J.T. Edson - Blonde Genius

“Shall I radio ahead for road blocks to be set up?” demanded the policeman, as the Mercedes showed no sign of stopping.

“Not likely,” growled the driver. “We’re not sharing this one with anybody. Besides, they didn’t call us in for the fun the last time they were beating up some Turks.”

“Yes, but—” said the policeman.

“Don’t worry.” the driver ordered. “I’ll soon catch them.”

For three miles, while his companion clung to the seat and muttered a variety of prayers for forgiveness and salvation, the police car’s driver chased the Mercedes. Although the officers rode in a vehicle equipped and powered for such a pursuit—the driver was one of the best in the Cyprus Police Force—they could not reduce the distance on the winding mountain road.

“Change your stocking, Penelope,” Miss Benkinsop suggested, sitting completely relaxed as Amanda took a hairpin bend at one hundred and twenty miles per hour. You would look decidedly odd wearing one of black and the other a service issue.”

“Yes’m,” answered the head girl and obeyed.

The hair-pin bend proved to be the final straw for the pursuers. Lacking the School Swot’s ability, the driver failed to control his vehicle adequately. Skidding in a violent manner, the car came to a halt with its front wheels hanging over the sheer drop at the side of the road.

“Oh well,” the driver said, when he had regained something of his composure. “They’ve given us the slip now. But well get them next time.”

“ Next time!” croaked the policeman. “Y-you m-mean that w-we m-might ha-have to d-do th-this a-ag-again?”

“If we get the chance,” agreed the driver.

Opening the door, the ashen-faced policeman jumped out. He removed his hat, and flung it to the ground. Then he walked away, discarding his uniform as he went.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Although Miss Benkinsop had had slight doubts as to whether even the School Swot could deliver them to Akrotiri at the time when Group Captain Porter must take off for the return flight, they passed through the Base’s gates with two seconds to spare.

Porter was awaiting their arrival in a Land Rover accompanied by two handsome, cheerful young Flying Officers whom he introduced as his nephews.

“We’ll drop you out at the kite, Miss Benkinsop,” said the older officer. Then we’ll take the Merc. into Nicosia and leave it at the Ledra Palace Hotel’s car park.”

“Or somewhere equally appropriate,” grinned the younger.

“Not on Archbishop Macarios’ front lawn,” the headmistress warned, watching the girls transfer their property from the borrowed vehicle to the Land-Rover.

“How—?” yelped the younger officer.

“Did you guess?” croaked his elder brother.

“Let’s just say I’ve experienced some of your family’s extroverted humour,” Miss Benkinsop smiled, throwing a meaningful glance at Porter.

“The Ledra Palace it will be, then,” grinned the elder officer.

“While you’re there,” the headmistress remarked, boarding the Land-Rover, “see the head-waiter. Mention my name and I’m sure he will produce some of his delightful Forty-eight sherry for you.”

Having delivered the car, discreetly, at the hotel, the officers followed Miss Benkinsop’s advice. They returned to the Base, the proud possessors of a dozen bottles of the finest vintage sherry produced on the island and which was usually only obtainable in small quantities by the richest and most influential visitors.

In the air, Miss Benkinsop made a request of Porter and it was granted readily.

As a result of the Group Captains acquiescence. Andreas Socratarios was summoned from among his guests and entered his yacht’s wireless-room.

“Andreas, darling,” said Miss Benkinsop’s voice, “I wonder if you could do me a small favour?”

“But anything, Amelia,” the millionaire answered, without a moment’s hesitation. “After that survey Amanda carried out, how could I refuse.”

“It was merely an exercise in her geology studies,” Miss Benkinsop pointed out. “I thought she did it rather well.”

“So did I,” Socratarios said fervently.

As a result of Amanda’s survey, one of the millionaire’s oil companies had located a new source of supply which quadrupled its output. So he had every reason to share Miss Benkinsop’s satisfaction with the School Swot’s work.

“I believe Mr. Fiorelli is one of your guests,” Miss Benkinsop said, getting down to business.

“Yes. Do you want me to have him drowned, or something equally delightful?”

“The idea does have some merit. But it’s not quite what I had in mind. By the way, have you met Rosalie Fieldbank?”

“Haven’t I though?” Socratarios enthused.

“You’re impressed by her?” asked Miss Benkinsop, in the guileless manner of all experienced match-makers.

“That’s putting it mildly. She’s much too good for Fiorelli.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” the headmistress conceded.

“I wouldn’t mind asking if she’d like to come on a little sailing trip with me,” the millionaire admitted.

“A charming idea,” Miss Benkinsop agreed. “Provided, of course, that you do the honourable thing. She is one of my girls, you know.”

“You mean marry her?” Socratarios inquired, hopefully.

“I would insist upon nothing less,” Miss Benkinsop warned.

“I’ll do it. But what about Fiorelli? I could have my men—”

“That won’t be necessary. If you can arrange for somebody to mention that, in passing his villa on the way to the party, they had heard a disturbance, I believe that he will depart in something of a hurry.”

“I can fix that,” Socratarios promised. “And before he can get back, we’ll be on the high seas.”

“One thing Andreas,” Miss Benkinsop said and her voice held a grimly warning timbre which caused him to shiver as he listened. “You will only do this if Rosalie is in agreement.”

“She is,” Socratarios assured the headmistress. “We’d been talking about it earlier and she says that, if it’s all right with you, she’d come with me.”

“Tell her you both have my blessing.”

“And you’ll take any daughters we have at the Academy?”

“Of course,” Miss Benkinsop confirmed.

While Socratarios was hardly of the class she encouraged to send their children, the headmistress felt that she could stretch a point in his case. After all, Rosalie came from a highly acceptable family and had been the head girl.

“I’ll go and fix things up, Amelia,” Socratarios promised.

“Good,” Miss Benkinsop replied. “And I trust that Mrs. Socratarios and yourself will reach England in time to attend a garden party we shall be giving next Wednesday.”

“My wife and I will be delighted to attend, and honoured,” Socratarios accepted. “What kind of garden party is it?”

“You might call it a victory celebration,” Miss Benkinsop explained. “In fancy dress.”

Leaving the aircraft’s radio, Miss Benkinsop smiled. Rosalie’s alliance with Fiorelli had never struck the head mistress as being satisfactory. So she had been very pleased to manipulate her former pupil’s affairs and leave Rosalie in such an advantageous position.

On being told, by a newly arrived guest, that there had been sounds of a disturbance, including gunshots, at the villa, Fiorelli signalled for Anacropolis and his enforcers to join him.

“We’d better get up there as quickly as we can,” Fiorelli declared, “Come on.”

“Shall I fetch Rosalie from the swimming pool?” Anacropolis inquired.

“Let her stop,” Fiorelli growled. “I haven’t time to wait while she gets dried and dressed.”