,” Amanda went on, being in complete agreement with the headmistress on the matter. “We just want to slip in quietly, attend to our business, and leave with as little disturbance and inconvenience as possible.”

“Yes, I know that,” Penelope conceded. “It’s just that I don’t want that cat Lorraine Capone mucking about wiv it while I’m away. The last time she scratched the varnish on the butt.”

“I recollect that you and she had words about it,” Miss Benkinsop commented dryly. “She was in the San. for a week.”

“Only six days, ma’am,” Penelope objected, wincing and moving uneasily in her comfortable seat at the thought of the painful interview she had had with the headmistress after the incident.

“Excuse me, Miss Benkinsop,” Amanda put in, having glanced at her wristwatch. “I think it is time we were getting ready to leave.”

In the pilot’s cabin, the navigator had just reached the same conclusion. However, he had made use of a variety of sophisticated equipment and instruments. Amanda had enjoyed herself by working out the same problems from memory, having been permitted to go up front earlier and study the maps.

Placing on their helmets, Miss Benkinsop and the girls adjusted and secured the padded chin-straps. Then they affixed and buckled their parachutes into position. With that done, each of them swung her kitbag so that it would hang before her. By the time they had finished, Porter was coming from the pilots compartment. Surprise showed on his face when he found that his passengers had anticipated the advice he was bringing.

“I was just coming to tell you to get ready,” the Group Captain said. “How did you know?”

“Amanda said it was time,” Penelope answered.

“It was just a fortunate guess, sir,” the School Swot insisted, demurely. “Do you wish us to take our places for leaving?”

“You may as well,” Porter admitted.

“Thirty seconds to dropping, sir,” came the second pilot’s voice over the intercom. “Open door and make ready.”

With the door open, Porter watched Penelope. Miss Benkinsop and Amanda take their places. Not one of them showed the slightest concern over what lay ahead. He had expected as much from the headmistress, for she had made more than one parachute jump at night during the War. Most of them had, as he knew, been into German-occupied territory.

Not that, when Porter came to think of it, the girls calm attitudes were too surprising. After all, they had had Amelia Benkinsop to mould their characters and develop their strength of will. It was a pity that she did not extend her activities to the Sons of gentlefolk, the Group Captain mused. Or that Dawn had failed to produce a daughter who could have been placed in Amelia’s care.

“Ten—Nine—Eight—” counted the second pilots voice. “Seven—Six—Five—Four—Three—Two—One—Go!”

“Pocahontas!” Penelope whooped delightedly, using the Indian’s name which Miss Benkinsop had selected as more suitable than the traditional ‘Geronimo’ for use by lady parachutists.

With the word still ringing in Porters ears, the head girl was gone out of the door. She took her departure in as stylish a fashion as he had ever seen.

“Pocahontas!” Miss Benkinsop repeated, following Penelope in an, if possible, even more stylish and graceful manner.

“Pocahontas!” Amanda continued, sounding like a frightened pixie, and stepping forward with a steady stride to make her exit.

With the precision of a trained sky-diving team, Miss Benkinsop, Amanda and Penelope plunged down through the darkness. Above them, the VC 10 droned onwards in the direction of the R.A.F.’s base at Akrotiri. Below lay the black mass of Troodos Mountains western slopes. Only the lights of the villa glowed to relieve the gloom and act as a guiding point for their descent.