J.T. Edson - Blonde Genius

FOLK DANCING CLASS

Miss P. Pedlar

Stepping cautiously from the Jaguar, Saunders tucked the walkie-talkie into his left-side jacket pocket. He had followed the conversation and assumed that Miss Benkinsop was now safely down in the basement of the house. If he knew anything about the school—and he believed that he did—everybody else would be attending the Debating Evening.

“Debating,” Saunders thought. “That’s a bloody bright name for—”

Putting aside his thoughts on that aspect of the school’s life. Saunders passed through the main gates. With so many parents and other visitors around—a Benkinsop’s Debating Evening ranked as a highly important social occasion among its pupils’ parents and their associates—he ought to be safe enough. The alarm systems which Amanda Tweedle had installed would most likely be switched off. However, one could never be sure of what new devices the School Swot might have rigged up.

Saunders concluded that, whatever traps for the unwary—or unwanted—visitor might be scattered around the gardens, he ought to be safe enough as long as he stuck to the driveway. Clad in a stylish dinner jacket, with the required black bow tie—no modern multi-coloured nonsense was permitted by the headmistress—only his light-weight, specially designed “climbing-shoes” would have set him apart from the invited guests.

Slightly over average height, Saunders had the ideal build for his chosen line of work. He was very strong, exceptionally fit, with long arms, wiry but powerful fingers and small, almost prehensile feet capable of gaining support from the smallest crack or protuberance. Around his waist, under his dinner jacket, was a belt holding the tools which, he hoped, would open Miss Benkinsop’s safe.

First, however, he had to wait until the headmistress and her guest were on their way to witness the Main Debate. Once that happened, there was no danger of her returning to the study. Nor would anybody else be likely to arrive and interrupt Saunders in his work.

CHAPTER TWO

Lilting melodiously, the strains of Greensleeves, played by a string quartet, came to Fiorelli’s ears as he followed Miss Benkinsop into the classroom devoted to the art of Folk Dancing; as practised by the school. The room itself. he noticed, was set out to supply the correct atmosphere for the class’s pupils. Halting just inside, as Miss Benkinsop had done, he stared with rapt attention to the stage. On it, a student was rendering an aesthetically pleasing variety of Folk Dance.

Standing at her guest’s side, Miss Benkinsop absentmindedly beat time with an expressive forefinger. Watching Clarissa’s rendition of the dance, the headmistress’s mind turned back to the War years. It had been in Copenhagen that she had demonstrated her own ability in that particular type of Folk Dance, holding entranced the Nazi garrison’s highest-ranking officers while members of the Danish Resistance—to which M.I.5 had attached her at that period—carried out a vitally important mission.

Suddenly Miss Benkinsop was jolted from her reverie. She frowned at the girl on the stage and started to move forward.

“No! No! Clarissa dear, that will never do!” Miss Benkinsop protested, as she passed the half a dozen or so other pupils who were seated at the tables which formed part of the classroom’s decor. “The fans should be used to titillate the appetite. To encourage and attract by partial exposure and cunning semi-concealment. You, my dear girl, are waving yours like a sailor sending a rude message by semaphore.”

About to insert a similar comment, Miss Pedlar had turned off the record-player on hearing her superior’s voice. Although she wore plain horn-rimmed spectacles and tweed two-piece, Miss Pedlar looked nothing like anybody’s conception of the music teacher at an exclusive public school. Her platinum-blonde hair, beautiful face, elegantly curved figure, shapely legs in sheer black stockings and four-inch high heels suggested—correctly—that she might have made her mark in one or another of the Folk Dancing arts.

Faced with such a rebuke, Clarissa stood bashfully. She held the large white fans before her, obviously taking in every word that Miss Benkinsop said.

“With your permission, Miss Pedlar,” the headmistress continued, “I’ll endeavour to show Clarissa what I mean.”

“I wish you would, Miss Benkinsop,” Miss Peaches Pedlar answered unhesitatingly. “I used to work with bubbles and it’s not quite the same thing.”

Gathering up Clarissa’s robe, for she was all too aware that there was a gentleman—and not even a pupil’s father—present. Miss Benkinsop handed it to the girl before taking the fans. A sixth-former. Clarissa was a black-haired girl of considerable attraction. Before she had had time to don her robe and leave the stage, Fiorelli had seen enough of her—clad in the traditional Folk Dancer’s costume of G-string and pasties*—to decide that she was well suited to that particular branch of the arts.

As Miss Pedlar started the record-player and the strains of Greensleeves filled the air, Miss Benkinsop began to dance. Touching another switch, the music teacher set a stereophonic system into action. From all around the room, came the usual sounds that might have been heard in the type of establishment which catered for lovers of Folk Dancing.

On the stage, Miss Benkinsop commenced a very expert demonstration of how a pair of fans should be used as an adjunct to that particular form of dance. The long-flowing fronds took on a life of their own, rippling and pulsating; swooping, caressing, now promising—yet never quite reaching the point of—a complete revelation of what lay beyond them.

Nobody could say Fiorelli was an over-imaginative man. He held his present high office in the Mediterranean Syndicate by virtue of dogged persistence, complete ruthlessness and considerable organising ability. For all that, watching Miss Benkinsop perform, he mentally removed the elegant tweeds and whatever lay beneath them. He visualised her dressed—or undressed—as a Folk Dancer should be. Having studied her carefully all evening, with the eye of a connoisseur, he had plenty of material with which to indulge in his fantasies. Give him his due, he had come up with a very accurate picture of what he would have seen if she had been performing the demonstration in status quo.

Sweating freely and joining in the sound effects, to the amusement of the members of the class. Fiorelli almost jumped when Miss Benkinsop culminated her demonstration by throwing her arms wide above her head and allowing the fans to at last reveal all. With something like a shock and experiencing a severe disappointment, the man became aware of her true appearance. Leaning against the wall, he took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow.

That’s roughly what I mean, dear, Miss Benkinsop announced, waving a depreciatory hand in response to the spontaneous burst of applause which rose from every other occupant of the room. She stepped from the stage and handed the fans to the admiring Clarissa, “Now you try.”

“Yes, Miss Benkinsop,” the girl replied, and stepped on to the stage with the determined mien of one who planned to do her best.

“Don’t keep the class too long, Miss Pedlar,” Miss Benkinsop requested. “I’m sure they all want to go and support Penelope in the Main Debate.”

Strolling back to Fiorelli, the headmistress watched him once more mop his brow as he opened the door.

“Do you find it a little warm in here, Mr. Fioreili?” she inquired as they left the room.

Wondering what the hell was happening, Saunders crouched behind a bush and studied the unilluminated front of the building. He did not like what he saw.