J.T. Edson - Blonde Genius

“Is it a good book?”

“Quite interesting, sir,” Amanda replied, slipping her fingers from his hot grasp and closing the book. “I’ve only found three errors in the Professors calculations. And one of them is probably a printer’s mistake.”

“Did the road test go off satisfactorily, Amanda?” Miss Benkinsop inquired.

“I believe so, ma’am,” the School Swot answered. “Mr. Spender expressed his complete satisfaction, although the gentleman he had with him seemed somewhat perturbed.”

At that moment, in the small room which had served as a ticket office when the guests had arrived, the teachers responsible for maths and French were trying—without a great deal of success—to assess the amount of money they had taken in. Piles of bank-notes and coins were stacked on the table and they pored over figures on a sheet of paper.

Miss McCoy, a tall, slim, graceful woman in her late forties, muttered under her breath as she found herself unable to draw the required conclusions. By her side Mademoiselle de Vautour who undoubtedly looked French, although not of an academic persuasion—showed an equal inability to find an answer.

“Can’t you get it right? Mademoiselle de Vautour demanded in exasperation. After all, you’re ze arithmetic teacher.”

“Leave off, love,” Miss McCoy pleaded, her accent implying that she had spent her formative years in the city of Birmingham. “I teach about as much arithmetic as you teach French—and that’s not too much, is it?”

“I do so teach ze girls some French,” Mademoiselle de Vautour protested.

“Well, I’ve taught a few of them their twice-times table,” Miss McCoy pointed out, in self-justification. “Anyway, what’re we knocking ourselves out for? Let’s do what we always do, let Amanda see to it.”

“Of course,” the French teacher enthused. “We should have thought of doing it sooner.”

Taking the sheet of paper, with the air of one who has finally solved a difficult problem, Miss McCoy led the way from the room.

“Did you wish to see me, ladies?” Miss Benkinsop asked, as the two teachers bore down on her party.

“No, Miss Benkinsop,” Miss McCoy answered. “We was wondering if Amanda could help us out?”

“I’ll try,” Amanda promised, looking as if she doubted whether she would be capable of rendering any assistance if the matter should be difficult.

“How munch does this lot come to?” Miss McCoy wanted to know, running her finger down the list of figures. “Fifty seats at Ј5.50; eighty-four at Ј3.75; and one hundred and seventy-seven at Ј2.45.”

“One thousand and twenty-three pounds, sixty-five pence,” Amanda replied, as soon as the teacher had ceased speaking. “Plus Ј52.35 from the car park and Ј12.15 from the cloakroom. Giving Ј1,088.15 altogether. Less, of course, twenty-five pounds as fees for the Debates’ adjudicator and thirty-three and a third percent of the remainder for Lower Grebe’s Recreational Funds. That will be Ј354.38 to the nearest penny, leaving the school with Ј708.77.”

“ Mama mia! ” Fiorelli gasped, staring slack-jawed and goggle-eyed at the girl.

Then he suspected a joke and swung his gaze angrily to the three teachers. None of them showed the slightest hint of amusement, or a trace that they had seen anything unusual. To them, nothing out of the ordinary—where Amanda was concerned—had happened.

“Shall we go and count out Lower Grebe’s share, Miss Benkinsop?” Miss McCoy inquired.

“Certainly if you’d be so kind,” the headmistress confirmed. “You may as will give Lower Grebe an even five hundred. They don’t have our resources.”

“And it will be easier for us to count,” Mademoiselle de Vautour commented, unconsciously plumbing a minor reason for Miss Benkinsop’s generosity.

“Do you trust those two with your money?” Fiorelli grunted, watching the departing women—especially Mademoiselle de Vautour—with interest.

“Why ever not?” Miss Benkinsop countered. “They are both trustworthy members of my staff.”

Clearly the headmistress considered that particular subject was closed. Nor, in view of what happened next, did Fiorelli wish to continue it.

The double doors of the gymnasium were pushed open, allowing a rolling thunder of conversation and laughter to assail the ears of the man and women in the entrance hall. Turning his head, Fiorelli saw a tall, burly figure emerge. Well-built, distinguished-looking, with dark hair turning grey at the temples, the newcomer was dressed excellently and in perfect taste. He strode towards Miss Benkinsop, Amanda and Fiorelli with the indefinable air of an important personage.

Hardly had the doors swung together than they opened again. Another two men in dinner jackets came out. One was tall, lean, wiry and swarthy, the other shorter, stocky and of Teutonic appearance. Moving with a similar cat-footed, alert manner, they fanned out and followed the first man but without drawing any closer to him.

Recognising Maxie Spender, managing director of the London & Southern England Consortium, Fiorelli felt relieved to observe Carrela and Schulze—two of the Mediterranean Syndicates most promising younger executives—hovering in the background. Especially as none of Spender’s employees were in evidence.

Although Spender gave no sign of being aware that he was being followed, he eyed the other senior executive in a calculating manner. However, his behaviour remained affable enough. With two daughters already at the school, and his third waiting eagerly for the start of the Spring Term when she would be admitted, Spender had no desire to antagonise Miss Benkinsop. One thing she would not tolerate was displays of business rivalry within the boundaries of the Academy.

“Evening, Amelia, Alf,” Spender greeted; his pleasure genuine enough in the headmistress’s case, if less so when addressing his business and social rival. “Everybody’s been wondering where you’d got to.”

“Amelia’s been showing me around,” Fiorelli explained. “It’s the first time I’ve been here.”

“So Rosalie was telling my missus,” Spender admitted, then he jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “What’s with the minders, Alf?”

“Minders?” Fiorelli repeated innocently.

“Your heavies there,” Spender elaborated. “The boys with the bulging left armpits and low mentalities.”

“You boys looking for me ?” Fiorelli asked, scowling in a warning manner at the pair when they started to display annoyance at Spender’s description.

“Just come out to point Nelson at the wall, boss,” Schulze answered; having spent some time in Australia, he had picked up many of the Colony’s more colourful expressions.

“Your—missus—was wondering if you was coming so’s they can start the Main Debate,” Carrela went on, being the smoother and more socially acceptable of the pair. “She said we should come and look for you.”

“Hum!” Miss Benkinsop mused. “Time is getting on. Perhaps we had better go in, gentlemen.”

“I hope I’ve got time to go to the bo—toilet before it starts,” Fiorelli remarked, recollecting a duty to which he must attend.

“Of course,” Miss Benkinsop confirmed. “Amanda, will you please go and tell Miss Hammerschlagen that it may commence in five minutes?”

“Yes, Miss Benkinsop,” the School Swot replied and, followed by four pairs of male eyes, walked into the gymnasium.

Sheer black stockings, in addition to being part of the school’s uniform, were always aesthetically pleasing. When filled by Amanda’s shapely legs, they became even more so.

Turning, after the School Swot had disappeared into the next portion of the building, Fiorelli crossed to the door upon which hung a card reading ‘GENTLEMEN’. Tearing their ecstatic gazes from where Amanda had departed beyond their range of vision, Carrela and Schulze followed their employer.