J.T. Edson - Blonde Genius

“Cooer!” Penelope breathed, as the seconds ticked away. “I don’t ’alf feel conspicuous out ’ere.”

“Your nether garments are somewhat brief,” Miss Benkinsop replied, darting a disapproving glance at the head girl’s hot pants. “I trust that you never wear such things in mixed company?”

“Ooh no, ma’am,” Penelope answered, so convincingly that she might have been speaking the truth.

Smiling at the whispered exchange, but refusing to let it distract her, Amanda cross-contacted the system’s closed wires. Then she cut those which she felt sure operated only on the ‘open’ system.

A bell jarred the silence of the ‘Guard House’!

“That’s that,” Amanda declared happily.

Closing the cover, the School Swot rose and went to the french windows. Then she produced a small tool from her equipment belt and opened the lock. Satisfied that their presence was still undetected, she drew open the windows.

“Have you also cut off the pressure pads under the library’s floor?” Miss Benkinsop inquired.

“No, ma’am,” Amanda replied. “That can only be done from inside the library.”

Impetuous as always, Penelope was already approaching the open french windows.

In the ‘Guard House’, the butler picked up the telephone as its bell continued to ring.

“What’s up?” he growled, knowing from whence the call originated.

“Gate here,” replied a male voice and delivered a message of some importance and urgency.

“Joe,” the butler said, covering the mouthpiece with his hand and addressing the largest, most villainous-looking member of the ‘Heavy Mob’ present. “Get some coffee and sandwiches.”

“Sure, Slasher,” the man replied. “Do you want ’em?”

“No,” answered the butler. “Take them down to the gate-house. And while you’re there, see if he’s finished with my new Playboy magazine.”

“I might’s well take Sid down and relieve Maurice,” commented the under-butler. “It’ll save Wuff-Wuff calling up his dogs again while I do it.”

“Sure,” agreed the butler.

Realising the danger threatened by Penelope’s actions, Miss Benkinsop acted with her customary speed and decision. Shooting out her left hand, she caught the head girl by the waistband of the offending ‘nether garments’. Penelope was brought to an abrupt halt before she could place an indiscreet foot upon the library’s parquet floor.

“Patience, Penelope,” the headmistress advised. “Shall we wait here until you have made the necessary adjustments, Amanda?”

“It might be advisable if you come in with me,” replied the School Swot.

“But how?” Miss Benkinsop inquired. “The slightest pressure in the wrong location will raise the alarm.”

“If you follow me,” Amanda explained. “Taking especial care to step only upon the squares which I use, it will be safe enough.”

“And we are a little bit conspicuous out here, ma’am,” Penelope reminded. “If that feller at the gate looks out, ’e isn’t ’alf going to get an eye-full.”

“Very well,” Miss Benkinsop assented. “As neither you nor, most assuredly, I are attired for mixed company, Penelope, we will do as Amanda says.”

“Go on, ’Mand’ love,” Penelope suggested.

At first, everything went smoothly. Watching Amanda’s feet and taking care to step only upon the squares vacated by the girl, Miss Benkinsop followed her. Carrying her own and Amanda’s kitbags over her shoulders, Penelope brought up the rear.

All went well until, on reaching the centre of the room, Penelope felt the strap of Amanda’s kitbag slipping from her left shoulder. She was advancing her right foot in the direction of the square just quit by Miss Benkinsop’s left boot. Setting down her foot, she caught and halted the bag before it touched the floor.

Doing so had delayed and distracted Penelope. Just how much, she realised on bringing her left foot forward. She could not remember which segment of the parquet should be her next safe haven.

“Oh my gawd!” Penelope croaked, balancing precariously upon her right leg.

Alerted by the note of apprehension in the head girl’s normally perky tones, Miss Benkinsop also came to a halt. Standing on two safe squares, she twisted her torso and looked behind her.

“What is it, Penelope?”

“I’m ever so sorry, ma’am,” the head girl apologised, sounding distressed by having to make such a confession. “But I don’t know where to put me foot next.”

“I’m sure it was caused by misadventure rather than inattention,” Miss Benkinsop declared.

“It was, ma’am. One of the kitbag straps slipped—”

“I understand. What do you advise, Amanda?”

“Don’t move an inch, Penny.” said the School Swot. “And, whatever you do, don’t let anything brush against the floor.”

While Amanda continued her advance, stepping from block to block with the utmost confidence, Penelope spent what seemed like hours standing balanced like a stork upon one leg.

“Thank gaw—” the head girl began, as Amanda reached behind the left-side statue and operated a disguised switch.

“Stay still Penny!” the School Swot commanded, gently but with chilling urgency. “There’s another switch I must throw before the pressure pads are rendered inoperative.”

“Just in time, Penelope restrained her forward foot’s descent. It halted a bare tenth of an inch from the floor. She teetered and swayed, feeling the straps slipping and wondering if she could prevent one or both from falling on to the sensitive squares of the parquet. Muttering a silent prayer, she watched Amanda cross the doorway. The School Swot placed the first and second fingers of her left hand on the statue’s eyes.

“There,” Amanda said, having pressed at the eyes. It’s safe for you to move now, Penny.”

“Cooer!” Penelope ejaculated, lowering her foot and letting the kitbags drop to the floor. She snatched a wisp of handkerchief from her pocket and mopped at her brow. “I ain’t ’alf got a sweat on.”

“No, Penelope dear,” Miss Benkinsop corrected, turning to face the girl. “SERVANTS sweat, gentlemen perspire, but ladies only glow.”

“Then I can’t be a bloody lady,” Penelope decided silently, as Miss Benkinsop turned away and followed Amanda to the location of the safe. She mopped her brow again and stowed away the handkerchief. “Because I was sweating like ’ell.”

Being a shrewd young lady, and aware of the headmistress’s views upon the proprieties, the head girl had decided that it would be diplomatic to keep such comments to herself

“Humph!” Miss Benkinsop sniffed indignantly, standing with hands on hips and studying the portrait of Fiorelli’s ancestor, “so this is what he claims to be a genuine Rembrandt.”

“It is, ma’am,” Penelope put in, always willing to give credit where it was due.

“How do you know, dear?” Miss Benkinsop inquired, knowing that Art Appreciation was one of several classes in which the head girl had failed to shine.

“It was done by Charlie Rembrandt, from Shepherds Bush, ma’am,” Penelope explained. “My dad buys genuine not-too-old Old Masters what ’im, Fred Picasso and Larry van Gogh paint and flogs em to rich Yanks.”

“Ah,” Miss Benkinsop smiled. “We were obviously not thinking of the same Rembrandt.”

“My mum says she’d rather have Charlie’s than the old ones,” Penelope went on. “They don’t niff so much.”

While the headmistress and her friend conversed in low tones, Amanda reached towards the portrait. Placing her thumb on the rapier’s pommel, she spread her fingers to other parts of the hilt. First pressing with her little finger, she followed with the second, the thumb, the third and again with the little digit. There was a soft click, a gentle whirring, and the portrait slid silently along the wall to expose the massive, powerful, awe-inspiring door of a large and very modem safe.