Tales of the Red Panda: The Mind Master

by Gregg Taylor

  “You see, Grant,” he began, “Mister Cain is a man most meticulous in his business dealings. He favors a quiet approach, nothing flashy. His reputation is for discretion, and it is this reputation that keeps the work coming in. Do you follow me?”

  He paused for a moment and looked at Sampson, who glared daggers back at him. With a small shrug he continued. “If there is one thing Mister Cain does not like, it is people prying about in his business. Especially small time grifters and con men like Miles Grant.”

  Sampson tried hard not to look at the jerry-can, or notice the smell of the gasoline vapors that were reaching him now. “That’s the trouble with reputations,” he said. “They have a way of preceding you.”

  The thin man smiled indulgently. “You aren’t impressive enough to scare Mister Cain. If it was just the fenced goodies from the Empire Bank you were sniffing after, you’d have made out all right. But when you started pushing other buttons, it was time to pay you a visit.”

  Sampson struggled hard to keep his mind on the conversation. Not to think about how much the acrid, musty smell made sense now… it was the smell of past fires. Fires in which more was burned than wood and gasoline. He licked his lips and said nothing.

  “Thing is,” the thin man continued, “Miles Grant isn’t big enough to be on both trails at once. Besides, why should he be? There’s no profit in it. So I did some checking, and then I did a little more. And guess what I learned?”

  “I can’t imagine,” Sampson deadpanned, his mouth bone-dry.

  “You aren’t Miles Grant.” The thin lips smiled again.

  There was a pause. “You’re crazy!” Sampson sputtered at last.

  “Oh, you were Grant last week,” the secretary continued. “You were even Grant last year. But you keep going back and… it ain’t you. Not if you know where to look, and just how to put the question.” The thin lips pressed into something like a smile. “And that’s the sort of thing that makes Mister Cain real curious. And when he asks a question, I like to have the answer at the ready for him.”

  “Well, aren’t you precious?” Sampson said, barely above a whisper.

  “So here’s what we’re going to do,” the thin man said, flipping a brass cigarette lighter open with a smooth, one-handed motion and passing the flame slowly, just inches from Sampson’s face. “We’re gonna burn you. Not all at once, you understand – a bit at a time. Then we’ll put you out and start again. It sounds so simple, but in a few short minutes you’ll be spilling all we ever wanted to know and more. And begging for a bullet in the brain.” His lips parted to reveal a broad grin of stained teeth. The thin man stared into Sampson’s eyes, watching for any sign of fear. He saw none, and was glad of it. He was a man who enjoyed his work, and hated to see it over too quickly.

  He snapped his fingers and the big man with the jerry-can advanced. Gregor Sampson felt his body stiffen involuntarily. There was no doubt in his mind that his captors were quite sincere in their intent. He tried to brace himself, to hold out as long as he could. He wondered if, in the end, he would be the first to defy them to the last breath, and just what Joshua Cain would have to say about that. When a man counts his lifespan in minutes, his goals are simple and small.

  Gregor Sampson set his jaw hard. He could smell the wiry man’s foul breath beside his right shoulder. Across the room to his left, near the edges of the shadows, Cain’s driver stood stock-still and silent. Sampson tried not to look at the large man with the broken nose as he closed in. Ten feet away. Now six.

  In that instant there was suddenly a soft sound that Sampson’s ears knew only too well. From behind him and high above there came a rustling sound not unlike the wind in a sail. He knew it for the sound of a long coat whistling in the wind, and it was music to his ears. The wiry man at his shoulder stiffened for an instant, but the big man didn’t seem to have heard anything at all. It made him all the more surprised when the Red Panda dropped from his grapple rope and, as he fell, thrust his right boot sharply into the manservant’s injured nose.

  There was a cry like a wounded animal as blood splattered from underneath the bandage on the man’s nose. He fell backwards, half-conscious at best, dousing himself in gasoline as he fell. The can clattered on the ground and rolled back into a stack of crates just beyond the pool of light.

  The injured man’s cohorts were stunned for a moment. The Red Panda rose slowly from the crouch he had landed in, his long coat flowing around him as he seemed to melt up from the long shadows. Both men drew their guns as the masked man held his ground between them.

  Sampson did his best not to whoop for joy as he heard a whistle overhead. There was a crash and a rattle as a combat boomerang, thrown from the shadows, shattered the overhead light, plunging the room into darkness. In that instant both remaining gangsters fired, illuminating the room with a half dozen lightening-like flashes as they fired for the spot where they had last seen the man in the mask.

  There was a cry, and a dull thud, and then only silence. Sampson could hear his own heart pounding in his ears, and feel the hot, stinking breath of the man to his right. At last, the wiry man could stand no more.

  “Dan?” he cried in a hoarse whisper laced with terror. “Did we get him?”

  There was only silence.

  The wiry man took a half dozen steps, slowly, into the darkness.

  “Dan?” he asked again.

  A moment later, a quivering hand held forth a small flame from a brass cigarette lighter. “Dan?” he asked again. He could see almost nothing by the light of the flame, but he saw the prone form of Cain’s driver, lying not far from where the man with the jerry-can had fallen, and he did not have to wonder at what had happened. In their rush to gun down the mystery men standing between them, they had both fired wildly in the dark, and it was a miracle that either was still alive to tell the tale.

  From somewhere high above there came a laugh that rang in the air like a battle-cry. The Red Panda was still out there, waiting for him. It was less than a second later that he remembered that things were much worse than he had thought.

  He did not hear the Flying Squirrel land. He had no idea where she had come from. But in the instant that he first became aware of her presence, she had already grabbed his gun arm and broken it at the elbow as if it were a dry twig.

  The wiry man screamed in agony and in the second that followed, the darkness was suddenly dispelled by a wall of bright orange flame behind him. The brass lighter, dropped at the moment he was attacked, had found the spreading pool of gasoline.

  The man turned to the flames just long enough to see that the prone forms of both of his companions were burning, consumed just as they had destroyed so many others, though with the undeserved mercy of unconsciousness. He turned back to face his attacker alone, unarmed and crippled. He clutched his shattered arm with his left and stared wildly. He saw the Flying Squirrel waiting for him to make a move, the spreading flames reflected in her goggles and a cruel smile playing about her lips. He turned and bolted as fast as he could in the opposite direction. No matter that the door was the other way, that the flames had spread from crate to crate, had found the rafters and were spreading through the tinderbox of a building with a roar like thunder. Running was the only thought that occupied his being.

  Chasing him down was the only thought in the masked girl’s mind until the shout of the Red Panda brought her back.

  “We need him! He’s the last one left!” she protested as she turned.

  “He’s a dead man,” the Red Panda shouted back above the growing din of the flames. “We have to get Sampson out of here.”

  She looked down at their agent as the Red Panda released the handcuffs that bound him to the chair. She could see blood spreading across Sampson’s chest, his head slumped down, unseeing.

  “What happened?” she shouted.

  “He must’ve been clipped when they were shooting at me. Come on, this place isn’t going to stand much longer.”

  The Flying Squi
rrel took one last look over her shoulder towards the man who had fled deeper into the inferno, then pressed her shoulder under one of Sampson’s limp arms as they made their escape.

  As the sirens of the police and fire trucks rang through the night, they just obscured the sound of a powerful engine streaking away into the darkness.

  Twenty-Three

  The morning came far too early for August Fenwick. The lifestyle of a supposedly indolent young billionaire was hardly the most regimented one could imagine, but there were appearances to keep up occasionally. He struggled briefly with the plush mattress on which he lay, his still-sleeping mind straining to comprehend the meaning of the sudden onrush of daylight. He pushed himself onto his elbows as Thompson the butler busied himself opening curtains without apparent provocation.

  “Good morning, sir.” Thompson was as clipped and efficient as always.

  “Thompson, what the devil time is it?” Fenwick said at last, squinting hard.

  “Eight-thirty, sir,” the gentleman’s gentleman said with a trace of a sadistic smile.

  Fenwick shook his head to clear the first layer of cobwebs. “And did anyone happen to make you aware of the time that I retired last night?” he said at last.

  “There seemed to be very little agreement on this subject, sir,” the butler said, busying himself with gathering his master’s morning effects. “Some were of the opinion that you graced us with your presence as early as a quarter to five. Others seem certain that it was closer to six.”

  “It was six-fifteen, in fact,” Fenwick glared.

  “As you say, sir. Like most of the household, I have long ago stopped keeping track of such matters.” Thompson stood beside the bed and held out a beautiful silk robe.

  “Then what, precisely, makes you certain that I would wish–”

  “Fenwick Laboratories, sir,” Thompson smiled. “The board of directors’ meeting–”

  “–is canceled,” Fenwick said, throwing aside the bedclothes and taking the robe from Thompson as he rose. The butler sputtered slightly.

  “But sir, I heard no such thing,” he protested.

  “No,” said Fenwick as he pulled the robe over his shoulders, “but I imagine it will be when I don’t show up.”

  “But, sir!” Thompson protested.

  “I’ve never been entirely clear on why I need a board of directors anyway. And not just one. I must have about twenty.”

  “Thirty one,” Thompson said, smoothing out the wrinkles in his master’s shoulders out of habit ingrained by long years of service. “One for each major corporate division.”

  “Aren’t I the only shareholder?” the young man asked petulantly.

  “Shall I have coffee sent up?” was the reply.

  “No,” Fenwick said firmly. “I’ll take breakfast on the veranda. And the papers.”

  “But sir–”

  “I’m not going, Thompson. You can’t make me.”

  In an instant each man became aware that they were playing out a scene they had acted since the wealthy young man was a small boy. Thompson interpreted this history as the upper hand in his favor.

  “Shall I have the car wait out front, sir?”

  “Ah-ha!” the young man pounced, spinning on his heels to waggle his finger at the manservant. “I’ve got you now! You can’t have the car brought ‘round.”

  “May I ask why not, sir?” The older man was flustered now and barely concealing his annoyance.

  “Because I’ve given Miss Baxter the morning off,” Fenwick said, his hands on his hips in triumph.

  “You’ve… you’ve…”

  “Miss Baxter is, in her capacity as my chauffeur, often obliged to keep my hours. I told her to get some sleep.”

  “Yes, sir,” Thompson fumed. “I shall speak to Miss Baxter about this presently.”

  Fenwick glanced back over his shoulder as he moved to the next room to bathe. “Do so and it will be your last act in this house.” Nothing about the man’s voice suggested that he was joking. Thompson’s spine stiffened.

  “Yes, sir,” he said gravely. “And the board of directors?”

  “You go if you’re that interested,” Fenwick said coldly.

  “If I may speak freely, sir?”

  Fenwick turned to face the butler and said nothing.

  “Your late father would never have shirked his responsibilities like this.”

  There was a small pause. Thompson thought he saw a flash in his young master’s eyes, but Fenwick was fully awake now, and an impassive mask spread across his face. Thompson could not have told, looking at that face, that August Fenwick felt anything at all.

  “Wouldn’t he?” came the reply at last. Fenwick held his butler’s eye hard for another moment, until Thompson mumbled something inaudible and backed out of the room.

  As Fenwick turned he heard the distinctive bell of a private telephone line. The line was wired throughout the house, but Fenwick alone could activate the receivers with a key he carried at all times.

  He turned the key quickly and lifted the receiver to his ear.

  “Go ahead,” he said.

  “Mother Hen calling,” came a quiet, female voice over the line.

  “Report.”

  “Agent Forty-Five reports on the status of injured agent. Agent Thirty-Three is out of surgery and expected to make a full recovery.”

  “Agent status?”

  “Unconscious. And likely to remain so for a day at least.”

  “Understood.”

  “Operative at the Chronicle reports developments on assignment. Hopes to have full report tonight.”

  “Understood. Out.”

  “Mother Hen out,” came the reply, and the line went dead. He hung up the receiver. He thought for a moment, and was about to remove the key when the private line rang again. He answered quickly.

  “Report,” he said.

  “Nice way to answer the phone.” He heard Kit’s voice, soft and sleepy over the line.

  “I told you to get some sleep,” he chided.

  “But you didn’t say how. The newsie on the corner’s got a real set of pipes. Sounds like there’s… there’s some news. I was gonna get a paper. You want I should come in?”

  “I want you should get some sleep,” he said seriously.

  “I love it when you try and talk rough,” she yawned. “You sure you don’t need me?”

  “It was almost dawn by the time we got Gregor to the General. Doctor Carlson checked in, it sounds like he’s going to pull through, by the way.”

  “Good news. Listen, Boss… I’m here if you need me.” She sounded serious.

  “Kit… this newsie. What is he saying?”

  She sighed. “I’ll be right in.”

  “If you don’t stay in bed until noon, I’m benching you.”

  There was a small pause. “Think you’re tough enough to do it?” she said at last.

  “Pretty sure,” he smiled into the telephone.

  “Leaving aside the fact that I’m a little curious, I’m a whole lot sleepy, so I’ll humor you. Good night, Gracie.”

  She said nothing more, but hung on the line to hear him put down the receiver first. August Fenwick’s eyes narrowed. This didn’t sound like a promising beginning to the day.

  Twenty-Four

  The pneumatic tube opened with a hiss six hours later, and Kit Baxter stepped into the lair, not knowing quite what to expect. There were pages from every newspaper in town scattered around the tube bay, as if he had paced back and forth while reading, discarding each section as he finished with it. Kit bit her lower lip a little. If he had brought the papers down here, it was to analyze them and think, without the servants bothering him. She couldn’t help but wonder if he would have included her in that number.

  For a moment she regretted not calling in first, but then she heard a rhythmic thumping sound coming from down the hall and smiled in spite of herself. He wasn’t in the Crime Lab, he was in their gym. Which meant he was trying to work
something out that was just eluding him, which almost always meant he’d rather think out loud.

  She opened the door to the training room quietly and saw him on the far side of the hall, focused entirely on the speed bag hanging from above. His fists worked in perfect time, first the left, then a half dozen punches later the right, then a flurry of alternating blows. He was in trousers and an undershirt, and looked as if he had been working for quite some time. Kit watched him for a few moments quietly. She liked to watch him at the speed bag; it was the one piece of equipment that she was clearly better at using than he was, and she was sure it drove him a little crazy. She had tried to point out that a boxer’s daughter ought to pick a few things up, but he hadn’t said a word.

  He kept up his pace for another minute or so, and finally his fists seemed almost to trip over one another and he stopped with a final swipe at the bag. For a moment the only sound Kit heard was her Boss, breathing hard.

  “You have notes?” he said matter-of-factly, without looking up.

  “You know what my Dad used to say was the trick with the speed bag?” she said quietly.

  His silence suggested that he didn’t. She continued.

  “You have to want to hit it again more than you want to hit it hard.”

  There was a short silence.

  “Why can’t I do both?” he asked.

  “You can,” she said. “But it looks like that.”

  “Very nice,” he said, playing with the tape on his hands slightly. “Do you want to hold the heavy bag for me a minute?”

  She pursed her lips a little. “You wanna spar?” she said with an involuntary waggle of her eyebrows.