J.T. Edson - Blonde Genius

“Thank you, Miss Benkinsop,” Violet said, eyes shining with heroine worship and respect. “I’m so pleased to know everything will be attended to.”

“My dear girl, that’s what I’m here for,” the headmistress replied. “Now don’t distress yourself further. With your father’s excellent record inside, I’m sure that when he gets to Parkhurst he will be given a single peter and his usual position as library redband. Let me know if he doesn’t, and I’ll see what can be arranged.”

Having withdrawn tactfully, to let Miss Benkinsop hold the private conversation with the little third-former, Miss Panchez turned to Fiorelli. Open admiration showed on her face as she nodded in her employer’s direction and said:

“There’s a real lady for you. It’s not every headmistress who thinks so much about her kids that she’ll organise the doing of a nark.”

“Now, my dear,” Miss Benkinsop concluded, to a much more cheerful and relieved Violet. “I think you’ve done enough Prep. for one night. Tidy things up and Miss Panchez will take you to see the Main Debate.”

“Coo!” Violet enthused. “That’ll be smashing. ma’am.”

“Is’nt Saunders’s daughter here?” Fiorelli inquired as he and the headmistress left the Household Hints class.

“Good heavens, no!” Miss Benkinsop replied, unaware that the object of the conversation was hearing every word. “We’re a rather exclusive establishment. We don’t take the daughters of poufs, ponces, grasses, dope-pushers, Socialist millionaires, Communist trade union leaders or left-wing film stars. You’d be surprised how many of the last try to get their daughters in, considering their views on public schools.”

“When do I get to meet Amanda?” Fiorelli asked as they joined the members of the Wise Shopping and Folk Dancing classes in leaving the basement.

“She’ll be in the gym,” Miss Benkinsop replied. “We’ll go over and, after I’ve introduced you, we’ll have the Main Debate started.”

Gripping the walkie-talkie in a hand that shook with passion, Gus Saunders glared at the front of the house.

“Set Maxie Spender’s razors on me, would you!” he snarled. “Well, after tonight, I’ll not give two monkeys for him, or you, Benkinsop.”

(*Two piece, strapless bra which is pasted into position.)

CHAPTER THREE

Leaving the mansion by its rear exit, Miss Benkinsop accompanied her guest across the quadrangle. A large number of Jaguars, Mercedeses, Aston Martins, Cadillacs and Rolls-Royces were parked in neat rows before the gymnasium. Among them, looking out of place in such exalted company was a solitary dark blue Ford Escort family car. Miss Benkinsop’s eyes ran over the intruder. Much to Fiorelli’s surprise, she regarded it with interest and approbation rather than disapproval.

“I must admit that I never gained any great proficiency in the Household Hints line,” Miss Benkinsop was saying. “One opens the odd lock with a hair-pin, of course. But that’s mere child’s play to our better-class members.”

“What kind of science does Miss Panchez teach?” Fiordli inquired.

“She doesn’t actually teach science,” Miss Benkinsop admitted. “Amanda attends to that. Miss Panchez’s talents lie in other directions.”

“Such as?”

“Among other things, she’s the world’s foremost authority on fairground ‘deceptions’, an excellent spiritualist’s medium and fortune-teller. I feel our girls, especially those who are interested in such matters, should be given the best possible instruction.”

“True enough.”

“Until recently, she also controlled the distribution and sales of a little concoction Amanda produced in the lab. We called it Gypsy Rita’s Cold Cure.”

“Why’d you stop selling it?” Fiorelli asked.

“We found it was arousing too much comment and interest,” Miss Benkinsop explained. “I’ve always found publicity so distasteful.”

“What was up,” Fiorelli asked bluntly, “didn’t it work?”

“That was the trouble,” Miss Benkinsop sighed. “It worked rather too well. Can you imagine the effect upon all the cough-medicine companies if we’d carried on. It really did cure the common cold.”

By that time, the couple were approaching the gymnasium and the conversation died away. Although Fiorelli would have liked to discuss Gypsy Rita’s Cold Cure, or rather the profits which might be made from its sale, he was sufficiently eager to make the acquaintance of the School Swot that he let the matter lapse.

Like the rest of the building, the entrance hall of the gymnasium was aglow with lights. However, as the chattering, laughing, excited Prep. classes streamed in it had only one other occupant.

Amanda Tweedle was seated at a table by the entrance to the ladies’ cloakroom. As usual, she was making the most of her time by continuing with her studies. Despite the other matters which had required her attention that evening, she had just completed a very thorough examination of Professor Wilhelm von Pilsen-Hausen’s latest treatise on the mathematics of nuclear physics; a work currently acclaimed by mathematical- and scientific-savants throughout the world as the most complete and faultless tome of its class.

While agreeing, in general, that it was a first-rate piece of work, Amanda did harbour certain reservations concerning its complete accuracy. She frowned, bit at her lower lip gently, then mentally revised and reassessed her calculations of the final and most difficult equation.

“I knew I was correct,” Amanda concluded silently, taking up her ball-point pen to change the final figure from 1,348,764.397,236 to 1,348,764.397,235.

So engrossed had she been in the problem, that she did not look up until she heard the headmistress’s voice.

“Amanda, I would like you to meet our guest of honour.”

Up to that moment, Fiorelli had seen only the top of the School Swot’s blonde head. He had been able to form little impression about the rest of her, other than that she wore the Academy’s uniform of white blouse, school tie, navy blue gym-slip and shoes with moderately lengthened heels. Her dark blue blazer, with the lighter blue collar of a prefect, hung over the back of her chair.

Hearing Miss Benkinsop, Amanda looked up and handed Fiorelli something of a shock. In view of all he had heard, the man was half expecting to be confronted by a tall, lanky, plain, probably pimply, teenager who wore glasses and had shoulders bent by constant poring over books. Somebody, in fact about as attractive as mud on a broken fence.

Instead, he looked at one of the sweetest, most beautiful sets of features he had ever seen. Surrounded by a halo of faultlessly coiffured hair, the face topped a figure which threatened to put Clarissa’s, or even Miss Pedlar’s, pulchritude-packed physiques into the “walk right by without a second glance” class. Yet there was a demure, almost elfin look of innocence about her. She seemed to be completely inoffensive and in need of a strong man’s protection.

So much so, in fact, that Fiorelli experienced a desire to unhesitatingly prevent her from coming to any harm. Only with an effort of will did he restrain his impulse to snatch out the walkie-talkie and inform Saunders that their arrangement was terminated.

“I’m pleased to meet you, sir,” Amanda said, in a voice which ideally augmented her gentle charm. She held out her right hand and stood up. “I hope you’ll excuse me for not having been here to welcome you when you arrived, but I was unavoidably detained.”

Taking the hand and treating it more gently than if it had been the most delicate of china, Fiorelli tried to think of some adequate comment. The best he could manage was: