J.T. Edson - Blonde Genius

First Penelope, then Miss Benkinsop and finally Amanda pulled her rip-cord. With sharp cracks, the silken canopies opened above them. Clearly Penelope’s ‘little’ sister and her friends had not permitted levity to interfere with their duties, for everything went smoothly.

When making their plans, Miss Benkinsop and Amanda had taken into consideration the protective devices installed in the villa at the School Swat’s recommendation. So they had decided against finishing their descent within the building’s grounds. Having discussed the matter, they had concluded that their best landing place would be in a ravine about half a mile from their ultimate destination.

Passing between its edges. Penelope reached the ground. She hit with her knees and feet close together, rolling professionally. A little squeak of pain, instantly suppressed, broke from her. Then, while her companions came down within a few feet of each other, she set free her parachute. The other two had liberated themselves and come to their feet before they noticed that Penelope was still sitting on the ground.

“Are you all right, Penny?” Amanda gasped.

Showing their concern, the headmistress and the School Swot hurried towards the head girl. Much to their relief, she stood up.

“You aren’t hurt,” Miss Benkinsop inquired, in a solicitous manner. “Are you, dear?”

“Not too much, ma’am,” Penelope replied, rubbing at her rump. She turned an accusative gaze to the School Swot. “Now I know why you sent me out first, Amanda Tweedle. There was a dirty great rock where I landed. Cor. I bet I’ve got a bruise on me bum.”

“You’ll get five hundred lines, head girl or not, if you make such improper and unladylike remarks, Miss Parkerhouse,” warned the headmistress coldly, starting to remove her helmet. “Come along, do. We have work awaiting our attention.”

Throwing an unabashed wink at Amanda, Penelope shed her helmet and peeled off the cover-alls. At her side, Amanda had also laid down the kitbag and removed the unnecessary garments They had come prepared for the work which lay ahead and wore the type of clothing which they believed would be most socially acceptable for the visit.

Amanda had on a sky-blue leotard with elbow length sleeves and a fit which gave her the appearance of Walt Disney’s very attractive cartoon fairy, Tinker-Bell. On her feet, she had knee-length black boots. For her part, Penelope had selected a sleeveless dark blue sweater, which left her midriff bare to the night air, black wet-look hot pants and Grecian slippers with their straps crisscrossing about her shapely bare calves to just below her knees.

Having discarded their outer coverings, the girls turned to discover what their headmistress had decided to wear. They were disappointed, for she still had on her cover-alls. Both had hoped that she would have shown a little adventurous spirit, but decided that, after all, she had probably decided that she was past it.

“Shall we dispose of the parachutes, ma’am?” Amanda inquired.

“If you’d be so kind,” answered Miss Benkinsop. “I don’t need to tell you to select a place where there will be no danger from the fire?”

“No, ma’am,” Amanda agreed, opening her kitbag and taking out a small black box. “Come on, Penny.”

Gathering the parachutes, the girls carried them to the side of the ravine. There, on a piece of barren ground between two large rocks, they heaped their burdens on the box and placed smaller stones to prevent the silken canopies from being blown away.

“When’s it go off?” Penelope inquired as they completed their task.

“Not for two hours,” Amanda replied. “I think that will be adequate for our needs. Before anybody can reach the conflagration, assuming that it is seen, there won’t be anything left to say what was burning.”

“Coo! Did you make that stuff for somebody?”

“Oh no. It’s just something that happened by mistake. I was trying to produce a substitute for petrol. When I showed Miss Benkinsop what my compound would do, she insisted that I didn’t tell anybody about it.”

Considering the extremely high power of combustion developed by Amanda’s compound, Miss Benkinsop’s decision had probably been a wise one. If it had fallen into the wrong hands—arsonists were not highly thought-of as members of the Profession—it might have been put to entirely the wrong kind of use.

“Let’s go and get start—” Penelope began, turning from the parachutes.

The words ended and the head girl’s mouth dropped open. Swinging on her heel to discover what had so affected her friend, Amanda also registered surprise.

While the girls had been working, Miss Benkinsop had removed her cover-alls. What doing so had exposed was most pleasing to the eye. By working very hard, Miss Frithington-Babcock had—with the aid of her Needle-work class—done wonders in the limited time at their disposal.

Miss Benkinsop’s costume commenced with a sleeveless black satin blouse and matching tights which fitted her as snugly as a glossy second skin. Black, high-heeled boots extended to just below the level of her knees, to complete a charming, attractive, yet most versatile and useful ensemble.

“Close your mouth, Penelope dear,” the headmistress commanded, secretly delighted by the impression her appearance had created. Picking up her kitbag, she continued, “If you are ready, girls, we’ll go and visit the villa.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“What’s bugging Alf?” asked the member of the ‘Heavy Mob’ who had been ordered by the butler to patrol outside the villa’s walls.

“Don’t ask me.” replied the gate-keeper peering through the bars. “But if I was you, I wouldn’t let him catch you hanging about out there.”

At that moment the headlights of the best car glowed on the driveway. Taking the hint, the burly man outside he gates swung on his heel and hurried away. Trying to look innocent, the gate-keeper pressed the control switch. Instead of passing on through the gates as they opened, the car came to a halt. Carrela and Schulze sat in the front. It was, however, the rear window which opened and Fiorelli’s irate face poked out.

“Don’t stand gossiping at the gate!” the executive growled. “Make him keep moving around out there.”

“Sure, boss,” confirmed the gate-keeper.

“You seem nervous tonight, Alfie,” Rosalie remarked casually, as the car purred onwards.

“No, I’m not,” Fiorelli insisted, twisting to look back and make sure the gates were closing. “I just like to keep them on their toes.”

Slouching along muttering under his breath, the burly sentry watched the car pass out of sight. However, he decided against returning to the gate. When Alf Fiorelli was in one of his moods, it was as well to respect his wishes. If, for some reason, he wanted the place patrolling with extra care, all one could do was get on and do it.

Cradling his Schmeisser MP 40 sub-machine gun on his arm, the man followed the well-worn path around the exterior of the property. An area of about twenty yards wide had been cleared all around the wall. Beyond that limit, however, the rough, barren and rocky terrain offered places of concealment if any evilly disposed person had wished to make use of them.

While aware of the possibility the man tended to discount it. Even if anybody did plan to rob the villa, they certainly would not come so early in the evening.

Not that anyone would be stupid enough to try to commit a robbery on the Mediterranean Syndicate’s property. The organisation was too highly respected and admired throughout the Profession for that to happen. Besides which, the board of directors had had installed any number of elaborate protective devices.