J.T. Edson - Blonde Genius

“Have it your way,” Anacropolis sniffed. “I’ll ask Ariadne to take our car and go home without me.”

Watching the Syndicate’s personnel take their departure. Socratarios grinned. Then he swung from the rail and started to bring his party to an end.

It was fortunate for Fiorelli that Miss Benkinsop had inadvertently caused the removal of the police car. The men returned to the villa at far faster than the legal speed limit. There was a delay while Carela climbed the wall and opened the gates.

Filled with a sense of foreboding and trepidation, Fiorelli led the others into the villa. They halted, aghast by the scene of devastation and destruction which met their gaze. Being made of stern stuff, Fiorelli plunged into the library. Ignoring the wreckage of what had been his pride and joy, he manipulated the controls to expose and open the safe.

“The jewellery’s gone!” Fiorelli groaned, turning to Anacropolis.

“All of it?”

“Only her’s. I think some of the money’s gone as well.”

“Slasher’s just about conscious, boss,” Carrela announced as he and Schulze hauled the butler into the library.

“Who did it?” Fiorelli roared at the dazed man.

The butler had been overlooked by Miss Benkinsop and Penelope as they had made the rest of the domestic staff comfortable. So he was sufficiently recovered to understand what was being said to him. Having his pride, he did not wish to allow his shortcomings to be made public. It was, he felt, the time for a little white lie rather than the unvarnished truth.

“There was about twenty of ’em,” Slasher mumbled. “Not one shorter than six foot three or lighter than two hundred pounds.”

“That’s impossible!” Fiorelli bellowed indignantly. “I’ve had men watching the docks and airport. How could they have come in?”

“Somebody did,” Anacropolis pointed out, with justification. “Where’re you going, Alf?”

“To make a phone call!” Fiorelli growled.

Finding that the telephone in the main bedroom was still operative the executive asked to be connected with Benkinsop’s Academy for the Daughters of Gentlefolk. When the number rang, the instrument at the other end issued forth Miss Benkinsop’s unmistakable tones.

“Benkinsop’s Academy. Miss Benkinsop speaking.”

“This’s Alfonso Fiorelli, Miss Benkinsop. Can I speak to Amanda?”

“Certainly. She’s with me now. We were just discussing whom might have been responsible for the theft.”

“Who was it? Fiorelli inquired.”

“We rather suspect Gus Saunders,” replied Miss de Vere, although she sounded exactly like the headmistress. “Amanda, Mr. Fiorelli wishes to speak with you.”

“Hello, sir,” said the School Swot’s voice, so perfect in its timbre that the listening men were fooled. “I trust that you had an enjoyable flight home?”

“Not bad,” Fiorelli answered numbly, then had an inspiration. “Can I speak to Penelope. I’ve got a message for her dad.”

“Penny,” ‘Amanda’ called. “Mr. Fiorelli wants to speak to you.”

“All right, luv,” answered the head girl’s perky voice, from some distance away. Miss de Vere had once been a ventriloquist of some ability, but—due to having supported the Right Hon. Enoch Powell. MPs views on the immigration issue—could no longer obtain employment on the British television networks. “’Ello, Mr. Fiorelli, what’s up?”

“I was wondering if your dad could get me another Rembrandt,” the executive replied craftily.

“I’ll ’ave ’im ask Charlie what’s in stock,” Miss de Vere promised, thankful for the fact that Miss Benkinsop had radioed sufficient information for her to supply the correct answer. “That all right?”

“Yes,” Fiorelli agreed. Hanging up the receiver, he shook his head. “I must be crazy even thinking they could have done it—But who else could it have been?”

Fiorelli was still pondering upon that matter as, with the two enforcers on the front seats, he and Anacropolis drove through the gates of the school on Wednesday afternoon. All around were scenes of levity and enjoyment which were highly significant and disturbing to the executive. This was the day upon which settlement of the wager was to take place. If his scheme had been a success, it seemed unlikely that Miss Benkinsop would have been celebrating the loss of the school with a fancy dress garden party.

None of his extensive investigations had come dose to establishing the true identity of his unwelcome visitors. On their recoveries, the domestic staff had shared the butler’s reluctance to admit what had happened. All agreed that the perpetrators of the outrage had been of the male gender, large and very tough. The number of miscreants varied between twenty and forty. Nothing could shake any of the servants from their stories.

Still suspicious, despite apparently having spoken to Miss Benkinsop and her two star pupils. Fiorelli had called the Syndicate’s London agent. Sent to visit the school, that worthy had met with considerable hard luck in that he had had no less than four punctures on the journey. Caused by girls under Miss Pedlar’s supervision, the mishaps had delayed his arrival. When he had finally reached the school he found the headmistress Amanda and Penelope already present. The School Swot had taken such a contingency into account when making her arrangements.

Although Fiorelli had tried, he could not find one piece of proof that other business organisations within the Profession had visited the villa. So, as the days had gone by, he could only hope that it had been unconnected with Miss Benkinsop. He was so worried about his own future, that he did not give Rosalie’s departure with the millionaire a second thought. Even the news that they had been married by the captain of the yacht did not arouse him from his apathy.

At last, the day had come. Travelling from Cyprus, the two executives and the enforcers had completed their journey by car.

“Remember,” Fiorelli told the enforcers as they approached the mansion’s front doors. “If there’s any funny business, start shooting.”

“Yes, boss,” chorused Carrela and Schulze.

“And make sure that Amanda doesn’t take your guns from you,” Anacropolis advised.

“Well see she doesn’t do that,” Carrela promised grimly. The four men were met in the entrance hall by Miss Frithington-Babcock clad after the fashion of a Mississippi riverboat gambler of the mid-1800s. She told them that the headmistress was waiting in the study. Going upstairs, they knocked at the door and were bidden to enter.

Dressed as a cowboy, complete with a gunbelt and holstered revolver, Miss Benkinsop was standing at her desk. On it was stacked a large sum of money. At the right of the desk, attired in a similar manner to the headmistress, Amanda looked as delicately elfin as always. To the left, Penelope wore a loud pin-striped suit, fedora hat and added to her pose as a Chicago Prohibition gangster by cradling a Thompson submachine gun negligently on the crook of her right arm.

Carrela flickered a glance at Schulze. Even as their hands moved to make sure that the School Swot had not in some mysterious manner contrived to disarm them, they saw the Ruger flash from her holster. All in half a second, the weapon appeared, whirled upon her trigger finger and returned to its original position. The enforcers restrained their curiosity regarding the Lugers, concluding that neither particularly felt the need for arms at that moment.

“Ah, Mr. Fiorelli,” Miss Benkinsop greeted and indicated the money. “Ten thousand pounds was the figure, I believe?”

“Y-yes,” Fiorelli croaked.

“I trust that the equivalent in American dollars and French francs will be satisfactory?” asked the headmistress.