J.T. Edson - Blonde Genius

“Take it easy, girlie!” Carrela warned, eyeing the Lugers in Amanda’s hands with trepidation. “They’re loaded!”

“Mmmm!” the School Swot replied, pensively, as she moved away from the wall. “Are they?”

Turning to face the window, with her elbows tucked tightly against her sides, Amanda pointed the weapons’ barrels at it. Without elevating them beyond waist level, she squeezed both triggers at the same instant. Two holes, about three inches apart, appeared in the upper left-hand pane of glass.

Time after time, while the two men stared in fascination, Amanda’s forefingers worked in unison. At last the magazines’ cartridge carriers rose and halted the forward movements of the toggle-links. The pistols had been emptied quicker than either Carrela or Schulze, the Syndicate’s two best enforcers, would have believed possible. They stared, mesmerised, at the two slightly enlarged holes in the window’s upper left-hand pane.

There was not another bullet-hole to be seen.

J. T. Edson and Peter Clawson

Blonde Genius

AUTHORS’ NOTE:

This book has a Message;

read it, enjoy it,

that’s all we ask

CHAPTER ONE

Sitting in the passenger seat of the maroon E-type Jaguar, listening to the flow of conversation emanating from the walkie-talkie in his right hand. Gus Saunders mopped the sweat from his brow. He could claim to be one of the five best cat-burglars in the world—although, due to a tendency to “grass” when arrested, his social standing in the Profession was not exalted—yet he still felt anxiety as he thought of what lay ahead.

On the face of it, Saunders could hardly have been situated better for making what the Profession termed a “big tickle”. Conditions were dose to a cat-burglars idea of perfection. He had a dead drum, or as near to it as made no difference. His getaway had been planned to the last detail and was assured. In addition to having a certain and lucrative sale for the loot, he had the backing of the Mediterranean Syndicate; with the possibility of more of its business being turned his way.

It should all have added up to a screwsman’s dream of heaven; but not under the circumstances.

Shivering a little as he thought of what would happen if he failed, Saunders looked out of the window. Through the starlit darkness, he could make out the high and massive wall which surrounded the property he was to visit. That was no problem, the big double wrought-iron gates stood wide open. Squinting a little, he managed to read the words printed upon the brass plate on the right-hand gate-post.

BENKINSOP’S ACADEMY

FOR THE

DAUGHTERS OF GENTLEFOLK

MISS A. P. D. BENKINSOP,

M.A., B.Sc. (Oxon.), G.M., H.O.G.A.

Headmistress

Through the gate, at the end of the gravel driveway which separated the spacious, well-tended lawns, stood the big, fine old Georgian mansion in which he would find the big tickle. Behind it were the other buildings of the very йlite finishing school, its gymnasium, science laboratory, swimming pool, tennis courts and all the other necessary adjuncts for the education of the wealthy’s daughters.

Or such of them who met with Miss Benkinsop’s high standards of acceptance. Mere wealth, as Saunders had reason to know, could not ensure ones daughter of a place in Benkinsop’s.

“Rosalie was telling me to be sure and take a look at this, Miss Benkinsop,” said the harsh male voice from the walkie-talkie. “I’m pleased I asked you to show it to me, It’s very nice too.”

The conversation to which Saunders was an unsuspected eavesdropper was originating, via a powerful transistorised two-way radio concealed upon the person of the male speaker from the combined sitting-room, study and business office of the school’s headmistress.

It was a room to which errant pupils would be summoned, should their misdeeds warrant such a serious step, and arrive with trepidation yet the certain assurance that justice would be fairly and adequately done. Decorated and furnished to the height of good taste, the room contrived in a subtle way to take on the atmosphere of all its functions. On the wall hung portraits, each by an acknowledged master of the day, representing Miss Amelia Benkinsop’s predecessors. From Regency, through Victorian, Edwardian, World War I to present day, there was a strong family resemblance between the faces. Each was portrayed dressed to the height of formal fashion for her era and around each slender neck was hung the same magnificent diamond, sapphire and emerald necklace.

While Miss Amelia Benkinsop was not wearing that particular piece of jewellery at the moment, it was on display and being admired.

Neither too tall, nor too short, Miss Benkinsop was many men’s idea of the perfect height and build. Her golden blonde hair was treated with the kind of elegant coiffure that a certain prominent West End artisan creates so well. It set off her flawless beauty and emphasised the regal distinction of her patrician features As usual on informal, or business occasions, she was attired in a very smart tweed two-piece that could only have come from the best establishment on Bond Street. It neither detracted from, nor tried to draw attention to her graceful and shapely figure. She looked like—and indeed frequently was—one of the gracious, svelte, superbly calm and utterly competent ladies whose pictures appear in the pages of Tatler or The Field.

If Miss Benkinsop was the epitome of the British upper-class lady, her guest—despite his expensive, well-cut dinner jacket. monogrammed white silk shirt, black bow tie and other visible signs of wealth—was definitely lower-class Italian.

Thickset, burly, hard-faced, Alfonso Fiorelli had always caused Miss Benkinsop to think of Sicilian bandits, or other equally non-socially acceptable members of the community. However, his present position in society had elevated him to the station where he could expect the full courtesies when visiting the school.

For all that, Miss Benkinsop wished her guest-of-honour did not wear such a potent after-shave lotion and other perfume. The combined aromas were so distasteful to her nostrils that she had been compelled to open the bottom half of the room’s window.

Standing by Miss Benkinsop’s Sheraton desk, before which on occasion his current wife had waited apprehensively for justice to be done, Fiorelli handed back the magnificent necklace. On a silver tray, a crystal decanter, two glasses and an ashtray to accommodate Fiorelli’s long, thick cigar, suggested that the meeting was of a social rather than a business nature.

Knowing that it was anything but a social call, Miss Benkinsop had been only too willing to turn the Regency portrait on the hinges of its frame and open the safe which it usually concealed, producing and displaying the pride of her family’s not inconsiderable collection of jewellery.

“It is indeed,” Miss Benkinsop admitted, taking the necklace across to the safe. “The Prince Regent gave it to one of my forebears, along with this house, when she danced what he and Beau Brummel called deucedly undraped for them in the Pavilion at Brighton.”

Oblivious of the interest and suggestion of avarice with which Fiorelli watched her every movement, Miss Benkinsop returned the necklace to its box in the safe. While closing and locking the door, then returning the portrait to its more usual position, she continued speaking.