‘IT’S GOOD OF you to see us, Amelia,’ Maxwell Spender declared, taking the seat he had been offered at the well-polished, magnificent antique, yet still functional, desk and hoping the companion he had been compelled to bring would remember the warning he had given with respect to refraining from inserting profanities into every sentence.
Tall, burly, distinguished looking, with dark hair turning grey at the temples, the man who was known to Scotland Yard as the current ‘managing director’ of the South London and Southern England Grime Consortium, was dressed excellently and in perfect taste. He had the carriage and bearing indicative of military training such as was acquired only in the days when the British Army was still a force to be reckoned with throughout the world. However, his demeanor at that moment was redolent of frustrated annoyance. Yet, while he could—and, on occasion, did—express himself with all the breadth of forceful profanity of the drill sergeant in the Brigade of Guards which he had been, that background—untainted by the ‘liberalism’ of the so-called ‘permissive society’—had also instilled an appreciation of when and where such language was or was not permissible, no matter how justifiable the circumstances were.
The room of the magnificent Georgian mansion to which Spender had fetched his companion definitely came into his category of being a place where even the mildest profanity was out of the question. Particularly when they were in the presence of the revered headmistress of Benkinsop’s Academy For The Daughters Of Gentlefolk and one of her pupils.
Decorated and furnished to the height of refinement, so as to express luxury and utility, but devoid of ostentation, the room contrived in a subtle way to combine the atmosphere of all its functions. It was, as the situation warranted, sitting-room, study, or business office. On the walls hung portraits, each by the most celebrated artist of the day, of Miss Amelia Penelope Diana Benkinsop’s predecessors as owners of the mansion. From the Regency, through Victorian, Edwardian and World War I to the present incumbent, whose likeness was included, there was a strong family resemblance which was understandable. Every one bore the same name and they were all her ancestors 15. Each was illustrated wearing the height of her period’s fashion and all, even the one posed against the background of what— to a connoisseur of such matters —as clearly a hunting camp in the range country of the United States of America during the mid-1870s, 16 had on a splendid diamond, sapphire and emerald necklace.
‘It is always a pleasure to receive you, Max,’ replied the woman to whom the gratitude had been directed. ‘I know your business is urgent, but can I offer you tea?’
While the particular piece of jewelry common to all the portraits had been recovered, along with the rest of Miss Benkinsop’s property which was stolen at the misguided instigation of a now defunct leading member of the Mediterranean Syndicate, 17 she was not wearing it at that moment. Her appearance lost nothing because of its omission, for it would not have gone with her attire.
Neither too tall nor too short in height, the headmistress had golden blonde hair treated with the kind of ultra-elegance which a very prominent coiffeur in London’s West End specialized in creating. It set off her flawless beauty and emphasized the regal distinction of her patrician features perfectly. She was dressed, as was always the case when attending to the School’s affairs—even if it was granting an interview to a perturbed parent seeking advice on a matter not directly concerning the welfare of any of his three daughters who were her pupils—in the appropriate fashion. The white silk blouse, as crisp as when it was donned that morning, Harris tweed two-piece costume, silk stockings and walking shoes had come from the best establishments in Bond Street specializing in such wares. The garments neither sought to detract from, nor draw attention to, her extremely curvaceous figure. Her age was indeterminate, but she was certainly somewhat older than appearances suggested. 18
‘We’d be pleased to have some,’ Spender assented, darting a scowl as the man sitting at his side moved restlessly and displayed other signs of impatience.
‘Now,’ Miss Benkinsop said, after having passed over the intercom on the desk a request for tea and cakes to be brought in. ‘What can we do for you?’
‘We’ve got trouble at the Puppydog Club,’ Spender replied, taking two transparent celluloid dice—each with an insignia in the form of an attractive young dog of indeterminate breed on its ‘one’ surface —and laying them in front of the headmistress while continuing with his explanation. ‘If it isn’t bad enough having those left wingers picketing outside, these have turned up at the big stakes craps table.’
‘Hum, most interesting,’ Miss Benkinsop declared, showing not the slightest surprise as she picked up the dice. However, after having given them what appeared to be only a very cursory inspection considering they were the reason for the visit, she handed them to the fourth person in the room. ‘What do you make of them, Amanda?’
The person to whom the question had been directed was a girl of perhaps eighteen. As the light blue collar of her navy blue blazer signified, she was not only a Sixth Former, but one of the Prefects and responsible for helping to maintain the School’s discipline. In spite of her youth and appearance, and for all his appreciation of the situation’s gravity, Spender did not show the surprise his companion was registering over her being consulted any more than the headmistress had when he produced the dice.
As the only child of a brilliant scientist, albeit one in the classic ‘absented-minded professor’ mold, Amanda Tweedle did not possess the requisite family background for admission to the School. 19 However, having delivered her there in the erroneous belief that he had arrived at Roedean, her father went away and was killed whilst conducting an experiment before the mistake could be rectified. Not even Miss Benkinsop’s vast, if far from conventional, resources had been able to locate a single relation who might have assumed guardianship and responsibility. So, with her usual compassion, she had waived the usually strict conditions of entrance and allowed the little orphan to stay.
The decision had proved remarkably beneficial all round!
Amanda had soon acquired the sobriquet, ‘the School Swot’, by virtue of her extraordinary ability to absorb all kind of knowledge and through a rigid attendance to her studies. Not that she looked anything like the way in which tradition suggested the bearer of such a nickname should be. Convention expected a person imbued with such proclivities to be tall, lanky, plain of features, possibly pimpled, peering owlishly through thick-lensed spectacles and with shoulders rounded by long hours spent poring over books.
Surrounded by a halo of perfectly coiffured blonde hair, Amanda’s exceptionally beautiful face bore an expression of demure, almost elfin innocence which could bring out all the protective instincts of even a confirmed misogynist. The School’s uniform: a blazer, white blouse, red, white and blue striped tie, navy gymslip reaching to just above the knees, black stockings and matching well-polished shoes with heels of moderate height, as prescribed by the headmistress—could not hide the fact that inside the garments was a body with superlative feminine contours.
Although the School Swot was five foot seven in height, she conveyed the impression of being very small and helpless. It was a case, as Spender knew and his companion clearly did not, of appearances being deceptive. She had attained an almost omniscient erudition, to which she was continually adding, and was capable of putting much of what she had learned to practical use. Spender was aware that she could handle a powerful car as well as any top driver on the international racing circuits, or the best ‘wheel-man’ employed by the Consortium to ensure a safe get-away from a robbery. What was more, not only did she have a knowledge and ability at unarmed combat which put to shame the toughest of his organization’s ‘minders’, but she had also proved herself equally adept in the use of every type of handheld weapon.
A slight hint of a frown came to Amanda’s face as she looked at the six surfaces, then held up and peered through each dice in turn. Watching her, Spender was reminded of a perplexed pixie. Yet he, if not his companion, had no doubt she knew exactly what she was doing. Furthermore, he felt sure she would not only confirm his suspicions, but could in all probability also supply the solution to the problem with which he was faced.
An unashamed imitation of the more celebrated international Playboy Club, although catering for a somewhat less wealthy clientele, the Puppydog Club owned by the South London and Southern England Crime Consortium relied upon the proclivity of its members for gambling to provide its main source of revenue. Nor were the profits acquired by cheating. As in every honest casino’s games of chance, the odds were so adjusted that the operators were assured a percentage of every wager that was placed came to them—no matter whether the result was for or against the ‘house’—and, in the long run they must be the winner.
However, from time immemorial, unscrupulous players had sought for means to nullify the ‘house’s’ advantages. Experience had taught them that the only successful way to achieve this was to reduce the all-important percentages. Much thought and ingenuity had been devoted to attaining this desired state of affairs.
The pair of dice which had caused Spender to seek the advice of Miss Benkinsop and the almost omniscient School Swot, despite the opposition and thinly disguised disapproval of his companion, were the end products of such devious experimentation. A fast action game such as ‘craps’, 20 which was played with only two dice—thereby limiting the various combinations of numbers upon which the decision of each ‘throw’ and wager depended—was particularly susceptible to such manipulations.
So, having put the matter into the most competent hands he knew, the Consortium’s managing director sat back to await the results.
On seeing the dice and listening to Maxwell Spender’s comment, Amanda Tweedle had suspected they might be what had once been called ‘Dispatchers’ and were now generally known as ‘Tops’. 21 Her preliminary examination had established this was not the case. As was traditional with honest dice, each was numbered correctly from one to six around the cube and the total of the opposing pairs of surfaces added to seven.
Discovering her original premise was incorrect, the School Swot concluded she was holding a pair of ‘loaded’ dice. While there was no visible evidence of tampering, she knew a means by which she could ascertain whether this had been carried out. Laying down one of the dice, she gave the other her full attention. Taking it between her right thumb and forefinger as gently as if it was fragile, she held it by two diagonally opposite corners so that its ‘one’ surface was uppermost. When the cube rotated of its own volition, she repeated the method of holding it with each set of opposite corners in turn and found that only the original pair produced the movement.
‘I’ve never got the hang of doing the “pivot test”,’ Spender remarked quietly, deducing from the cessation of restless movements that his companion had a similar lack of manual dexterity, as the girl was exchanging the dice and commencing a similar experiment.
‘I confess I don’t find it easy myself,’ Miss Benkinsop replied, but the second man refrained from making any comment. ‘In fact, should the need arise and circumstances permit, I prefer to use the “water test”.’ 22
Repeating the “pivot test” with an equal dexterity, Amanda satisfied herself that her assumption was correct. Gravity had caused the weighted surface of the dice to turn downwards when suspended lightly between the thumb and forefinger. Each dice was designed so that the three higher numbers and the ‘six’ in particular would finish on top at the end of a ‘throw’ more frequently than would otherwise have been the case, thereby ruining the long term percentages upon which the ‘house’s advantages were based and its profits depended. For all that, she still felt puzzled at the conclusion of the experiment. However, being a well-bred young lady, she did not offer to interrupt her elders’ conversation.
‘All right, Amanda,’ Spender said, noticing that the girl had put down the second dice and was looking at him. ‘How about it?’
‘I must confess I’m puzzled, sir,’ the School Swot replied, tapping one of the dice gently with her right forefinger. As in the headmistress’s case, her accent was that of an upper class English ‘county’ gentlewoman; but less authoritative. Rather it sounded properly respectful in the presence of older people and had a slightly lisping intonation which made her seem almost mouse-like. ‘They are loaded!’
‘Huh!’ Spender’s companion snorted. ‘We didn’t need to come all this f-, this way to be told that!’
The abrupt termination of the profanity the second visitor had been about to utter was caused by a kick on the ankle, accompanied with a prohibitive frown, from the managing director.
Slightly shorter than his superior in the hierarchy of the Consortium, Leonard ‘Lenny-Boy’ Hotchkiss was burly and powerfully built. If it had not been for a broken nose, a couple of pits and scars on his face—giving it the appearance of having been stepped on, which had happened on two occasions—he would have been passably handsome. Although just as expensively dressed as his companion, his clothing was more garishly ‘trendy’ and his longish black hair had drawn a brief glance of disapproval from the headmistress when they were introduced despite having been styled by a fashionable ‘gay’ hairdresser who catered to all the leading pop stars and television performers.
Acknowledged as the leading junior executive of the Consortium, Hotchkiss had ambitions to rise higher. He was suspected of being disinclined to wait until the voluntary retirement of those above him, as a result of old age, brought his ascension in the natural and orderly fashion. When the Board of Directors had decided that the situation caused by the appearance of the loaded dice was sufficiently serious to warrant calling in outside aid, as the operation of the Puppydog Club was his responsibility, Spender had not been able to refuse when Hotchkiss had asked to be present at the meeting with the experts who were to be employed.
Despite Hotchkiss’s present status, he belonged to a family which had not previously ascended from the lower echelons of criminal society and therefore his sisters had not gained acceptance to the school, so he had tended to discount the stories he had heard concerning Miss Benkinsop’s establishment and the School Swot’s abilities. What was more, he had not cared for being compelled to accept Spender’s choice of the way to deal with the predicament. So he was tom between a desire to have the mystery solved before it caused an adverse effect to his aspirations and a hope that it would not happen as a result of the help which the managing director had insisted upon using.
‘The fact that they are loaded isn’t what I find puzzling … sir,’ Amanda corrected and, in spite of her apparently gentle tone of apology, there was something about how she looked at Hotchkiss while employing the honorific which made him feel very uncomfortable.
‘I always thought transparent dice couldn’t be loaded,’ Spender commented, not displeased by noticing signs of his companion’s discomfiture. ‘At least, not strongly enough for them to work as well as these do.’
‘That isn’t what I find puzzling, sir,’ Amanda replied, but there was a subtle difference in the way she addressed the older man. ‘I’m afraid it has been made comparatively easy for a sufficiently heavy loading to be carried out.’
‘How do you mean?’ Spender asked.
‘Normally with transparent dice, sir, only the painted spots of the numbers are opaque,’ the School Swot explained. ‘This means the areas which can be weighted are limited. But the Club’s insignia on these dice allows a filling of, I would assume platinum or gold, rather than tungsten or amalgam, to be applied beneath it and so attain a greater weight.’
‘How the f-. How could it be done?’ Hotchkiss challenged, once again accepting the warning of a kick to his ankle and expunging the intended profanity, being genuinely interested as it had been at his instigation that the insignia was employed, to prevent the possibility of unscrupulous players introducing their own suitably prepared dice.
‘I wouldn’t have thought it could be,’ Spender supplemented, realizing that such a task would be far more complicated than merely drilling the cavities of the spots slightly deeper and fixing the weights—suitably painted to match the untreated numbers—in position, as was done with most types of loaded dice with which he was acquainted. ‘But, if you say so, it obviously has been done. The thing is, how?’
‘The technique is new to me, sir,’ Amanda answered, having thought up her own method of producing the desired result while in the Fourth Form.
‘But that isn’t what is puzzling you either, is it, dear?’ Miss Benkinsop suggested, remembering her pupil’s experiments, but deciding they had nothing to do with the matter under discussion.
‘No, ma’am,’ Amanda agreed and tapped each dice in turn, continuing, ‘You did say they both appeared on the high stakes craps table, sir?’
‘They did!’ Hotchkiss confirmed bitterly, although the question had been directed at Spender. ‘And the others!’
‘Others, sir?’ the School Swot inquired.
‘We didn’t bring all of them,’ Spender elaborated. ‘But we’ve had five more put into the big game over the past fortnight’
‘Five,’ Amanda said, nodding her head in the fashion of one who sees where she had been in error. ‘That accounts for it, sir.’
‘How do you mean?’ Hotchkiss challenged.
‘I thought they were both put into play at once—!’ Amanda began, but was not allowed to continue her explanation.
‘Do leave off, darling!’ Hotchkiss requested indignantly. ‘They might not have been to a bloody toffee-nosed public school, but our dealers and stickmen23 were sent over and trained in Las Vegas. There’s no way anybody could rip in a bad ’n’, much less two at once, at the big table. Particularly after the first time it happened and I’d warned them what I’d do if it was done again.’
‘But it did happen again,’ Miss Benkinsop pointed out, her demeanor such that an iceberg might have considered it decidedly chilly.
‘Yes. Well …I …’ Hotchkiss spluttered, more disconcerted by the headmistress’s obvious disapproval than he would have believed possible; especially a woman. ‘That is …’
‘It happened even when you were watching,’ Spender reminded, as his companion relapsed into sulky silence.
‘Few didn’t see whoever’s doing it last time, neither!’ the junior executive countered and, although he refrained from adding, ‘So there!’ the words were implied in his tone.
‘I didn’t,’ Spender conceded.
‘Then we are up against somebody who is exceptionally proficient,’ the headmistress declared. ‘I would have thought that you would be able to spot him, Max, or at least work out who is doing it and how it is being done.’
‘I’ve tried and I’ll be da-blowed if I can,’ Spender asserted, but he was so pleased by the tribute to his ability that he felt sufficiently forgiving towards his companion to lead him to continue, ‘No more than Lenny-Boy here has. And it’s not for the want of trying on his part. In fact, before it happened, I’d have sworn nobody was good enough to rip “work”24 into a game he was casing without him sussing out what was going on before the dice stopped rolling.’
‘Then something unusual is amiss,’ Miss Benkinsop said, in a voice which neither confirmed nor denied whether she believed what she had been told. ‘Give Mr. Hotchkiss the dice back, please, Amanda.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ the School Swot assented promptly and, as the two men looked at her, reached out what appeared to them to be an empty right hand and did as she was told.
Instead of merely handing back the dice after she had picked them up, Amanda shook them in the fashion of the ‘shooter’ at a game of craps and the men could hear them clicking together in her clenched fist. Then her right arm moved with a whip-like snapping motion of the wrist and her hand opened.
However, the objects which landed on the desk and bounced towards Hotchkiss were two five pence pieces!
‘What!’ the junior executive gasped, raising his gaze from what should have been a pair of dice and staring at the School Swot’s open and displayed palm as if unable to believe the evidence of his eyes. ‘How?’
‘Just a harmless prank, Mr. Hotchkiss,’ Miss Benkinsop understated, behaving as if nothing out of the ordinary had taken place. Nor, where the angelic-faced girl standing so demurely at her side was concerned, did she consider it had. Swinging her gaze to where the study door opened and her maid entered with a small trolley, she went on, ‘Ah, tea. You may stay, Amanda, if these gentlemen don’t object.’
‘We don’t!’ Spender stated, appreciating that he had just witnessed a remarkable feat of legerdemain and, impressed more than he would have cared to admit, the junior executive nodded a vehement concurrence.
‘We’ve taken all the precautions we could think of, Amelia,’ Maxwell Spender declared, after tea and cakes had been consumed, returning to the subject which had brought his companion and himself from London. ‘And those you suggested. We’ve had every member photographed as he came in and covered the table with closed circuit television cameras, but we still haven’t a clue who’s ripping in those “loads”.’
‘I know it won’t be this simple,’ Miss Benkinsop admitted. ‘But have you checked upon which players consistently win by betting on the high numbers?’
‘We’ve tried, Lenny-Boy Hotchkiss replied, the question having been put to him. ‘But it’s never the same blokes and, even them we’ve clocked didn’t “shoot” all night. There’s something else I can’t suss out. How does the f-bloke who’s doing it know when his dice comes back into play after a box up?’
‘Well, Amanda?’ the headmistress requested, noticing that the avoidance of the profanity had not been caused by Spender’s intervention on this occasion and aware of the convention in crap games whereby the two dice in play were frequently returned to a box with others so a fresh pair could be selected.
‘It’s the way they are numbered, sir,’ the School Swot obliged. ‘If you hold a fair dice so the “six” is on top, a line drawn through the spots of the “three” extends upwards to the right. This is the convention followed by all legitimate manufacturers. These, put to the same test, have the “three” rising to the left. It may only seem a small thing, but it is quite noticeable when one is aware of what to look for.’
‘Well I’ll be f-b-blowed’ Hotchkiss spat out as he glared at the two cubes, still just contriving to refrain from employing the obscenities which usually speckled his conversation no matter in whose company he might find himself. It never occurred to him to question the explanation, as he felt sure it would prove correct. ‘I never noticed that!’
‘Neither did I,’ the managing director confessed, being equally willing to accept what he had been told. ‘The thing is, Amelia, what can we do to stop whoever it is coming back and hitting us again?’
‘There’s only one thing,’ Miss Benkinsop replied. ‘Catch him at it. But, before you ask, I haven’t the faintest idea how to go about it. Have you any suggestions, Amanda?’
‘Well, ma’am,’ the School Swot answered hesitantly. ‘I have a vague idea of how it was done, but would prefer not to say without seeing for myself.’
‘We’ve got all the video tapes from the nights when the dice were ripped in,’ Spender offered. ‘Between them and the photos that have been taken of everybody as they came in, you might be able to pick out somebody we’ve never seen or heard about, but who’d be able to pull it off.’
‘Possibly, sir,’ Amanda replied dubiously. ‘But, if I don’t, merely looking at the tapes and photographs might not be enough to supply the information I need.’
‘What else do you want?’ Hotchkiss said and the words were more of a request than the kind of demand he normally made when posing a similar question to others.
‘It would help, sir, if I could be present in person to watch the play,’ Amanda explained, giving the honorific a more respectful timbre than previously.
‘You?’ Hotchkiss asked. ‘As a member?’
‘I thought as one of the “Puppydog-girls”, sir,’ the School Swot corrected. ‘If that would be permissible, ma’am?’
‘Well!’ Miss Benkinsop commenced dubiously, gazing at the girl for a moment. Then she turned her eyes towards Spender. ‘I believe you said something about the Club being picketed, Max. Are you involved in some kind of industrial dispute with a trade union?’
‘We don’t have any unions in the club,’ Hotchkiss put in, before the managing director could answer. ‘It’s all about that black bird the floor manager hired—’
‘You objected to a colored girl being hired?’ Miss Benkinsop challenged frostily.
‘Hell, no!’ the junior executive corrected vehemently. ‘We’ve had colored girls ever since we opened and they’ve always been good, reliable workers.’
‘This one wasn’t,’ Spender elaborated. ‘She was bone idle, called in sick at least once a week and was late on the days when she came in. But she was also a “professional black”. If she was told off for being late, or a member complained about the service he was getting, it was never because she was at fault, but always because she was colored. Anyway, she walked out early one night when we were short staffed and Lenny-Boy gave her the elbow. Next thing we know, she was claiming it was racial discrimination and because she’d been trying to get union recognition for herself and the rest of the staff. And now we’d got a bunch of greasy, unwashed, longhair left-wing layabouts picketing the premises.’
‘I’d half a “something”25 mind to send some of the boys to see ’em off!’ Hotchkiss stated, letting slip one of the words he had up to that point been prevented or voluntarily refrained from using.
‘It only takes half a mind to do such a thing’ the headmistress replied, as if rebuking an unruly pupil. ‘You must remember, in our present society, it is quite all right for pickets to indulge in intimidation and violence, but the height of fascism should reprisals be taken against them.’
‘That’s what Maxie said,’ Hotchkiss admitted. ‘But it’s a bleeding liberty. We’ve been paying dropsy to half a dozen Labour councillors and have a couple of Left Wing M.P.’s on our books to cut down police harassment and make sure the screws don’t ill-treat any of our lads who’re doing porridge.26 But none of them will lift a finger with a Union involved.’
‘That’s only to be expected.’ Miss Benkinsop stated. ‘Are the pickets threatening the girls, Max?’
‘Just let the basterds try it!’ Hotchkiss growled.
‘We’re not giving them a chance,’ Spender answered, ignoring his companion’s heated comment. ‘They come by taxi and go in through the front entrance, instead of around the back like they used to, and there’s always a couple of our “minders” standing by.’
‘But you mentioned picketing, the headmistress objected.
‘It’s being done at the back,’ Spender explained. ‘Some of the delivery blokes said they wouldn’t cross a picket line, but we’ve got around that.’
‘What about the girl?’ Miss Benkinsop wanted to know. ‘She shows up now and then,’ the managing director replied. ‘Some of the Board said we should offer to buy her off, but I wouldn’t have a precedent like that set. Anyway, it’s not the pickets I’m worried about. I’d be obliged if you’d let Amanda come for a few days, Amelia.’
‘I’ll look after her like she was my own sister,’ Hotchkiss promised.
‘Thank you,’ Miss Benkinsop said and meant it. She knew the junior executive had a reputation, in spite of his faults, for loyalty and devotion to his family, but was confident her star pupil did not require anybody’s protection, particularly in such a well run establishment as the Puppydog Club. ‘But I’m not sure—’
‘Perhaps I might be allowed to take a friend to act as chaperon, ma’am?’ Amanda suggested, with an air of mingled hope and helpfulness.
‘And just who do you have in mind, young lady?’ the headmistress challenged, eyeing the girl with what was close to suspicion.
‘Well, ma’am,’ the School Swot replied, exuding an aura or artlessness which deceived the two men, but was less successful where it was being directed. ‘I thought Penny would be most suitable. She is the School Captain—’
‘I’m fully aware of Penelope Parkerhouse’s status,’ Miss Benkinsop warned, hard put to retain her unsmiling demeanor. ‘Fully. Very well, Max. Amanda can go with you.’ Catching the School Swot’s pleading glance, she continued, ‘And Penelope, too.’
Although Alexander Kitson, Raymond Buxton, Jack Thompson and Andrew Bends had apparently been coal miners, bakers, hospital porters and dustmen, not one of them had done a day’s work in any of those capacities—or anything more strenuous than drawing unemployment and Social Security benefits—since their respective State-supported periods of university education had ended. They augmented their far from hard earned incomes by payments which came, surreptitiously and tax free, from an unspecified donor for their attendance at political demonstrations or on various Unions’ picket lines. Currently, due to the proximity of the ‘summer holidays’, it was a slack time for the kind of large scale and well publicized ‘industrial action’ which was most lucrative. So they had not been averse to accepting when offered honorary membership, with exemption from subscriptions, in the Non-Specialized and Associated Unskilled Workers’ Union and being sent to lend support to another member who was being victimized by the capitalist management of the Puppydog Club.
After two weeks’ performance of their noble and self-sacrificing mission, the quartet were beginning to regard it as a mixed blessing. It was not attracting the coverage by press and television news’ services which brought an added revenue to those on the spot, particularly if required to take part in some specific action. On the other hand, despite some fears, it was less dangerous than they had anticipated. Since their one attempt to form a picket line across the Club’s front entrance had been discouraged by the presence of several large and muscular men, who they suspected would not be constrained by the regulations affecting the conduct of the police, they had confined their activities to the rear of the building. This had the dual advantage of removing them from the blast of wind which blew from the Thames Embankment on to the front and also prevented their subsidizers discovering who was present or absent at any given time. It also removed the burdensome business of having to wash, shave and wear cleaner—less ‘with it’—garments than their usual attire so as to appear as passersby would expect of striking employees from such an establishment.
One of the four’s chief bone of contention, which was growing more acute, had been the number of times their victimized ‘brother’ failed to put in an appearance. After the first few days, particularly as it had become obvious the anticipated television coverage would not materialize, the girl had repeatedly found excuses to leave early, or stay away completely.
‘Hey!’ said the tall, bulky, bearded Bends, having looked out of the alley in which he and his companions were sitting in the van which had brought them to the picket line.
‘There’s a couple of the Club’s birds coming.’
‘So what?’ asked shorter, thickset and heavily mustached Thompson.
‘So they don’t have any minders with them,’ Bends replied. ‘And there’s been some hints that this picket’s not worthwhile keeping going.’
‘We’d better make sure they stop thinking like that,’ tall, lean, sallow-faced Buxton declared. ‘You sure there’s none of the “minders” around, Andy?’
‘No!’ Bends confirmed, after taking another look.
‘Great!’ Buxton said, picking up the thermos flask which had been left capped to keep its contents hot. ‘Let’s go and put the frighteners on them.’
‘Cor, you ain’t ’alf clever, “Mand”,’ Penelope Parkerhouse praised, as she and the School Swot walked side by side along the pavement towards the rear entrance of the Puppydog Club. ‘I wouldn’t never ’ave thought of getting us off classes for a bit like you did.’
Despite her exalted status in Miss Benkinsop’s exclusive establishment, the School Captain spoke with a pronounced accent indicative of having been born well within the sound of Bow Bells. Not more than five foot in height, she had bubblecut blonde hair and a pretty face with a merry, perky expression. She had a well-developed, curvaceous buxom figure which was firm fleshed with no superfluous fat. Nor did the extreme décolleté of her green sleeveless silk blouse, ending just below an imposing bosom and exposing a waist requiring no aids to make it slender, figure hugging jeans which had had the legs cut off to the limits of decorum and low-heeled Grecian sandals with cross-straps extending to just below knee-level, seek to conceal it.
‘I hoped Benkers would agree,’ Amanda Tweedle replied, being clad in the same general fashion as the girl who was her best friend and presenting an equally fetching appearance. ‘But I don’t know what she will say when she hears about this.’
‘You’ll talk her ’round, luv, same as always,’ Penelope declared with complete confidence. The faith inspired in all who knew the School Swot was equally apparent as she went on, ‘But don’t you go copping that bloke tonight. This’s our chance to have a few days in the Old Smoke.’
‘I don’t believe I will be that fortunate,’ Amanda answered gently. ‘After all, Mr. Spender and several gentlemen whose livelihoods depend upon their ability to detect dishonest practices have failed to do so for the past few weeks.’
‘They’re not you, luv!’ the School Captain pointed out. ‘And I bet you know how it’s being done already.’
It was three o’clock on the afternoon of the day after the conversation in the headmistress’s study.
Having been driven to London that morning by the School’s music teacher and accompanied without Miss Benkinsop’s knowledge by another Sixth Former, the girls had been accommodated in the headmistress’s luxurious flat in Park Lane. Once there, they had set about making arrangements for taking up their temporary employment. They had been successful in acquiring the one item which it had not been possible for them to bring with them, but was indispensable if they wanted the visit to be a success. With all their preparations completed, they had made their way to the Puppydog Club.
However, despite having brought clothing more suitable for traveling to and from their temporary place of employment, neither Amanda nor Penelope was carrying as much as a handbag. Nor were they arriving as they had been informed was currently expected of the Club’s female employees, but were approaching along a narrow and apparently deserted street towards the rear entrance.
Before Amanda could respond to her friend’s suggestion, four scruffily dressed and unprepossessing looking young men ambled from an alley to halt across the pavement in front of them.
‘Well well, brothers,’ Andrew Bends said, with all the majesty of one who had aspirations to be an actor although lacking in histrionic talent. ‘What do we have here?’
‘They look like scabs going to work for the capitalist scum who are discriminating against our black sister, Andy,’ replied Alexander Kitson, who was tall, skinny and, if possible, even less pleasant looking than Raymond Buxton, parroting off the jargon which amounted to almost all he remembered from the period he had spent at the taxpayers’ expense receiving education intended to make him a doctor. ‘How about you, Ray?’
‘Right on, man, right on,’ Buxton confirmed, teetering on his heels and grasping the top of the thermos flask.
‘Excuse me, gentlemen? ‘Amanda said mildly, as she and Penelope came to a stop, but neither they nor the four young men paid any attention to a Ford delivery van bearing the insignia of a prominent London store halting across the intersection of a street joining the one they were on. ‘But we would like to come by.’
‘Oh you would, would you?’ Bends scoffed. ‘And just who the “something” to you “something” think you “something” well are, you “something” little Roedean snob?
‘Excuse me,’ the School Swot put in, seeming almost on the point of breaking into tears. ‘What was that you said last?’
‘I said who the “something” do…!’ Bends commenced, possessing the belief that using profanities in mixed company was proof of his sterling ‘liberal’ ideals.
‘I’m afraid you are under a misapprehension,’ Amanda interrupted, apologetically if her demeanor was to be believed. ‘I asked what you said last,’
‘Last?’ Bends repeated, frowning, then understanding struck him. ‘I said, you “something” Roedean snob.’
‘I thought that was what you said,’ the School Swot admitted. ‘And I hope that you are not implying my friend also comes from Roedean?’
‘What the “something” if Andy is?’ Buxton demanded, gesturing with the partially opened flask, as he and his companions formed a menacing half circle around the girls. ‘If you and her get what’s in here thrown in your faces, you’ll not be able to scab.’
‘Would you do that?’ Amanda challenged, if such a mouselike intonation could qualify for so vigorous a description.
‘Of course we would!’ Bends assured, although puzzled by a response far different from that of other recipients to the threat. ‘What do you think we are, full of the honor of the old school tie and all that sort of capitalist crap, you “something” Roedean whores?’
‘Oh dear. He called us that again, Penny.’ the School Swot informed her friend, in tones of horror, then went on although she was not looking at the man to whom the words were directed, ‘I really must ask you to refrain from—’
‘You’re asking for some of this—!’ Buxton spat out, removing the cap from the flask.
Estimating the distance as accurately as with a tape measure, despite employing only her eyes, Amanda suddenly brought up her right leg. While the movement was performed with a grace the premiere danseuse of a top class ballet company might have envied, the kick she launched arrived at a force closer to that of a mule. What was more, the change from what had seemed to be timid passivity to aggression took all four young men completely unawares.
Of all the quartet, Buxton was most discommoded. Because of the means by which it was constructed, the thermos flask was ill-equipped to receive such a sudden and powerful impact. As it was propelled from his grasp, its interior shattered and he had cause to wish he had not removed its cover. Flying out, very hot tea and slivers of glass from the double inner lining of flask sprayed over his hands and features. Letting forth a wail of pain, he staggered backwards with his fingers scrabbling at his face.
Giving no more indication of her intentions than was shown by the School Swot, Penelope bent forward at the waist and lunged into the attack. Her head rammed against Thompson’s bulging paunch, impelled by all the exceptionally puissant muscles of her curvaceous little body. The effect was impressive. Spitting out a marihuana cigarette which formed part of the quarters payment for picketing, he blundered away from his assailant until falling on to his rump hard enough to drive what little breath remained from his lungs.
Startled exclamations burst from the remaining pair of young men. Then, displaying not the slightest qualms over being in contention against two girls, considering rather that such was far safer than tackling members of their own sex, they set about implementing hostile action.
And quickly came to wish such a thought had never been envisaged!
Swinging a punch towards Amanda’s head, although he would have preferred to tackle the smaller girl, Bends found his advancing wrist caught by two hands which seemed to have the grip of a steel clamp. Jerked forward, he had a vague impression of his intended victim weaving out of his way. Then her knee rose to catch his solar plexus and, his arm being released, he was flung into an involuntary retreat. However, in one respect anyway, he might have counted himself fortunate. Due to her avoidance of a collision and the speed required to deliver the knee thrust, Amanda was unable to develop the full force of which she was capable. So the effort was painful, but not incapacitating.
Nor did Kitson fare any better, despite certain measures he had taken in preparation for similar eventualities. Having come under the ‘liberally’ acceptable influence of the television series, Kung Fu and believing such knowledge would make him as invincible as the hero, he had expended some of his bounty from the State and clandestine earnings to learn the esoteric form of Oriental unarmed combat So he was confident in his chances, no matter how the little blonde had treated Thompson.
What Kitson did not know was that, in addition to being School Captain, Penelope was the leading light of the Debating Society; whose ‘discussions’ took the form of free-style wrestling. What was more, with the exception of Amanda, she was capable of defeating the largest and heaviest girls who ‘debated’ with her. With such a background and the thorough training she had received during her years under Miss Benkinsop’s care, she was neither impressed nor frightened by the young man’s apparent command of kung fu.
Adopting the readiness position he had been taught, Kitson saw the buxom little blonde dart towards him. Before he realized what was happening, much less thought out a way to counter it, she had sprung into the air and caught him with a drop kick to the chest which pitched him in a pinning arc to trip over Thompson.
Despite the girls’ successes, they had failed to render any of their assailants hors de combat during the brief opening exchange of hostilities. However, when they came under attack once more, they set about remedying the omission with considerable gusto. For a short while, anybody who had chanced to be watching would have been treated to a superlative display of unarmed self-defense. Good as Penelope was, she would have been the first to admit that her efforts were minor compared with those of the School Swot. In fact, such was her friend’s command of various fighting arts that she could have stood aside if she had not wished to share the fun. As a result of their combined efforts, the brief fracas ended with a badly bruised, battered and unconscious quartet sprawled on the street, while those responsible for their conditions were unmarked and barely out of breath.
Although none of the four men had any clear recollection of what happened, they later attributed their defeat to having been caught unawares and attacked by at least a dozen strike-breaking members of the National Front.
While Amanda was examining the quartet to ensure none of them had need of medical attention, the doors of the delivery van opened and two members of her sex emerged. The elder, a ravishingly beautiful and voluptuous platinum blonde in her late twenties, was clad in an ensemble similar to that worn by Miss Benkinsop during the daytime at the School. She was, in fact, Miss Peaches Pedlar, the music teacher. About eight years younger, the other had exchanged the attire of a Prefect for a stylish blue cat suit which she filled not inadequately and had a Canon AE-1 camera with a telephoto lens attached suspended around her neck. She was Dora Haverstock and, apart from Amanda—who actually instructed it—was the most competent member of the School’s Photographic Club.
‘Did you get all that?’ Penelope asked.
‘Everything,’ Miss Pedlar replied. ‘That microphone you made works a treat, Amanda. I played the tape back and it’s so clear you might have had them speaking right into it.’
‘You were absolutely right about the time and aperture settings I’d have to use, too, Amanda,’ Dora went on, having been focusing the camera through one hole in the side of the van—loaned by Penelope’s father and modified, with his permission, by the School Swot—while the music teacher operated the special microphone and tape recorder. ‘If there’s one exposure that doesn’t come out, I’ll come and have a “Debating” work out with you in the gym, Penny.’
‘I’ll keep you to that, luv,’ the School Captain warned, but with a grin, being equally confident there would be no error as Amanda’s suggestions for setting up the camera had been followed. ‘Let’s get these yobbos shifted, shall we? Then you can go back to develop the “pickies” so Benkers will have something to look at while she’s listening to the tape.’
‘Let me understand what you’re telling me,’ Miss Benkinsop ordered into the mouthpiece of her study’s telephone. ‘You both felt the need for fresh air and exercise, so you decided to walk to the Puppydog Club and, on the way to the rear entrance, you were set upon by four ruffians?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Amanda Tweedle replied, her tone neutral, speaking from the dining-room of the headmistress’s flat in Park Lane.
Some two and a half hours had elapsed since the defeat of the picketers. The arrival of Miss Pedlar, requesting an interview, had been timed to coincide with the telephone call Miss Benkinsop was in the process of answering. Sitting nursing the tape, listening to and watching her employer, the music teacher felt much as she had on those not infrequent occasions when, as a Third Former, she had been called to ‘Benkers’s Drum’—as the sanctum sanctorum of the School was irreverently, yet lovingly, termed by the pupils—to answer for some misdemeanor. What was more, she did not doubt her perturbation was noticed by the eagle-eyed headmistress.
‘And,’ Miss Benkinsop went on, ‘just by a pure coincidence, Dora Haverstock, about whose fortuitous presence I may wish to ask questions later, was there with her camera to take photographs while Miss Pedlar recorded what was said with equipment she had, by chance, brought with her?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Amanda confirmed. ‘The men’s attitude was so hostile, we considered it advisable to have some record of what took place.’
‘Putting aside the matter of why you elected to use the Club’s rear entrance for the moment,’ the headmistress continued, although she knew Amanda and Penelope Parker-house were quite capable of defending themselves without needing to adopt the course she was about to suggest and was convinced there was a satisfactory explanation for their behavior, ‘Why, may I ask, did you not turn and hurry away when you saw them, or call for assistance from the staff of the Club?’
‘We thought of doing one or the other, ma’am,’ Amanda admitted, having instructed Penelope to consider the possibility and avoid the necessity to lie if the point was raised. ‘But I’m afraid I lost my temper when one of them insulted us.’
‘In what way?’ Miss Benkinsop inquired, genuinely interested.
‘He accused us of being from Roedean, ma’am!’ the School Swot explained, in a voice redolent of acute distaste. ‘Not just once, which I might have excused, but no less than three times.’
‘Did he, by Georgina!’ Miss Benkinsop ejaculated, turning her head to prevent the music teacher from seeing the smile she was unable to withhold and pleased it was beyond her pupil’s range of vision. ‘What happened after that?’
‘I made sure none of them were too badly hurt, then we put them in their van and took them somewhere we thought they might feel at home,’ Amanda answered, hoping she would not be asked for the location as she had yielded to the School Captain’s selection of a particularly wet and malodorous Council refuse tip.
‘Most considerate of you, I’m sure!’ Miss Benkinsop said dryly, having detected the timbre of evasiveness in the reply. ‘And who, may I ask, decided where that would be?’
‘Me, ma’am,’ Penelope confessed, the call being made over telephones which Amanda had converted to allow more than one person to listen and speak simultaneously when necessary.
‘Then, knowing your distressing sense of humor, I think I would rather not ask where it was,’ Miss Benkinsop decided.
‘However, Amanda, while I can’t really blame you for taking exception to suggestions that you are domiciled at a lesser school, I feel your conduct was ill-advised.’
‘I told them they hadn’t got to go through with it if there was more than ten picketers there. Miss Benkinsop,’ the music teacher intervened. ‘But there were only four, although I got just a little worried when one of them threatened to throw hot tea over them and—’
‘I’ve heard such a threat has been made on other occasions,’ the headmistress admitted, having no doubt that Amanda had been equally well informed. ‘But I was referring to how this incident could cause Mr. Spender and his associates a great deal of extra inconvenience by leading to an escalation of the picketing.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ the School Swot conceded, sounding contrite. ‘And I appreciate how our participation could reflect adversely upon the good name of the School. Perhaps you can suggest how this might be avoided?’
‘I suppose, as you are all my pupils, or a member of my teaching staff, I’ll have to try,’ Miss Benkinsop declared, with what might have been resignation. She refrained from glancing at the discomforted music teacher in case she disclosed her true feelings. ‘Now, my girls, unless you have any other trivial little problems to plague me with, I would suggest you start getting ready to carry out the task for which you were allowed to visit London.’
In spite of an awareness of how difficult a task she would be undertaking, the smile was still on the headmistress’s face as she hung up the receiver. It was caused by an appreciation of the way in which her star pupil had maneuvered her into being able to take action upon a matter which up to then she had considered could not be classed as her concern, no matter how much she would have liked to intercede. Knowing that the rules by which she lived would not allow her to intervene so long as the dispute remained confined to the Consortium’s Club and the Union, Amanda had caused the School to become involved. She realized that, particularly after the chances the two girls had taken to permit her participation, she must do everything possible to justify their faith in her and was grateful for having studied the newspapers to learn the identities of the people most concerned with the industrial action.
‘I suppose I should have asked you before letting them go through with it, ma’am,’ Miss Pedlar said, more in the fashion of an errant pupil than a valued member of the teaching staff, as her employer looked at her with a face that no longer bore a smile.
‘I suppose you should? ‘Miss Benkinsop agreed, showing no sign of her true feelings. ‘But it’s too late now.’
‘This is the tape!’ the music teacher said hurriedly, seeking a diversion.
‘Leave it on the desk, please,’ the headmistress requested. ‘Then would you go and see if the photographs are ready?’
‘Of course,’ Miss Pedlar assented, only too pleased to have an opportunity to leave.
‘I suppose I’ve one thing to be grateful for,’ Miss Benkinsop remarked, as the younger woman rose hurriedly. ‘You aren’t the same age as Amanda and Penelope. From what I remember of you as a pupil, Miss Peaches Pedlar, I think the combination of the three of you would have turned my hair grey.’
‘Mr. Buckingham?’ inquired an impersonal feminine voice, as the receiver of the unlisted telephone was lifted by the owner of a luxurious West End flat shortly after eight o’clock in the evening. ‘What does B-1432 l-GEH-280 mean to you?’
‘What … How?’ Morris Lichenhell gasped, the number being that of an account he had under the nom de plume, ‘George Edward Henry Buckingham’, at a bank in Zurich.
However, neither the information nor the number of the telephone were available to the general public. Nor, out of consideration for his position as President of the Non-Specialized and Assorted Unskilled Workers’ Union, could he regard with equanimity the realization that his caller was aware of both.
‘Don’t hang up!’ ordered the voice so peremptorily that it brought the action it was intended to prohibit to an abrupt stop and caused the receiver of the call to glance around nervously, if involuntarily, to find out whether he was being observed. ‘If you do, I will have to call you at your headquarters tomorrow and you never know who might hear what I have to say should you be “unavailable”.’
‘Wh … who are you?’ Lichenhell croaked, his porcine features registering alarm. His speech had lost all the unctuous, yet bullying, timbre it held at less fraught moments.
‘That’s none of your affair,’ Miss Benkinsop replied, confident the man she was addressing would not recognize her voice in the unlikely event of them meeting socially.
‘I … I … don’t know wha—’ Lichenhell commenced.
‘Don’t waste my time!’ the headmistress ordered. ‘I can quote your exact balance, including the date you deposited the fifteen hundred pounds you drew from your Union’s funds when you flew to Yugoslavia to, how did you put it, “bring back our brother who fled there to escape the persecution of the neo-fascist British police”?’
After the music teacher had taken her departure that afternoon, the headmistress had made a telephone call to a colleague in Zurich and made a request. While waiting for it to be carried out, she had listened to the tape recording of the conversation in the street behind the Puppydog Club. What she had heard did nothing to lessen her intention of bringing the picketing to a halt, as she knew the next time something similar happened the intended victims might be less capable of defending themselves. When her contact had returned the call, she discovered that he had justified his claim to be the most competent of the people who made a living by supplying information regarding what should have been secret depositors in his homeland’s banks. Making use of the fund of clandestine knowledge he had available, he was able to supply her with details which she had felt sure would let her attain her ends.
‘I … It’s a “something” lie put out by the capit —’ Lichenhell protested shrilly.
‘Then you will have no objections to my sending photostat copies of my information to the press, television and …’ Miss Benkinsop suggested, continuing after a slight pause, ‘ … your colleagues on the Trade Unions’ General Council?’
‘For God’s sake don’t send it to them!’ Lichenhell begged, collapsing on to the easy chair by the telephone’s table and, as he hated the thought of having to part with money, a shudder ran through him as he went on, ‘How much do you want?’
‘Not a penny,’ Miss Benkinsop declared truthfully, being aware that Maxwell Spender would have the Consortium recompense her for her expenditure should she be successful.
‘Then what do you want?’ Lichenhell challenged, knowing he never did anything for nothing and assuming everybody was equally mercenary.
‘The picketing of the Puppydog Club brought to an end,’ the headmistress replied.
‘Are you in with those “something” National Front bastards who attacked our “brothers” this afternoon?’ Lichenhell demanded, having been informed of the incident without so far taking any action on it.
‘No,’ Miss Benkinsop declared and her voice became charged with menace. ‘And I’ll thank you to moderate your language. I’m not some Left Wing “trendy” who regards profanity as a symbol of oneness with the “little people”.’
‘Then why …?’ Lichenhell asked.
‘Your so-called “brothers” were threatening two girls for whom I am responsible,’ Miss Benkinsop explained. ‘They intended to go beyond threatening, too, not knowing the girls were experts in martial arts. I have a tape recording of what they said and photographs of what happened to them. The media, especially that portion which favors the Right, would be delighted to receive copies.’ Again there was a pause pregnant with warning, before she finished, ‘And, if I am compelled to send them, they will not go alone. The information about your Swiss bank account—‘
‘How can I call it off?’ Lichenhell requested, filled with consternation and apprehension as he knew there were many within his Union and the T.U.C.’s higher hierarchy who would be delighted to possess such details as a means of ending his career.
‘If the girl who has caused the dispute was to find lucrative employment elsewhere; say in television …’ Miss Benkinsop supplied, having given thought to the matter, ‘there would be no further need for the picketing and that would save your genuine “brothers’ ” funds being expended on the picketers’ wages.’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Lichenhell promised, knowing he had an associate employed by B.B.C. Television who was in no position to refuse him a favor. He also saw how the latter point would be an even greater inducement to call off the far from productive picketing than the Victim’ being found gainful employment. Then another thought struck him and he continued, ‘Hey though, can you get this kind of information about other folk?’
‘I can,’ Miss Benkinsop admitted, making an accurate guess at what would come next.
‘Then how about doing it on the other members of the General Council?’ Lichenhell hinted. ‘I’d make it worth your while.’
‘I’ll give the matter my consideration,’ the headmistress promised, although knowing the answer would be in the negative. ‘And will inform you of my decision after the picketing is finished.’
‘Good evening, sir,’ Amanda Tweedle greeted the Japanese businessman who had just entered the Puppydog Club, speaking his native tongue as fluently as she had when addressing members from five other overseas’ countries each in his own language. Nor had she restricted herself to just the salutation, but carried out a conversation in the same fashion on every occasion.
‘Blimey, Penny!’ gasped one of the regular “Puppydog girls”, standing by the School Captain and watching in fascination as the clearly delighted Oriental visitor entered the main gaming room. ‘How many languages does she speak?’
‘Every one,’ Penelope Parkerhouse replied, loyal as always to her best friend. ‘And all of them perfect.’
‘Really, Penny, you do exaggerate!’ the School Swot protested. ‘I still have several languages to learn and my Jivaro Indian and Menangkabau27 leave much to be desired.’
Four days had elapsed since Amanda commenced her investigation.
Apart from the pickets having been withdrawn following the management agreeing to make a ‘redundancy’ payment to the discharged girl—a face-saving device suggested by Miss Benkinsop, although the sum was considerably less than had originally been demanded—who was now employed as a bit-player by B.B.C. Television at Morris Lichenhell’s instigation, nothing of note had taken place. The School Swot and Penelope had quickly become popular with the Club’s employees and members. Certainly nobody could have claimed they were physically or technically unsuitable for the role they were playing. Each had a figure which enhanced the decidedly skimpy costume of a “Puppydog-girl” and they had from the start demonstrated complete competence in all aspects of their duties. What was more, although the story of how they had handled the four picketers was not made public, it had taken only one exhibition of each’s ability in the martial arts—backed by a warning from Leonard Hotchkiss, although this had been superfluous where the recipients of the demonstrations were concerned—to prevent them from being subjected to the male members of the staffs unwanted attentions.
Despite having made an extensive study of the photographs and video tapes supplied by Hotchkiss, Amanda had had to admit she was unable to pick out the player responsible for introducing the dishonest dice. Nor had any of those she selected as possible candidates proved to be the guilty party and she had been no more successful while greeting the new arrivals at the Club’s entrance. However, she had had the consolation of knowing no further substitutions had been made since her arrival. On the other hand, the fact that several other clubs reported being subjected to similar impositions suggested the perpetrator was merely changing venues and had not retired to enjoy his substantial ill-gotten gains. So, much to Penelope’s obvious delight and Amanda’s less obvious satisfaction, Miss Benkinsop had given permission for the surveillance to be continued.
The arrival of a tall, heavily bearded man clad in the traditional attire of a wealthy Arab brought the debate concerning the School Swot’s linguistic prowess to an end. In spite of displaying surprise similar to that of other overseas members on being addressed so fluently in their native tongues, the man duplicated Amanda’s action by placing together his hands—each decorated by rings of varying values—and responding in the accepted fashion to her Islamic welcome. However, he employed heavily accented English to inquire what games of chance were available. On receiving his answer in Arabic, he nodded gravely and walked into the main gaming room.
‘Would you take over for a while, please, Alma,’ Amanda requested, a few seconds later, as she had done on other occasions during the previous evenings. ‘I want to have a word with Lenny-Boy.’
‘All right,’ the girl assented, although she had drawn the wrong conclusions over the reason for Hotchkiss having given orders that the beautiful blonde should be allowed access to him any time it was requested.
Crossing the gaming room accompanied by Penelope, who had been afforded the same privilege, the School Swot made her way to where the Arab was joining the crowd at the big stakes craps’ table. As she drew nearer, she listened to the stickman carrying out one of his duties by chanting what had become an accepted litany.
‘Get it down, men! Send it in to the book! Double up and beat the book! If you don’t bet, you can’t win! Them as don’t speculate never accumulate! Watch it now! Here they come! Coming out … now! And he’s made it! Eight, the hard way!’ Having attended the School’s American Customs’ Class, which offered instruction in all aspects of gambling, Penelope had as little difficulty as her friend in following the meaning of the chant. She was aware that the number ‘eight’ had been the ‘shooter’s point’ and he had won his wager by ‘making’ it via a score of four from each dice, this being referred to as the ‘hard way’.
‘And here’s a new “shooter”! A gentleman from the Middle East!’ the croupier announced, retrieving the dice in the ring on the end of the wooden stick which created his alternative title and thrusting them across the table towards an outstretched brown hand. ‘Let’s see if you’re as lucky as you are at finding oil at home, sir!’
Gathering up the two cubes, the bearded Arab raised them to his mouth in the way other players did when intending to blow on them for luck. Just as the clench fist reached his lips, Amanda slapped him hard between the shoulders. As when she had kicked the thermos out of Raymond Buxton’s hand, the unexpected and far from gentle blow produced a spectacular effect. Not only did its recipient give vent to a gasping profanity in English, with a pronounced American accent, he unclenched his fist involuntarily.
And three, not two, dice flew forward to bounce on the green baize top of the table!
The fact that the spots on the ‘three face’ of the one in the center pointed in the opposite direction to those of the other two indicated it did not belong to the casino!
Snarling further obscenities in his New York accent, the ‘Arab’ spun around and launched a blow at the person he realized must have been his assailant. A moment later, although unable to decide exactly how everything happened, he felt his wrist caught and receive a twisting wrench which not only dislocated his shoulder, but caused his feet to leave the floor. Executing a somersault, which was not of his own doing, he crashed down again and, following a brief eruption of bright lights before his eyes, lost all interest in the proceedings for a short while.
‘Ooer!’ Penelope gurgled, irrepressible as always, staring at the three ‘five’ faces which were uppermost, in the silence which had followed the brief flurry of action. ‘Fifteen, the hard way!’
‘How the “something” … How did you get on to me?’ demanded the ‘Arab’, his headdress and well-made false beard having been removed to display the deeply tanned features of a Caucasian in his mid-thirties. He was slumped on a chair in the manager’s office, surrounded by a far from friendly crowd, about half an hour after his exposure. The amendment to his question had been created by the receipt of a sharp blow on the back of the head, accompanied by an order to keep his mouth clean in the presence of ladies, from an indignant Leonard Hotchkiss. ‘My clothes are genuine and the beard’s made of real hair. And I got that Arab greeting off so perfect the feller who taught me said he’d have thought I was one.’
‘Well, sir,’ Amanda Tweedle replied, being too well bred to contradict an older person by pointing out his delivery of the greeting, while good, was far from as faultless as he had been led to assume. ‘I must admit your attire and false beard were flawless, but I wondered why one who dressed and behaved after the fashion of a Moslem should be wearing a Christian crucifix ring.’
‘So that was it!’ Henry ‘the Actor’ Steffens growled, glaring at the incriminating item of jewelry on his right little finger which he had believed was so insignificant it would be overlooked among the other, more imposing rings he was wearing. Proud of his ability in following a family tradition of employing disguises as an aid to committing crimes,28 he drew what little consolation he could from believing he had only made the one mistake. ‘By god, kid, you’re good.’
There was little else the ‘Arab’ could regard as a bright spot. Having lost their heads when he was apprehended, the three men who were his associates were also in the hands of the casino’s staff.
‘Thank you, sir,’ Amanda replied, polite as always. ‘May I congratulate you upon how very efficiently you have been operating? You always arrived in a different disguise and only acted as “shooter” on the occasion when you substituted the dice in your mouth for one belonging to the club, having slipped yours there after entering the gaming room and carrying the other in it until you were safely away from the table and could put it in your pocket. On the other hand, your three associates never touched the dice, but concentrated upon betting on the high numbers.’
‘When did you guess how it was being done, Amanda?’ Hotchkiss inquired, his original misgivings having been replaced by something close to reverence.
‘I suspected a “mouth switch” as soon as you told us only one dice was being introduced at a time,’ the School Swot replied. ‘My problem was detecting who was responsible. Which is why I asked to be allowed to come and keep watch. Will you be needing Penny and me anymore, sir?’
‘Not unless you want to stay on as chief floorwalker,29 with a piece of the action,’ Hotchkiss suggested hopefully.
‘Good heavens, no!’ Amanda gasped, sounding aghast at the thought. ‘Miss Benkinsop would never allow it.’