Edson J.T.

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.

“I’ve always maintained that, but for her catching a chill, people would today speak of Mrs. Benkinsop and not Mrs. Fitzherbert.”

“I bet they would Fiorelli,” commented sycophantically, although he could barely remember who the Prince Regent was, much less details of “Prinny’s” paramour Mrs. Fitzherbert. “Is that her, the Regency lady in front of the safe?”

Maybe Fiorelli’s knowledge was lacking in English history, but his pose as an art collector had at least taught him the various periods.

“Yes,” Miss Benkinsop confirmed, walking back to her guest. “That’s Amelia, the founder of our line.”

“About our proposition. Miss Benkinsop?” Fiorelli hinted, bringing the conversation once more to the subject which the headmistress was trying to avoid.

“I’m afraid it’s quite out of the question, Mr. Fiorelli. I couldn’t even consider it.”

“But we—”

“Ever since the Academy was founded by my great grandmother,” Miss Benkinsop interrupted politely but firmly, we have prided ourselves on being a self-supporting and independent establishment. With no outside associations.”

“But we could help you make it pay better—” Fiorelli pointed out, using an argument which he felt sure could not fail to create a good impression.

He had sadly misjudged Miss Benkinsop. An expression of reproving distaste came to her beautiful face as she replied pointedly:

“We’ve never concerned ourselves greatly with making it pay.”

“But—!” Fiorelli began, genuinely shocked by the apparent disdain his hostess expressed for the sacred subject of money.

“I’m afraid I’d rather not discuss it further,” Miss Benkinsop declared, with an air of finality in her tone. if we go now, I’ll just have time to show you some of our Prep. classes before the Main Debate.

Leading the way across the room, Miss Benkinsop paused on reaching the door. So did Fiorelli, having grown used to a minion opening up for him. Suddenly realising that such was not the case this evening, he did the honours. Smiling graciously, Miss Benkinsop swept by him.

“Perhaps you’ll change your mind,” Fiorelli commented, darting a fast and unobserved glance in the direction of the Regency portrait.

“I doubt it,” Miss Benkinsop replied.

“Don’t you lock your study?” Fiorelli asked, trying to sound more nonchalant and less hopeful than he felt as he noticed the apparent oversight.

In the Jaguar, Saunders tensed and muttered what for him amounted to a fervent prayer that the answer would be in the negative.

“It isn’t necessary,” Miss Benkinsop replied, then proceeded to destroy the sense of elation which she had unconsciously caused to rise in Saunders’ breast, “Amanda fitted one of her automatic locks for me.”

Letting out a disgruntled groan, Saunders glared furiously at the walkie-talkie. Clearly somebody up—or down—there did not particularly like the cat-burglar.

“Oh well, Gus boy,” Saunders told himself bitterly. “It looks like it’s a climb job after all. But if there’s one of them locks on the window—”

He let the words trail off, diverting his attention to uttering another prayer that such a contingency did not arise.

Having walked side by side along the first-floor passage, Miss Benkinsop and her guest strolled down the wide main staircase towards the entrance hall. To make conversation—and prevent his hostess from remembering that she had not closed the study’s window—Fiorelli remarked:

“Who’s Amanda?”

“The School Swot,” Miss Benkinsop replied. “Of course, you haven’t met her?”

“Not yet,” Fiorelli admitted, his voice implying that it was a pleasure to which he was looking forward with considerable anticipation.

“A charming girl,” Miss Benkinsop stated, then dropped her voice to a more conspiratorial level. “But not quite the class we like at Benkinsop’s. Her background’s all wrong, you know.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s her father. He was quite a well-known scientist, brilliant in his field but vague and terribly absentminded. He brought her here in mistake for Roedean, or one of the other less exclusive schools.”

“I’m surprised you let her stay,” Fiorelli commented.

“I was away at the time,” Miss Benkinsop explained. “And when I returned, a few days later, it was too late.”

“Why was that?”

“I told you he was absent-minded?”

“Yes.”

“Well, he was testing some new, very powerful high explosive at a top secret War Department laboratory and set off a charge of it to study the results—”

“And?” Fiorelli prompted.

“He forgot to go behind the protective screens before he set it off.”

“Couldn’t her mother take her back?”

“The Professor was a widower,” Miss Benkinsop explained. “I was unable to trace any other relatives. One can’t turn a poor, defenceless orphan out, can one?”

“No,” Fiorelli conceded, although his natural inclination had been to say, “Why not?” He realised that Miss Benkinsop had probably never made a more beneficial gesture than in keeping Amanda Tweedle at the school.

The main entrance hall, into which the couple descended, was the hub around which all the school’s activities centred. Various classrooms could be reached from it. The wide staircase led from it to the first floor, which housed the administrative offices and teachers’ living quarters, then on to the pupils’ dormitories in the third storey.

By the big front door, closed at that hour of the evening, was a large notice-board. In its centre, neatly—in fact, almost professionally—printed was a notice advertising, in large blue letters, an important school contest which was taking place that evening.

BENKINSOP’S DEBATING SOCIETY

PRESENTS

AN INTER-SCHOOL DEBATE

BENKINSOP’S v. LOWER GREBE A.S.G.

Myra Rosenbloom (3rd Form) v. Doris Hack

Carole Finnegan (4th Form) v. Betty Bull

Rosita Costello (5th Form) v. Anne Smith

MAIN DEBATE

PENELOPE PARKERHOUSE (Head Girl)

v.

TESS DUBERVILLE (School Captain, A.S.G.)

“That’s a real good bill you’ve put on tonight,” Fiorelli commented, indicating the poster as they went by.

“We try to put on the best possible show for these occasions,” Miss Benkinsop replied. “Of course, our girls have so many advantages over the A.S.G. that the results are mostly foregone conclusions.”

“Not in the Main Debate though,” Fiorelli suggested.

“That remains to be seen,” answered Miss Benkinsop, leading the way to a door marked “CELLARS. No Admittance”. “It keeps people from straying around,” she apologised as Fiorelli looked at the sign. “I hate visitors prying, unless they are properly escorted.”

“I can imagine,” Fiorelli grinned, for the Prep. classes at Benkinsop’s were famous in his social set.

Going down into the basement, Fiorelli looked at the various doors which led off from the passage at the foot of the stairs. Each had a red light above it, but in most cases the bulb was dull and not operating.

“I did warn you that there might not be many classes tonight,” Miss Benkinsop remarked. “We prefer the girls to attend and support the Debating Team.”

“There’re three classes, at least,” Fiorelli replied, glancing at the lights which were on. “And we wouldn’t have time to look in on many more before the Main Debate.”

“You’re right, of course,” Miss Benkinsop agreed. “Come this way, please.”

Feeling a growing sense of anticipation, Fiorelli followed Miss Benkinsop to one of the illuminated doors. A neatly-printed sign was attached to it.

FOLK DANCING CLASS

Miss P. Pedlar

Stepping cautiously from the Jaguar, Saunders tucked the walkie-talkie into his left-side jacket pocket. He had followed the conversation and assumed that Miss Benkinsop was now safely down in the basement of the house. If he knew anything about the school—and he believed that he did—everybody else would be attending the Debating Evening.

“Debating,” Saunders thought. “That’s a bloody bright name for—”

Putting aside his thoughts on that aspect of the school’s life. Saunders passed through the main gates. With so many parents and other visitors around—a Benkinsop’s Debating Evening ranked as a highly important social occasion among its pupils’ parents and their associates—he ought to be safe enough. The alarm systems which Amanda Tweedle had installed would most likely be switched off. However, one could never be sure of what new devices the School Swot might have rigged up.

Saunders concluded that, whatever traps for the unwary—or unwanted—visitor might be scattered around the gardens, he ought to be safe enough as long as he stuck to the driveway. Clad in a stylish dinner jacket, with the required black bow tie—no modern multi-coloured nonsense was permitted by the headmistress—only his light-weight, specially designed “climbing-shoes” would have set him apart from the invited guests.

Slightly over average height, Saunders had the ideal build for his chosen line of work. He was very strong, exceptionally fit, with long arms, wiry but powerful fingers and small, almost prehensile feet capable of gaining support from the smallest crack or protuberance. Around his waist, under his dinner jacket, was a belt holding the tools which, he hoped, would open Miss Benkinsop’s safe.

First, however, he had to wait until the headmistress and her guest were on their way to witness the Main Debate. Once that happened, there was no danger of her returning to the study. Nor would anybody else be likely to arrive and interrupt Saunders in his work.

CHAPTER TWO

Lilting melodiously, the strains of Greensleeves, played by a string quartet, came to Fiorelli’s ears as he followed Miss Benkinsop into the classroom devoted to the art of Folk Dancing; as practised by the school. The room itself. he noticed, was set out to supply the correct atmosphere for the class’s pupils. Halting just inside, as Miss Benkinsop had done, he stared with rapt attention to the stage. On it, a student was rendering an aesthetically pleasing variety of Folk Dance.

Standing at her guest’s side, Miss Benkinsop absentmindedly beat time with an expressive forefinger. Watching Clarissa’s rendition of the dance, the headmistress’s mind turned back to the War years. It had been in Copenhagen that she had demonstrated her own ability in that particular type of Folk Dance, holding entranced the Nazi garrison’s highest-ranking officers while members of the Danish Resistance—to which M.I.5 had attached her at that period—carried out a vitally important mission.

Suddenly Miss Benkinsop was jolted from her reverie. She frowned at the girl on the stage and started to move forward.

“No! No! Clarissa dear, that will never do!” Miss Benkinsop protested, as she passed the half a dozen or so other pupils who were seated at the tables which formed part of the classroom’s decor. “The fans should be used to titillate the appetite. To encourage and attract by partial exposure and cunning semi-concealment. You, my dear girl, are waving yours like a sailor sending a rude message by semaphore.”

About to insert a similar comment, Miss Pedlar had turned off the record-player on hearing her superior’s voice. Although she wore plain horn-rimmed spectacles and tweed two-piece, Miss Pedlar looked nothing like anybody’s conception of the music teacher at an exclusive public school. Her platinum-blonde hair, beautiful face, elegantly curved figure, shapely legs in sheer black stockings and four-inch high heels suggested—correctly—that she might have made her mark in one or another of the Folk Dancing arts.

Faced with such a rebuke, Clarissa stood bashfully. She held the large white fans before her, obviously taking in every word that Miss Benkinsop said.

“With your permission, Miss Pedlar,” the headmistress continued, “I’ll endeavour to show Clarissa what I mean.”

“I wish you would, Miss Benkinsop,” Miss Peaches Pedlar answered unhesitatingly. “I used to work with bubbles and it’s not quite the same thing.”

Gathering up Clarissa’s robe, for she was all too aware that there was a gentleman—and not even a pupil’s father—present. Miss Benkinsop handed it to the girl before taking the fans. A sixth-former. Clarissa was a black-haired girl of considerable attraction. Before she had had time to don her robe and leave the stage, Fiorelli had seen enough of her—clad in the traditional Folk Dancer’s costume of G-string and pasties*—to decide that she was well suited to that particular branch of the arts.

As Miss Pedlar started the record-player and the strains of Greensleeves filled the air, Miss Benkinsop began to dance. Touching another switch, the music teacher set a stereophonic system into action. From all around the room, came the usual sounds that might have been heard in the type of establishment which catered for lovers of Folk Dancing.

On the stage, Miss Benkinsop commenced a very expert demonstration of how a pair of fans should be used as an adjunct to that particular form of dance. The long-flowing fronds took on a life of their own, rippling and pulsating; swooping, caressing, now promising—yet never quite reaching the point of—a complete revelation of what lay beyond them.

Nobody could say Fiorelli was an over-imaginative man. He held his present high office in the Mediterranean Syndicate by virtue of dogged persistence, complete ruthlessness and considerable organising ability. For all that, watching Miss Benkinsop perform, he mentally removed the elegant tweeds and whatever lay beneath them. He visualised her dressed—or undressed—as a Folk Dancer should be. Having studied her carefully all evening, with the eye of a connoisseur, he had plenty of material with which to indulge in his fantasies. Give him his due, he had come up with a very accurate picture of what he would have seen if she had been performing the demonstration in status quo.

Sweating freely and joining in the sound effects, to the amusement of the members of the class. Fiorelli almost jumped when Miss Benkinsop culminated her demonstration by throwing her arms wide above her head and allowing the fans to at last reveal all. With something like a shock and experiencing a severe disappointment, the man became aware of her true appearance. Leaning against the wall, he took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow.

That’s roughly what I mean, dear, Miss Benkinsop announced, waving a depreciatory hand in response to the spontaneous burst of applause which rose from every other occupant of the room. She stepped from the stage and handed the fans to the admiring Clarissa, “Now you try.”

“Yes, Miss Benkinsop,” the girl replied, and stepped on to the stage with the determined mien of one who planned to do her best.

“Don’t keep the class too long, Miss Pedlar,” Miss Benkinsop requested. “I’m sure they all want to go and support Penelope in the Main Debate.”

Strolling back to Fiorelli, the headmistress watched him once more mop his brow as he opened the door.

“Do you find it a little warm in here, Mr. Fioreili?” she inquired as they left the room.

Wondering what the hell was happening, Saunders crouched behind a bush and studied the unilluminated front of the building. He did not like what he saw.

“That’s going to be a hell of a climb,” he told himself dismally. “If it was for anybody but Fiorelli, I’d take stoppo right now.”

“I understand you don’t just teach the girls how to dance,” Fiorelli commented as they made their way to the next of the classes.

“Good heavens, no,” Miss Benkinsop replied. “The B.O.G., that’s the Benkinsopian Old Girls’ Booking Agency, handles their careers after they graduate. I’ve heard it’s highly thought-of in the entertainment world.”

“It is,” Fiorelli conceded, knowing that the B.O.G. Agency not only demanded the highest salaries and best working conditions for its clients, it took a mere five instead of the traditional ten—or higher—per cent of their earnings. “They drive a hard bargain.”

“One must look after one’s girls, even after they have left one’s immediate care,” Miss Benkinsop explained. “Of course, not all our girls go in for the Arts. Some will be entering commerce, or domesticity when they leave us. Our Wise Shopping Class helps some of them to find their vocation.”

“Oh yes. Rosalie’s told me about it. Of course, when she was head girl here, she stuck to the Arts.”

“With her attributes, we considered it advisable.”

“Yes, I can see how you would,” Fiorelli grinned, reaching for the handle of the “Wise Shopping” classroom’s door. “Who runs this class for you?”

“Miss Dinks,” Miss Benkinsop replied. “The English mistress. She’s fully qualified.”

On opening the door, Fiorelli’s ears were not assailed by the gentle strains of sweet music. He might, in fact, have been excused if he had believed that in some way he had been transported through the walls of the school and into a branch of Woolworth’s, or Marks & Spencers. There were two counters, laid out with a variety of items such as might have been found in a general store. Beyond them were two equally loaded dress- and coat-racks.

At one of the counters, watched by a girl dressed in the smock of an assistant, two of the pupils—twins by their appearances—clad in mini-skirts, blouses and wet-look plastic macs, endeavoured, unsuccessfully, to shop wisely. Their efforts apparently did not meet with the English teacher’s approval.

“Gawd blimey!” declared Miss Rosie Dinks, her tones reminiscent of Bow Bells. “You ain’t half making a cock-up of that.”

Tall, buxom, Miss Dinks wore a trouser suit and had a head-scarf over her mousey brunette hair. She looked like a blousy suburban housewife in search of the best bargains, or largest offer of gift stamps, at the local supermarkets.

“I’m inclined to agree with you, Miss Dinks,” the headmistress said, walking forward to pluck the pair of stockings from the pocket into which the taller—by a fraction of an inch—of the sisters had surreptitiously slipped them. “Really, Monica, Abigail, girls from your family background should know better.”

Being mutually chubby, if pleasant-featured, the sisters lacked the qualifications necessary to become successful Folk Dancers. However, Miss Benkinsop’s words had suggested to Fiorelli that they might be going into the family’s business at the completion of their education as Wise Shoppers.

“I’m Sorry, Miss Benkinsop,” Monica said, hanging her head in shame. “We were thinking about the Main Debate.”

“And you think that is an excuse for shoddy work?” Miss Benkinsop demanded coldly. “You will both write five hundred times, ‘Inattention to detail leads to cocoa and porridge’.”

“I suppose we can’t blame them, Miss B.,” Miss Dinks put in. “With Amanda busy at the Debating Evening, I haven’t got nobody to work with, so’s I can show ’em proper.”

“I appreciate that, Miss Dinks, although it hardly excuses the disgraceful exhibition I witnessed as I came in. Perhaps I can help? I’m not in yours, or Amanda’s class—”

“None of us can come up to her class,” Miss Dinks interrupted, sounding almost reverent as she thought of the School Swot’s expertise when Wise Shopping.

“I agree, she is rather talented,” Miss Benkinsop concurred. “Perhaps we can muddle through, if we try?”

Waving aside the chastened sisters, the two teachers took their places at the counter. Miss Dinks had collected a shopping bag similar to those carried by the girls and it dangled over her left arm.

Sauntering casually along the counter without giving any hint of being aware of each other’s presence, watched eagerly by Fiorelli and the pupils, the women showed how Wise shopping should be done.

While Miss Benkinsop diverted the “assistant”, with a query about the price of a pair of gloves, something that Abigail had overlooked, Miss Dinks caused a vast quantity of merchandise to disappear into the secret compartment in the lining of her bag. When the “assistant” turned her attention to the English teacher, Miss Benkinsop swiftly purchased two bracelets, a wristwatch and four rings.

On crossing to the clothing racks, the headmistress knew that she was at a disadvantage. If she had been expecting to help with a display of Wise Shopping, she could have worn suitable attire. Being inadequately dressed, she was compelled to act as—to use the Wise Shopping sorority’s term—“smother”. To Fiorelli, who had moved closer, it seemed that the women did no more than stroll between the racks and occasionally one would hold up a dress or coat as if trying it for size. What he did not see was Miss Dinks slipping various purchases, via the elasticated waistband of her slacks, into those specialised garments known as “hoisting knickers”.

Looking puzzled. Fiorelli followed the women to a table at the side of the room. While he had known what they were doing, he was surprised by the volume of their combined purchases. Not only of small, easily-transported and -concealed items either. Grinning amiably at the man’s startled exclamations and expression, Miss Dinks produced, from her elastic-waisted and -legged “hoisting knickers”, four dresses and a fur wrap. Not one of the articles had been visible, even as unconvincing swellings as she had left the racks.

“If I hadn’t seen it,” Fiorelli breathed, “I wouldn’t have believed it could be done.”

“Well, as I told you,” Miss Benkinsop replied. “Miss Dinks is fully qualified and an expert on the subject of Wise Shopping.”

“I’ve only been nicked three times in twenty-five years,” the English teacher declared proudly. “And two of them was ’cause somebody grassed on me.”

“That’s true enough,” Miss Benkinsop conceded, then looked at the disconsolate sisters. “By the way, how is your dear mama?”

“Fine, thank you, ma’am,” Abigail replied. “She’ll be coming out next week.”

“It’d’ve been sooner, but she lost her remission for clocking a screw with a plate of blancmange,” Monica went on in aggrieved tones. “She says she wished we hadn’t moved to our new house. We’ve got a Tory M.P. there and he always wants to know all the facts before he’ll make a complaint.”

“Not like that Labour bloke at our old place,” Abigail continued. “All you had to do was tell him any old story and he’d be writing to the Home Secretary and all his mates on the tele about official brutality and what have you.”

“Quite,” Miss Benkinsop said shortly. “I must arrange for you to go up to town and meet her the day she comes home. You might take her a list of the hockey team’s dress sizes. She promised that she would donate them this term.”

“And tell her if she goes to Selfridges to keep her eyes open,” Miss Dinks warned, “They’ve got a red-haired shop-walker there now who’s red hot.”

“I’ve heard rumours to that effect,” Miss Benkinsop admitted. “Assure your mama that there’s no rush for the team’s dresses. We mustn’t have her taking risks on our account.”

“No, Miss Benkinsop.” the sisters chorused.

“Come, Mr. Fiorelli,” Miss Benkinsop requested. “We’ll just have time to visit the Household Hints class before the Main Debate.”

As they left the room, the headmistress and her guest heard the English teacher delivering a homily to the pupils.

“All right, you two flipping layabouts. If you don’t do better this time, you’ll stay here and ‘ave another go. Even if none of us gets to see the Main Debate. And I’ll get a stinking cob on if I miss it.”

“Now if we were backing you,” Fiorelli remarked, as he and Miss Benkinsop walked to the next of the classes. “We’d organise Wise Shopping tours all over England.”

“Good Lord, no!” Miss Benkinsop gasped, horrified at the thought. “I wouldn’t dream of allowing it. The girls would lose their amateur standing.”

Still crouching uncomfortably in his place of concealment, Saunders mopped his brow with a handkerchief. The waiting was playing on his nerves. It was far worse than the night he had laid under the bed of a prominent all-in wrestler, while the twenty-stone mauler read aloud from a book of fairy tales until falling to sleep.

“Come on, Alf!” Saunders groaned. “Get the old boiler out of there. Then I’ll show her whose daughter’s not good enough for her school.”

“I don’t really care for the Household Hints class,” Miss Benkinsop remarked just before they entered. “It’s not ladylike, but we have to cater for all tastes.”

Looking around the room, Fiorelli had to admit that his hostess had been correct in her summation of its unsuitability for the gentle sex. Three different kinds of safe lined one wall. On a work bench lay an oxy-acetylene burner, oxygen bottles and other safe-blowing equipment. Along a second wall was what looked like a series of open-fronted booths. except that each compartment had a door opening to the next and affixed with a different type of lock.

The class had only one pupil. A small, dainty, blonde child with an angelic, if care-worn face, wearing overalls, worked with a set of skeleton keys on the third door. Unless her teacher had helped, she had already dealt with the first two locks.

“Good evening, Miss Panchez,” Miss Benkinsop greeted the Science teacher. “Not much of an attendance tonight.”

“Wasn’t expecting any,” answered Miss Rita Panchez. She was a big, buxom, swarthy-featured woman with coal-black hair and sporting large loop earrings. Somehow she managed to make her tweed two-piece look as gaudy as the clothes usually worn by gypsy fortune-tellers on fairgrounds. When she spoke, it was in the manner of calling the rubes to “Roll up, Roll up, Try your Luck”. “They’re all at the Debates, I’d’ve told Violet to scarper, but”—she dropped her voice to a whisper—“since she got her dad’s twirls and ’loid, she’s been upset about him.”

“Ah, they came did they?” Miss Benkinsop said, looking approvingly at the bunch of skeleton keys and strip of stout celluloid with which the little girl was acquiring her Household Hints.

“With the second post,” Miss Panchez confirmed. “You’re a wonder, Miss B., if I might say so. Nobody else could’ve got Scotland Yard to band ’em over.”

“You give me far too much credit,” Miss Benkinsop protested. “I merely made the suggestion.”

Being a lady of considerable tact, diplomacy and loyalty to her friends, Miss Benkinsop did not feel it necessary to explain that the return of the “twirls and ’loid” had been arranged for her by the current head of M.I.5. An old war-time associate, he had been only too willing to oblige when she had made the request.

At that moment, diverting attention from the subject, the lock clicked and Violet opened the door, With hardly a glance at the grown-ups, she moved through the cubicle. Checking for burglar alarms, she set to work on the next of the locks when satisfied that no such unnecessary devices were fitted. Stepping over, Fiorelli glanced casually at the type of mechanism the little girl had just dealt with. Then he stared harder, whistled his surprise and rejoined the women.

“I’ve seen top-flight screwsmen who couldn’t have opened one of those pin-tumbler locks as quickly as she did it,” the man declared.

“I’ve always maintained that it’s blood and breeding that count,” Miss Benkinsop answered. “It runs in the family. Her father is Harry Suggett—”

“The cat-burglar?” Fiorelli ejaculated and his right hand involuntarily moved towards the slight bulge caused by the walkie-talkie in his dinner jacket’s inside breast pocket.

“Yes,” agreed the headmistress. “Do you know him?”

“We’ve never met. I’ve heard about him, though. He’s one of the best.”

“Without wishing to sound chauvinistic, I would say he is the best—or was. He always took such an interest in his family. Violet’s learned a lot from him. Then again, she is Amanda’s fag and that’s probably helped her even more.”

“Apart from Amanda,” Miss Panchez put in, “Violet’s the best in the class.”

“I hardly think we can call Amanda part of the class,” Miss Benkinsop corrected. “She instructs it.”

“Does Amanda do everything around here?” Fiorelli inquired.

“Good heavens, no,” Miss Benkinsop smiled, “She could do, of course, but one doesn’t like to impose upon her good nature.”

“She’s always around if we need her, thank Gawd,” Miss Panchez elaborated, then glanced at Violet. “Poor little love. She’s crying.”

Immediately the two teachers hurried across to the cubicle, all their maternal instincts aroused.

“There, there, child,” Miss Benkinsop said gently, slipping a comforting arm around Violet’s shoulders, “I know it’s hard to lose one’s papa, but you must try to be brave.”

“Ye-Yes’m!” Violet sniffed, making a valiant effort to restrain her grief. “F-F-Fifteen years is such a long time.”

“That it is,” Miss Benkinsop admitted. “But you must take comfort in the thought that the sentence is a tribute to your dear papa’s social prominence.”

“Yes, love,” Miss Panchez went on, her normally strident tones strangely gentle. “And they’d never’ve got him but for that dirty grass, Gus Saunders.”

“I—I know, ma’am,” Violet admitted, looking pained, angry and disturbed. “That’s another thing. With Mama in hospital having a baby, there’s nobody to see to him.”

“I understand, dear, Miss Benkinsop said feelingly. Remind me, First thing in the morning, Miss Panchez, to call Maxie Spender and have him prepare a thirty-stitch—will thirty be sufficient, Violet?”

“Yesm,” the third-former agreed, although she would liked to have asked for more. A Benkinsopian was taught never to be greedy.

“Then thirty it will be. Maxie will arrange for a thirty-stitch redemption of Saunders, Miss Benkinsop stated, but looked at her guest and remembered her manners. Unless, of course, your organisation would like to handle the matter, Mr. Fiorelli?”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Fiorelli replied, speaking with great clarity to make sure that the listening Saunders would be able to hear and understand. “We’d do it, and welcome, but you know what these London mobs are like about overseas’ intervention in the British market?”

“I do,” Miss Benkinsop agreed. “Maxie Spender it will be then.”

Although both Miss Panchez and Fiorelli knew that Maxie Spender was attending the Debating Evening. neither mentioned the fact. Fiorelli had no desire to alarm the expert whom he had hired to carry out a specialised piece of business; one that would be of vital importance later in the negotiations for taking the school under the Mediterranean Syndicate’s protective wing. For her part, Miss Panchez had learned that Miss Benkinsop never cared to discuss business on social occasions.

“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:

“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.

“Huh!” Spender snorted disdainfully. “I don’t know why Fiorelli had to bring his minders with him.”

“You have to excuse these Continental chaps. Maxie,” Miss Benkinsop pointed out. “They just don’t appreciate the British way of life.”

“There’s talk that some of them want to appreciate it too much,” Spender warned grimly.

“I don’t follow you,” Miss Benkinsop said, although she bad a shrewd idea of what was coming next.

“Is it true that the Mediterranean Syndicate wants to take over the school?” Spender demanded.

“It has been mentioned. But, of course, I refused.”

“How did he take that?”

“In what way?”

“If he’s been threatening you—!” Spender began.

“He hasn’t I assure you,” Miss Benkinsop hastened to reply. Then, wanting to change the subject, she continued. “By the way, I understand that Amanda took you for a trial spin in the Escort she’s been customising for you.”

“Not half!” Spender enthused, all thoughts of the attempted take-over bid fleeing from his mind. He showed that the test run had been something of an experience for him. “It touched two ton in top gear. And in that ultra-powerful extra-low gear she’s rigged up, it’d tow a tank, Or rip the bars out of any jewellers window I’ve ever Seen.”

“I trust you’ll only use it for towing tanks,” Miss Benkinsop said severely.

“You can count on it,” Spender grinned. “Payment in the usual way?”

“Of course. Into Amanda’s numbered Swiss bank account.”

“I don’t suppose Amanda would like to come as my boss driver, would she?”

“Certainly not. The very idea, Most unladylike. What, may I ask, is wrong with Mr. Tracy?”

“Tommy?” Spender answered, grinning a little at the headmistress’s indignant response. “Oh, he’s good. But that girl—I tell you, Amanda, when she hit one-fifty on that narrow back toad, I thought Tommy was going to shi—make a mess in his pants. He looked a bit green all the way back, but he admits he’s never seen a driver to touch Amanda.”

Which, Miss Benkinsop silently concluded, was no mean compliment coming as it did from the man all of the Profession—and police officers in four countries—regarded as the finest escape and flight driver in the world.

Having ascertained that he and his men were the only occupants of the toilet, Fiorelli entered one of the cubicles. Sitting down, he darted a glance and grin at a drawing in the wall and its inscription, “BENKERS IS SUPER”. Then he extracted the walkie-talkie and raised it to his mouth.

“Gus. Do you read me?”

“Loud and clear,” Saunders answered. “How much longer have I got to wait?”

“Give us another five minutes, then go to it,” Fiorelli advised, “Don’t forget, the safe’s behind the Regency portrait.”

“I heard her ask you if she could open the window—”

“Yeah, she did. It’s still open.”

“That’s the best news I’ve had all night,” Saunders commented.

“I can believe it,” Fiorelli admitted. “I suppose you heard what she’s planning to do in the morning?”

“Good luck to her with it,” Saunders scoffed. “By then, I’ll be right out of her or Spender’s reach.”

“You can count on it, Gus boy,” Fiorelli assured him. “Good luck. Over and out.”

Clicking off the receiver, Fiorelli stepped from the cubicle, He handed the walkie-talkie to Schulze. Having no further need for the instrument, he did not want it on his person. Something told him that the School Swot was a remarkably observant and astute girl. If she should happen to have seen the bulge, she might deduce what was causing it. In which case, she was intelligent enough to form the correct conclusion.

“You go outside and keep watch on Saunders, Carrela,” Fiorelli instructed.

“Do I have to, boss?” the tall, swarthy enforcer asked, sounding more like a little boy who had been told to take a second bath in a day. “I was looking forward to the last—”

“I’ll let you watch the movie of it,” Fiorelli interrupted. “Screw off.”

“Sure, boss,” Carrela said sullenly.

“Get the document case from out of the car,” Fiorelli went on. “Put all the stuff he gets in it. Lock it and bring me the key, you’d better let him know why you’re doing that, then send him to Wings’s plane.”

“You want me to take him to the airstrip?” Carrela asked.

“I don’t think you’ll need to,” Fiorelli replied. “After what he heard tonight all he wants to do is get out of the country.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Entering the main body of the gymnasium building, on her way to deliver Miss Benkinsop’s message, Amanda Tweedle found everything just as she had known it would be. Parents and guests, the fathers in dinner jackets—with only a few clad in lounge suits—and mothers resplendent in their newest, most elegant cocktail dresses and finest jewellery, had left their seats in the rows which surrounded the four sides of the square Debating dais. During the interval before the Main Debate was traditionally the time for socialising; meeting old friends; forming new alliances or mergers; and exchanging the latest gossip.

“And I was only telling Izzy last week,” the plump, yet magnificently jewelled wife of a well-known wholesale buyer for the Wise Shopping trade was saying as the School Swot approached. “ ‘Izzy,” I said. “You’ve got to go down to the Nick and tell the Super to stop sending those awful young detective constables around to turn our drum over.’ ”

“Is that what he does?” the woman to whom the words were directed inquired.

“Every time,” confirmed the aggrieved wife. “My life, that such a thing should happen to us. Now that cat Alma’s putting it about that we’ve gone down in the world and don’t even deserve a visit from a sergeant.”

“I shouldn’t let what Alma says worry you, Rachel dear,” the other woman consoled. “You’re still ‘second row’ and she’s never got beyond the fourth.”

“We finally got that sneaky son-of-a-bitch who was ripping in the tops,” a corpulent visitor from the United States remarked to a gentleman who organised games of chance in the United Kingdom. “Miss Benkinsop sent us the tip-off that put us wise.”

“How’d he do it?”

“Used to bring the rigged dice in in his mouth. When he picked up our dice to shoot—and he only did it once each night—he’d spit the top in and hold back one of our straight cubes. After that, he’d just stand back and let his partner make all the bets.”

“How’d you get him?”

“Like I said, we sent Miss Benkinsop movies of the crowds that we’d taken on our closed circuit television. She had the answer to us next morning. So I had a floorwalker come up behind him and slap him on the back, just as he was making the switch. I’ve never seen a more surprised bunch of crap shooters, when not two but three dice went bouncing across the felt.”

“What did the man who’d been doing it do?”

“Just looked down and said, ‘Look, boys, fifteen the hard way.’”

Appreciating the humour of the story’s punch-line, Amanda smiled in passing. As every student of American Indoor Pastimes was aware, the game known as “shooting craps” was played with only two dice. To make an even number the “hard way” entailed throwing, for example, two threes to make a six, or two fives to add up to ten. Under normal conditions it was impossible to make an odd number “the hard way”.

While the American gentleman’s problem had originally been addressed to Miss Benkinsop, it had been Amanda’s scrutiny of the accompanying television playbacks which had supplied the solution.

“Of course, darling, we’re letting our daughter study the Arts,” a svelte, elegant woman countered her plumper, less attractive friend’s boasts concerning her daughter’s exceptional brilliance in the Wise Shopping class. “I’ve always thought that commerce was rather unbecoming for a well-raised girl.”

“Don’t you find it chilly, being sat so close to the back?” the plump lady parried bitingly. “It’s lovely and warm up where we are.”

“Here she is,” Mr. Izzy Ginzberg announced, indicating the School Swot. “This is the young lady I’ve been telling you about. Amanda, come and meet Mr. Garibaldi.”

“Good evening, sir,” Amanda said politely, ignoring the hand that the tall, very handsome, trendily-attired Italian thrust eagerly towards her.

“She’s real cute, Izzy,” Garibaldi enthused, giving Amanda a look which had charmed and won over ladies on four continents. “Why don’t you and me go for a walk, little one?”

“I’m sure I could help you find your granddaughter, if she’s here, sir,” Amanda replied, with disarming, yet some how chilling and malevolent innocence. “But I have a message to deliver. Excuse me, please.”

Annoyance showed on Rico Garibaldi’s face. He was not used to members of the weaker sex treating him with such casual disdain. Before he could follow the departing girl, Ginzberg had caught him by the arm and restrained him.

“Don’t be stupid, Rico,” the Wise Shopping wholesaler advised. “You try any of your Latin lover stuff on her and you’re a dead pigeon.

“Hah! She liked it,” Garibaldi grinned, taking a long cigarette-holder from his pocket. “And before the night’s out, she’ll be back begging to go out with me.”

“Mate, mate, mate!” Ginzberg said, shaking his head sadly. “This’s your first visit here, and you won’t be coming back—”

“Why shouldn’t I come back?”

“Because you’ve hurt the School Swot’s feelings. That’s like telling the judge you’ve been kipping with his wife all night before the trial. You’ve had your lot here.”

“That’s life,” Garibaldi said, fixing a cigarette into his holder.

“The missus wants me,” Ginzberg declared and hurried away.

Actually. Mrs. Ginzberg was still complaining about the lack of consideration displayed by their neighbourhood detective superintendent and had no desire to be interrupted. Ginzberg had merely used that as an excuse to get away from such a danger to his social position. He wondered if he should follow Amanda and apologise. If he and his wife should be moved from their front row status through Garibaldi, he promised that he would never forgive the Italian.

One’s social standing within the Profession could be gauged accurately by the row in which one was seated when attending a Benkinsop’s Debating Evening. The lower orders were placed at the rear and, in a carefully maintained and jealously studied scale, the quality increased until reaching the elite on the rows nearest to the dais.

Working in close conjunction with their numerous and efficient outside sources of information. Miss Benkinsop and Amanda correlated the details which enabled them to control the seating arrangements rigidly. It was a task calling for extreme diplomacy, tact and a remarkable insight into the private affairs of the Profession. Aware of the great store that was set by parents—especially the wives—and pupils in being awarded their correct social status, the headmistress and the School Swot regarded accuracy as being of the utmost importance. One mistake in placement might easily have led to industrial unrest of a Severe nature.

That was one of the reasons why Amanda had been sitting in the entrance hall. When Miss Benkinsop was otherwise engaged, the School Swot took care of the seating arrangements. In the event of a dispute over allotted places, Amanda was empowered to act as arbitrator. Her word, being backed unhesitatingly by Miss Benkinsop’s authority, was considered as being final.

While there might have been the occasional quibble over an appointed position, it never reached a discordant level. Such behaviour, before the cream of the Profession, would have been unthinkable. Not only would it have incurred the disaproval of one’s social and business betters, or inferiors, it would have brought an even more unpleasant result. With Amanda’s help, Miss Benkinsop had a devastatingly effective means of dealing with the situation.

Although it was completely unnecessary—a mere trifle like remembering the correct placement of two hundred or so guests being child’s play to Amanda—she always kept a copy of the seating plan pinned prominently to the table at which she sat. Faced with a dissenter, or a person whom Miss Benkinsop had decided needed a lesson in good manners, the School Swot would ask—loudly enough to be heard by the other occupants of the hall—for the offender’s name. Receiving it, she would display a convincing attitude of innocent confusion. Then, starting pointedly at the back row, she would work her way very—very—slowly forward. While the offender—and his wife—stood writhing with embarrassment, she would continue her ‘search’ for the correct place. If the offence was deemed sufficiently heinous, she might even apply the ultimate penalty. She would, in the most apologetic manner, call Miss Benkinsop into consultation as if unable to accept that such a person could possibly be a legitimate visitor.

After receiving the full treatment, for having used what Miss Benkinsop regarded as excessive and unnecessary violence in a wage-snatch, one errant parent had been heard to comment that he would rather face a twenty-stitch razor redemption, or a good kicking from Maxie Spenders efficient minders, than go through it again. Certainly his behaviour had improved and he had worked his way from the back row—to which he had been relegated—to his previous position.

All of the gymnasium’s equipment had been removed. to make room for the Debating dais and rows of seats. Passing along the gap between the north and west rows. Amanda found the teacher whom she had been sent to contact and delivered Miss Benkinsop’s message.

Having carried out the headmistress’s instructions, Amanda made her way towards the seats which had been reserved for the guests of honour. in passing, she noticed that Rico Garibaldi was sitting on the front row at the northern side of the dais. He had arrived with a letter of introduction from a senior member of the Mafia, so Miss McCoy had said when requesting information as to his placement in the hall, which had entitled him to such a prominent position. Ignoring his wink and wave of the long cigarette holder, the School Swot joined Fiorelli’s “wife”.

“Hi, Amanda,” Rosalie Fieldbank greeted, showing more reverence than one might have expected for an Old Benkinsopian meeting the girl who had once been her fag. “Where’s Benkers and Alf?”

“They’ll be along soon,” Amanda promised. “Have you met everybody?”

“‘All except old Frithy-Bab. She still doesn’t come to the Debating Evenings, I see.”

“No,” Amanda smiled.

“How’re her mushrooms growing?” Rosalie asked.

“She’s producing some quite exotic varieties,” Amanda admitted.

“That’s one name for them,” Rosalie said, with a shiver.

Miss Hortense Frithington-Babcock, the deputy headmistress, was a rather vague, somewhat absent-minded elderly lady who had been connected with the Benkinsop Academy practically since it had first been founded. There was, however, no foundation in the traditional Third Form rumour that she had been in attendance when the first Amelia performed her “undraped” dance for the Prince Regent and Beau Brummel. Everybody liked admired and respected her; regarding her hobby of cultivating rare species of mushrooms as the harmless eccentricity of a senior and still very useful member of the staff.

Further conversation was precluded by the arrival of Miss Benkinsop, Fiorelli and Spender. Sensing that the Main Debate would soon be starting, the other guests headed for their seats.

“I’m pleased you’re looking so well, Rosalie,” Miss Benkinsop said.

“It’s the climate in Cyprus that does it,” Rosalie answered, shaking hands. “Alf and I have a villa there, you know.”

Watching the shapely and very beautiful “Mrs.” Fiorelli, Amanda could hardly hold down a smile. Clad in an exclusive Dior creation, wearing the most costly set of jewellery in the room, envied by every other guest for her social prominence, Rosalie still acted like a third former being called to account before the headmistress for misbehaviour.

After exchanging greetings with other guests, Miss Benkinsop sat in the centre seat of the north-side row. Fiorelli was at her right, Spender to her left. Amanda was placed between Fiorelli and Rosalie.

“Don’t you use this place as a gym any more?” Fiorelli inquired, looking around and noticing the apparently permanent manner in which the rows of seats were secured to the floor.

“Why shouldn’t we?” Miss Benkinsop countered.

“It must take you hours to shift this lot,” Fiorelli explained, waving a hand at the dais and seats.

“Not really,” corrected the headmistress. “Amanda designed and we had installed, a simple mechanism. When one throws a lever in the basement, the floor revolves in sections. The dais sinks down and its lighting canopy forms part of the gyms floor. The seats are swung underneath until they are required again. It makes cleaning up after a Debating Evening so much easier, too. All the staff need to do is sweep up the rubbish which falls into the basement.”

“What happens if somebody throws the switch, as a rag, halfway through a Debate?” Rosalie asked, thinking back to some of the equally irresponsible pranks she had played as a third- and fourth former.

“I should be most annoyed with whoever did it,” Miss Benkinsop replied. “Not that it could happen. Amanda had rather cunningly camouflaged the lever and protected it from mischievous fingers with a couple of her foolproof devices.”

“That’s a relief,” Rosalie sighed. “Unless they’ve changed since my day, I know what the Lower Third are like.”

“They haven’t changed too much,” said Miss Benkinsop. “Perhaps they’re not quite so inventive. Has Rosalie told you how she put itching powder in the previous English teacher’s ‘hoisting knickers’, Mr. Fiorelli?”

“No,” the man grinned. “What happened?”

“The results were—unusual,” Miss Benkinsop smiled. “Of course, amusing as it was, I had to discover the culprit and see that justice was done.”

“I couldn’t sit down for two days,” Rosalie admitted. “And wearing my G-string at Prep. was agony.” Then. seeking for a change of subject, she turned her attention to the School Swot. “What do you think of Penny’s chances, Amanda?”

“Well,” the girl answered, thoughtfully. “Tess is the more weighty debater, but she lacks Penny’s command and finesse.”

“Did you train her?” Spender wanted to know.

“Er—” Amanda replied, looking bashful and modest. “I gave her a few hints.”

“We have complete faith in Miss Hammerschlagen,” Miss Benkinsop explained. “But, in view of the importance the girls attach to the event, I considered it advisable that Arnanda should instruct her.”

“So you really fancy Penelope’s chances, Miss Benkinsop?” Fiorelli asked, grabbing the opportunity which the conversation was presenting to him.

“Implicitly!” stated the headmistress.

“Five thousand pounds-worth?” Fiorelli hinted.

“At least that much,” Miss Benkinsop replied.

“Higher, then?” Fioreui suggested, watching the adjudicator and contestants entering the dais.

“Well, as a general rule I don’t approve of wagering on inter-school events,” Miss Benkinsop warned. “But I feel that one should always show that one has faith in the girls.”

“Shall we say ten thousand, then?”

“Certainly. Its a nice, round sum.”

“That’s a lot of money for the Syndicate to lose, Alf,” Spender commented.

“I know Mr. Fiorelli can afford to lose it,” the headmistress put in calmly. “And, correct me if I’m wrong, Amanda, I believe the school’s Petty Cash Fund will just Cover it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Amanda agreed, having spent all of a second marshalling her facts. “With tonight’s takings, Petty Cash stands at ten thousand and thirteen pounds, seventy-eight pence. We expended rather heavily upon the improvements to the gym.”

“Ten thousand it is then,” Fiorelli declared, holding out his hand.

“No hard feelings when you lose?” Miss Benkinsop inquired, sealing the arrangement with a hand-shake.

“None at all,” Fiorelli assured her. “How about you?”

“I don’t really see any way I can lose,” Miss Benkinsop smiled. “But, in the unlikely event that I should, I trust I know how to behave like an English gentlewoman.”

“If you’ve got money to throw away like that, Alf,” Spender remarked. “I might put up ten grand on young Penelope myself.”

“You’re on, Maxie,” Fiorelli declared.

At that moment, the tannoy system boomed out its announcement of the Main Debate, Before settling back in his seat to watch, Fiorelli glanced to where Garibaldi was sitting. Catching the eye of the Syndicate executive, the Italian gave a knowing wink and gestured quickly with his cigarette lighter. The by-play had gone unnoticed.

Having placed the walkie-talkie in his jacket pocket, Gus Saunders made ready for his part in the Mediterranean Syndicate’s take-over bid. A glance at his wristwatch showed him that the five minutes had elapsed. Removing the jacket, he folded it and placed it on the ground under the bush.

Approaching the side of the mansion, with all the wary alertness of a hunter stalking some easily frightened game—or the watchful readiness for flight of a deer at the height of the hunting season—he paused beneath its unilluminated wall. For all his other failings, he was an artisan in his main line of work. In fact, if he had not been successful in applying for the soft- and hard-drugs concession at all the left-wing protest meetings, he might have qualified—by his expertise—for a place on at least the second row. So, as he stood and gazed upwards, it was with the eye of an extremely capable specialist.

Nothing about his close-range scrutiny caused him to revise the opinion which he had formed on reaching his place of concealment. That wall would be a double-dyed bastard to climb. Just about the only good point was that the bottom of the study’s window was open. If it had been closed—

Being aware of the penalty for failure—no flight from England or safe haven at the Syndicates headquarters on Troodos Mountain in Cyprus—Saunders did not care to contemplate the effect that finding the window closed would have had on his arrangements.

Sucking in a deep breath, Saunders exercised his arms, legs and fingers. As he made his final examination, selecting the original points of his climb, he wondered what else Fiorelli had in mind. Sure, the theft of Benkinsop’s family jewels and the schools Petty Cash Fund would be a shattering blow. Yet it hardly seemed, to Saunders’ way of thinking, that it alone would be sufficient to make her turn over control of the place to the Syndicate.

Putting the matter from his thoughts, for he knew that he would require a clear head during the climb, Saunders reached for the first of his hand-holds.

CHAPTER FIVE

“Miss Benkinsop, Mr. and Mrs. Fiorelli, my lords, ladies and gentlemen, boomed a feminine voice over the tannoy system. Benkinsop’s Debating Society presents the Main Debate of the evening.”

The word “lords” in the announcement was no mere ostentation. As anyone who watches British television—especially fictional crime or adventure series—knows, the upper classes and aristocracy have a remarkable number of connections with the Profession.

“Under the Lord Mountevans’ rules,” the voice went on. “The best of three falls. Two pinfalls, two submissions or one knockout to decide. Presenting and introducing. school captain of Lower Grebe Approved School For Girls—in the red corner—Tearaway Tess Duberville!”

Acknowledging, in the accepted professional Debating fashion, the polite applause of the crowd, Tess Duberville slipped off her sky-blue, sequin-sprinkled, fur-edged short cloak. Under it she wore—and filled magnificently—a matching one-piece Debating costume. She was a pretty, shapely, sturdy girl of about five feet six, with curly brunette hair.

Standing in the red corner, Tess allowed the adjudicator—a stocky, completely bald man wearing a black tee-shirt and slacks—to commence his examination. He checked that her fingernails had been cut short and smooth, made certain that her skin had not been coated with oil or other artificial aids, and that her heel-less two-tone Debating boots were properly fastened.

“And in the blue corner,” the announcer continued. “Benkinsop’s own head girl. PENELOPE PARKERHOUSE!”

Instantly a tumultuous thunder of approbation arose. Watching Penelope shrug off and hand her magnificent gold lamй robe to the blonde, hefty, Teutonic gym mistress, Miss Flammerschlagen, Fiorelli decided that—even without the precautions against defeat he had taken—Miss Benkinsop might have been too confident for her own good. Certainly there was nothing to justify, as far as appearances went, the headmistress’s supreme confidence in a victory for the school’s head girl.

Much in fact, including height and weight, appeared to be in Tess’s favour.

From her bouffant-styled blonde head to the soles of her silver-monogramed, gold lamй Debating boots, Penelope Parkerhouse could not be more than five foot two inches in height. Pretty, vivacious, her face expressed a zest and merry enjoyment of life that was a joy to behold. Encased in a form-hugging gold lamй costume of style, elegance and some brevity—although not blatantly so—her buxom, very shapely figure was most attractive to the male eyes in the audience.

Grinning delightedly, for she was clearly looking forward with pleasurable anticipation to the forthcoming Debate, Penelope waved her answer to the adulation of her loyal and admiring schoolmates. Then she too allowed herself to be examined by the adjudicator.

Having completed the first part of his duties—a mere formality where Penelope was concerned—the adjudicator called the girls to the centre of the dais. Their assistants—seconds being the technical term—Miss Hammerschlagen in Penelope’s case and a teacher from the A.S.G. on behalf of Tess, ducked between the second and third of the protective ropes with their robes. Looking pointedly at Tess, the adjudicator explained the rules of the Debate; particularly those which especially applied to distaff debaters.

“Let’s have a good clean debate, girls,” the man advised. “No hair-pulling, biting, eye-gouging, scratching or clothes tearing. When your opponent’s down and you’ve released your hold, let her get up before you start to make your next point.”

“Cor!” Penelope ejaculated, in a voice even more redolent of the sound of Bow Bells than that of the English teacher. “You’re taking away all my best arguments.”

“I was going to say that,” Tess protested, wishing that she had had the quickness of wits to think of such a comment.

“Never mind, love,” Penelope consoled. “You can use it from now on.”

“Shake hands, go back to your corners,” the adjudicator ordered. “On the bell, come out debating.”

While Penelope immediately offered her hand, Tess—who had her image to consider—ignored it. Turning her back on the head girl, while the audience expressed its disapproval of such poor sportswomanship, the A.S.G.’s captain returned to her corner and went through the process known among Debaters as “limbering up”.

“Is Tess still inside?” Spender inquired.

“She comes out next week,” Miss Benkinsop answered. “Are you interested?”

“Depends,” Spender replied. “We put on Debating cards in some of my clubs.”

“That would mean she would have to turn professional,” Miss Benkinsop pointed out. “Of course, it might not be a bad thing. I’d suggest that you contact the B.O.G.—”

“Are you handling Debaters now, Miss Benkinsop?” Rosalie put in.

“Not I, dear, the B.O.G. are considering it. Only as a side-line, of course.”

“How much’ll it cost?” Spender wanted to know.

“My dear Maxie,” the headmistress chided. “You know how I dislike talking about money. Ah The bell.”

At the mansion, Saunders was edging his way slowly and painstakingly up the wall. While his toes clung insecurely to the lower cracks, his fingers sought for crevices higher up and used them to haul himself onwards.

The debate opened briskly, with an exchange of throws which allowed each girl to display her knowledge of leverage and demonstrate her ability to land and rise swiftly. Then they went into an arm lock, which gave the heavier Tess an advantage. She abused it by pushing Penelope backwards across the dais and against the ropes. On being requested by the adjudicator to release her grip, she showed a lamentable lack of fair play. Although she took her hands from Penelope, she swung her knee against the head girl’s mid-section. Gasping, Penelope dropped to her knees. As the adjudicator spoke severely to Tess, the audience expressed polite but distinct disapproval a Benkinsop’s Debating Evening, the audience’s participation was almost always more reminiscent of Lords during a Test Match than of the Albert Hall when Joint Promotions were putting on a bill of professional male debating.

Rising, Penelope resumed the debate by bringing off a nifty trio of cross-buttocks which sent Tess bouncing across the floor of the dais. However, Tess came back strongly with a flying mare. There was a brief period of circling and then a meeting which ended when Tess, sitting on the floor, operated a head-scissors on Penelope.

“Tess’s pretty good,” Spender commented.

“But hardly good enough,” answered Miss Benkinsop nodding with approval as the head girl thrust with her feet and rose into the air to spin free.

“Jolly well played!” called a gruff-voiced, large gentleman with a broken nose and cauliflower ear, from his place in the fourth row.

“Bravo, Penelope!” enthused a lady who owned, and kept order in, what was notoriously the roughest, toughest public house in Netting Hill.

Unaware of how the Main Debate might be progressing, but praying that it would last long enough for him to carry out his assignment, Saunders found himself in serious difficulty.

Spread-eagled on the wall, some twenty feet above the hard concrete pathway, the man knew what he must do. Balancing precariously, with his spread-apart feet attempting to dig deeper into the cracks and the fingers of his left hand hooking on for all they were worth, he carefully moved his right hand in search of another piece of support. It was a terrifying thought, but he could not detect any kind of succour.

“Oh gawd!” Saunders moaned. “How did I get into this?”

It might have been, the cat-burglar concluded, much better to have refused Fiorelli’s offer. Even if by doing so, he should have found himself on the receiving end of a well-deserved thirty-stitch redemption at the hands of Maxie Spender’s minders. Unfortunately, having once accepted. Saunders was all too aware of what his fate would be if he should fail.

Unless he could find another hand-hold, Saunders realised that failure was a very real possibility.

Excitement was mounting in the gymnasium. Taking Tess unawares, after a succession of monkey-climbs and body slams had put her into a suitably receptive frame of mind, Penelope applied a crucial piece of logic to her arguments.

Bending, the head girl scooped the dazed A.S.G.s captain’s feet from the floor and toppled her backwards. Retaining her contact, to ensure that she could legitimately take further measures, Penelope rapidly folded her opponent at the waist. Before Tess could resist, Penelope had assumed the posture known as a Debater’s bridge above her. Settling down so that her thighs pressed against the backs of Tess’s knees, Penelope’s own somewhat dishevelled blonde head and feet were on the floor, Her full weight was therefore resting upon her discomfited rival. Held in such a spectacular manner, the captain of the A.S.G. was unable to quibble as the adjudicator carried out his duty.

“One Two! Three!” the man called, kneeling alongside the girls and, having ascertained that Tess’s shoulder blades were actually pressing against the canvas covering, slapped the mat at each word. Then he tapped the head girl lightly on the shoulder and said. “That’s it, Penelope Break the hold.”

Obeying instantly, for a Benkinsopian was taught always to respect the rules, Penelope flipped gracefully to her feet. flopping straight and lying supine, Tess displayed a most unladylike tantrum at her temporary setback. rounding fists and feet on the floor, she protested loudly until her assistant came and helped her to rise. While Tess was led back to the red corner, where refreshments awaited, Penelope allowed her right hand to be raised by the adjudicator in a signal that she had made the Debate’s first score.

“And the winner of the first fall, in ten minutes twenty-eight seconds!” thundered the tannoy system. “By a Byers-bridge for a pinfall, Penelope Parkerhouse!”

“Byers-bridge?” Spender repeated, looking at the other occupants of the guests of honour’s seats. “I’ve never heard it called that before.”

“It used to be Miss Byers’ favourite way of concluding a Debate,” Amanda explained.

“Who’s Miss Byers,” Fiorelli asked. “Another of your teachers?”

“No, Amanda replied. She was an American Professional Lady Debater, from El Paso, Texas.”

“A good one?” Spender wanted to know.

“Very good,” Amanda elucidated. “She defeated a Miss Mildred Burke—who had been undefeated Ladies Debating Champion of the World for seventeen years—by two straight falls, at Atlanta, Georgia, on August the twenty-eighth, 1954.”

“You’re sure of the date?” Fiorelli challenged with a grin.

“If you wish, sir,” Amanda replied politely “I can tell you each of the ladies height, weight and what she was wearing. Also the adjudicator’s and seconds’ full names.”

Just as the cat-burglar was on the very brink of despair, his feverishly scrabbling fingers finally located a cavity. Only a master at the “Climb”—as the Profession referred to his speciality—could have gained any advantage from such minute support. Saunders was such a man. With a long, heart-rending sigh of relief, he traversed the difficult, practically impassable, region.

“Gawd!” Saunders moaned, pausing to regain his composure. “If I’d been a short-arse like Harry Suggett, I couldn’t’ve done it. I’ll bet neither Al Maundby nor Frenchie de Pignon could’ve got across that bit either. They wouldn’t’ve been tall enough.”

Turning his head cautiously, Saunders surveyed the remaining few feet which separated him from the open window. Nothing ahead would be anywhere nearly so difficult as the section which lay just behind him. Satisfied on that count, he moved onwards and upwards.

Muttering what may have been a prayer, although it was probably something more profane, the cat-burglar finally managed to hook his left arm over the sill of the window. Nothing he had ever experienced previously quite equalled the sensation of relief which assailed him at that moment. At long last, he had reached the means of access to Miss Benkinsop’s study.

Then a reaction followed in the wake of his elation.

Under normal conditions, he could have considered himself home and dry. On his current assignment, however, he realised that his troubles might easily just be commencing.

If the School Swot had taken even a few of her more moderate precautions, the safe might easily prove to be impregnable.

Easing up the window—with what the writers of ladies romantic novels describe as his heart in his mouth—Saunders felt his indignation boil up against the School Swot and her machinations. Grimly he decided that he would ask a very good friend of his—a prominent Socialist M.P. and television personality—if some kind of legislation might be introduced to suppress the antisocial activities of Amanda Tweedle.

Old—would be only too pleased to do it. After all, he and his colleagues had already done so much—helping to abolish corporal and capital punishment, making life more cushy in the nicks, always being ready to protect the “innocent” against injustices by prison wardens or the police—to benefit the Profession and improve its members’ working conditions.

With that thought come and gone, Saunders inserted his lanky body through the window. Hardly daring to breathe, or place one foot in front of the other, in case he triggered off some alarm, he moved nervously towards the Regency portrait.

The second fall had commenced with a lively and energetic exchange of compliments. Incensed by her first failure, Tess was clearly determined to be avenged at any cost. So she started to make full use of the advantages given to her by her extra height and weight. She also displayed a lack of sporting spirit by conduct known as “bending the rules”. She did this to such an extent, in fact, that the adjudicator was compelled to impose upon her a penalty of her first Public Rebuke for using her clenched fist as a means of escaping from Penelope’s legal arguments.

It said much for the head girl’s superb mental and physical condition that she not only weathered a storm of forearm smashes, and other moves based more on brute strength than finesse, but came through in a position which threatened to cost Fiorelli his wager.

Caught in what was technically termed a “Boston crab”, Tess considered the matter for a few seconds. As an aid to concentration, she beat her fists upon the canvas and her pretty face bore an expression of deep preoccupation.

Deciding upon the wisest course to adopt, Tess placed her palms flat on the floor. Thrusting upwards with her arms, she raised her torso and exerted pressure that—despite Penelope’s efforts to the contrary—straightened her trapped legs. A cry of annoyance burst from Penelope’s lips as she was caused to first bend at the waist, then turn a somersault and land supine. Not only was the head girl dislodged but Tess manoeuvred to sit astride her shoulders. It was a position calculated to induce the state of mind and body known as a pinfall.

Any relief Fiorelli might have been experiencing terminated abruptly. Raising her own legs. Penelope inserted her feet beneath Tess’s arm-pits and deftly tipped her backwards. Following up her advantage, Penelope folded Tess at the waist and gained the upper position. Fortunately, for the state of Fiorelli’s ulcers, Penelope had not achieved the ultimate satisfaction of attaining a Byers-bridge. The situation still looked precarious, for the adjudicator declared:

“One! Two!—”

Hardly daring to believe his luck, Saunders had not only reached the Regency portrait without setting off an alarm, but he had set it free and swung it away from the wall to expose the safe and suffered no unpleasant repercussions.

“And I thought Benkinsop was smart!” Saunders ejaculated, looking with contempt at the steel door. “This’ll be easy.”

Then a sudden, nagging, alarming doubt assailed him. Was it, indeed, too easy?

What kind of devilish devices might the School Swot have affixed to that old-fashioned, out-moded safe’s door?

With considerable trepidation, the cat-burglar removed a stethoscope from its pouch on his waist belt and commenced his preliminary research.

Cursing under his breath Fiorelli wondered why the hell Garibaldi had delayed intervening in the Debate. The executive conveniently forgot that his instructions had laid stress on permitting the Debate to continue for as long as possible; to allow Saunders sufficient time to carry out his assignment.

Even as Fiorelli thought that all was over, Tess averted the disaster without outside assistance. Using her legs, she twirled Penelope from the upper position and rose hurriedly.

Fiorelli mopped his brow. Glancing at the Italian, who had removed the cigarette but still held its holder between his lips, the executive decided that his fears might have been unfounded. Clearly Garibaldi had not become so engrossed n the Debate that he had forgotten what his duty would be.

Despite the escape, Fiorelli was still on the horns of a dilemma.

As if revitalised by the proximity of victory, Penelope was soon dominating the Debate in no uncertain manner. Watching Tess being propelled bodily around the dais, it seemed that Fiorelli must insist upon Garibaldi intervening.

Then Tess, always a wily Debater, tricked Penelope.

Having suffered four body checks, in which Penelope had charged into her and knocked her from her feet, Tess seemed ready to accept a fifth. Instead of awaiting the impact, however, she dropped at the last moment to her hands and knees. Unable to halt, although she bounded over the crouching girl, Penelope collided with the protective ropes. Being springy, they propelled her backwards to trip over Tess. Before Penelope could recover, Tess had her firmly entangled in a folding body press from which she had no hope of escape.

Giving a long sigh of relief, Fiorelli hoped that Saunders might be doing as well in Miss Benkinsop’s study.

Much to his amazement Saunders completed the opening of the safe without raising an alarm by his actions. The sight which met his eyes told him that he had finally made what the Profession would regard as “the Big Tickle”.

Swiftly Saunders scooped out the wads of bank-notes, fitting than into the money-pouch on his belt. When it came to the jewellery, he faced a more difficult problem. His money-pouch was already packed tight. So he needed another means of transportation. High stakes frequently called for desperate measures. Removing his shirt, he laid it on the floor. With trembling fingers, he dumped Miss Benkinsop’s magnificent collection of rings, earrings, bracelets, necklaces and other trinkets on to the garment. Knotting the whole into a bundle, he closed and locked the safe and replaced the portrait.

Crossing to the window, the cat-burglar prepared for his descent. From its clip on the back of his belt, he removed a coiled length of thin but very strong nylon rope. There was a collapsible grapnel at one end. He lashed the other securely to his bundle. Affixing two of the grapnel’s triangle of hooks to the window-sill, he lowered the precious bundle to the ground. After a quick look around to make sure that he was not observed, he eased himself over the ledge and followed it down. Before commencing, he returned the window to its original position.

Descending proved to be far easier than going up. On reaching the ground, he shook free his grapnel. Gathering it, the rope and bundle in his arms, he scuttled towards the bush.

And saw a figure standing in its shadows, watching him.

Even with only the pale light of the stars, Saunders could make out the unmistakable outline of a gun in the obscure shape’s hand.

CHAPTER SIX

With one fall to each girls credit, the pace of the Debate was building up. For over twelve minutes, there had hardly been a second when one or the other contestant was not either flying through the air, landing from being thrown, applying a telling hold, or escaping from her opponent’s grasp, using skill, ability, or—in Tess’s case only, of course—guile, cunning and deliberate “bending” of the rules.

After one period of particularly blatant and inexcusable “rule bending”, Tess had been penalised by a second “Public Rebuke”. Watching her trying to assault Penelope before the head girl could return to the dais—after being thrown through the ropes and from it—Fiorelli experienced a growing surge of alarm and anxiety. For Tess’s misconduct to cause her to suffer the ignominy of being disqualified would ruin all his carefully laid plans.

Not knowing whether to drop his “Big Tickle” and flee, plead for mercy, or to threaten to write to his friend, the M.P.—if the person with the firearm should prove to be an unsporting member of the constabulary—Saunders discovered that none of the courses would be necessary.

Holding a Luger automatic pistol in his right hand, and carrying a black document case under his left arm, Carrela stepped from his place of concealment.

“Is everything all right?” the minder—although he preferred the more genteel and dignified title of “enforcer”—asked.

“Gawd!” Saunders croaked, when he had got his breath back. “You gave me a turn, Carrela.”

“Have you got it?” Carrela demanded.

The enforcer was noted for always being the one to get straight down to business. In this instance, he had an added inducement for haste. He wished to be able to conclude his duties quickly, so that be would be in time to witness at least the end of the Main Debate.

“Of course I have,” Saunders confirmed, setting down his burden and unfastening the knots he had tied to secure the jewellery inside his shirt. “And I didn’t half have a job getting them.”

Returning the Luger to its spring-shoulder holster, which was concealed beneath the left side of his jacket, Carrela did not express a single word of commiseration or commendation. Instead, he unlocked and set down the open document case, Without offering to help, he watched Saunders disgorge the money and place it into the case. The jewellery came next. On picking up the magnificent necklace which was Miss Benkinsop’s most prized heirloom, the cat-burglar studied it in a gloating manner.

“I’d like to keep this for my missus,” Saunders remarked hopefully. “It’d look a treat on her when she comes here as one of the Board of Governors.”

“Drop it in the box, screwsman,” Carrela ordered coldly.

“Keep your wool on, mate!” Saunders answered with some asperity. Having done the Mediterranean Syndicate a great service, he considered that he was entitled to more respect frorn the menials and hired lackeys. Seeing the cold, menacing scowl crease Carrela’s brow, he decided not to press the matter too far, “Cor! I’d like to see Benkinsop’s face when she opens the safe.”

Still Carrela did not show any great desire for idle conversation. He stood with his left hand holding open the flap of his jacket in a significant manner and his right kind was poised ready to disappear beneath it. Shrugging, Saunders dropped the necklace on to the rest of the “Big Tickle” and closed the lid.

“I’ll attend to it,” Carrela offered, relaxing slightly.

“Good. That’ll give me time to get dressed,” Saunders replied. “Cor! It ain’t half nippy.”

While the cat-burglar donned his shirt—without wasting time tucking its flap into his trousers—and coat, Carrela locked the case. Removing the key, he dropped it into his jacket’s right-hand pocket. Then he held the case in Saunders’ direction and gave instructions.

“Take this and get going. Wings’ll have the plane ready to take off as soon as you get to the field—”

“Can’t I go in the other one?”

“You know what the boss said,” Carrela growled. “He wants for you to get clear, just in case anything goes wrong.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Saunders conceded, deciding that a hurried departure in the smaller aircraft might be preferable to delaying his flight until Fiorelli was ready to leave in the Syndicate’s more luxurious HFB 320 Hansa executive jet.

“There’s one thing.” Carrela remarked, sounding too cheerful for such a serious piece of information, “Don’t try to open this case. It’s set to blow up if you do.”

“You’re kidding!” Saunders yelped, displaying a marked reluctance to accept the “Big Tickle’s” container.

“I never learned how, I had a deprived childhood,” Carrela replied, “Take it and screw off, man. It’s safe enough; just so long as no smart bastard tries to open it without the key.”

“All right,” Saunders said, reluctantly yielding to the enforcer’s thinly veiled hostility. “I’ll see you at the villa.”

Watching the cat-burglar scuttling rapidly along the path, carrying the document case at arm’s length as if hoping that to do so would protect him if it should explode, Carrela grinned.

“I wouldn’t count on it,” the enforcer commented, sotto voice. “Sucker!”

Fiorelli’s anxieties concerning Tess proved to be groundless.

Swaying beyond the reach of her opponents swinging fist, Penelope allowed the natural springiness of the top rope to draw her back again. Then, before Tess could retreat to safety, the head girl boxed her ears severely. Spinning around, Tess dropped to her hands and knees.

Penelope vaulted over the top rope landing gracefully. Then she indulged in a lamentable, if understandable, display of temperament. Darting forward, she made as if to launch a kick at her opponents perfectly positioned rump. Before she could do so, the adjudicator restrained her and reminded her that such an act would be contrary to the rules of the Debate.

Apologising politely, Penelope bent and gallantly assisted the bewildered Tess to rise. However, the head girls spirit of forgiveness was more apparent than real. No sooner was Tess erect, than Penelope slapped her face and sent her once more tumbling to the floor of the dais.

“I really must stop the girls watching the male professional Debaters on the television!” Miss Benkinsop declared, aghast at the idea of one of her pupils—and the head girl at that—showing such bad manners.

However the majority of the guests and pupils showed that they heartily approved of the A.S.G.’s captain receiving a dose of her own medicine. Having reproved Penelope, the adjudicator found himself unable to remonstate with Tess for her abortive attempt at bending the rules.

By the time Carrela returned to the gymnasium, the Debate was dearly going in Penelope’s favour. Strolling, apparently nonchalantly, towards his seat on the rear row, he directed a confirmatory nod to his employer.

Grinning in satisfaction Fiorelli caught Garibaldi’s eye and made a slight, but commanding gesture as if blowing through his lips.

The time had come, as Fiorelli well knew, to ensure that the result of the Debate went in the right direction.

“As I said,” Miss Benkinsop remarked to Spender, watching with approval as Penelope kicked Tess’s feet from under her and toppled her to the canvas for the fourth time. “Quality always tells.”

“You’re so right,” grinned Spender, equally oblivious of the machinations being contemplated against the head girl’s welfare.

Noticing the exhausted manner in which the A.S.G.’s representative crawled to her feet, Miss Benkinsop dropped her voice and continued, “Confidentially, Maxie, I’m sure that Tess smokes, and does other things equally damaging to one’s health.”

“She doesn’t have you to guide her, Amelia,” Spender praised.

With the empty cigarette-holder to his lips, Garibaldi turned his full attention to the dais. He wondered, anxiously, if he would be able to carry out his assignment before it was too late. Unless Penelope came much closer and stood still for a moment, he could not hope to do so and be certain of success.

The opportunity soon presented itself!

Continuing with her policy of disturbing Tess’s equilibrium, over-balancing and causing her to sit down with some force, Penelope was circling the dais. While waiting for her dazed opponent to rise, after the sixth kick, the head girl took a breather. To do it, she leaned on the ropes with her back directly in front of the Italian.

That was Garibaldi’s chance!

Giving a quick puff of breath through the holder, the Italian watched and waited with bated breath. After what seemed like an age, although it was not more than a second, he saw Penelope flinch as if something had stung her. Satisfied, he swiftly transferred the holder from his lips to his jacket’s pocket. Having done so, he produced an identical holder from his other pocket. Into this, he fitted a cigarette and lit it.

Although Penelope felt a gentle, yet sharp. prick on her bare left shoulder, she had no idea what had caused it. Nor did she greatly care at that moment, for it was neither painful nor long lasting. Reaching up with her right hand, she rubbed at the spot. In doing so, she inadvertently dislodged a minute sliver of wood that had been clinging with its sharp tip barely buried in her skin.

Forgetting the momentary irritation caused by the sliver—in fact, she was not aware of its presence—Penelope watched Tess rise and prepared to deliver the coup de grвce.

Wobbling uncertainly, Tess watched Penelope step away from the ropes. The captain of Lower Grebe’s A.S.G. sensed that the end was in sight. Gallantly, she had given her all and knew that she was incapable of putting up more than a futile, token resistance against the inevitable.

A shrewd, experienced Debater, Penelope had reached the same conclusion concerning her opponent.

So had the pupils and guests. Their approval was marked as it seemed that once more the head girl had upheld the honour and dignity of the school.

It only remained, everybody—with the possible exception of Fiorelli and Garibaldi—assumed, for Penelope to conclude the Debate with a suitably impressive manner.

Starting to advance, Penelope was suddenly assailed by an inexplicable wave of dizziness. It was so severe that she had to halt in her tracks, Standing with her feet wide spread as an aid to retaining her balance, she shook her head to try to clear it. The room seemed to have become blurry with fog and the floor of the dais was pitching up and down beneath her.

Watching her room-mate and best friend’s surprising behaviour Amanda frowned. The School Swot moved forward slightly on her seat. Turning her head, she looked—just too late—at Garibaldi. Already he had exchanged the holders and was puffing smoke from a cigarette. Before Amanda could decide upon a line of action, the audience’s response caused her to turn her gaze back to the dais.

Seeing what appeared to be a heaven-sent opportunity to stave off defeat, Tess was almost too exhausted to make the most of it. Calling upon every reserve of spirit and energy she could summon, she approached the tottering, bewildered and befuddled head girl.

Taking hold of Penelope’s left wrist in her right hand, Tess pivoted and seemed as if she contemplated a flying mare. Instead, she inserted her left arm between the head girls thighs. Draping the unresisting Penelope across her shoulders, Tess straightened her bent legs and raised the other girl from the floor. Rocking precariously, Tess turned around three times. Then she bent and dumped Penelope spine-first on to the canvas. Flopping to lie across the head girls upper torso, Tess did not need to expend any flagging remnants of energy to keep her immobile.

Penelope did not as much as twitch a hand or foot as the adjudicator knelt and delivered his final judgement of the evening. Nor, on being told to break the hold, could Tess do more than crawl tiredly to her hands and knees. However, her assistant ducked between the ropes and hurried forward to help her stand up.

A numbed hush descended over the huge room following the sight of the head girls final predicament and defeat. It continued all through the tannoy system’s announcement that Tearaway Tess Duberville had won the final and deciding fall, by an aeroplane spin and pinfall, of the Debate.

It was left to Miss Benkinsop and Amanda to set an example of true, grand old British sporting spirit.

“Jolly well done, Tess!” Miss Benkinsop called, as she and the School Swot came to their feet. “Bravo!”

As became leading members of the Profession, Spender and Fiorelli joined Miss Benkinsop and Amanda in according the victress her just acclaim. Possibly Fiorelli was more sincere than Spender in his applause, for the English executive had just lost a sizeable sum of money.

“Excuse me, Miss Benkinsop,” Amanda said quietly, once the audience had started to display a more satisfactory response. “May I go to Penelope?”

“Of course,” assented the headmistress, guessing what the School Swot had in mind. “Go right away.”

Darting to the side of the, dais, Amanda swung herself up and over the ropes with the grace and agility of a trained Debater. Throwing a quick glance at Tess, who had been led by her assistant to the red corner and was slumped against the post, Amanda joined Miss Hammerschlagen at Penelope’s side. Looking as if she could hardly believe the evidence of her eyes, the gym teacher knelt by the recumbant head girl and stared unbelievingly at the School Swot.

“Gott in himmel!” Miss Hammerschlagen gasped, reverting to her native tongue in her perturbation. “What happened? How could Penelope lose like this?”

“That’s what I want to find out!” Amanda admitted, speaking German as fluently as the gym mistress.

At that moment, the school’s Matron arrived. Clad in a spotless white smock, she carried a doctor’s bag.

“Can I help, Amanda?” she asked.

“Would you attend to Tess, please, Matron?” the girl requested. “I’ll look after Penelope.”

“That would be best,” Matron admitted, and went to do as the School Swot had suggested.

Having known that Fiorelli intended to make some heavy wagers on the outcome of the Debate, Carrela and Schulze responded like loyal employees. Members of the Profession had been known to protest strenuously when the time had come to settle debts of honour. So the two men wanted to be available in case their employer required moral support in his claims for payment.

Leaving their places, the two enforcers hurried along the aisle in the direction of the guests of honour. As they approached Garibaldi, he stood up. Taking out the original cigarette-holder, he handed it to Schulze. Without stopping, or in any way acknowledging the gift, the Teutonic enforcer thrust it into his right-hand pocket. Breathing something like a sigh of relief, the Italian remained on his feet. He watched the activities on the dais, while joining lustily in the three cheers which Miss Blenkinsop was presenting—with the audience’s help—to Tess.

Kneeling demurely, Amanda reached forward and gently drew open Penelope’s eyelids: She noticed a slight, but not entirely unexpected, discrepancy in the size of the pupils. However, in view of the serious nature of the situation, she decided not to leave anything to chance.

“Could you please time me while I take Penny’s pulse, Miss Hammerschlagen?” Amanda asked, still speaking German to make sure that she would be understood.

“Ja wohl!” barked the gym mistress, acting almost as respectfully correct as when she addressed Miss Benkinsop.

Taking hold of each of Penelope’s wrists between a thumb and forefinger, Amanda nodded to Miss Hammerschlagen. Consulting her massive wristwatch, the gym mistress waited until the second hand reached the figure twelve, then nodded.

While the seconds ticked away, Amanda concentrated—oblivious of everything that went on around her—all her faculties upon taking the two pulses’ rates of beating simultaneously. Even for the School Swot, that was a difficult and demanding feat. Only by doing so, however, could she hope to satisfy herself that her theory on Penelope’s actions was correct.

“Stop!” commanded Miss Hammerschlagen, when the minute had ended. “You are satisfied, no?”

“I am satisfied, no,” Amanda said half to herself and in English. “I was correct in my assumption. The trouble is, there’s no way I can prove it. Let that be a lesson to you, Amanda Tweedle. It doesn’t always pay to be too thorough.”

Having acknowledged the plaudits of the audience, Tess refused to leave the dais. Instead, she walked on leaden feet to where her opponent was still sprawled supine and motionless. At least, with Amanda caring for her, Tess was satisfied that her friend was in the best possible hands.

“How’s Penny, Amanda?” Tess asked worriedly. “I haven’t hurt her, have I?”

Like most of the more robust, “rule bending” type of Debaters, Tess Duberville had a heart of gold.

“Not too seriously,” Amanda replied. “She’s just completely exhausted.”

“I know how she feels,” Tess admitted, standing slump-shouldered and, in her weariness, caring little for the rules of good deportment. “You’re sure she’ll be all right?”

“She’ll be fine, if a little sore and sorry for herself, in the morning,” Amanda assured the worried-looking girl. “But you won’t be feeling too hot, unless you go and take a hot shower, then let Matron attend to you.”

“All right.” Tess submitted. “I’ll do that.”

Turning, the captain of the A.S.G. returned to her corner. Amanda looked at Miss Hammerschlagen and asked if she would be good enough to take Penelope to the Sanatorium.

“Ja wohl!” barked the gym mistress, looking as if she was on the point of springing to attention. “You will be coming to make a more thorough examination?”

“As soon as I can,” Amanda promised. “There’s something else I must do first.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Leaving Miss Hammerschlagen and Matron to attend to the Debaters, Amanda went to the side of the dais, She selected a point close to where Garibaldi was still standing. Since the Italian had committed such a serious breach of good manners by “chatting up” the School Swot, Ginzberg and the other members of the audience had treated him as a social leper and avoided him like he was a Collector of Income Tax. Unperturbed by his isolation, the man stood alone with his long cigarette-holder thrusting jauntily from his lips.

Apparently Amanda had lost the agility which she had displayed when bounding on to the dais. Dropping to the floor of the gymnasium, she stumbled awkwardly. Flailing with her hands, in an attempt to retain her balance, she knocked the holder from Garibaldi’s mouth and stumbled against him.

If the Italian thought anything about the School Swot’s clumsiness, he probably put it down to an excuse to make up for her earlier coolness. She had, he concluded, done it deliberately so as to be near to him and make his more intimate acquaintance.

While Amanda was undoubtedly interested in Garibaldi, he would have been anything but pleased if he had surmised her real reason.

“Oh!” Amanda squeaked, looking even more than usually like an exceptionally naпve, helpless and very charming elfin sprite. “How clumsy of me. I’m so terribly sorry, sir.”

“That’s all right, little one,” Garibaldi answered, determined to make the most of having her so close. Much to the horror of the men and women nearest to him, he dropped his hands towards the School Swots hips. “You didn’t hurt m—”

Whatever else he intended to add was never spoken. While Amanda may not have hurt him when they had collided, she changed that situation promptly. Placing the heel of her right shoe on the top of Garibaldi’s left instep, she pressed with all the strength in her shapely leg. Just how much that was, the Italian might have testified if the pain had left him capable of speech.

“Oh dear!” Amanda gasped, stepping back. “Was I treading on your toe, sir?”

Giving the pained and astounded Garibaldi no time to reply, the School Swot bent and picked up the cigarette-holder.

Jerking away from Amanda, Garibaldi’s face darkened with anger. Then he observed the menacing attitudes displayed by the male members of the audience who had witnessed the incident. Something warned him that he had outraged public opinion too much already. Any attempt at taking reprisals upon the School Swot would meet with a more strenuous display of disapproval. Not only from the scowling men. Instincts, to which he ought to have been profoundly grateful, warned him that something even more painful and drastic might happen if he continued to press unwelcome attentions on the innocent-looking, baby-faced girl.

Although Amanda did not retain the holder for longer than it took her to pick it up and hand it back to its owner, she had given it a thorough examination. It was, she had discovered, nothing more sinister, nor dangerous, than a simple—if ostentatious—device for preventing the tobacco’s nicotine from staining the smokers fingers.

Studying the Italian, as he accepted the holder and edged hurriedly away, Amanda pouted a little from the depth of her cogitations. She wondered if she was allowing first impressions to influence her against Garibaldi. It was possible that she might be misjudging him, or even wrong in her theory concerning the head girl’s defeat. To mention her thoughts, without the solid backing of unshakeable proof, would do far more harm than good.

“Is Penelope badly injured, Amanda?” Spender inquired, adding his voice to the many who were asking the same question from all sides.

“It’s nothing serious, I hope,” Miss Benkinsop went on, gazing worriedly to where the gym mistress was carrying the head girl in her arms towards the exit.

Coming from the headmistress, the words called for an immediate reply from the School Swot. Conscious that other people were listening, Amanda framed her words carefully. Whatever else happened, there must be no breath of scandal over the incident.

“Just exhausted, ma’am,” Amanda answered and noticed Miss Benkinsop’s eyes narrow slightly, boring into her own. “Nothing more, that I could tell.”

From the inflexion of the School Swot’s voice as she said the words, Miss Benkinsop read a whole volume, of unspoken doubts.

“She’s not seriously injured, though?” Miss Benkinsop insisted.

“No, ma’am,” Amanda confirmed. “May I go and make sure that she’s comfortable, please?”

“Trot along, dear,” Miss Benkinsop told her.

“Well,” Fiorelli said, walking up to the headmistress and rubbing his hands. “It looks like I win our bet.”

“Oh, Alf!” Rosalie protested indignantly. “Don’t be so mean. Surely you weren’t serious about that.”

“I was serious about it, Rosalie,” Miss Benkinsop informed her blushing former head girl. “Although I’m grateful to you for the thought. Why don’t you trot along to the Dispensary, dear? I’m sure you’ll meet some of your old class-mates, Miss Pedlar will most certainly expect to see you.”

“Ooh yes!” Rosalie enthused. “I’d forgotten that old Peach-pips was working here—”

“Not working,” Miss Benkinsop corrected. “She has been appointed to a position on the school’s staff.”

“You’ve got a good music teacher then,” Rosalie declared, accepting the mild rebuke and guessing correctly to which post Miss Pedlar had been appointed. “It’ll be fab. seeing her again.”

“I think I’d better tell Miss Dinks to keep a watchful eye on her ‘hoisting knickers’,” Miss Benkinsop smiled. “With you two together again, they might be in jeopardy.”

“As if we’d do a thing like that,” Rosalie protested, marvelling at the headmistress’s attitude of complete unconcern over the loss of the schools Petty Cash Fund, “again.”

“I won from you as well, Maxie,” Fiorelli grinned, as his “wife” strolled away in search of her friends.

“You don’t expect me to have ten grand on me,” Spender growled, “do you?”

“No,” Fiorelli admitted. “There’s no hurry about paying me. just so long as I get it before dinner tomorrow.”

“Noon or evening?” Spender sniffed.

“Evening,” answered Fiorelli, impervious to sarcasm. “Like I said, between friends like us, there’s no hurry.”

Grunting something under his breath which, all things being considered, Miss Benkinsop was pleased she did not hear, Spender walked away. Fiorelli watched him go, then swung his eyes towards the headmistress.

“How about you, Miss Benkinsop?” he asked and fell badly in her estimation.

While Miss Benkinsop was an extremely tolerant person, and rarely even mentally criticised any ex-pupil who had contracted a respectably solvent matrimonial alliance, she could not help but conclude that Rosalie Fieldbank had married beneath herself.

Fully aware of the necessity to settle debts of honour promptly, and being more than willing to relieve her indebtedness to Fiorelli, the headmistress had meant to do so before he took his departure. To have done otherwise would have been unthinkable and completely against everything in Miss Benkinsop’s nature; even though she was certain that the School Swot suspected foul play, which implied that Fiorelli had been involved.

Being a foreigner and definitely “of the people”, Fiorelli might have been excused for suspecting Miss Benkinsop’s motives. Unfounded as his suspicions might have been, Miss Benkinsop could not help thinking that he was displaying a most ungentlemanly eagerness to obtain his winnings.

Instead of being willing to join the other guests in the Dispensary, for drinks—in moderation—and light conversation, Fiorelli’s whole attitude hinted that he wished to conclude their business.

Miss Benkinsop might have excused his haste if he had some form of public transportation to catch. However, he had flown from Cyprus in the Mediterranean Syndicate’s executive jet aeroplane. It was waiting at the private airfield near Middle Grebe and its pilot, not having a set schedule to maintain, would remain there until Fiorelli’s party wished to leave.

So the headmistress considered that her senior guest of honour, unlike his predecessor in the Syndicate, was no gentleman and behaved in a most unseemly fashion. Fiorelli’s behaviour was—despite his social status—in itself a social error worthy of relegation to the third, or even fourth, row if he should attend another Debating Evening.

What Fiorelli did next was even worse. In fact, it Tendered him liable for a full “ego-deflating” treatment, from both Amanda and Miss Benkinsop, if he returned. He signalled to his enforcers to accompany them to the study.

Being a perfect lady, Miss Benkinsop did not display her annoyance immediately. Not until she and Fiorelli were in the privacy of her study did she indicate the reasons for her annoyance.

“I really don’t understand why you felt the need to bring Mr. Carrela and Mr. Schulze,” Miss Benkinsop declared, with what—to anybody who knew her—amounted to savage asperity and disapproval.

To Fiorelli, who was not sensitive to atmosphere, the words sounded little different in timbre to the headmistress’s comments on the weather, or inquiries as to how he had found the flight from Nicosia.

“What?” the executive growled. “With the crowd you’ve got here tonight?”

Once again, inadvertently but definitely, Fiorelli had overstepped the bounds of polite conversation and reached the dangerous marshlands of being ill-mannered, insulting and boorish.

“I’ll have you remember that they are the parents of my pupils, and my guests!” Miss Benkinsop answered, with such chilling disapproval that Fiorelli realised he had overstepped the mark. “In all the years this establishment has been open, there has never been an untoward incident within its walls.”

Standing at the right of the door, with Schulze leaning at the left, Carrela smirked and thought, “That’s what you think, lady.”

Having no desire to lengthen the time she was spending in such uncongenial company, Miss Benkinsop went to the Regency portrait. She could not help feeling puzzled by Fiorelli’s attitude. While he might merely be delighted by his good fortune in having made such successful wagers, she felt instinctively that he had some deeper, less innocent, reason for his obvious smug, self-satisfied pleasure.

Perhaps, she mused as she swung the portrait away from the wall, he was gloating over having successfully manipulated the result of the Debate in his own favour.

Unpalatable as such a thought might be, Miss Benkinsop had to admit that it might be true. Certainly Amanda’s whole attitude in the gym had implied that she was perturbed by the final events of the Debate.

If there should have been something underhanded, Miss Benkinsop had confidence in the School Swot’s ability to learn all the details. What happened next depended upon the strength of the evidence produced by Amanda. It would need to be cast-iron proof before Miss Benkinsop could take the appropriate action. Otherwise, the guests might believe that, unlikely as it would seem, she was trying to avoid settling a debt of honour.

Seeing nothing to hint that Saunders had paid her a clandestine visit, Miss Benkinsop twirled the safes dial to the required combination. She opened the door and glanced casually inside.

For a moment the full implications did not strike the headmistress.

“Oh well,” she was thinking. “It’s only money and the school can soon—”

With the sudden force of being kicked in the stomach by a previously docile and trusted hunter, Miss Benkinsop was struck by the full meaning of what lay before her eyes. She stared unbelievingly into the denuded safe. Only the various documents remained, items of value to nobody but herself. The money and—of vastly more importance to Miss Benkinsop’s way of thinking—her magnificent collection of jewellery had gone.

It was a shattering, devastating discovery!

One which would have struck a less strong character rigid.

It even produced a display of emotion from Miss Benkinsop.

Sucking in a deep breath, the headmistress stiffened as if she had suddenly been turned to stone. A low gasp of horror burst its way involuntarily from her lips. That, however, was the only sound she made.

Watching Miss Benkinsop’s every move, Fiorelli and his henchmen exchanged broad grins and winks when they observed how she reacted to the discovery of her loss. However, they felt slightly cheated, for they had expected a far greater exhibition of alarm and consternation.

Taking a moment to regain her composure, for it would never have done to exhibit an unseemly expression of her true feelings, Miss Benkinsop squared her shoulders and turned towards the men. Only the slightest narrowing of her eyes and minute tightening of her lips gave a hint of the sense of shock which had assailed her. In fact, the headmistress’s demeanour was so stolidly impassive that Fiorelli’s next comment—natural as it would have been if he was dealing with a less perfectly controlled woman—was practically an admission of guilty knowledge.

“What’s wrong, Miss Benkinsop?” the executive inquired, having schooled his swarthy features into a mask of what he believed to be scrupulous innocence.

“I’ve been robbed of everything.” the headmistress replied, with no more emotion than if she was inquiring after her visitors’ well-being.

“By God!” Fiorelli bellowed, simulating anger while his enforcers made equally angry noises in the background. “I’ll take care of whoever’s done it?”

Seated alongside the pilot in the small, twin-engined aircraft which was winging its way through the night sky above the clouds, Gus Saunders looked nervously over his shoulder. The black document case was resting on the seat behind him. It was a most precarious and nerve-racking arrangement when he considered—as he was doing all the time—the nature of the case’s composition. No amount of assurances from the only other occupant of the machine could convince him that he was not in the most deadly danger.

“Where are we?” Saunders inquired quaveringly, trying to catch a glimpse of what lay below the clouds.

“Over the Channel,” replied the pilot; who had once been an ace in the Regia Aeronautica. He had, however, been shot down during the Battle of Britain and spent the remainder of the hostilities as a prisoner of war working in the officers mess of an R.A.F. fighter station. From his erstwhile enemies, he had cultivated a variety of tastes and expressions. “Had a wizard show over this way in ‘Forty-One. Bandits in every direction—I say, old fruit, why don’t you take your seat belt off?”

“N-no thanks,” Saunders replied, throwing another worried look at the case. “It’s not very warm in here.”

“Have it your way, old top.” the pilot drawled, dropping his hand to a red knob which he had so far studiously avoided touching. “It was about here that I was pranged by good old Duggie Bader.”

In actual fact, Wings had been shot down by an aggressive trainee gunner using the only weapon in an Avro Anson, but his version made it a better, more impressive story.

“Where?” Saunders asked, more to make conversation and turn his thoughts from the deadly case.

“You can’t see it too well from here,” Wings warned.

“Well,” Saunders said sarcastically. “I can hardly get out and take a look.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Wings replied and pressed the red knob. “Tally-ho, you chaps and all that rot.”

Actually Saunders did not hear the full speech. Following the dislodgement of the knob, there was a sharp, hard crack. The top of the cabin above the cat-burglar’s seat hinged upwards. Rising into the air, the sear carried its petrified passenger out through the opening. There was a shrill, terrified wail just before Saunders quit the aircraft, but the force of the slip-stream tore it away into nothing.

“You should be able to see where it happened on the way down,” Wings commented, drawing out the knob and causing the hinged section to return to its former position. “There’s service for you, old bean.”

Blissfully unaware that Fiorelli’s threat had—with perfect timing—just been fulfilled, Miss Benkinsop walked slowly back to her desk. Halting behind it, she drew open the right-hand drawer but neither put anything in, nor removed part of its contents.

Before any more could be said, there was a gentle knock at the door.

Without waiting for permission, whoever was outside prepared to enter.

Seeing the door opening, the enforcers moved around close together and faced it. Their right hands drifted upwards and across, ready to be inserted beneath the left arm-pits where the Lugers were awaiting their convenience. Neither man produced his weapon. Instead, seeing Amanda framed in the doorway, they allowed their hands to drop to their sides.

Stepping hesitantly into the study, the School Swot looked her usual sweet, gentle, beautiful and innocent self; conveying an impression that butter would have great difficulty in melting should she place some in her mouth.

Although satisfied that the girl was alone, for she closed the door without anybody else following her, the enforcers continued to stand in her way. Normally Amanda would have requested that they moved, or gone around them. Instead, she advanced in such a way that it became obvious she must pass between them. Grinning in anticipation, the men started to turn inwards.

On reaching them, Amanda behaved in a most brazen and completely untypical manner. Watching the School Swot, Miss Benkinsop decided to reprove her for her behaviour at a more appropriate moment. Squeezing through the gap between the enforcers. Amanda turned so that her frontal regions were pressed first against Carrela’s then, then against Schulze’s. It was a sensation neither man would ever forget—for more than one reason.

Stepping clear of Carrela and Schulze. with her hands demurely concealed behind her back, Amanda moved aside until she stood in the corner of the room. Her whole attitude was of respect for her elders and, like any well-bred young Benkinsopian. she did not speak until she was spoken to.

“Well. Amanda?” Miss Benkinsop prompted.

“Penelope is perfectly all right. ma’am,” the School Swot replied. “There’s nothing seriously wrong with her.”

To Fiorelli, it seemed that a longer, more meaningful message had been passed from the pupil to her headmistress. Always wary, which accounted for his long life and success in the Syndicate, he sensed danger. Catching the attention of his men, he flashed them a signal which snapped them from their rapturous scrutiny of the School Swot. Give them their due, the enforcers returned their thoughts to duty with considerable promptitude.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Fiorelli Miss Benkinsop stated coldly. But, under the circumstances, I am unable to pay you—”

Having observed her opening the drawer, Fiorelli and the enforcers had drawn their conclusions as to what lay inside. On hearing the words, they believed that they knew what was going to be said—or, more to the point, done—next.

Carrela’s and Schulze’s right hands flashed speedily under their jackets. Then the two normally unemotional faces displayed consternation, disbelief and alarm.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“Are these what you’re looking for, gentlemen?” Amanda inquired, in her most elfin manner, bringing each dainty hand into view enfolded about the black butt of a Luger automatic pistol.

With hands clawing ineffectually at the slits of their empty holsters, Carrela and Schulze stared horror-stricken at the beautiful girl—and their own weapons, which were in her grasp.

“What—?” Carrela gasped, removing his hand. “How—?”

“D-do you know what they are?” Schulze croaked, snatching his fingers away from the holster as if its leather was red hot.

“I believe they are German Pistole Modell 1908 (Parabellum),” Amanda replied briskly. “Commonly called ‘Lugers’, which is an Americanised corruption of Herr Leuger’s, the designer’s, name. Calibre nine millimetre. Standard issue four-inch barrels, overall length eight and a quarter inches, weight thirty ounces. Magazine capacity, eight rounds. Accurate range, seventy-five yards; maximum range, with the lowest-powered ammunition, approximately twelve hundred yards. The mechanism is operated by the force of the recoil, locked by a Maxim-type toggle-link. The muzzle velocity—”

“Take it easy, girlie,” Carrela warned, satisfied that she did know what “they” were and 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 gracefully 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 three men stared in fascination, Amanda’s fore-fingers worked in unison. The toggle-link actions of the mechanisms rose and fell so swiftly that the eyes could scarcely follow the movements and the spent cartridge cases poured from the ejection slots in a continuous flow. Deftly she controlled the recoils, returning the muzzles to alignment after each detonation. Shot after shot thundered, merging into a harsh rattle more reminiscent of a machine gun firing than a pair of automatic pistols handled by a dainty, beautiful girl.

At last the magazines’ cartridge carriers rose and halted the forward movements of the toggle-links. The pistols had been emptied far quicker than either Carrela or Schulze, the Syndicate’s two best enforcers, would have believed possible.

Not that the pair gave much thought to Amanda’s speed right then. Instead, they were staring across the room at the two only slightly enlarged holes in the window’s upper left pane. Then they scanned the wall on either side of it, and subjected the ceiling to an equally careful scrutiny.

There was not another solitary bullet hole to be seen! Yet Carella and Schulze were all too aware that their weapons had not been loaded with blank cartridges!

“I say!” Amanda ejaculated daintily, offered the Lugers to their owners. “They were loaded. Weren’t they?”

Numbly, acting almost like automatons, Carrela and Schulze grasped the barrels of the Lugers; and immediately wished they had not. Due to the rapidity of Amanda’s firing, the metal was very hot to their touch. They released the weapons quicker than they had taken hold.

Recovering faster than his employees, Fiorelli said something very rude in his native tongue. It brought a blush to Amanda’s cheeks, for she spoke and understood Italian very fluently. Not content with offending the School Swot’s susceptibilities, he also made what might have been the start of a hostile gesture.

Miss Benkinsop’s hands dipped into the open drawer. They emerged carrying two revolvers of the general shape used by the heroes and villains of numerous Western movies. Retaining the weapon in her right hand, she tossed the other in the School Swot’s direction.

“Amanda,” the headmistress called calmly.

Barely taking her eyes from the enforcers, the girl reached for and caught the revolver by its butt. Her forefinger deftly slipped through the trigger guard and she hooked the web of her thumb over the spur of the hammer.

“I—er—believe that this one is loaded too, gentlemen,” Amanda remarked, looking at the big, heavy handgun as if unable to decide how such an uncouth object had come to be in her possession.

Neither enforcer had needed to have that fact pointed out to him. Staring instinctively at the front of the cylinder, they could see the dull, truncated cone shaped grey lead heads of fat bullets. Other factors started to creep through their thoughts. While, at first glance, the revolvers had appeared to be Colt Artillery Model Peacemakers, certain significant structural details sprang to their attention. Unless Carrela and Schulze did not know their business, that revolver was a Ruger Super Blackehawk, .44 Magnum in calibre; the most powerful handgun in the world.

After Amanda’s demonstration with the two Lugers, the enforcers felt disinclined to discover whether she was equally efficient in the use of the big revolver.

Nor, if it came to that was Fiorelli willing to challenge Miss Benkinsop’s right to hold a lethal weapon. Even without being so vulgar as to point it in his direction, the headmistress exuded a grim and deadly menace.

“Whatever you’re meaning to do,” Fiorelli blustered. “You won’t get away with it. The Syndicate will see to that.”

“My good man,” Miss Benkinsop replied, in the chilling tone which had quelled many a recalcitrant pupil, “we have no desire to get away with anything.”

“Then why the hardware?” Fiorelli demanded, mopping his brow with his hand.

“I just wanted to make sure that you would listen to my proposal,” Miss Benkinsop explained.

“All right,” Fiorelli grunted, looking from Miss Benkinsop’s to Amanda’s revolvers and back. Neither weapon was actually pointing at him and his men, but that did not render the menace any less real. “Talk ahead.”

“I was going to say, when I was so rudely interrupted by you and your ill-mannered louts, that I could not pay you at this moment. If you give me a reasonable amount of time, I feel sure that we could ascertain who perpetrated this outrage, secure the return of my property, and then I will pay you.”

“It’s not Syndicate policy to give time in cases like this,” Fiorelli protested. In fact, our regulations strictly forbid it.”

“That isn’t quite correct, sir,” Amanda remarked, in the most apologetic manner. “They state that a reasonable period of time may be allotted, providing the debtor can offer reasonable security.”

“What—?” Fiorelli gurgled. “How do you—”

“On the other hand, sir,” the girl continued, as if the interruption had not been made. “According to Paragraph Seven, Article Twenty-eight of the Mediterranean Syndicates regulations, no member will knowingly commit any act that will be likely to cause friction with the business organisations of another country.”

“How the he—!” Fiorelli began, but caught Miss Benkinsop’s disapproving glare and gesture with the revolver and revised his words. “How do you know about our regulations?”

“I had the honour of making them up for your predecessor, or his, I can’t remember which,” Miss Benkinsop answered. “And Amanda translated them into Italian, Spanish. Greek, Turkish and three Arabian dialects.”

“My Turkish translation wasn’t very good,” Amanda confessed, shame-facedly. “I made two errors in my conjunctive adjectives.”

“I’m still under the impression that one of them was correct in its context,” Miss Benkinsop objected. “But, to return to our present business—”

“I don’t see how I could give you any time, Miss Benkinsop,” Fiorelli put in, nervously eyeing the revolvers.

“Mr. Spender, Mr. Finnegan, of the Chicago Finnegans, and Mr. Costello from Madrid were asking if you would come to the Dispensary and drink Tess’s health with them, Miss Benkinsop,” Amanda remarked, as if just recollecting a message. “I wondered if, perhaps, you might consult one of them on your best line of action?”

A cold, disgruntled scowl came to Fiorelli’s face. Each of the names mentioned by the School Swot was prominent in the Profession and belonged to an organisation that would he just as interested as the Mediterranean Syndicate in laying hands on such a lucrative business as Miss Benkinsop’s Academy. Certainly, they would not approve of any other party taking control. As Amanda had pointed out, the Regulations were most emphatic about avoiding clashes of interests with their foreign competitors.

“All right,” the executive sighed. “How long do you want?”

“Will seven days be sufficient, Amanda?” Miss Benkinsop asked.

“I believe so. Miss Benkinsop,” the School Swot answered, sounding like a particularly determined sprite.

“Seven days it is,” Fiorelli declared, before any greater period could be suggested. “But will you pay us then?”

“You have my word that, if I don’t, the school is yours,” Miss Benkinsop stated. “Does that satisfy you?”

“It would satisfy me personally,” Fiorelli replied, trying to ingratiate himself. “But my board of directors would expect me to fetch back something in writing. You know how they are?”

“All too well,” the headmistress admitted. “Will you prepare the appropriate document. Amanda?”

“Yes, ma’am,”’ the girl consented and strolled to the desk. “How many languages do you want it in, Mr. Fiorelli?”

“Will English and Italian be too much for you?” the executive asked.

“I believe I can cope,” Amanda assured him.

“Perhaps you would accompany me to the Dispensary, Mr. Fiorelli? Miss Benkinsop suggested, determined to play the gracious hostess no matter how she felt about her guest of honour and his employees. “That will allow Amanda to concentrate without distractions.”

“Sure, Miss Benkinsop,” Fiorelli grinned, satisfied that there was no way in which the headmistress—even with the School Swot’s assistance—could locate the perpetrator of the outrage, or recover her property. He could afford to be generous. We’ll do that. No hard feelings, I hope.

“Not if you have Mr. Carrela and Mr. Schulze pay for the broken window, Miss Benkinsop replied.

“That’s hardly fair, ma’am,” Amanda commented, taking sheets of paper from another of the desk’s drawers. The pane was cracked in one corner. That’s why I selected it.”

“They can still pay for a new pane,” Fiorelli ruled. “Serves them right, too.”

After the grown-ups had left the room, Amanda sat at the desk. Taking a pen in each hand, she composed two legal documents which—on examining them the following day—the Syndicate’s senior legal adviser claimed could not be faulted under the laws of Britain or Cyprus.

With that work completed, Amanda spent several minutes examining the room. She scrutinised the safe and the portrait, then went to the window. Looking down, she checked up on a few facts which her memory recollected. While there were a few loose ends in her train of thought, she had a very shrewd idea of the whole sequence of events daring the evening.

Not until the guests had departed did the opportunity arise for Amanda to discuss the matter with her headmistress. They and the rest of the staff had seen the last of the cars depart. Allowing the other women to precede herself and Amanda along the driveway from the main gates, Miss Benkinsop brought up the subject.

“How did Penelope lose, Amanda?”

“I believe she was—I think the word is—‘nobbled’ ma’am.”

“I had suspected as much,” Miss Benkinsop admitted. “But how was it done? Certainly not by Miss Hammerschlagen.”

“No, ma’am,” the School Swot agreed, then showed signs of distress. “I fear that I’m to blame.”

“You, child?”

“Yes, ma’am. You may remember some time ago, I concocted a drug for that friend of yours in Newmarket; when he wished to play a practical joke upon one of his horse-racing compatriots?”

“Of course!” Miss Benkinsop agreed. “It was most successful, be assured me.”

“Was it?” Amanda asked, showing pleasure.

“Entirely. It acted perfectly and was completely undetectable. Just as you said it would be.”

“I’m afraid that I fibbed a little when I said that, ma’am,” Amanda confessed guiltily. “Provided one reaches the recipient quickly enough, one can see that the right pupil is slightly dilated. And the left pulse’s rate is some eight beats a minute slower than the rights. The effect only lasts for a few seconds, but it is quite discernible—”

“One is hardly likely to carry out such tests on a horse,” Miss Benkinsop pointed out. “I don’t believe that you fibbed and my friend most assuredly had no complaints. The traces soon go?”

“Within thirty seconds of the drug taking effect, they are starting to disappear. I was only just in time to see them.”

“But how did they inject the drug?”

“I devised a version of the Javanese b1ow-gun, camouflaging it as a cigarette-holder,” Amanda explained and produced such an item from the pocket of her blouse. “I—er—borrowed this from Mr. Schulze’s pocket while I was acquiring his Luger.”

“He couldn’t have used it from the back row,” Miss Benkinsop protested, wondering how the girl had found time to take both objects from the enforcer.

“No, ma’am,” Amanda agreed. “He didn’t. It was Mr. Garibaldi.”

“Garibaldi!” Miss Benkinsop gasped. “And he was sitting on the front row. We must do something about him.”

“I hope you don’t mind, ma’am,” Amanda said, apologetically. “I have already played a practical joke on him.”

“What kind?”

“He had rather a large sum in Italian currency in his wallet—”

“You didn’t deprive him of it?”

“Not entirely, ma’am, I merely exchanged it for some of those rather inferior copies the Lower Third had made in Miss McCoy’s Thrifty Hands class. When he discovers the deception, it may amuse him.”

“I hope that he regards it in the spirit that it was done,” Miss Benkinsop remarked. “As a harmless schoolgirl’s prank.”

When Garibaldi found himself in court, charged with possession of counterfeit money, and was sent to prison for seven years, he still could not work out from whence the nearly—but not quite—perfect copies of Italian banknotes had come. Certainly he never suspected that they had been transferred by Amanda, with the help of the nimble-fingered Mademoiselle de Vautour.

“That explains how Penelope was caused to lose,” Miss Benkinsop went on. “But there’s no way we can prove it.”

“No, ma’am,” Amanda answered, pouting and showing her distress. “It’s all my fault for making that concoction so effective.”

“Good heavens, dear,” Miss Benkinsop consoled the distraught girl. “I could hardly hold that against you. However, as we can’t prove what happened, our only chance is to discover who carried out the robbery.”

“It was a climb job,” Amanda announced, looking at the front of the house. “But I can’t understand how he could have opened the lock I fitted on the window.”

“I’m afraid that was my doing,” Miss Benkinsop confessed. “I left it open so that awful Fiorelli’s perfume would blow away. And, after all, burglar alarms do seem a little inappropriate here, don’t they?”

“With respect, ma’am,” Amanda replied. “Inappropriate or not, I do feel that you should let me install a few simple ones.”

“I do believe you’re right,” Miss Benkinsop admitted. “Who do you think made the climb?”

“I don’t wish to cast aspersions on anybody, ma’am,” Amanda replied. “Would you wait in your study, please while I search for clues down here?”

“If you wish,” conceded the headmistress.

Waiting until Miss Benkinsop—who she knew would most certainly not have approved—had followed the rest of the staff into the building, Amanda removed her gym-slip, blouse and shoes. Clad only in her tasteful black lace bra, briefs, suspender belt and stockings, she made a most attractive picture. She had known that the night was too dark for her to search for visual clues, but had used that as an excuse to carry out an experiment.

Opening the door of her study, after strolling leisurely up the stairs, Miss Benkinsop stared in amazement at the window. Amanda was climbing through, breathing a little heavier than usual and with the knees torn from her sadly laddered stockings. She looked a little sheepish On meeting the headmistress’s cold eyes.

“What on earth?” Miss Benkinsop ejaculated. “Good heavens, child, are you trying to catch pneumonia?”

“The night is quite warm, ma’am,” Amanda lied, closing the window. “And I had to work out a small problem this way.”

“What did you decide?” Miss Benkinsop asked then remembered her duties to her pupils. “First, though, go and fetch my robe from next door. Right away, my girl, and no arguments.”

“I understood that only five gentlemen in the Profession would be capable of making a climb of this importance,” Amanda said, after obeying the order. My fags father, who is regrettably unavailable, M’sieur de Pignon of Paris, Mr. Maundby of Los Angeles, California. M’sieur de Pignon, however, is currently touring in the Far East and Mr. Maundby is famous for never working east of the Rocky Mountains.”

“For a task of this importance, the Mediterranean Syndicate would have been willing to make it worth either of them’s while to change their habits,” Miss Benkinsop pointed out.

“Possibly, nia’am. But both gentlemen have daughters here and, I feel sure, would not wish to see the status of the establishment changed so drastically.”

“You’re right, of course.”

“There is even more convincing proof. ma’am.”

“What might it be?” Miss Benkinsop inquired.

“There’s one section of the wall that a person below my height could not possibly traverse. Both of them are smaller.”

“Then who could it he?”

“I would suggest Mr. Saunders, ma’am,” Amanda replied.

“Of course!” Miss Blenkinsop agreed. “Gus Saunders would do it. He’s had no love for us since we decided against allowing him to enrol his daughter. The next question is, where do we find Mr. Saunders?”

“Might I suggest at Mr. Fiorelli’s villa on Troodos Mountain?” Amanda asked.

“I do believe you’re right,” Miss Benkinsop praised. “They’d consider he’d be safe there. You made that place like a fortress for Fiorelli’s predecessor.”

“Could we stop Mr. Fiorelli’s aircraft from taking off?” Amanda asked, then gave a disappointed shrug. “Even if we could, I doubt if your property or Mr. Saunders will be aboard. They’d have left as soon as he had completed his work, in the Syndicate’s other aeroplane.”

“That’s true,” Miss Benkinsop sighed, then glanced at her wristwatch. “Now, young lady, it’s high time you were in bed. Off you go and we will discuss it further in the morning.”

CHAPTER NINE

High on the western slopes of Troodos Mountain, in the island of Cyprus, the executive’s villa owned by the Mediterranean Syndicate stood isolated and in solitary splendour. The occupants’ desire for privacy was ensured by a high stone wall, which surrounded the whole property. The sole means of egress was through an electrically controlled and permanently attended gate made in decorative style out of the stoutest carbon steel bars.

Beyond the wall, at the front and sides of the villa, stretched exotic tropical gardens as decorative and well-tended as those at Miss Benkinsop’s Academy. Behind the building were located the garages for several large, powerful, exceptionally fast cars.

Inside the luxuriously furnished villa were to be found all the modern conveniences a house-proud wife could desire. There were also a few less conventional, but very useful, additions calculated to increase the occupants’ sense of security and peace of mind.

On the morning after the Debating Evening at the school, the daily routine of the villa was operating at full Swing.

Too much so for Rosalie Fieldbank’s entire satisfaction.

While Rosalie was fully aware of the importance of keeping the domestic staff fully occupied and constantly on their toes, she felt that—for once—there was a little too much activity going on.

After a most delightfully carefree and gay evening with Miss Pedlar and other friends of her happy schooldays, the state of Rosalie’s health suggested that the servants should have been put to some quiet duty. Cleaning and polishing the cars, as long as they did not start the engines or blow the horns, or the various firearms kept in the gun-room—in case any visitor or employee wished to go hunting—would have been much more to her liking than what was actually happening.

Outside her window, the two large, aggressive Alsatians, which were employed as watch-dogs in the grounds at night, were being teased. Rosalie appreciated that such treatment was necessary, to increase their savage tendencies. However, their snarling, barking and growling, combined with their handler’s raucous and excited exhortations, combined to assail her somewhat fragile sensibilities in a distressing manner.

Nor did the annoyances end there.

Passing from the stone wall to the house, an electrician caused an alarm system to operate. Its bell set up a hideous jangling clamour which seemed to drive hot needles through Rosalie’s throbbing skull.

As if those distractions were insufficient, in the gymnasium on the floor above Fiorelli’s and Rosalie’s bedroom, several very large, weighty members of the staff—to whom the executive laughingly referred as the Heavy Mob—were testing each other’s abilities in the art of unarmed combat. At all too frequent intervals, a huge body would alight, after being thrown through the air by another beefy male member of the villa’s work force, whit a crash which jarred the ceiling. The repeated impacts made any hope of sleeping impossible.

Normally Rosalie would have accepted the various disturbances as a small price to pay for the benefits of being a wealthy, influential businessman’s wife. Suffering from a most severe throbbing in her head, probably caused by over-excitement the previous night, she felt that it all amounted to far too much of a good thing.

Crawling from the large and comfortable bed with some reluctance, Rosalie donned a diaphanous robe over her very fetching shortie nightdress. Deciding against putting on any kind of footwear, as to do so would have entailed bending over and further aggravating her condition, she left the bedroom.

Stepping into the passage wondering if old Fanny Dinks had donned her “hoisting knickers” yet, Rosalie had the pleasant thought driven from her head. She was astounded at the further evidence of activity which met her gaze and afflicted her delicate hearing.

Across the passage from the main bedroom was an establishment rarely found in a private residence. It was referred to by the staff as the “Guard House”. Usually, it was only occupied during the night. This morning, men were inside busily checking its furnishings and specialised fittings.

The large room, which looked out over the rear of the villa, housed up to twelve of the “Heavy Mob”. Unless on some specific duty elsewhere about the premises, they spent the horns of darkness in it. To make their stay more pleasant, there were four beds upon which some of their number could rest and relax. The remainder of the party could sit in comfort in the armchairs, or at the table. Having the welfare of their employees at heart, the Syndicate had thoughtfully provided packs of cards, and a dart-board to help while away the tedious periods of their tours of duty.

At one end of the room, a polished brass column descended through a circular hole in the floor. Copied from all idea employed by Fire Brigades throughout the world, it facilitated a rapid response to any request for service that might come from the ground floor.

The comings and goings of the male domestic staff in the “Guard House” were controlled and directed by whichever butler was in charge. He sat at a table, with a telephone on it, at the opposite end of the room to the brass column. Before him, on a polished wooden board, was painted a ground plan of the villa. It showed the location and name of every room. Each of them had a red light bulb affixed to its centre. When one of the lights flashed on, the butler was instantly alerted. He knew immediately to which room he must dispatch members of his work force.

Curiosity impelled Rosalie to cross the passage and look into the “Guard House”. She wondered what might be causing the feverish and noisy activity. Inside, some of the men were polishing the column. At the table, the senior butler held the telephone’s receiver as he checked that every signal light’s bulb would function. All the men turned admiring glances in their mistress’s direction.

“What’s all this about, Slasher?” Rosalie inquired.

“Boss told us to check everything out, Mrs. Fiorelli,” the butler answered, his unprepossessing, badly scarred features puckering in a puzzled frown. “He said he wants to make sure all, the security arrangements are working.”

“Oh lord!” Rosalie ejaculated, massaging her temples with delicately moving fingertips. “That’s all I need.”

“It could be because he’s got Mr. Anacropolis down in the library with him,” the butler remarked. “The boss always likes everything working right when he’s paying a visit.”

“Yes, I know he does,” Rosalie admitted. “I wonder if he’ll have the noise held down if I tell him I’ve got a splitting headache?”

“He might,” grinned the butler. “It’s worth a try.”

“I think so, too,” Rosalie declared and withdrew, for she could see that her presence was distracting the other men.

After the hustle and bustle of the upper floors, the entrance hall was cool, calm and wonderfully silent. To avoid distressing her still fragile senses, Rosalie made sure that her bare feet descended as gently as thistledown as she walked towards the open double doors of the library. She moved gracefully and without a sound. For which precaution, she soon found that she had a double reason to be grateful.

Fiorelli’s voice came to her ears, just before she would have passed through the portals and into his range of vision. The words brought her to an immediate and unhesitating halt.

“No. Benkinsop hasn’t a clue about how we fixed it all up.”

Not too alarming in itself, but sufficiently so to lead Rosalie to the conclusion that she would like to hear more before announcing her presence.

“You’re sure of that?” demanded Aristocle Anacropolis’s suave, yet nasal tones. If she can prove that you nobbled young Penny Parkerhouse, there’ll be all hell to pay.”

“She can’t do that,” Fiorelli declared, sounding smugly confident. “Garibaldi used some of that drug the School Swot brewed for the feller in Newmarket. It’s guaranteed to be undetectable.”

Only with an effort did Rosalie restrain her impulse to rush in and tell the two men just what she thought of them. Forcing herself to remain calm, she examined the situation. It would never have done for the lady of the house to be caught behaving like an over-inquisitive servant. So she looked about her. Fortunately the entrance hall was deserted at that moment and the front door closed. While she bad been, very properly, taught by Miss Benkinsop that eavesdropping upon private conversations was highly improper conduct for a young lady, she believed that her former headmistress would not be too disapproving under the circumstances. So she continued to listen.

Not only listen!

A Benkinsopian was trained never to flinch from danger if faced by a precarious situation. Moving forward with all the stealth she had acquired as a member of the school’s Girl Guides’ troop, Rosalie attained a position from which she could see—without herself being detected as well as hear what went on.

The library was furnished as expensively as Miss Benkinsop’s study, but with far less good taste. In fact Rosalie, not normally a critical young lady, had always considered it just a shade too ostentatious. There was, to her British way of thinking, a little too much suggestion of the Eastern sheik’s boudoir in the decor.

Flanking the inner doors, through which Rosalie was peeping cautiously, were two Grecian marble statues of ladies in an all-too-undraped condition. The floor was of polished mahogany parquet, each segment of the irregular pattern being just over a foot square. In the centre of the room stood a large, ornate desk. On the right wall hung an enormous portrait of Fiorelli’s great-great-grandfather—clad in the manner of one of the Three Musketeers who happened to be living in Hollywood, California—nonchalantly holding a magnificently hilted rapier. Facing the inner doors, large french windows opened on to the front gardens.

Rosalie paid little attention to the familiar sights of the library, although some of the more glaring and clashing colours did nothing to lessen her headache. Instead, her full, horrified attention was focused upon the large, ornate desk. Or rather at her husband and the small, neat, dapper Anacropolis, who were standing at it with their backs towards her.

There could no longer be any slight, lingering fragile hope that Rosalie had misunderstood the remarks she had overheard. Or that the words had been said in a spirit of jesting.

Not when Fiorelli was holding out and admiring Miss Benkinsops highly prized family heirloom.

Rosalie would have recognised the wonderfully made, flawlessly set-up necklace in a collection of similar pieces from all over the world.

“I wonder what this’s worth?” Fiorelli commented.

“More than either of us, or the whole Syndicate could pay,” Anacropolis replied. “You’re sure she can’t come up with the money in time?”

“Not a hope of it,” Fiorelli declared. “Saunders cleared every last cent and all her jewellery out of the safe.”

A shudder ran through Rosalie and the hall seemed to swim before her eyes.

Was there no end to the depths of depravity to which her “husband” would be willing to sink?

“Has she any other resources she can tap?” Anacropolis inquired.

“Not if your sources of information are correct. You said that she’d spent everything, except for the schools Petty Cash fund, on the improvements.”

“That’s what my daughter said in one of her letters home.”

Rosalie was aghast at the words. More so as Melina Anacropolis was a prefect and the captain of the school’s hockey team.

“Smart kid you’ve got, Aristocle,” Fiorelli praised.

“She didn’t know what I’d do!” Anacropolis barked. “And I hope to God she never finds out that I used a piece of confidential gossip from her to her mother.”

Relief flooded through the listening “housewife”, At least that exonerated Melina. Rosalie was pleased to hear it, for the girl was in Mata Hari House, of which she herself had been captain.

“Hell’s fire!” Fiorelli ejaculated. “What if she borrows the money to pay us from Spender, Finnegan or Costello? Any one of them would hand it over if she asked. Or a dozen others I could name.”

“They would,” confirmed Anacropolis.

“Then we’re sunk!” Fiorelli croaked, being aware of how that would effect his career with the Syndicate.

“You don’t know Miss Benkinsop,” Ariacropolis said contemptuously. “Sure, Maxie Spender, or any of the others would lend her the money. As much as she wanted to ask for. So would the Syndicate, under different circumstances. But a lady like her wouldn’t ask anybody for a loan.”

“She won’t?”

“No, she won’t.”

“I would, in her place.”

“She’s not you,” Anacropolis pointed out. “Miss Benkinsop would do anything rather than borrow money from any of us.”

“You’re right enough,” Fiorelli admitted, after a few seconds thought. He looked relieved. “She wouldn’t want to be in debt to them, any more than to us.”

“That’s right,” Anacropolis agreed. “She’d know that she couldn’t ask for a loan without folks wanting to know why she needs the money. Even if she didn’t tell them the truth, there’d be a lot of speculation and somebody might come up with the right answers. If that happened, Alfie, the Mediterranean Syndicate’s name would be mud all through the Profession. And you know what that would lead to.”

Standing miserably in the hall, Rosalie knew that every word she had heard was all too true. Miss Benkinsop’s pride would prevent her from asking the assistance of her friends in a matter of money. What was mote, she would realise how Fiorelli’s misbehaviour would be regarded by his social equals throughout the Profession. It would cause industrial strife and unrest at an international level. Being aware of how that would disrupt the smooth running of the school, and have an adverse effect upon the lives of many of her pupils, the headmistress would accept any sacrifice to avert it.

Hot with anger, barely able to control her feverish temper, Rosalie wished that she had not concentrated on the Arts while at school. If she had been a member of the Debating Society, and had kept up its standards of physical and mental training, she could have rushed into the library and tried to take back Miss Benkinsop’s property by force.

Lacking the necessary requirements for such a forthright line of action, Rosalie had just enough control over her emotions to restrain her rage. If she was to help her headmistress, and the good old school, in their time of travail, she must be more subtle and cunning than forceful.

A vague, but growing plan started to creep into Rosalie’s still throbbing head. In fact, her subdued physical condition had given the notion its impetus.

Hearing the sound of the front door’s handle being operated, Rosalie turned. She darted swiftly and silently across the floor. By the time Carrela had stepped into the entrance hall, she was on the stairs and giving the impression that she was only just descending.

“Good morning, Mr. Carrela,” Rosalie called, somewhat louder than absolutely necessary. Doing so hurt her head, but she regarded that as a small enough price to pay for the old school. “Is Mr. Fiorelli outside?”

“I’m in here, Rosie.” Fiorelli yelled from the library and she thought that she could hear, the sound of the desk’s drawer being opened, then closed.

“Are you busy. Alfie?” Rosalie inquired, striving to keep her voice at its usual loving and respectful pitch.

“No,” Fiorelli answered, after a pause in which Rosalie surmised that he had glanced at Anacropolis for a hint of how he should respond. “Come on in.”

Entering the library, using all her self-control to prevent her anger and perturbation from showing, Rosalie forced a smile to her lips as she looked at the two men. She was not unduly surprised to notice that the necklace was no longer in evidence. Nor was the portrait of Fiorellis ancestor moved along the wall to expose the front of the large, guaranteed burglar-proof safe which lay behind it.

“Good morning, Aristocle,” Rosalie greeted. “I didn’t know you were here.”

“I just dropped by to invite you and Alf out tonight,” Anacropolis replied, looking her over with polite approval. “That is, if you feel up to it, You don’t look your usual bright and beautiful self this morning.”

“I’m not,” Rosalie conceded, speaking from the depths of her heart. However, she did not offer the true explanation for her disturbed state of mind. “You know what it’s like at a Debating Evening, Aristode?”

“You’re so right I do,” grinned Anacropolis. “I wish I could have flown over with you. Was Matron in her usual excellent form at the Dispensary?”

“She was so good, I nearly flew back without waiting for Alfie and the jet,” Rosalie replied. Melina sends you and her mum her love. And Pea—Miss Pedlar says to tell you she’s doing ever so well in the Folk Dancing class.”

A look of consternation and worry crept across Anacropoli’s face at the reference to his daughter and her scholastic career.

“Go on, you ugly Greek bastard,” Rosalie continued mentally, using the kind of uncouth ethnic colloquialism which her former headmistress had always, correctly, abhorred. “Suffer! You deserve to, after what you’ve done to Benkers.”

At that moment, there was an unusually loud outburst from the watch-dogs. Their already blood-curdling snarls increased in volume and were augmented by human screams of pain. Shouts of alarm added to the noise. They combined to convince Rosalie that her skull was in imminent danger of exploding. Fortunately for her scheme the disturbance brought a natural reaction.

“Are you all right, Rosalie?” Anacropolis inquired, while Fiorelli strolled to the french windows to investigate.

“Oh, my head!” the “housewife” groaned.

“It’s all right,” Fiorelli remarked, returning to the desk. “The dogs both broke loose.”

“Have they been caught again?” Anacropolis inquired, glancing nervously at the open french windows.

“Sure. But we need a new assistant kennelman, they’ve made the old one a bit frayed at the edges. What’s wrong Rosalie. Have you got a hangover?”

“And over, and over, and over.” Rosalie confessed and there was no faking of her emotions. “Does there have to be all this noise, Alfie?”

“Yes,” Fiorelli answered, just too bluntly.

“Ooh!” Rosalie groaned, holding her head. “It’ll drive me round the twist.”

“Perhaps you’d better run into Nicosia and do some shopping,” Anacropolis suggested. “That’s how Ariadne cures her headaches’ although she never buys aspirins. Besides, you might see something you’d like to wear tonight.”

“We’ve been invited to a party on that Greek shipping magnates yacht,” Fiorelli elaborated. “Unless you don’t feel like going, that is.”

“Just try to keep me away,” Rosalie enthused. “That’s just what they—I need.”

“If you don’t feel up to driving yourself,” Anacropolis said, attaching no importance to the last words spoken by Rosalie, “take one of the chauffeurs.”

“I wondered if Anton’s available?” Rosalie said pensively, mentioning the most handsome of the chauffeurs.

Just as she had expected, Fiorelli scowled at hearing her selection.

“Use the Lotus and drive it yourself,” her “husband” suggested. “The fresh air will do you good.”

“Can’t I let Anton drive me?” Rosalie pouted.

“No!” Fiorelli barked, then softened his refusal. “I need him and all the other chauffeurs here.”

Pouting a little, although she was secretly delighted, Rosalie left the room. An old Benkinsopian would never stoop to dalliance, or mild flirtation, with an employee; but Fiorelli’s previous “wives” had not attended such high-quality schools. So he based his assumptions upon their standards. Rosalie did not care, for his suspicions had given her the chance she needed. Leaving the men, she hurried to her room.

Dressing hurriedly. Rosalie left the villa by a rear door and collected the elegant powder-blue Lotus Elite Gran Turismo convertible. She drove from the grounds and down the track. Passing the two Greek-Cypriot policemen who sat in their patrol car and kept the house under observation, she held her speed to a legal level until out of their range of vision.

“Do we follow her?” the driver asked, hopefully, knowing that their Inspector had promised promotion to any officers who managed to arrest one or more of the villa’s occupants.

“What for?” his companion asked. “There’s nothing we could do her for. Now if she’d only been speeding—”

“Then we’d have had her,” the driver agreed.

“Yes, then we’d have had her,” agreed the second officer. “One of these days, George, we’ll get our chance.”

Once out of sight of the police officers, Rosalie increased the car’s speed. Although all a-tremble with emotion, she retained sufficient presence of mind to drive carefully. On reaching Nicosia, she left the Lotus in the Ledra Palace Hotel’s car park. Going into the luxurious building, she obtained change and entered one of its telephone booths. Obtaining the operator, she sucked in a deep breath.

“Put me through to Benkinsop’s Academy for the Daughters of Gentlefolk, at Upper Grebe, England, please,” she requested. “And could you hurry, it’s urgent.”

The clock on the wall showed the time to be the equivalent of ten-past-nine in England. Rosalie hoped that she would reach Miss Benkinsop soon enough to be of assistance.

CHAPTER TEN

Entering the teachers’ common-room, Miss Benkinsop was surprised to find all the staff, Amanda and Penelope present. They all rose politely as she entered and she read, from their strained expressions, that they knew something was very wrong. After glancing at the others, she turned her gaze towards Amanda.

“I hope you don’t mind, Miss Benkinsop,” the School Swot said apologetically. “But I took the liberty of telling the ladies what has happened.”

“I agreed that it was the fing to do,” Penelope declared loyally.

“That dirty, no good slag, Gus Saunders,” Miss Panchez growled, before the headmistress could comment. “I’d like to wring his neck.”

“Hoo!” Penelope went on, casually drawing open to their fullest extent the four powerful strands of a chest expander which she was using to improve her technique as a Debater. “I don’t arf wish ’e’d got a daughter ’ere.”

“And if he had, young lady,” Miss Benkinsop warned severely, “I most certainly would not countenance anybody bullying her.”

“I didn’t mean I’d do any-fing. ma’am,” Penelope explained, oozing innocence. “I only fought me little sister, in the Lower Third, could teach her some Debating.”

“Oh, how kind of you!” Miss Benkinsop replied with cold, biting sarcasm.

At that moment, Penelope’s “little sister in the Lower Third”—a charming child some eight inches taller and almost twice as heavy as the head girl—was in the gymnasium. Dressed in a Debating costume, she was lifting a two hundred and fifty pound bar-bell and being exhorted by the prefect in charge to:

“Put your back into it, Parkerhouse Minor. Good heavens, Penelope wouldn’t be puffing and blowing over such a small weight.”

“Well,” Lavinia Parkerhouse protested indignantly. “Our Penelope’s a lot older than me.”

“Us girls’ve been talking the situation over, Miss B.,” Miss Dinks announced, wriggling uncomfortably.

“Is something the matter, Miss Dinks?” asked the headmistress.

“Me ‘hoisting knickers’ feel like they’re made of sandpaper, they don’t half irritate,” the English teacher answered, bringing a little, hastily suppressed titter from Miss Pedlar. Making an effort to control herself, she continued, “Us girls have been talking it over and we’ve decided to go out and so some grafting.”

“I think I can get a booking Folk Dancing at the Penthouse Club,” Miss Pedlar said hurriedly, conscious of the headmistress’s coldly accusative gaze on her.

“Amanda’s showed me how to do Charlie Clore’s signature so well the computer at his bank’d be took in,” Miss McCoy went on.

Eager to make an offer of assistance, Penelope was too well-bred to merely shout it out. So she raised her right hand and awaited Miss Benkinsop’s attention with what little patience she could muster.

“Do you wish to go somewhere, Penelope?” Miss Benkinsop inquired, drawing an incorrect conclusion from the manner in which the head girl was squirming on her seat.

“Not that way, ma’am,” Penelope replied. “I was just finking. If I could ’ave a ’oliday, I could go on tour with an American professional Debating Society. It’d be ever such good experience for me.”

“You’re just trying to skive out of your history and arithmetic classes,” Miss Pedlar said, with a grin at the girl who had once been her fag.

“It ain’t that, ’onest!” Penelope protested, showing that her feelings had been hurt by the accusation. Scholastic subjects had never been her strong point. “It’s my fault that Miss Benkinsop’s in the muck like this.”

“Don’t take it to heart, love,” Miss Panchez advised. “Peac—Miss Pedlar’s only kidding and none of us blame you for what’s happened.”

Completing the complicated shuffling of a pack of cards, so that each of them lay in advantageous order if they had been dealt, Miss Frithington-Babcock looked with mild reproof at the Music Teacher.

“Really. Miss Pedlar,” said the deputy headmistress. “You shouldn’t tease the dear child. She’s quite distressed.”

Having delivered the gentle condemnation, Miss Frithington-Babcock absent-mindedly cut the cards. She then nullified the cut, with the ease and finesse that a professional magician might have envied if he could have detected how she did it and turned her gaze to the headmistress.

“Amelia dear, I don’t suppose I could offer to sell the recipe for my angel cake to the highest bidder?”

“I’d rather you didn’t, Hortense,” Miss Benkinsop replied, for the deputy head and she had always been on first-name terms with each other. “That would be rather like Russia having the only atomic- or hydrogen-bombs.”

“Then there is this new gaming club in London,” Miss Frithington-Babcock remarked. “Lady Houghton-Rand-Houghton was telling me that they play a delightfully friendly game of bridge there. Perhaps—”

“I wish you and I could pay them a visit,” Miss Benkinsop admitted. “I haven’t had a decent rubber since ‘M’ brought James Bond down to see us last spring. Poor James, he still doesn’t know how you played that trick on him.” Smiling a little, she brought her thoughts hack to the affairs of the moment. “That would only be a partial solution to the problem.”

“Of course!” Miss Frithington-Babcock replied. “How silly and thoughtless of me.”

Obtaining a trifling sum to cover the lost Petty Cash Fund would have been mere child’s play. Having young Amelia’s expert partnership—although she was hardly quite the bridge player her dear mother had been—would be of great assistance. There might not even have been the need for the type of harmless subterfuge with which the deputy head had confused that nice Commander Bond and his superior. However, playing bridge would not recover the Benkinsop’s family jewels.

“I’ve got the names of four rich old boilers here,” Miss Panchez said, consulting a somewhat grimy address book. “Any one of them would fall for the old ‘Tainted Money’ con.”

“The ‘Thrifty Hands’ class could easily copy enough money to settle things,” Miss McCoy suggested. “I know you don’t like them doing it commercially, Miss B., but I think the situation calls for it.”

“Why don’t I pay a visit to London?” Mademoiselle de Vautour suggested, working her delicate, expressive fingers to ensure they retained their supple speed. “I know that, in these days of credit cards, collecting mementoes is so uncertain, but if I get enough of them—”

“Thank you, ladies,” Miss Benkinsop put in, fighting to keep her true feeling from showing at the loyal response. “But I’m afraid that I can’t permit any of your noble gestures. To raise such a vast sum of money would entail your taking unjustifiable risks.”

“I’m sure that I speak for all the ladies, Amelia,” Miss Frithington-Babcock put in, “when I say that we regard that as of minor importance.”

Miss Benkinsop stood rigid, blinking to hold back the tears of gratitude which were welling in her eyes. She listened, with a lump in her throat, to the rest of the staff rumble their complete agreement with the deputy headmistress’s sentiments.

“No,” Miss Benkinsop declared, with just a tremble in her voice to hint at the depths of her emotions. “I couldn’t allow it, ladies, although I will never forget your kindness and support. Every one of you would receive a long term of preventive detention if you were caught.”

“It’d be worth it to help you, lo— Miss Benkinsop,” Miss Dinks stated.

“Hear, hear!” agreed Miss McCoy. “Most of us would be doing long stretches now if it wasn’t for you, Miss B.”

“Again. I thank you ladies,” the headmistress said quietly. “But I value you all as my friends and extremely important to the welfare, education and upbringing of the girls. Far too much to be a party to anything which might cause even a temporary suspension of your presences here.”

“If I may say so, ladies,” Amanda put in, after raising her hand and being given permission to speak. “While any of your excellent suggestions would bring about the return of the Petty Cash Fund, it would not recover Miss Benkinsop’s family jewels.”

“Oh!” Miss Panchez growled. “If we only knew where they were!”

At that moment, the telephone on the central table buzzed. Miss Pedlar picked up the receiver.

“Benkinsop’s Academy for—” the Music Teacher began, then clapped her hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s from Cyprus, for you, Miss Benkinsop.”

Accepting the receiver, Miss Benkinsop pressed a button on the side of the instrument, Amanda had fitted a simple device which allowed all the room’s occupants to hear a conversation if it should be necessary. The teachers and pupils fell silent as Rosalie Fieldbanks voice, throbbing, nervous and pleading, came to their ears.

“Miss Benkinsop! I hardly know how to tell you this. Honest. I didn’t know— He never told me—I wouldn’t have stood for it—!”

“Calm yourself, dear,” Miss Benkinsop advised gently. “I know what happened and don’t blame you in any way for it.”

“Thank heavens for that!” Rosalie almost sobbed. “But Alf—he’s trying to take over the school.”

“I don’t think he’ll quite manage to do that,” Miss Benkinsop answered, in her most reassuring manner.

“I’m going right back there to get everything he had taken—!” Rosalie declared, gaining courage from her former headmistress’s stirring example of how to face fortitude and danger.

“No, no, dear!” Miss Benkinsop hastened to reply. “You never really gained proficiency in the Household Hints class, and you weren’t—without wishing to hurt your feelings, a truly useful member of the Debating Society.”

“I don’t care—”

“But I do care. Much as I hate to speak ill of a person behind his back, Mr. Fiorelli struck me as having a most unforgiving and bullying nature.”

“I don’t care what happens to me, as long as—”

“Bringing down your ‘husband’s’ recriminations on your own head won’t help any of us, dear,” Miss Benkinsop pointed out. “By the way, I trust that you are in no danger making this call?”

“No. I’m at the Ledra Palace,” Rosalie confirmed, marvelling at the aplomb of the headmistress and pleased to think that, despite the urgency of the situation she placed her ex-pupil’s welfare ahead of other considerations. “And I’m not going back to that—”

“If you can curb your natural revulsion, dear,” Miss Benkinsop interrupted, having switched off the speaker so that Rosalie’s description of Fiorelli would not sully Amanda’s and Penelope’s ears. She switched on again. “I wish you would return. An ally in the—shall we say—enemy’s camp will be invaluable. By the way, can you suggest a good time for a few of us to pay your charming villa an informal visit?”

“You mean when Alf’s not there?”

“Something like that.”

“It’s short notice, but him and Anacropolis are taking me to a party on a millionaire’s yacht tonight.”

“Excellent!” Miss Benkinsop enthused.

“But all the ‘Heavy Mob’ will be there and he’s been getting all the alarms fixed up.”

“I trust that a Benkinsopian knows how to avoid disturbing the domestic staff,” Miss Benkinsop pointed out. “Now, dear. Miss de Vere has always said you were a leading light of her Drama Class. So I wish you to show your talents. Go back to the villa and act as if nothing had happened.”

“Can’t I do anything else?” Rosalie pleaded.

“That will be ample,” Miss Benkinsop assured her. “You can leave the rest to myself—and Amanda.”

“All right, Miss Benkinsop,” Rosalie assented.

“Much as I hate to cut short our little chat, dear,” Miss Benkinsop went on. “There isn’t much time for us to complete our arrangements—”

“I understand, ma’am,” Rosalie replied.

“Oh, one more thing,” the headmistress said, before her caller could hang up. “Miss Pedlar has volunteered to referee the hockey match between Mata Hari and Lucretia Borgia Houses—” Ignoring the slight gasp of alarm from the Music Teacher, she went on, “I’m sure you’re just itching to come over and do the same when Pauline Cushman House meets Belle Boyd* House in the finals of the net-ball league.”

“Well—” Rosalie said doubtfully, although she knew just what the headmistress had meant by the emphasis on the word ‘itching’. However, a refusal would not be fair to Peach-pips. They had both been equally guilty of pouring itching-powder borrowed from Amanda’s fag and Penelope’s little sister—into every pair of ‘hoisting knickers’ they had found in Miss Dinks’ room. “I’ll be there.”

Despite her misgiving about officiating at what would be a strenuously contested needle-match, involving two Houses whose rivalry was as severe as it had been between their namesakes, Rosalie felt relieved and almost light-hearted as she hung up and left the telephone kiosk.

“Well, ladies,” Miss Benkinsop said, returning the receiver to its cradle. “You heard.”

“Shall I get the Debating Society together. Miss Benkinsop?” asked Miss Hammerschlagen, jumping eagerly to her feet and being joined by an equally enthusiastic Penelope.

“No,” the headmistress replied and saw disappointment on at least two faces. “I feel that this is a task calling for a small party, as we don’t have a formal invitation to visit. “Amanda and I will he sufficient.”

“Can’t I come wiv you, Miss Benkinsop?” Penelope pleaded. “It’ll make me feel ever so much better about losing the Debate.”

“Three of us would be best, ma’am,” Amanda put in, knowing her friends sentiments and being willing to help if possible.

“Very well,” Miss Benkinsop smiled and, for once, overlooked Penelope’s somewhat unmannerly whoop of delight.

“Here!” said Miss Dinks, having realised why her undergarments felt so uncomfortable but was satisfied that justice had been done. “How are you going to get to Cyprus by tonight?”

“I’m open to suggestions, ladies,” Miss Benkinsop stated.

“You’ll have to fly,” Miss de Vere pointed out, sounding exactly like Miss Frithinigton-Babcock.

Although a superb instructress of the Drama Class, Miss de Vere did tend to become too involved in her work. When speaking to her, one never could be sure in whose voice she would reply. It was, however, a talent for which Miss Benkinsop and other members of the staff occasionally found use. So they were willing to overlook the Drama Teacher’s little idiosyncrasies.

“Can we get tickets on a commercial flight at such short notice?” Penelope inquired.

“It’s not likely,” Miss Benkinsop admitted.

“Why not charter a special flight?” Miss McCoy suggested. “Or borrow a plane and have Amanda fly you there?”

“In either eventuality, it would take too long and require too many formalities,” Miss Benkinsop pointed out.

“I’ve a gentleman friend who’s a pilot in the R.A.F.,” Miss Pedlar remarked, hoping to gain a remission from the task of acting as referee at the hockey match.

“I can just see him being able to give Miss B. and the girls a lift to Cyprus,” Miss Dinks sniffed, equally determined that the Music Teacher should not go unpunished.

“Well, we are all taxpayers,” Miss Frithington-Babcock said gently.

“I don’t think that would help,” Miss Pedlar replied. “Anyway, he says that old Pongo Porter—”

“Whom did you say?” Miss Benkinsop interrupted eagerly, hoping that she had heard correctly.

“Pon—Group Captain Porter,” Miss Pedlar corrected. “His Station Commander. He’s a proper tartar—” Once again Miss Benkinsop cut in upon the Music Teacher’s words. While such a breach of good manners would have been unthinkable in less trying circumstances, the rest of the staff considered that it was acceptable at that moment.

“Girls,” Miss Benkinsop said to Amanda and Penelope. “Go and pack your things. Make all arrangements you think necessary, Amanda, well be leaving for Cyprus after all.”

(*Pauline Cushman and Belle Boyd were leading lady spies on he opposing sides during the war between the United and Confederate States of America.)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

During World War II, Group Captain P. M. T. Porter, D.S.O. and Bar, D.F.C. and three bars, had been a gay—just a trifle irresponsible—gallant and capable fighter pilot. Winning promotion at an advanced rate, by his ability during the Battle of Britain and later, he had also settled down.

Now, with age and seniority, he was filling time until his advancement to Air Commodore by commanding a base responsible for top-secret development and high level maintenance. The erstwhile happy-go-lucky Flying Officer had been replaced by a tough, efficient administrator. Among his staff, he was regarded as being fair, but red hot on disciplinary matters.

Seated at his desk, the Group Captain threw a glance at the picture of himself and his wife. It had been taken on their wedding day and was inscribed with the words:

“To Pongo, with all my love, Dawn.”

The red telephone on Porter’s desk buzzed. Scooping it up, he expected to be in touch with some very high ranking officer, or Government official. Certainly he would never have thought to hear the words which smote his ears.

“Hello, Pongo. Amelia Benkinsop here. I’d like you to do me a little favour.”

“I don’t think I’d better ask how you got this number, Amelia, old girl,” Porter growled, then grinned. Lord! Her voice took him back to the good old days of the War. “What can I do for you, arrange a flying display for a Parents’ Day, have the W.A.A.F. hockey team come down and give your First Team a go?”

“Well, no, although we’d welcome either. What I need, in rather a hurry, is for myself and two of the girls to be taken to Cyprus and fetched back—tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“I do admit that it’s rather short notice, Pongo,” Miss Benkinsop apologised. “But it is rather important.”

“But how about passports, visas and all that kind of rot?” Porter croaked.

“Well, they are something of a problem, although not an insurmountable one.”

“I don’t have a kite going there—”

“I thought perhaps a training, or air test flight could be arranged. It has happened before, hasn’t it? Of course, a Spitfire would hardly be suitable on this occasion.”

A faint grin plucked at Porter’s lips. Once, shortly after the Battle of Britain had ended, he had flown from Biggin Hill to Henley in his Spitfire—carrying Miss Benkinsop on his lap as a passenger.

“By the way, Pongo, I met Dawn in town a few weeks ago. We had lunch and reminisced about the old days. She was saying that she often wondered if you really had gone up to Fighter Command Headquarters that weekend just before you became engaged.”

“If it was anybody but you who’d said that,” Porter stated. “I’d suspect a bit of blackmail.”

“Perish the thought, Pongo. Although it was rather naughty of you to fib to her like that.”

“How important is it for you to get to Cyprus?” Porter asked, glancing at a board on his office wall.

“Vitally,” Miss Benkinsop replied. “Its the future of the school that’s at stake.”

“You don’t mind how you get there?” Porter queried. “I mean in what type of kite.”

“I leave that entirely up to you, Pongo,” Miss Benkinsop declared.

“All right then,” Porter grinned, feeling almost as he had the day he and a few more of the lads had beat up a Royal inspection on a Bomber Command base, trailing his wife’s—fiance’s she had been at the time—and Miss Benkinsop’s unmentionables behind their Spitfires. “What time will you be getting here?”

“I’ll let you have the details later,” Miss Benkinsop promised.

“Whacko!” Porter chuckled. “How about you and I having another weekend at—Fighter Command—some time?”

“Pongo Porter!” Miss Benkinsop gasped, thankful that she was making the call from her study and alone. “I’ll have you remember that you weren’t even engaged then— Besides which, that delightful place on the Test has been taken over and is a tourist’s retreat now. It wouldn’t have the same atmosphere at all.”

“I suppose not,” Porter admitted with a sigh. “I’ve got a Spit here that still flies.”

“You, sir, are a naughty man,” Miss Benkinsop said severely and hung up.

Grinning, Porter set down the red telephone and took up a more prosaic instrument.

“Johnny,” the Group Captain said. “Hold the flight test on His VC10. I’ll have a spin with you in it later today. Fuel up and get a flight plan for Akrotiri will you?—Yes, I know the bloody place is in Cyprus.—Get it done and I’ll forget about you having that Pedlar-popsy doing her blasted bubble dance in the Mess last Wings Day.

Entering Miss Benkinsop’s study, as the headmistress finished making the telephone call, Amanda was amazed to see her blushing but smiling.

“I’ve prepared a little plan which may serve our purpose, ma’am,” Amanda said, holding out two sheets of foolscap paper covered with her neat handwriting. “It requires rather accurate timing, but I believe it will suffice.”

Reading the School Swot’s suggestions, Miss Benkinsop nodded her approval. Before her, she had set down in detail a scheme that was comprehensive in its coverage. Not even the smallest item had been overlooked. Which was what she had come to expect of Amanda.

“Is it satisfactory?” the girl inquired anxiously.

“It’s perfect!” Miss Benkinsop praised. “But is it necessary for us to—drop in—as you suggest?”

“I feel that it is, ma’am. For us to land at Akrotiri and obtain transport to the villa would consume so much time that we could hardly complete our mission and be back in school for our morning classes.”

“I could excuse you from them. But there is the other point which you mention to be taken into consideration.”

“I tried to think of an alternative to ‘dropping in’, ma’am.—For all our sakes. But I’m afraid that I failed to do so.”

Miss Benkinsop darted a long, calculating glance at the School Swot. Most people would have detected nothing more than Amanda’s elfin charm and eagerness to please. Being better informed, the headmistress realised that something was worrying the girl. What was more, much to her amusement—and slight annoyance—Miss Benkinsop had a shrewd idea that she knew the reason for Amanda’s concern.

“We’ll follow your plan as it is,” the headmistress declared. “Have we everything we shall need?”

“I’ve arranged for the few items we don’t already have to be produced,” Amanda confirmed. “Fortunately, we have the W.R.A.C. uniforms you, Penelope and I used when we helped your friend out at the Sports Meeting. And the documents. Of course, W.A.A.F. uniforms would have been more suitable—”

“They will still get us into the R.A.F.’s base at Akrotiri.” Miss Benkinsop consoled the girl. “And Pon—Group Captain Porter will attend to the rest.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Where is Penelope?”

“She said that, as she wouldn’t be needed in the planning, she would take a little jog-trot and limber up for this evening.”

“I hope she doesn’t tire herself too much,” Miss Benkinsop said. “She does rather tend to overdo things when she’s excited.”

The route which Penelope had selected for her jog-trot was one which passed through the woodland, which was owned by Miss Benkinsop, behind the school. It had been laid out by Amanda, with the specialised interests of the select few pupils who wished to enter the world of international espionage after graduation. The Debating Society also found that it had its uses and Penelope always enjoyed going around it.

Wearing her track suit and sandals, Penelope gripped the rope and swung gracefully across the wide chasm. Landing on the other side, she continued to run without hardly breaking her stride. Farther along the track, she ascended a pyramid of logs. On top, she trotted along the narrow plank which connected with another pyramid some twenty feet away. Instead of taking the easy way down, she flung herself through the air. Landing on a sturdy net which hung suspended from stout posts, she climbed over it and down the opposite side.

Ahead lay a large ex-Army Nissen hut, its door closed. Dropping her left shoulder, the head girl darted up and charged it open with the ease of a trained police officer.

“Grab her, girls!” yelled an excited voice as Penelope disappeared into the building.

A variety of yells, squeals, thuds, bangs and crashes arose, lasting for almost a minute. Then the window at the rear of the hut shattered. Coming through it, with her hands and arms shielding her face, Penelope landed, did a forward roll and regained her feet lithely. She dashed on without a backwards glance.

Inside the hut, six of the Debating Society’s most weighty members were sprawled in a dazed, bewildered and dishevelled heap on the floor.

Still hardly breathing heavily, Penelope approached the final stage of her trot. She drew near to the entrance to the Butts, that location set aside for the benefit of the Espionage students and as a training ground for the school’s rifle and pistol shooting teams.

Snatching up the Thompson sub-machine gun which had been placed on a table ready for her, Penelope entered the mouth of the long, fairly wide valley. Still running and firing from the hip as she went the head girl emptied the fifty-round drum magazine at the various targets which popped up at irregular and unexpected intervals as she advanced.

Halting when the weapon was empty, Penelope removed the magazine and ensured that no round remained in the chamber. The butt party appeared from their places of safety and concealment. Chattering excitedly, they examined the results of her efforts.

“You only made forty-six hits. Penny,” said the captain of Pauline Cushman House, who did not like the head girl and was delighted to try to show her up.

“Oh don’t be such a nasty cat, Lorraine!” protested a sixth-former from Penelope’s own house, Belle Boyd. “You know it was forty-eight.”

“You can’t count those two that only nicked the edges,” Lorraine objected sulkily, for her best score had never exceeded forty-seven hits and that was made when walking along the course, without her having first taken the jog-trot with all its trimmings.

“Not to worry,” Penelope said cheerfully. “I didn’t expect to do any better than forty-five. I’m not Amanda. ’Ere, where’s my fag?”

“Here I am, Penelope?” asked the little third-former who had the honour to hold that position.

“Take this and give it a good clean up,” the head girl ordered, handing over the Thompson. “And don’t you spill any oil on the floor, or I’ll make you wish you hadn’t.”

“I won’t,” promised the fag, grinning cheerfully and not at all perturbed by the threat. Penelope was, apart from Amanda, the best fag-mistress in the school and serving her was a pleasure.

“Coo!” Penelope ejaculated. “I wonder what Cook’s got going. All this exercise’s given me an appetite.”

In other parts of the school, various preparations were being made. Amanda appeared to be everywhere at once. Like a butterfly flitting from flower to flower, she appeared in the various rooms and pollinated the working parties with her wisdom. She advised, praised, offered suggestions or requested corrections, all with her usual air of gentle, polite charm.

“It’s fortunate that we kept these, Amelia,” Miss Frithington-Babcock remarked watching the headmistress, Amanda and Penelope try on the uniforms of respectively a colonel, first lieutenant and corporal of the Women’s Royal Army Corps.

They had first worn the garments when, to help a friend of Miss Benkinsop’s, Amanda and Penelope had competed in an international Armed Forces’ athletic meeting. With Britain’s prestige at stake, the School Swot had won the discus and javelin—being careful not to quite set up world records in either—and the head girl had defeated even the massive contestants of the Russian Women’s Army in throwing the hammer. While the girls had had no right to wear their insignia, Miss Benkinsop had held the equivalent rank to full colonel while working for M.I.5 during World War II.

“Cor!” Penelope groaned, struggling to button her tunic. “This jacket ain’t ’alf shrunk since I ’ad it on last.”

“It’s not the tunic,” Miss Benkinsop corrected. “It’s all those cream cakes you’ve been eating between your meals.”

“I only ’ad six little chocolate eclairs, ma’am,” Penelope objected guiltily, conveniently forgetting the three T-bone steaks and their trimmings which had been supplied by Cook on her return from the jog-trot. “All that there exercise—”

“Yes, yes,” the headmistress smiled, realising as always that girls will be girls. “I know all about it.”

“You can’t get away wiv nuffing ’round ’ere,” Penelope protested, sotto voce to Amanda. “I bet that cat Lorraine Capone snitched on me.”

“She wouldn’t do that,” Amanda replied, equally quietly. Not because she believed the words, but merely out of her unwillingness to think ill of anybody—even Lorraine Capone.

“We can move the buttons a little, Penelope,” Miss Frithington-Babcock offered, having studied the girl during her brief conversation with Amanda, “But I’m afraid, with the limited time at our disposal, we might not be able to do anything about the skirt.”

While the school had established an excellent reputation in training its pupils for artistic or commercial careers, Miss Benkinsop had never forgotten that some of them might wish to settle down and become ordinary housewives after graduation. So, no matter what the girls’ eventual specialisations might be, they all received a very thorough education in cooking, sewing, darning and other allied subjects calculated to lead to happy, contented married lives.

Miss Frithington-Babcock attended to the majority of the purely domestic training. Instructing in needlework classes was her particular delight and joy; and she always had a willing, responsive gathering of pupils at her disposal. However, as she had said, there might not be sufficient time for them to make the necessary adjustments to obtain a perfect fit for the head girl’s skirt.

“That’s all right, ma’am,” Penelope grinned, always willing to make the best of every situation no matter how trying. “I can manage wiv it. It’s not as if I’ve got to do any running about or any-fing in it.”

“Our documents are in order, I presume, Amanda?” Miss Benkinsop asked, knowing what the answer would be.

“Yes’m,” the School Swot confirmed, producing three Ministry of Defence Form 90’s correctly and suitably inscribed, from her blouse’s breast pocket. “If I may say so, Miss McCoy and the Thrifty Hands class did a really good job here.”

“I agree,” the headmistress concurred. “They will stand the most rigid and exacting scrutiny. Come, there are other matters requiring our attention.”

“Shouldn’t you wait in your study, ma’am?” Penelope inquired, sounding just too casual. “The Group Captain might want to talk to you about some-fing.”

“The contingency is remote,” Miss Benkinsop replied, scanning Penelope’s then Amanda’s faces. While both tried to appear nonchalant, she read their thoughts and did not know whether to be pleased or cross. “Come, girls.”

Going into the basement, the headmistress, Amanda and Penelope walked in on another vitally important piece of preparation. However, there was a spirit of levity which suggested that some slight inattention to accuracy might ensue. Frowning, Penelope went to where her youngest sister was the thief culprit.

“You watch what you’re doing,” the head girl warned, sotto voce “If my parachute doesn’t open. I’ll clip your ear-ole when I get back.”

“You’d be all right if you land on your head,” Lavinia answered, holding her voice down to her ‘big’ sister’s level. “And if you do clip me one, I’ll write and tell our mum.”

Wishing that Miss Benkinsop was not present, so that she could administer a disciplinary box on the ears, Penelope glared at her ‘little’ sister.

“They’re all quite satisfactory,” Miss Benkinsop pronounced, after examining the three parachutes. “You’ve all done very well, girls.”

Blushing with delight, Lavinia quickly poked out her tongue at Penelope. Then realising that her action had been observed by the headmistress, she tried to assume an innocent, pure-as-driven-snow aspect. The presence of Miss Benkinsop precluded any hope of taking appropriate reprisals, so Penelope contented herself with a muttered threat to see to Lavinia later and followed her companions to the room normally used by the Folk Dancing class.

“Cor, stone the flipping crows, Miss Benkinsop,” said Penelope’s lively Cockney dialect. “It wasn’t me what done it, was it, Amanda?”

“I’m afraid that I really must agree,” the School Swot’s gentle, innocent tones concurred. “Neither Penelope nor I were responsible, ma’am.”

“Then who, may I ask,” demanded Miss Benkinsop’s firm, commanding, upper-class voice, “did put the itching powder in Miss Dinks’ ‘hoisting knickers’?”

Although it would have beep impossible to detect by the sound alone, neither the headmistress, Amanda nor Penelope had said a word. They had come upon Miss de Vere rehearsing for what might prove to be a vitally important part of the scheme, Listening to her completely faultless impersonations, the small but highly critical audience burst into spontaneous applause. Miss Benkinsop and the girls joined in just as enthusiastically.

“That, if I may say so,” Miss Benkinsop enthused, “was superb, Miss de Vere.”

“Nice of you to say so, Miss Benkinsop,” the Drama Teacher replied, in Penelope’s voice. Then she changed to being Amanda and continued, “I’m sure that I will be adequate when the need arises.”

“Cor!” Penelope ejaculated. “You couldn’t ’alf’ve fooled me, Miss de Vere.”

“And I,” Amanda went on, which was the highest form of praise the Drama Teacher had ever received.

“’Ere, Miss Benkinsop,” Penelope said, respectfully, as they left the room. “What does Miss de Vere’s real voice sound like?”

“Do you know,” the headmistress replied, coming to a halt and looking over her shoulder at the door. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

Then the headmistress became aware that the head girl was prodding the School Swot with her elbow, as if urging Amanda to carry out an unpleasant but necessary duty.

“Er, Miss Benkinsop,” said Amanda, at her most guileless. “Perhaps you would care to go to your study and check through my notes. I fear I may not have covered every point.”

“Et tu, Brutus?” Miss Benkinsop sighed. “I’ve already read it. Come, There are other things calling for our attention.”

Dropping back slightly. Amanda and Penelope followed the headmistress. Although they lowered their voices, their words just reached her ears—and confirmed her suspicions.

“We’ve got to get the poor old luv off ’er feet for a bit, Amanda,” Penelope hissed. “She’s got a hard night in front of her,”

“She’s not all that old,” the School Swot protested. “Not more than forty-five—”

“Cor! As old as that? She doesn’t look it. But we ought to get her to ’ave a sit down.”

“I agree. But how do we do it so that she doesn’t realise—”

“Can I trust you girls to carry on for a time without me?” Miss Benkinsop inquired, trying to sound natural and calm as she halted facing them. “I will go and look over your notes, Amanda.”

“We’ll do our best, ma’am,” Penelope promised and, after the headmistress had departed, looked at her friend. “Do you fink she ’eard us?”

“She couldn’t have,” Amanda decided, making probably the first mistake of her young life.

Looking rather flushed, Miss Benkinsop entered the deputy head’s needlework classroom.

“Hortense,” she said. “I want you to do something important for me.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Although he was by nature and training a suspicious man, the sentry at the main entrance to the Research and Special Maintenance Squadron’s base did not hesitate to raise the barrier. He had checked the identification cards of the Aston Martin’s occupants and was satisfied that they were the party of W.R.A.C.’s whom the Station Commander had personally warned him would arrive. Slamming off a textbook salute, as the silver-grey car purred by, he ignored the wink of the perky little blonde corporal at its steering wheel.

“Cor!” Penelope grinned, as she followed the signs towards the Headquarters building. “He was a bit of all right.”

“And that will he enough of that, young lady!” Miss Benkinsop warned.

Parking the car deftly, next to the space occupied by the Station Commander’s Jaguar, Penelope acted the part of a W.R.A.C. chauffeur to perfection. Jumping out, she threw open the rear door and saluted smartly when Miss Benkinsop alighted. If anybody, other than Group Captain Porter. had seen their arrival there would have been nothing to arouse suspicions.

Clad in a modem flying-suit, Porter looked only slightly older and more portly than in the days when, as a dashing, elegant, devil-may-care young blade, he had helped to tear the Luftwaffe from the skies of England. Striding forward, his step was jaunty and his face bore a broad smile of welcome.

“Amelia, old girl,” Porter greeted, shaking hands and then kissing her lightly on the cheek. “You look younger and lovelier than ever.”

“Flatterer!” Miss Benkinsop replied, but she looked unusually pleased by the wording of the compliment.

“We’ve just got time to go into my office and have a jar before we take off,” Porter offered.

“That’s extraordinarily thoughtful of you, Pongo,” Miss Benkinsop answered, catching something of his youthful zest. “By the way, I believe you’ve met Amanda and Penelope. haven’t you?”

“That I have,” agreed Porter, sounding impressed by the thought of their first meeting. He shook hands, but did not offer to kiss either girl as he doubted whether their headmistress would approve. “At the World Sky-Diving Championships, wasn’t it? I recollect that you won, Amanda.”

“I was very lucky, sir,” the School Swot replied, blushing modestly. “Penelope is much better than I, And, after all, we did have Miss Benkinsop to instruct us.”

“If she’d been entered,” Penelope went on, “neither of us would ’ave stood a chance.”

“Don’t talk such nonsense, dear,” Miss Benkinsop commanded. “Open the boot, so that we can unpack our equipment.”

“You go and have a nice talk to the Group Captain, ma’am,” Penelope suggested. “Me and Amanda—”

“Amanda and I,” Miss Benkinsop corrected automatically.

“Amanda and I can fetch the stuff in easy enough.”

“I’ll carry my own,” Miss Benkinsop said, somewhat stiffly.

“That would hardly be in keeping with your role, ma’am,” Amanda pointed out, “A lady holding the rank of colonel would be unlikely to carry her own baggage.”

“I’ve never seen one of ’em’s did,” Penelope confirmed, just a shade too quickly. “And we don’t want nuffing to go wrong, do we, ma’am?”

“Very well,” Miss Benkinsop conceded and took consolation in thinking that she might give her young companions a surprise later on. “Come, Pongo. Is there anywhere in which we can change?”

“Use the Adj’s office,” Porter offered.

Leading the way to his own office, Porter frowned as the two girls entered. Amanda carried two packed parachutes and a kitbag with an adjustable carrying-strap. Penelope was burdened with two bags and one parachute.

“Go in next door and change, girls,” Miss Benkinsop requested, pointing to the entrance to the Adjutant’s office. “I wish to have a few words with the Group Captain.”

“Yes’m,” Amanda and Penelope chorused.

“You may leave the parachutes and my bag here,” the headmistress went on.

“Shan’t we take and unpack your bag, ma’am?” Penelope hinted.

“I’ll endeavour to do that for myself,” Miss Benkinsop answered and her tone warned the head girl that she would brook no arguments. “Cut along with you.”

They’re two nice youngsters, Porter remarked, ushering Miss Benkinsop into his office.

“Yes,” the headmistress sighed. “Were we as intolerant of our elders at their age, Pongo?”

“How do you mean?”

“They’re convinced that I’m approaching my dotage. In fact, I quite expect them to produce a shawl for my ageing shoulders.”

“You’re not old,” Porter declared, looking her over with frank and open admiration. “Damn it, you look even younger than when we spent that weekend at—H.Q. Fighter Command—”

“Flattery like that will get you thrown over my shoulder, Pongo Porter,” Miss Benkinsop warned, but showed her pleasure at the compliment. “Let’s have that ‘jar’, shall we?”

The girls returned, dressed in dark blue cover-alls and carrying paratrooper’s helmets, before Miss Benkinsop could get down to the serious business of the trip. Taking up her own kitbag, Miss Benkinsop warned that lemonade was the only beverage she would tolerate where the pupils were concerned. Then she left to change. What she was planning to wear had been kept a strict secret and was a source of much speculation between Amanda and Penelope.

“Why the ’chutes?” Porter inquired, after the headmistress had taken her departure. “Don’t you think our old crocks can make it?”

“We’ve complete faith in them, sir,” Amanda replied, sipping at her glass of lemonade. “But, if you would care to read this little time-table, you will see that we must parachute down instead of accompanying you all the way to Akrotiri.”

Taking the paper which Amanda had produced from the pocket of her cover-alls. Porter read it in a daze. Then the light broke through. Admiration filled him as he decided that he had never seen a more concise, accurate piece of work. Everything. including the map-reference of the target area and directions of approach for every type of wind had been included.

“What’s wrong. Penny?” Porter asked, becoming aware that the head girl was standing at the wall and trying to open the communicating shutter to the Adjutant’s office.

“I was just wondering what’s behind here,” the girl replied truthfully.

“The room you’ve just left. It’s fastened on the other side.” Porter explained, then indicated Amanda’s paper. “This tells me all I’ll need to know all right, but—”

“I’m sure Miss Benkinsop can explain matters far better than Penelope or I, sir.” Amanda replied.

On her return, the headmistress was attired in a similar manner to the girls. There was no clue to what lay under her cover-alls. Saying that they would have to get going, Porter escorted them to the airfield. On the way, he learned why they had selected parachuting as the means of reaching their destination. Admitting that he could think of no other way out, he said that he would do as they wished.

“I’ll have to get the kite hack here in good time tomorrow,” the Group Captain went on, indicating a Vickers VC 10 which stood at the end of the runway. “He wants it back and you know how impatient these naval types can be.”

At first, Miss Benkinsop failed to catch the full implication behind the officer’s words. Then she looked more closely at the aircraft.

“Pongo!” the headmistress gasped. “If this is your idea of a joke—!”

“Won’t it do, Amelia?” Porter asked, grinning broadly at her consternation. “It should be all right. I’ve had the ground crew wind up the rubber bands and everything.”

“Y-you know what I mean!” Miss Benkinsop answered heatedly, directing her reluctant feet after the cheerful officer and delighted girls.

“This kite has to be flight tested, before we send it back,” Porter explained. “It wouldn’t do for Him to have to hop out and start cranking her up if the engines conked at twenty thousand feet, would it?”

“You’ve been watching those dreadful little men on the B.B.C.’s satire shows, Pongo,” Miss Benkinsop accused.

“I just thought I’d save the taxpayers some money and kill two birds with one stone,” Porter elaborated. “And, lets face it, old girl, who’d suspect one of these to be carrying civilian passengers?”

“You’re right, I suppose,” Miss Benkinsop conceded.

For all her usual calm assurance, the headmistress felt a little perturbed. Amanda, too, showed that she was very impressed as she boarded the aircraft; which belonged to the Queens Flight.

Only Penelope displayed no consternation. It took a lot to get that little Cockney sparrow down.

“’Ere, Amanda,” she said, as they boarded the VC 10. “I wonder if ’Es left one of ’Is polo sticks on board?”

While it appeared that He had not left a polo mallet, or any other type of memento aboard, the flight proved to be very comfortable and uneventful. Of course, in view of its usual passengers, one might have expected the facilities to be of a superior variety.

The two girls rested and tried, without success, to discover what kind of garments Miss Benkinsop—who they tended to regard as somewhat stuffy and old fashioned—considered correct for paying an informal visit to the Mediterranean Syndicate’s executive villa. While excellent as disguises to get them into military establishments, the uniforms would be most inappropriate. So they had already been removed and, carefully folded to prevent undue creasing, reposed in the kitbags with the other specialised items that might be needed.

Thinking about the equipment brought a pout to Penelope’s lips.

“I wish I’d got me Tommy-gun wiv me,” the head girl remarked.

“And I explained why you couldn’t,” Miss Benkinsop replied. “I don’t approve of such noisy contraptions, although I will admit that they have their uses. But a lady never takes one when she is making an informal visit.”

“It’s not as if we’ve been invited to go hunting, or anything,” Amanda went on, being in complete agreement with the headmistress on the matter. “We just want to slip in quietly, attend to our business, and leave with as little disturbance and inconvenience as possible.”

“Yes, I know that,” Penelope conceded. “It’s just that I don’t want that cat Lorraine Capone mucking about wiv it while I’m away. The last time she scratched the varnish on the butt.”

“I recollect that you and she had words about it,” Miss Benkinsop commented dryly. “She was in the San. for a week.”

“Only six days, ma’am,” Penelope objected, wincing and moving uneasily in her comfortable seat at the thought of the painful interview she had had with the headmistress after the incident.

“Excuse me, Miss Benkinsop,” Amanda put in, having glanced at her wristwatch. “I think it is time we were getting ready to leave.”

In the pilot’s cabin, the navigator had just reached the same conclusion. However, he had made use of a variety of sophisticated equipment and instruments. Amanda had enjoyed herself by working out the same problems from memory, having been permitted to go up front earlier and study the maps.

Placing on their helmets, Miss Benkinsop and the girls adjusted and secured the padded chin-straps. Then they affixed and buckled their parachutes into position. With that done, each of them swung her kitbag so that it would hang before her. By the time they had finished, Porter was coming from the pilots compartment. Surprise showed on his face when he found that his passengers had anticipated the advice he was bringing.

“I was just coming to tell you to get ready,” the Group Captain said. “How did you know?”

“Amanda said it was time,” Penelope answered.

“It was just a fortunate guess, sir,” the School Swot insisted, demurely. “Do you wish us to take our places for leaving?”

“You may as well,” Porter admitted.

“Thirty seconds to dropping, sir,” came the second pilot’s voice over the intercom. “Open door and make ready.”

With the door open, Porter watched Penelope. Miss Benkinsop and Amanda take their places. Not one of them showed the slightest concern over what lay ahead. He had expected as much from the headmistress, for she had made more than one parachute jump at night during the War. Most of them had, as he knew, been into German-occupied territory.

Not that, when Porter came to think of it, the girls calm attitudes were too surprising. After all, they had had Amelia Benkinsop to mould their characters and develop their strength of will. It was a pity that she did not extend her activities to the Sons of gentlefolk, the Group Captain mused. Or that Dawn had failed to produce a daughter who could have been placed in Amelia’s care.

“Ten—Nine—Eight—” counted the second pilots voice. “Seven—Six—Five—Four—Three—Two—One—Go!”

“Pocahontas!” Penelope whooped delightedly, using the Indian’s name which Miss Benkinsop had selected as more suitable than the traditional ‘Geronimo’ for use by lady parachutists.

With the word still ringing in Porters ears, the head girl was gone out of the door. She took her departure in as stylish a fashion as he had ever seen.

“Pocahontas!” Miss Benkinsop repeated, following Penelope in an, if possible, even more stylish and graceful manner.

“Pocahontas!” Amanda continued, sounding like a frightened pixie, and stepping forward with a steady stride to make her exit.

With the precision of a trained sky-diving team, Miss Benkinsop, Amanda and Penelope plunged down through the darkness. Above them, the VC 10 droned onwards in the direction of the R.A.F.’s base at Akrotiri. Below lay the black mass of Troodos Mountains western slopes. Only the lights of the villa glowed to relieve the gloom and act as a guiding point for their descent.

First Penelope, then Miss Benkinsop and finally Amanda pulled her rip-cord. With sharp cracks, the silken canopies opened above them. Clearly Penelope’s ‘little’ sister and her friends had not permitted levity to interfere with their duties, for everything went smoothly.

When making their plans, Miss Benkinsop and Amanda had taken into consideration the protective devices installed in the villa at the School Swat’s recommendation. So they had decided against finishing their descent within the building’s grounds. Having discussed the matter, they had concluded that their best landing place would be in a ravine about half a mile from their ultimate destination.

Passing between its edges. Penelope reached the ground. She hit with her knees and feet close together, rolling professionally. A little squeak of pain, instantly suppressed, broke from her. Then, while her companions came down within a few feet of each other, she set free her parachute. The other two had liberated themselves and come to their feet before they noticed that Penelope was still sitting on the ground.

“Are you all right, Penny?” Amanda gasped.

Showing their concern, the headmistress and the School Swot hurried towards the head girl. Much to their relief, she stood up.

“You aren’t hurt,” Miss Benkinsop inquired, in a solicitous manner. “Are you, dear?”

“Not too much, ma’am,” Penelope replied, rubbing at her rump. She turned an accusative gaze to the School Swot. “Now I know why you sent me out first, Amanda Tweedle. There was a dirty great rock where I landed. Cor. I bet I’ve got a bruise on me bum.”

“You’ll get five hundred lines, head girl or not, if you make such improper and unladylike remarks, Miss Parkerhouse,” warned the headmistress coldly, starting to remove her helmet. “Come along, do. We have work awaiting our attention.”

Throwing an unabashed wink at Amanda, Penelope shed her helmet and peeled off the cover-alls. At her side, Amanda had also laid down the kitbag and removed the unnecessary garments They had come prepared for the work which lay ahead and wore the type of clothing which they believed would be most socially acceptable for the visit.

Amanda had on a sky-blue leotard with elbow length sleeves and a fit which gave her the appearance of Walt Disney’s very attractive cartoon fairy, Tinker-Bell. On her feet, she had knee-length black boots. For her part, Penelope had selected a sleeveless dark blue sweater, which left her midriff bare to the night air, black wet-look hot pants and Grecian slippers with their straps crisscrossing about her shapely bare calves to just below her knees.

Having discarded their outer coverings, the girls turned to discover what their headmistress had decided to wear. They were disappointed, for she still had on her cover-alls. Both had hoped that she would have shown a little adventurous spirit, but decided that, after all, she had probably decided that she was past it.

“Shall we dispose of the parachutes, ma’am?” Amanda inquired.

“If you’d be so kind,” answered Miss Benkinsop. “I don’t need to tell you to select a place where there will be no danger from the fire?”

“No, ma’am,” Amanda agreed, opening her kitbag and taking out a small black box. “Come on, Penny.”

Gathering the parachutes, the girls carried them to the side of the ravine. There, on a piece of barren ground between two large rocks, they heaped their burdens on the box and placed smaller stones to prevent the silken canopies from being blown away.

“When’s it go off?” Penelope inquired as they completed their task.

“Not for two hours,” Amanda replied. “I think that will be adequate for our needs. Before anybody can reach the conflagration, assuming that it is seen, there won’t be anything left to say what was burning.”

“Coo! Did you make that stuff for somebody?”

“Oh no. It’s just something that happened by mistake. I was trying to produce a substitute for petrol. When I showed Miss Benkinsop what my compound would do, she insisted that I didn’t tell anybody about it.”

Considering the extremely high power of combustion developed by Amanda’s compound, Miss Benkinsop’s decision had probably been a wise one. If it had fallen into the wrong hands—arsonists were not highly thought-of as members of the Profession—it might have been put to entirely the wrong kind of use.

“Let’s go and get start—” Penelope began, turning from the parachutes.

The words ended and the head girl’s mouth dropped open. Swinging on her heel to discover what had so affected her friend, Amanda also registered surprise.

While the girls had been working, Miss Benkinsop had removed her cover-alls. What doing so had exposed was most pleasing to the eye. By working very hard, Miss Frithington-Babcock had—with the aid of her Needle-work class—done wonders in the limited time at their disposal.

Miss Benkinsop’s costume commenced with a sleeveless black satin blouse and matching tights which fitted her as snugly as a glossy second skin. Black, high-heeled boots extended to just below the level of her knees, to complete a charming, attractive, yet most versatile and useful ensemble.

“Close your mouth, Penelope dear,” the headmistress commanded, secretly delighted by the impression her appearance had created. Picking up her kitbag, she continued, “If you are ready, girls, we’ll go and visit the villa.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“What’s bugging Alf?” asked the member of the ‘Heavy Mob’ who had been ordered by the butler to patrol outside the villa’s walls.

“Don’t ask me.” replied the gate-keeper peering through the bars. “But if I was you, I wouldn’t let him catch you hanging about out there.”

At that moment the headlights of the best car glowed on the driveway. Taking the hint, the burly man outside he gates swung on his heel and hurried away. Trying to look innocent, the gate-keeper pressed the control switch. Instead of passing on through the gates as they opened, the car came to a halt. Carrela and Schulze sat in the front. It was, however, the rear window which opened and Fiorelli’s irate face poked out.

“Don’t stand gossiping at the gate!” the executive growled. “Make him keep moving around out there.”

“Sure, boss,” confirmed the gate-keeper.

“You seem nervous tonight, Alfie,” Rosalie remarked casually, as the car purred onwards.

“No, I’m not,” Fiorelli insisted, twisting to look back and make sure the gates were closing. “I just like to keep them on their toes.”

Slouching along muttering under his breath, the burly sentry watched the car pass out of sight. However, he decided against returning to the gate. When Alf Fiorelli was in one of his moods, it was as well to respect his wishes. If, for some reason, he wanted the place patrolling with extra care, all one could do was get on and do it.

Cradling his Schmeisser MP 40 sub-machine gun on his arm, the man followed the well-worn path around the exterior of the property. An area of about twenty yards wide had been cleared all around the wall. Beyond that limit, however, the rough, barren and rocky terrain offered places of concealment if any evilly disposed person had wished to make use of them.

While aware of the possibility the man tended to discount it. Even if anybody did plan to rob the villa, they certainly would not come so early in the evening.

Not that anyone would be stupid enough to try to commit a robbery on the Mediterranean Syndicate’s property. The organisation was too highly respected and admired throughout the Profession for that to happen. Besides which, the board of directors had had installed any number of elaborate protective devices.

So, having taken all the facts into account, the man regarded his period on sentry duty as nothing more than a waste of time. Of course, he would get paid overtime for doing it, which was something to look forward to.

Having passed around the rear of the building, the man turned along the western wall. He saw a shape ahead and came to a halt. Starting to raise the Schmeisser, he studied the figure and relaxed. Small, bent, wearing a long skirt and with a shawl covering its head, the person in front of him looked like an aged Turkish woman of the kind that were all too common in the neighbourhood.

“Hoi, Granny!” the man called, in Turkish. “Get out of here.”

Stopping the figure peered in the mans direction. She raised her cupped left hand to her ear, but did not withdraw. Deciding that she must be hard of hearing the man slouched closer.

Crouching behind a rock, Miss Benkinsop flashed a look to where Amanda lay in the shadows of a small depression in the ground. Then the headmistress turned her gaze to where the burly man bore down upon the bent, ‘aged’, almost diminutive figure.

Comparing Penelope’s size with that of the sentry, Miss Benkinsop experienced some slight misgivings. Yet the head girl had been so insistent that she should be the one to go and request permission to enter the villa. Both Penelope and Amanda had been aghast at the idea of Miss Benkinsop lowering herself by doing so personally. At least, that had been the excuse upon which they had based their arguments. The headmistress had yielded, despite her conviction that—for all she had impressed them with her attire—they still believed that her age precluded her from any strenuous part in the visit.

Of course, one liked the girls to show initiative and a willingness to assume responsibility. But Miss Benkinsop was finding their attitudes—respectful and well-intentioned as they might be—a trifle irritating.

Watching the man approach, without losing her pose as an aged Turkish woman, Penelope prepared to make her request. As everybody knows, the Japanese had made remarkable strides in the field of Debating. Penelope had learned a number of their arguments and intended to make use of some. It seemed that she was making a good job of her impersonation, for the man had returned the Schmeisser to the crook of his left arm.

Lorraine Capone preferred a Schmeisser to the more aesthetically satisfying Thompson, which did not endear the man to the head girl. In fact, it lessened any slight scruples which might otherwise have assailed her. When all was said and done, she did intend to take an unfair advantage of him; which went against her nature as a leading member of the Benkinsop’s Debating Society.

“Come on, Grannie,” the man said, extending his right hand. “Get back to the vill——Ooof!”

Holding her thumb across the palm of her hand, Penelope jabbed her extended fingers quickly and forcefully into the man’s solar plexus. Taken by surprise at such a response from a bent and ‘aged’ Turkish lady, the man gasped and withdrew a step. The Schmeisser fell from under his arm as he doubled over at the waist.

Instantly Penelope proved that she had learned more than one piece of foreign culture. Still retaining her hands in the same manner, she raised both into the air. Down they flashed, chopping their edges against the sides of the man’s neck. Sounding as if he had a frog in his throat, he sank on to his hands and knees.

Leaving their places of concealment, Miss Benkinsop and Amanda darted forward. They converged on the head girl as she prepared to ensure that the man could not spoil their surprise by announcing their presence.

“Let me, please, Penny,” Amanda requested, polite as always.

“Oh, all right,” Penelope replied graciously and lowered her foot.

Always generous to a fault, the head girl also appreciated that the School Swot had worked exceedingly hard to organise the outing. On top of that poor Amanda was always too busy cramming to get much fun out of life. She never even found time to take part in any of the Debating Evenings. So Penelope decided that her friend deserved a treat.

Stepping aside, Penelope allowed Amanda to approach the man. He was still on his hands and knees, gasping for breath and showing signs of deep distress at being unable to carry out his duties. Amanda reached out her left hand, inserting it carefully and delicately under the left side of his open-necked shirt. Enfolding his shoulder, near the base of his neck, with her thumb and fingers, she sought for, found and pressed gently at a particular point.

Instantly the man relaxed. Sinking forward, he lay face down and motionless on the track.

“’Ere!” Penelope yelped. “What’d you do to him?”

“Just a little something I learned when I translated Professor Ayashi Kamimoto’s treatise on karate from the original Japanese,” Amanda replied. “It’s called the ‘Tanoshii ikoi o sasotta yasashii oshi’, which means ‘Gentle Pressure Which Induces Pleasing Repose’.”

“Cor! Does it hurt him?”

“Gracious me, no!” the School Swot gasped, aghast at the thought that she would knowingly inflict harm upon another person. “He’ll merely be unconscious for ninety minutes, with the amount of pressure I applied. But he won’t suffer any ill effects. In fact, he’ll wake up quite refreshed.”

“Cooer!” Penelope ejaculated, then a slightly annoyed expression came to her perky face. “I fink you’re mean, Amanda Tweedle. You never told me about it.”

“That was my decision,” Miss Benkinsop put in “It wouldn’t have been fair to your Debating opponents if you had known about it. They have so little chance against you as it is.”

“I did want to tell you, Penny,” Amanda apologised, pleased that the headmistress had exonerated her from her friends implied charge of disloyalty.

“I should’ve known you would,” Penelope admitted. “And Miss Benkinsop’s right about it, too.”

“Come, girls,” Miss Benkinsop put in, satisfied that harmony had been restored. “We are wasting time.”

“Let us do that, ma’am,” Penelope requested, stepping forward hurriedly as the headmistress reached out to take hold of the unmoving, blissful-looking man. “Come on, Amanda, give us a ’and,”

Miss Benkinsop stood back, frowning a little, as the girls gripped the man by his wrists and hauled him towards the hollow in which Amanda had concealed herself. Having settled him comfortably with Penelope— always the joker—insisting that he be laid flat on his back and with hands folded upon his chest, they gathered the kitbags.

“You’d better let Benkers carry her own,” Amanda advised, taking a belt from which were suspended a coiled rope attached to a grapnel of her own design, various tools and a small plastic sack. “I think she’s annoyed at us for molly-coddling her as we have been doing.”

“It’s f or her own good.” Penelope protested, watching Amanda strap on the belt.

“I know, dear,” the School Swot replied. “But you know what these middle-aged ladies are like concerning these things.”

“Cor, though,” Penelope grinned, slinging her kitbag across her shoulder. “Doesn’t Benkers look fab in that cat-suit?”

“I only hope I look as good at her age,” Amanda confessed, gathering the two remaining kitbags and followed the head girl to the waiting headmistress. “May we carry one please. ma’am?”

“Please do,” Miss Benkinsop replied, holding out her hand. “I’ll take my bag, dear. And yours—”

“I’ll have it, ma’am,” Penelope interrupted, interposing herself deftly so as to take Amanda’s kitbag. Well, I don’t have any-fing else to do for a bit.”

“Very well,” Miss Benkinsop assented resignedly, promising herself that she would teach the girls a lesson if the opportunity presented itself.

Advancing to the foot of the wall, while her companions kept watch for any others of the domestic staff who might be taking constitutional strolls, Amanda set free her rope and grapnel. She did not bother to open the latter, knowing that its shape would be inconducive to accurate throwing. Instead, she uncoiled the rope and tossed the weighted end upwards.

Passing over the wall, the grapnel dropped downwards until the rope struck the stone. Swung inwards, the grapnel struck the hard surface and its quadruple, carefully shaped, hooks sprang open. Amanda drew gently on the rope. Rising to the top of the wall once more, two of the hooks engaged and grasped it securely.

Climbing swiftly, Amanda peered over the wall. She studied the grounds before completing her ascent, satisfying herself that she could do so without fear of being observed. There had been, she noticed with satisfaction, no major or significant alterations to the lay-out of the gardens. So she turned her attention to the villa. Most of the ground floor’s interior lights appeared to be on, but the upper stories were in darkness. The front exterior wall, however, was illuminated.

That had been anticipated and was catered for in the plans laid down by the School Swot. She had moulded her line of actions on the memory of the arrangements which she had suggested to the Mediterranean Syndicate to prevent similar informal visitations. Luckily for the success of her party’s mission, the Syndicate had refused—on the grounds of excessive expense—to install all the precautionary devices which she had included in her written essay on the matter.

Carefully, making sure that she did not produce any unnecessary sound or motion, Amanda eased herself higher. She straddled the wall, but lay along its flat top instead of either sitting up or going over. Swiftly, she scanned the garden. So far there was no sign of the watchdogs, but she knew that they would be making their patrol. Before the headmistress’s party could hope to make an unheralded arrival at the villa, the animals would need to be silenced.

With that in mind, Amanda opened the plastic bag on her belt. First she extracted a bottle filled with a liquid of a slightly pinkish tint. She made sure of her aim, then pitched the bottle through the air. It fell, striking a stone statue some distance from her position. Having been specially weakened, the glass shattered with only a fraction of the noise one might have expected. Its liquid contents sprayed forth, over the plinth of the statue and ground near by.

Satisfied with things so far, the School Swot emptied the rest of the bag’s meagre contents. She quickly stripped the polythene wrapping from the two large, succulent steaks which Cook had obligingly provided. Returning the covering to the bag—for a Benkinsopian was taught to always be neat and tidy—she skimmed first one, then the other steak in the general direction of the shattered bottle. They fell, as she had planned, some two feet apart and close to the area over which the liquid had splashed.

At that moment, the Alsatians loped around the end of the villa. Trained for their work, they were allowed to patrol free of restraint. Keen as they were, neither was aware of the girl’s presence. The wind was in the wrong direction for them to catch her scent; a factor which Amanda had taken into consideration. Nor had she made sufficient sound for their sharp ears to detect it. Motionless as the sleeping sentry, Amanda watched the dogs. Everything depended upon them acting in the required manner.

Sure enough, the dogs moved across the garden. Then one of them halted, its head raised and tail wagging as if in eager anticipation of something pleasant. Its companion mirrored the reaction. Making for the statue, they snuffled around it in great excitement.

Amanda held her breath, wondering if she had miscalculated in using the liquid as a means of distracting—or attracting—the Alsatians attentions. Just as she was deciding that she had, their questing nostrils located the meat. Having been kept hungry, to ensure that they remained awake and alert, the dogs did not hesitate to wolf down the succulent morsels.

“One! Two! Three!” Amanda counted, sounding relieved. “Four! Five!”

By the time the School Swot had reached the fifth number, both dogs lay on their sides and were sleeping peacefully.

Turning and waving a confirmatory hand to her companions, Amanda slipped over the wall. She dropped down, landing with cat-like grace and agility. Looking upwards, she saw Penelope appear at the top. The head girl paused long enough to collect and drop the kitbags to her waiting friend, then joined her in the garden. On completing her ascent, Miss Benkinsop hauled up the rope. She set free the grapnel and lowered it to the waiting girls. Then she jumped down as lithely as either of them had managed.

“I see your sleeping potion worked, Amanda,” Miss Benkinsop remarked, nodding towards the recumbent dogs. “By the way, I didn’t ask you before. What was in the bottle.”

“I hardly like to say, ma’am,” Amanda answered, blushing shyly.

“Go on,” Penelope dared. “Tell us.”

“Well,” Amanda said hesitantly. “It was a concentration taken from a—er—lady dog—who was—er—ready for the attentions of a male.”

“Oooh!” giggled the head girl, who had no sense of the proprieties, nudging Amanda gently in the ribs with her elbow. “You ain’t ’alf a saucy little devil on the quiet.”

“Please don’t be flippant. Penelope,” Miss Benkinsop requested coldly, deciding that she must have a long, stem talk with the head girl regarding her decorum. It would, however, have to wait until some more opportune moment. “You may lead the way, Amanda.”

“Yes, ma’am,” replied the School Swot, having re-coiled and packed the rope with its grapnel into her kitbag. “We must crawl along the ground for the first part of our journey. I arranged for a system of photo-electric cells to be positioned exactly thirty-one inches from the round so that the dogs could pass beneath the beams without setting off the alarms.”

“Very considerate, dear,” Miss Benkinsop praised. “We wouldn’t want the domestic staff to be disturbed by false alarms. That would never do.”

While Penelope agreed with her headmistress in principle, she soon found herself wishing that Amanda had been less efficient and considerate.

Lying flat on their stomachs, with the kitbags resting on their forearms, Miss Benkinsop and the girls wriggled forward. Before she had gone far, Penelope was regretting the snack—no more than three eggs, eight sausages and some chips—Cook had provided for her to partake of shortly before they had left the school. Glancing sideways, wondering how poor old Benkers was managing, she was astounded to discover that the headmistress was displaying no hint of strain, nor distress.

Guided by Amanda, the party passed beneath the beams of the warning system and did not disturb the members of the ‘Heavy Mob’ who were in attendance at the ‘Guard House’, Amanda continued to advance in the crawling position, followed by Miss Benkinsop and Penelope, until safely in the concealment of a clump of bushes not far from the sleeping dogs.

“Whew!” Penelope gasped, rolling away her kitbag and starting to rise. “I’m not sorry—”

“Get down!” Amanda hissed, catching her friend by the arm and tugging to emphasise the words.

Wondering what was wrong. Penelope nevertheless obeyed immediately. Then she gazed in the direction that the School Swot and the headmistress were looking.

“Ooer!” Penelope breathed, realising that her impulsive action had bordered upon the indiscreet.

“Do stop puffing and blowing, dear,” Miss Benkinsop requested in a whisper, without diverting her scrutiny from the cause of Amanda’s warning.

A tall figure had just strolled into view around the end of the villa. Studying the plaited dog’s leash in his hand, his attire of windcheater, riding breeches and boots, Miss Benkinsop deduced that he was the kennelman. Nobody else, in fact, would dare to stroll around the grounds in such an unconcerned manner. The two Alsatians had been trained to mistrust every other person and attack on sight.

Clearly the man was making an unanticipated inspection, checking upon the welfare of his charges. Miss Benkinsop could foresee how that might jeopardize their plans for an unannounced arrival at the villa.

So, apparently, could the girls.

Listening to their whispered conversation, the headmistress felt a fresh wave of irritation.

“I’m afraid he must be silenced, Penelope,” Amanda announced.

“He might not see the dogs,” objected the head girl, without as much as a glance at Miss Benkinsop.

“I’m afraid that will only make matters worse,” Amanda replied, showing as little awareness of the headmistress’s presence. “If he doesn’t, he will become suspicious and institute a more careful search. Perhaps he will even call the butler and request assistance from the ‘Guard House’.”

“He’s seen them!” Penelope breathed. “Just let me get at ’im.”

“Let him come closer,” Amanda advised, watching the man striding towards the dogs. “Whatever happens, he mustn’t raise an alarm.”

Laying aside her kitbag, Miss Benkinsop eased herself into a position of readiness. She had been growing increasingly annoyed by the girls solicitous and slightly condescending attitude. It was, the headmistress decided, time to teach them that there was life in the old dog yet.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Catching sight of the recumbent Alsatians, the kennel-man hurried towards them. He dropped to one knee beside the larger animal and raised its head. Letting out a low growl of understanding, he released his hold and, starting to rise, glared about him indignantly.

Having assumed a posture like a sprinter awaiting the start of a race, Penelope hurled herself from the bushes. Almost before she had taken her second stride, she saw somebody flash by her as if she was standing still. Halting, she felt a faint sense of irritation. She believed that Amanda was trespassing upon her part in the visit. Then she realised that the swiftly moving figure wore a black cat-suit instead of a gym leotard.

It was Miss Benkinsop!

Hearing the rustling in the bushes, the kennelman swung his gaze in that direction. His right hand flashed towards his hip, then froze without touching the revolver it had been seeking. While he had, correctly, surmised that visitors had entered the garden, what he saw came as something of a surprise. Instead of a large gentleman of villainous aspect, he saw bearing down upon him a beautiful lady in clothing which—to say the least—was attractive and eye-catching. So he just stared instead of producing his weapon. He forgot his intention of calling out a greeting, or of alerting the butler of the newcomer’s presence so that a more fitting welcome could be arranged.

Speeding forward, Miss Benkinsop reached the man. With the casual grace of a trained ballet dancer, she propelled her right foot into the air. The toe of her boot caught the man under his chin. Lifted erect, he toppled over backward. Almost before he had landed, Miss Benkinsop followed him down. While she did not like so close an association without a formal introduction, especially with a member of the domestic staff, she realised that it was necessary. Landing, as gently as possible seated upon his chest, she placed her left hand at the base of his neck. Her fingers and thumb, spread in the correct manner, sought out and squeezed the pressure points. Underneath her, she felt the man’s feeble protests ebb away and he lay still.

“D-do you see what I’m seeing?” Penelope croaked to Amanda, as she watched Miss Benkinsop approach the man.

“I do,” agreed the School Swot, only slightly less amazed than her friend,

“Cor! I didn’t know old Benkers ’ad it in ’er,” Penelope declared, watching with admiration the smooth manner in which the headmistress was handling the situation. However, she felt a little aggrieved when she saw how Miss Benkinsop was concluding the discussion.

“Amanda. You showed ’er how to do that trick.”

“Well,” the School Swot replied, apologetically. “Benkers did get the book from Japan for me.”

“Come along, girls,” Miss Benkinsop said, rising and gripping the front of the man’s windcheater. She hauled him into the centre of the bushes. “Time’s wasting. Here, let me take the kitbags.”

Before her pupils could reply, the headmistress had gathered up all three bags and was strolling calmly towards the villa. Amanda looked at Penelope, shrugged in admiration, then led the way after Miss Benkinsop. As they approached the villa, the headmistress signalled for her pupils to halt. Setting down the kitbags, she glided away, in the direction of the gates. Penelope watched Miss Benkinsop go, then turned her gaze towards the villa. There were, to her way of thinking, certain objectionable features about it as the subject of an informal visit.

As on the outside of the garden’s wall, a wide, open driveway surrounding the building. There must be plenty of places in which one could hide in the garden, but the immediate area about the front of the villa was bare and deserted. To make matters worse, it was also illuminated by overhead lights.

“The gate-keeper is in his lodge,” Miss Benkinsop announced, returning from making the necessary reconnaissance. “As he is engrossed in studying a rather unseemly publication, I doubt if we need fear any interruption on his part.”

“So all we ’ave to do is go in,” Penelope suggested.

“Not until I have dealt with the alarm system,” Amanda warned.

“What sort is it?” asked the head girl, remembering lessons which she had heard members of the Household Hints class discuss. “An ‘open’, or ‘closed’ one?”

“A combination,” Amanda replied. “It incorporates features of both.”

“I’m afraid that I am to blame for that,” Miss Benkinsop admitted. “When Mr. Anacropolis demurred on the point of cost, I explained that neither ‘open’ nor ‘closed’ systems were entirely satisfactory. In the former case, merely snipping the wires would have rendered it innocuous and in the latter, judicious cross-contacting of the wires will ensure that sufficient current continues to flow to prevent the alarm from functioning.”

“You wasn’t to know we’d want to get in, ma’am,” Penelope declared. “Anyway, I bet Amanda knows how to deal with their old combination system.”

“Well,” the School Swot said, hesitantly. “I have an idea of how it might be done, of course. Shall we see if it works?”

“Go ahead,” Miss Benkinsop authorised. “Do you wish Penelope and I to remain here until you finish?”

“Perhaps it would be advisable if we all stayed together, ma’am,” Amanda answered. “Then you and Penelope could keep cavey—”

“I know what cavey means,” Miss Benkinsop smiled. “Old and decrepit as I may appear.”

“Yes’m,” Amanda smiled. “You can keep cavey. Warning me, if it becomes necessary. will be quieter and easier if you are close by.”

Penelope grabbed up Amanda’s and her own bags. Then she accompanied the head mistress and the School Swot to the side of the villa. For the first time, they were completely exposed to view under the glowing exterior lights of the building.

While Miss Benkinsop and Penelope kept cavey. Amanda located the cover of the alarm systems junction box. To other eyes, the particular stone upon which she devoted her attention might have been a solid, integral section of the wall. It yielded to her manipulations, swinging open upon carefully designed and hidden hinges. She peered into the gloomy cavity which the door had concealed, studying the various wires. All were identical in size and colour, with no clue as to their true functions. Even in daylight, or with an electric torch to illuminate the interior, deciding which was which would have been extremely difficult.

“Cooer!” Penelope breathed, as the seconds ticked away. “I don’t ’alf feel conspicuous out ’ere.”

“Your nether garments are somewhat brief,” Miss Benkinsop replied, darting a disapproving glance at the head girl’s hot pants. “I trust that you never wear such things in mixed company?”

“Ooh no, ma’am,” Penelope answered, so convincingly that she might have been speaking the truth.

Smiling at the whispered exchange, but refusing to let it distract her, Amanda cross-contacted the system’s closed wires. Then she cut those which she felt sure operated only on the ‘open’ system.

A bell jarred the silence of the ‘Guard House’!

“That’s that,” Amanda declared happily.

Closing the cover, the School Swot rose and went to the french windows. Then she produced a small tool from her equipment belt and opened the lock. Satisfied that their presence was still undetected, she drew open the windows.

“Have you also cut off the pressure pads under the library’s floor?” Miss Benkinsop inquired.

“No, ma’am,” Amanda replied. “That can only be done from inside the library.”

Impetuous as always, Penelope was already approaching the open french windows.

In the ‘Guard House’, the butler picked up the telephone as its bell continued to ring.

“What’s up?” he growled, knowing from whence the call originated.

“Gate here,” replied a male voice and delivered a message of some importance and urgency.

“Joe,” the butler said, covering the mouthpiece with his hand and addressing the largest, most villainous-looking member of the ‘Heavy Mob’ present. “Get some coffee and sandwiches.”

“Sure, Slasher,” the man replied. “Do you want ’em?”

“No,” answered the butler. “Take them down to the gate-house. And while you’re there, see if he’s finished with my new Playboy magazine.”

“I might’s well take Sid down and relieve Maurice,” commented the under-butler. “It’ll save Wuff-Wuff calling up his dogs again while I do it.”

“Sure,” agreed the butler.

Realising the danger threatened by Penelope’s actions, Miss Benkinsop acted with her customary speed and decision. Shooting out her left hand, she caught the head girl by the waistband of the offending ‘nether garments’. Penelope was brought to an abrupt halt before she could place an indiscreet foot upon the library’s parquet floor.

“Patience, Penelope,” the headmistress advised. “Shall we wait here until you have made the necessary adjustments, Amanda?”

“It might be advisable if you come in with me,” replied the School Swot.

“But how?” Miss Benkinsop inquired. “The slightest pressure in the wrong location will raise the alarm.”

“If you follow me,” Amanda explained. “Taking especial care to step only upon the squares which I use, it will be safe enough.”

“And we are a little bit conspicuous out here, ma’am,” Penelope reminded. “If that feller at the gate looks out, ’e isn’t ’alf going to get an eye-full.”

“Very well,” Miss Benkinsop assented. “As neither you nor, most assuredly, I are attired for mixed company, Penelope, we will do as Amanda says.”

“Go on, ’Mand’ love,” Penelope suggested.

At first, everything went smoothly. Watching Amanda’s feet and taking care to step only upon the squares vacated by the girl, Miss Benkinsop followed her. Carrying her own and Amanda’s kitbags over her shoulders, Penelope brought up the rear.

All went well until, on reaching the centre of the room, Penelope felt the strap of Amanda’s kitbag slipping from her left shoulder. She was advancing her right foot in the direction of the square just quit by Miss Benkinsop’s left boot. Setting down her foot, she caught and halted the bag before it touched the floor.

Doing so had delayed and distracted Penelope. Just how much, she realised on bringing her left foot forward. She could not remember which segment of the parquet should be her next safe haven.

“Oh my gawd!” Penelope croaked, balancing precariously upon her right leg.

Alerted by the note of apprehension in the head girl’s normally perky tones, Miss Benkinsop also came to a halt. Standing on two safe squares, she twisted her torso and looked behind her.

“What is it, Penelope?”

“I’m ever so sorry, ma’am,” the head girl apologised, sounding distressed by having to make such a confession. “But I don’t know where to put me foot next.”

“I’m sure it was caused by misadventure rather than inattention,” Miss Benkinsop declared.

“It was, ma’am. One of the kitbag straps slipped—”

“I understand. What do you advise, Amanda?”

“Don’t move an inch, Penny.” said the School Swot. “And, whatever you do, don’t let anything brush against the floor.”

While Amanda continued her advance, stepping from block to block with the utmost confidence, Penelope spent what seemed like hours standing balanced like a stork upon one leg.

“Thank gaw—” the head girl began, as Amanda reached behind the left-side statue and operated a disguised switch.

“Stay still Penny!” the School Swot commanded, gently but with chilling urgency. “There’s another switch I must throw before the pressure pads are rendered inoperative.”

“Just in time, Penelope restrained her forward foot’s descent. It halted a bare tenth of an inch from the floor. She teetered and swayed, feeling the straps slipping and wondering if she could prevent one or both from falling on to the sensitive squares of the parquet. Muttering a silent prayer, she watched Amanda cross the doorway. The School Swot placed the first and second fingers of her left hand on the statue’s eyes.

“There,” Amanda said, having pressed at the eyes. It’s safe for you to move now, Penny.”

“Cooer!” Penelope ejaculated, lowering her foot and letting the kitbags drop to the floor. She snatched a wisp of handkerchief from her pocket and mopped at her brow. “I ain’t ’alf got a sweat on.”

“No, Penelope dear,” Miss Benkinsop corrected, turning to face the girl. “SERVANTS sweat, gentlemen perspire, but ladies only glow.”

“Then I can’t be a bloody lady,” Penelope decided silently, as Miss Benkinsop turned away and followed Amanda to the location of the safe. She mopped her brow again and stowed away the handkerchief. “Because I was sweating like ’ell.”

Being a shrewd young lady, and aware of the headmistress’s views upon the proprieties, the head girl had decided that it would be diplomatic to keep such comments to herself

“Humph!” Miss Benkinsop sniffed indignantly, standing with hands on hips and studying the portrait of Fiorelli’s ancestor, “so this is what he claims to be a genuine Rembrandt.”

“It is, ma’am,” Penelope put in, always willing to give credit where it was due.

“How do you know, dear?” Miss Benkinsop inquired, knowing that Art Appreciation was one of several classes in which the head girl had failed to shine.

“It was done by Charlie Rembrandt, from Shepherds Bush, ma’am,” Penelope explained. “My dad buys genuine not-too-old Old Masters what ’im, Fred Picasso and Larry van Gogh paint and flogs em to rich Yanks.”

“Ah,” Miss Benkinsop smiled. “We were obviously not thinking of the same Rembrandt.”

“My mum says she’d rather have Charlie’s than the old ones,” Penelope went on. “They don’t niff so much.”

While the headmistress and her friend conversed in low tones, Amanda reached towards the portrait. Placing her thumb on the rapier’s pommel, she spread her fingers to other parts of the hilt. First pressing with her little finger, she followed with the second, the thumb, the third and again with the little digit. There was a soft click, a gentle whirring, and the portrait slid silently along the wall to expose the massive, powerful, awe-inspiring door of a large and very modem safe.

“Cooer, ’Mand’,” Penelope gurgled, all thoughts of Masters, Old or not-so-old, jolted from her head. She stared at the speaker of the voice lock, which worked in conjunction with a combination lock. While she only attended the Household Hints class as part of her duty as head girl, she recognised what she saw. “Violet’s dad said ’e’d done one of these in a Birmingham bookie’s ’ouse and it took ’im nearly fourteen hours.”

“I don’t think that he was using quite the right technique,” Amanda answered, sounding apologetic at the criticism of her elders, She took from its pouch, on her belt, the hair-grip with which she had opened the french windows’ lock. “I’ll see if—”

“While I have no desire to interfere, Amanda,” Miss Benkinsop put in. “We don’t have much time. So why not do it the easy way?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the School Swot conceded, sounding a trifle disappointed.

“Spoilsport!” Penelope muttered quietly; although not sufficiently so to prevent the words reaching her headmistress’s ears.

Giving Penelope a warning glance, Miss Benkinsop left further measures until a more appropriate time. Then the headmistress watched Amanda with some considerable interest.

Moving her lips to exactly twelve inches away from the speaker of the voice-print activation unit, the School Swot spoke. Not even Miss de Vere at her best could have produced a more perfect impersonation of Fiorelli’s harsh voice. Being aware that the instrument could register details far beyond the range of human hearing. Amanda was aware that only perfection would suffice.

“Al Capone was a rat-fink!” the School Swot said deliberately.

“Your selection, Miss Parkerhouse?” Miss Benkinsop inquired, eyeing the head girl accusingly.

“Ooh, I never, ma’am,” Penelope protested. “Anyway, I don’t believe Al Capone was ’er grand-dad.”

“It was Mr. Fiorelli’s selection, ma’am,” Amanda supplemented, wanting to help exonerate her friend. “Caused, from what I gathered, by the fact that a film director preferred Mr. Capone’s biography to his own as the subject of a movie.”

“I see,” Miss Benkinsop said. “And I apologise, Penelope. But, you must admit, it did sound rather like your sense of humour.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Penelope grinned. “Only I wouldn’t have said Al.”

“I trust you would also have thought up some more dignified description to follow-the name,” Miss Benkinsop told her severely. “‘Rat-fink’ indeed.”

While Penelope could have—and did—select a number of terms, she prudently kept them to herself. Instead of speaking, she watched Amanda twirl the combination dial. Having attained the required combination, the School Swot turned the handle and drew open the door.

“Would you care to help yourself, Miss Benkinsop?” Amanda inquired politely stepping aside.

“Thank you, dear,” the headmistress replied. “And may I say. I consider you’ve both done exellently.”

“Thank you, Miss Benkinsop,” the girls chorused, genuinely pleased and delighted with her approbation.

“Come on, Penny,” Amanda suggested, unbuckling her belt. “We may as well get changed.”

“We might as well,” Penelope admitted, showing a touch of petulance. “I never had a chance to do nuffing.”

“You make sure Wuff-Wuff’s got them dogs on a lead,” warned a male voice, which was not held down to the whispers in which the visitors had been conversing. “Because I’m not going out until he has.”

“I’ll flick the lights on and off,” promised another man, as heavy feet clattered noisily upon the stairs. “That’ll tell him we want to come out.”

“This’s our lot!” Penelope breathed, sounding anything but depressed.

“I’m afraid it is,” Miss Benkinsop admitted, pausing as she placed bundles of banknotes into the kitbag from which she had already taken her uniform. “Let them come to us, girls. It isn’t polite for a lady to make the first advances.”

“Hey!” said a third male voice. “The french windows in the library are open.”

“They must have been left unfastened,” declared the second speaker whom Amanda recognised as one of the under-butlers, “Best just go and look inside, Joe. And you. Sid. But don’t go in, or you’ll set off the alarms.”

“Come on, ’Mand’,” Penelope whispered eagerly. “I’ll let you ’ave the first one.”

“Gosh, Penny,” Amanda breathed back as ignoring their headmistress, they glided silently towards the doors. “You are a sport.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

To be truthful, Joe was not expecting trouble. There had been no alarm from the garden and he felt certain that intruders could hardly have done more than entered before meeting with the dogs. Even if they had succeeded in dealing with the dangerous animals silently, they would hardly have suspected the electronic beams which formed the second line of defense.

Having decided that nothing more sinister than a piece of the butler’s forgetfulness was responsible, Joe advanced ahead of his companion. He halted with his feet dear of the parquet floor. Leaning forwards at the waist, he thrust his head through the doorway.

Instantly a dainty fist flashed from inside the library. Dainty or not, it struck Joe’s jaw with sufficient force to knock him sprawling sideways into the opposite jamb of the door.

Sid let out a yell of alarm as he saw Joe attacked. Rushing forward, reaching towards the gun in his hip pocket, he saw a figure bound in front of him. Even as his mind registered that the intruder was a small, shapely and pretty blonde girl, he realised that she was not alone. By that time, however, it was too late for him to halt his impetuous rush.

Shooting out her hands, Penelope caught hold of the front of Sid’s jacket. By falling backwards, she destroyed his balance. Placing her feet against his stomach as her spine struck the floor, she tossed him through the air. He landed on top of a valuable antique coffee-table which collapsed under his weight.

Becoming aware that something was very wrong, the under-butler dropped the tray which he had taken from Joe. Ignoring the mess he had made, he turned and struck the top of the decorative knob at the bottom of the banister rail. Even as he did so, he heard the patter of fast-moving footsteps approaching. They sounded much lighter than the elephantine tread of his companions.

In the ‘Guard House’, a red light flashed on and a harsh buzzing sound ensured that the butler’s attention was drawn in the required direction. Looking up, he took notice of the alarm board’s changed condition and drew his conclusions.

“Main hall!” Slasher yelled. grabbing for the Schmeisser sub-machine gun that he had placed upon the table when assuming his duties. “Get going!”

There was a clatter and thumping as the ‘Heavy Mob’ quit their leisurely activities and prepared to attend to their duties. While the majority rushed to the brass pipe, then started to slide down one after another, three charged on the butler’s heels through the door.

Swinging around, grabbing at the automatic thrust into his waistband, the under butler saw a shape hurtling through the air in his direction. From the corner of his eye, he was also aware that a very beautiful blonde-haired girl was dashing towards the door at the rear of the hall through which the ‘Heavy Mob’ would make their appearance. Not that he gave her much attention. His main source of interest was in the nearer figure. Everything was happening very fast. He had just assessed that it was a beautiful, if informally attired, lady—who sailed through the air in a classical Debater’s ‘drop kick’—when Miss Benkinsop’s feet caught him in the chest and flung him backwards on to the stairs.

Carried forward by her momentum, the headmistress spread her legs so that her shoes landed upon the stairs instead of on the under butler. Having shown her usual consideration, she bounded over the bannister rail and reached the rear door almost as quickly as Amanda.

Having bounded to her feet, after disposing of Sid, Penelope turned to go to her companions’ assistance. While they might have the advantage when it came to soppy things like school subjects, she felt that they would need her expert guidance in more mundane and practical matters.

Before the head girl could leave the library, she found herself confronted by the mountainous Joe. He showed considerable annoyance. So much that Penelope decided the situation called for strategy rather than brute strength or courage. Fortunately her best friend—and, more important, Miss Benkinsop, who would certainly have disapproved if she had seen—had already darted into he entrance hall.

“Ooer!” Penelope gasped, looking very tiny, fragile and frightened as Joe loomed menacingly towards her. “You wouldn’t ’it a little girl like me, would you, mister?”

Although hard and unyielding in the execution of his duties as a general rule, Joe skidded to a stop and held off the plans which he had formulated. His change may have been caused by his parental instinct having been aroused at the head girl’s forlorn and dejected aspect. Or it could have been that he was impressed by her buxom, demure, yet charming appearance. Whatever the reasons, he delayed his intentions of committing assault and battery upon Penelope.

To show her gratitude, Penelope kicked Joe sharply in an extremely painful location somewhere between his neck and knee-caps. Aghast at such an action, Joe bent almost double at the waist. Penelope promptly assisted him to stand erect by propelling her left knee with some considerable force against the centre of his face.

To give the head girl her due, she felt heartily ashamed of displaying such unsporting behaviour. However, it was for the good of the School. So she forced herself to continue with her distasteful ‘bending of the rules’. Leaping into the air to obtain a more advantageous position, she delivered a right cross to Joe’s jaw. Already thrown off balance, the huge man blundered helplessly across the room and fell in a corner. He refused to take any further interest in the proceedings. An examination later disclosed that his jaw was broken in two places.

When the rear door burst open. Amanda concluded that there would be no time for polite conversation. Nor could she handle things with her usual deft, delicate touch with so many other pressing matters requiring her attention.

With that in mind, the School Swot kicked the foremost member of the ‘Heavy Mob’ in the stomach and chopped him smartly on the back of the neck with her hand’s edge as he bowed a greeting. Letting the weapon he had drawn fall from his limp fingers, the man turned a somersault then slid across the highly polished floor.

“Crude, I’m afraid,” Amanda sighed. “Although, I must admit, effective.”

An instant later, Miss Benkinsop had greeted the second of the domestic staff to make an appearance. While conversant with Professor Kamimoto’s excellent work on karate, she made use of information gleaned from his equally authoritative treatise—translated along with the former by Amanda on a wet afternoon when a hockey match had had to be cancelled—on ju jitsu. Producing a perfect example of the seoi-nage ‘Shoulder Throw By Both Shoulders’, she tossed a large and irate servant bodily through the air. He alighted almost at Penelope’s feet as she darted from the library. On being thrown, he too had dropped his revolver.

Leaving Miss Benkinsop and Penelope to attend to the other members of the ‘Heavy Mob’, those who had made use of the brass column, Amanda turned her attention to the stairs. She saw, as she had surmised, that the butler was taking the more conventional and dignified means of reaching the entrance hall. Somewhat to her annoyance, she observed that he and the three men on his heels intended to behave in a most unsporting manner. Every one of them held a Schmeisser submachine gun.

Diving in a gracefully performed forward roll, Amanda gathered up the two revolvers discarded by the first of the ‘Heavy Mob’ to have made their appearances. As she landed, she opened fire. Struck by the lead from the School Swot’s acquired weapons, the Schmeissers were knocked from their users’ hands. However, in her haste and due to using revolvers of different make, size and weight, she inadvertently caused the third member of the quartet to suffer a grazed finger by placing her bullet slightly off its intended point of impact. Apart from their hands smarting, the other three were uninjured.

“Get ’em!” Slasher ordered indignantly, for property under his charge had been damaged. He also remembered instructions given by his employer before leaving for the party. “Take them alive.”

After which, the battle was joined in earliest. The ‘Heavy Mob’ was at a disadvantage from the start. They all smoked, drank intoxicating beverages and did other things equally inconducive to good health. What was more, they lacked the upbringing, background and training which Miss Benkinsop had instilled into her pupils.

To give them credit, the Syndicate’s employees did their best regardless of their limitations. For thirty-eight minutes, during which time the furnishings and fittings of most of the downstairs rooms were wrecked, they tried to subdue and make welcome the unexpected visitors. In this, they were aided by the arrival of the cook and four pretty young women employed—somewhat loosely—as housemaids. While these latter proved to be effective in the welcoming party, they merely prolonged the inevitable. Although spirited, they lacked the aptitude for skilful and stylish Debating.

Bodies flew, curved, somersaulted or sailed through the air. Mostly they were the domestic staff taking wing as a result of Miss Benkinsops, Amanda’s or Penelope’s efforts. However, now and again, it would be one of the visitors who took flight. On these occasions, the one involved would contrive to alight gracefully upon her feet and promptly deliver an adequate response to whoever had taken such a liberty upon her.

Towards the end, it must be admitted, the two girls were showing signs of flagging.

Taking hold of a very dazed Slasher. Penelope had barely sufficient strength to raise him from the floor in an aeroplane spin and, on propelling him through the open french windows of the study, did not even cause him to reach the garden. Alighting on his back in the middle of the pathway, he lost all further interest in the proceedings.

With a man grasping each of her, arms, Amanda tiredly used her feet to thrust away the last of the housemaids; who was approaching with the intention of exceeding her duties. Then the School Swot could barely raise sufficient energy to escape from her male assailants.

Having done so, sending both flipping headlong across the room, the School Swot was compelled to take a breather. She joined Penelope, who was seated upon a pile of assorted, recumbent and motionless servants.

To the girls amazement, although she had set up a cracking pace which they had been hard-pressed to equal, Miss Benkinsop appeared to be as fresh and agile as when she had started out from the school.

Observing the exhausted appearances of her pupils, Miss Benkinsop took it upon herself to dispose of the battered, tattered remnants of the domestic staff. She did this with a brilliant, inspiring display of applied, higher karate that Professor Kamimoto would have been hard put to better.

“And we were worried about our little visit being too strenuous for Benkers,” Amanda gasped, turning her gaze to the equally amazed and admiring head girl after Miss Benkinsop had tumbled the last of the Heavy Mob into blissful repose. “I should have known better, Penny.”

“We both should ’ave,” Penelope corrected. “Look at us, ’Mand’, both shagged out and she’s as fresh as a daisy.”

“That is that, I believe,” Miss Benkinsop declared with satisfaction, and looked at her pupils. “If you feel up to it, girls, I suggest that we conclude our business and take our departure.”

“Yes, Miss Benkinsop,” said the now abashed girls.

However, the short rest had revived them. Rising from their seat, they went after their headmistress into the dilapidated and no longer elegant library. It looked, in fact, as if it had been struck by an earthquake and a hurricane of considerable force, power and violence. At the safe, Miss Benkinsop picked up her uniform. She shook the creases from it and brushed off the traces of dust which it had gathered. Laying it carefully upon the back of a broken chair, she gave her attention to the safe.

“My family jewels aren’t here, unless they should be in this document case,” the headmistress remarked. “Could you open it, please. Amanda. There is no key and I suspect that some protective mechanism may have been installed.”

“Only a simple one, ma’am,” the School Swot decided, after making an examination. “Perhaps you would care to make the servants more comfortable while I attend to it.”

“Of course,” Miss Benkinsop agreed.

“Can I ’elp, ma’am?” Penelope inquired hopefully.

“Your burst of industry wouldn’t be caused by a desire to learn how to apply the ‘Gentle Pressure’, would it?” Miss Benkinsop asked, smiling.

“Well—er—— Yes, ma’am. But I promise I won’t use it in a Debate.”

“Very well. I will show you how its done,” the headmistress promised. “I know that I can rely on you.”

Although the designer had guaranteed that the document case could only be opened with its own key, Amanda took thirty seconds to deactivate the explosive mechanism and raise the lid. She spent the remainder of the minute checking that every piece of Miss Benkinsop’s jewellery was inside. Satisfied, she relocked the case and placed it by the kitbags.

“Have you taken the school’s Petty Cash fund, ma’am?” Amanda inquired.

“Most of it,” the headmistress admitted. “Will you deal with the rest, on the principle which we decided upon?”

“Certainly, ma’am,” confirmed the School Swot.

Having counted the amount already taken by Miss Benkinsop, Amanda withdrew further currency until she had a sum equivalent to thirty thousand pounds. This she placed into Miss Benkinsop’s kitbag. Closing the safe, she set its fastenings as they had been before she had first opened it and manipulated the portrait into its original position.

“Very good. dear,” Miss Benkinsop praised, returning from instructing Penelope in the ‘Gentle Pressure Which Induces Pleasing Repose’. “One should always endeavour to leave things as one found them.” She looked around the library and sighed. “Of course, that isn’t always possible.”

“How will the Syndicate react when they find that my defensive recommendations were not satisfactory, ma’am?” Amanda asked worriedly as she started to remove her leotard.

“They have no cause for complaint, dear,” Miss Benkinsop assured her, stripping off the somewhat bedraggled catsuit, “I warned them from the start that we accepted responsibility only if they carried out all of your suggestions. As they considered those which they used were adequate, it is on their own heads.”

Ten minutes later, the main rear entrance opened Miss Benkinsop came out first, carrying the document case and looking a faultlessly coiffured, perfectly attired W.R.A.C. colonel. Radiantly beautiful as ever, Amanda gave the impression that she was a particularly angelic fairy whose normal gossamer garments had been transformed into the clothes of a W.R.A.C. lieutenant. Bringing up the rear, carrying all three kitbags, Penelope could have passed anywhere as a perky Cockney corporal.

“Shall I slash the other cars’ tyres, ma’am?” Penelope inquired, as Miss Benkinsop led the way to the family’s second-best vehicle.

“Good gracious me, no,” Miss Benkinsop replied. “You really must get out of this habit of wanting to damage other people’s property, Penelope.”

“Yes, ma’am,” replied the head girl. “’Ere, though, can I do the gate-keeper please?”

“Very well,” smiled the headmistress. “I feel you deserve that.”

“Fanks, ever so, ma’am,” Penelope enthused and, as Amanda had already unlocked and opened the boot placed the bags inside. “I’ll nip down and do it right now. Give us about a minute, ’Mand’.”

“We can’t spare much more.” Miss Benkinsop warned, glancing at her wristwatch “We’re running things very fine as it is.”

Having had the gate-keeper’s comfort and security in mind, the Syndicate had established him in a very sturdy building. It was also, although none of the executives had thought on the matter, completely sound-proof. So its occupant, engrossed in the cultural aspects portrayed in Playboy magazine, had failed to hear the disturbance at the villa. What he did suddenly realise was that his request for refreshments had not been fulfilled.

On the point of taking up the telephone, the gatekeeper saw the front door—which he had not troubled to lock—opening Instead of one of the ‘Heavy Mob’ entering with a tray, a very shapely female leg came into view. Encased in sheer black nylon stocking, it was exposed to the white flesh above the top of the material. Around its ankle dangled a dainty, frilly red garter. As he watched, entranced, a hand appeared. The index finger pointed to the garter as if requesting aid to move it to a more appropriate position.

Always a gentleman and willing to oblige a lady, the gate-keeper dropped his magazine. He strolled across to the door, still unable to see more than the leg. Wondering which of the housemaids was playing a little trick upon him, he bent forward and reached towards the garter.

Instantly, before the man’s fingers touched her limb, Penelope slammed the door into his head. He stumbled backwards and sat down hard. Before he could recover his wits, she had entered the room. Applying the Gentle Pressure grip on his neck, she lowered his limp body into a supine position.

“I wish I hadn’t learned to do that,” Penelope complained as she saw the Mercedes’ headlights glowing on the path. “It’s no fun, it’s so easy.”

“I think that Amanda had better drive, Penelope,” Miss Benkinsop remarked as the head girl emerged from the gate-house. “We have to reach Akrotiri in a very short time.”

“That’s all right, ma’am,” Penelope replied, glancing at the now open gates and entering the front door. “I always like ’aving a bit of a ride with ’Mand’ behind the wheel.”

Setting off as soon as her friend was safely aboard, Amanda sent the powerful Mercedes skimming along the track. Once on the road, she increased the speed to well beyond the legal limit.

“Look at that!” whooped the driver of the police car, as the Mercedes raced by. “Hang on. We’ll have ‘em before they’ve gone a mile.”

“I believe the constable wishes us to stop, ma’am,” Amanda remarked seeing the police car glide from its place of concealment and follow their vehicle with siren blaring and light flashing.

“One always wishes to help the police,” the headmistress replied, “but I’m afraid that to do so on this occasion is impossible.”

“Go on, ’Mand’,” Penelope chortled delightedly. “Leave him standing.”

“I’m afraid that must be my advice too, dear,” Miss Benkinsop went on. “Of course, I will write a letter of apology to his superiors as soon as we return to the school.”

“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.”

“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.

“Sure,” Fioreili growled suspiciously, for that amount of dollars and francs had been part of the sum taken from his safe.

“You’ll be pleased to learn that I have retrieved my property,” Miss Benkinsop went on. “Mr. Saunders had conscience twinges and returned it, jewellery and money. Wasn’t that good of him?”

“It was,” Anacropolis grinned. “You’d better take the money and go down to join the party, Alf.”

“I trust that this won’t have too much of an effect upon Mr. Fiorelli’s career.” Miss Benkinsop remarked, after Fiorelli and the enforcers had left with the money in the document case. “After all, he did add ten thousand pounds to your Syndicate’s balance sheet.”

“And lost ten,” Anacropolis pointed out. “Not counting the ten Saun—!”

“Yes?” prompted Miss Benkinsop as the senior executive broke off what would have been an indiscreet comment.

“Ten thousand taken by Saunders, if you’ve guessed right,” grinned Anacropolis. “Ten you paid us back. Plus ten which we’d’ve owed you if Penelope hadn’t been nobbled. Making thirty thousand in all. And that’s how much went from our safe, How did you do it, Amelia?”

“Do what?” Miss Benkiusop asked innocently.

“Look, nobody could have broken in and opened that safe,” Anacropolis stated, looking at the School Swot. “Much less mopped up all our staff. But it happened. And Amanda here has a habit of doing the impossible.”

“You’ll turn the girls head with such outrageous flattery,” Miss Benkinsop warned, while Amanda looked suitably demure and modest. “I really don’t know what you mean, Aristocle.”

“All right,” grinned Anacropolis. “I give up. May I escort you to the garden party, Amelia?”

“I would count it an honour, Aristocle,” Miss Benkinsop agreed. “By the way, Amanda has taken certain precautions to ensure that we don’t have a repetition of Mr. Saunders’ visit. And you bad better tell your board of directors that I have not the slightest intention of accepting their offer.”

“I will,” Anacropolis promised. “Unless, of course, you and Amanda would like to take the Syndicate over?”

“Good heavens, no,” the headmistress protested as she led the way from her study. “We have far too much to do running the school.”

* * *

Scanned and Proofed by Amigo da Onзa

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First publication in Great Britain

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Copyright © J. T. Edson & Peter Clawson 1973

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Content

Edson J.T. Blonde Genius