Tales of the Red Panda: The Crime Cabal (13 page)

It was early evening before a certain casually, yet elegantly dressed
ne’er-do-well appeared at the business end of the great pneumatic tube. He
stepped out somewhat gingerly, as though his head had not appreciated the trip
quite as much as it generally did, but he was determined not to show it.

Kit Baxter’s head popped around the corner. Her cowl was down around
her shoulders, and the goggles were absent, but she was otherwise togged and
ready for action. Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Should you be here?” she said
carefully.

He looked at her a little sternly, as if he were looking over the rims
of glasses that he did not, in fact, have. “Miss Baxter, while I appreciate you
lugging my unconscious form out of that inferno–”

“–you’re all through being babied now?” she finished his thought
with a sheepish grin.

“In a nutshell.” He stepped out into the hall and walked with her into
the Crime Lab.

“Can I use the same line on you the next time you’re playing mother hen
with me?” she said, noting that she did not need to hurry as much to keep pace
with his strides.

“No,” he smiled.

“Does that seem entirely fair?” she said, her chin jutting out at the
injustice.

“No. What do we know?”

“Sampson made contact. He spent the night dodging bullets with a
certain Police Constable who had no particular reason to be there last night.”

“Parker? Again?” The Red Panda looked cross. “Why would a uniformed
police officer be working solo on an investigation of this importance?”

“There are cases and there are cases,” she said, pulling herself up to
sit on the workbench beside him. She caught her reflection in his eyes and
found herself wondering again if she seemed too eager. She wasn’t accustomed to
having to try this hard to make her intentions clear, but he just didn’t seem
to be getting it.

“If you’re checking my pupils to see if they’re dilated, they aren’t.
I’m fine.”

“What’s that?” she said, pulled very suddenly back to reality. “Right.
Pupils. No concussion. Well, you can’t blame a girl for checking. Where was I?”

“There are cases and there are cases, or something equally cryptic,” he
said, feeling a little guilty for giving her a hard time so soon after she had
saved his life again.

“Right,” she said. “That was a little turn of phrase Parker used while
showing off. Sampson thinks he isn’t after this new gang at all.”

The Red Panda frowned. “Then why would he…” He paused a moment. “…He’s
after us, isn’t he?”

“Right first try.”

“Chief O’Mally sent one little patrolman after us?” he said in
disbelief. “I don’t know whether to feel relieved or insulted.”

Kit smiled coyly. “He could just be a fan, you know. Keen to help and
so forth.”

“You think?” he asked.

“Such things have been known,” she said, locking eyes with him. No
night-vision lenses to protect him this time.

He held her look a moment. “I think I have all the help I could ever
need in that line.”

He turned his head away, beaten by her stare at last, but Kit would
never know it. At that same instant she felt her cheeks grow hot and turned
away to hide the rush of colour she knew was coming.

She slipped her feet to the floor and retreated a few steps. “So where
do we go from here? Sampson says Parker picked up his real name, and recognized
him as Grant. I sent a newsie ‘round to cut Parker loose and ordered Sampson to
a safe house for the duration. His contact man said he wasn’t too happy about
it.”

The Red Panda nodded. “You did exactly what I would have done. If
Sampson’s identity has been compromised, he’s in danger, and he presents a
danger to our entire network. He’s got to lie low for awhile, like it or not.”

“What about Parker? You could just erase his memory.”

“I could. But we’d need to know more about what his mission is and who
he’s reported to already. If he isn’t acting alone, the information will have
spread farther by now than hypnosis can cure. If he is… well, we’ll know that
too.” The Red Panda was suddenly grave. “But whatever Parker’s motivations are,
we don’t have time to deal with him right now. People’s lives hang in the
balance. People we have sworn to protect. This ‘new gang’ is much more than
just that. We need to find out who they are and put an end to them, before more
innocent people suffer.”

“Yes, Boss.” Kit tried not to purr, but his boy scout stuff really made
her weak in the knees.

“It’s been two days, does Peters have anything for us yet?”

“Not much to report, beyond the fact that there’s nothing to report.
The cops have clamped down hard on the St Clair explosion, even more so after
last night. Petey says one of his boys on the force whispered that what’s left
of the bombs have the cops and fire department completely buffaloed. He’s
leaning hard for a copy of the working report, but it’s hard for him to explain
why since he couldn’t print any of it anyway, and he can’t exactly tell the
boys in blue that it’s for little ol’ us.”

“Point taken. If only Chief O’Mally were
less–”

“–of a pig-headed mule?” she offered.

“You’re still sore about the time he put a death warrant out on me,”
the Red Panda grinned.

“I’m still sore that he put it out on you an’ not on me,” she said, her
nose twisted up in disgust.

“What about the autopsy reports on our John Does from St Clair?” he
said, opening the wardrobe and pulling out one of a dozen identical grey suits.

“Dead end there too, Boss. The Coroner threw out all of the autopsy
reports. Petey doesn’t know why and nobody’s talkin’.”

The Red Panda blinked. “Wait. He threw out… everything?”

“Yep. Ordered fresh pathology on both our playmates and the mad bomber.
Now, with a fresh batch of corpses from last night, there’s no telling how long
it’ll take,” she shrugged a little.

“Three autopsies, thrown out…” His brow was knit, but a smile played
around his face. “…What would make a Coroner behave like that in the middle of
an investigation?”

Kit seemed lost. “You think he’s maybe on the take?”

“Bribing a medical examiner? I’ve never heard of such a thing… but it’s
probably more reasonable than my other thought.”

“What was it?” Kit said, and then when it became clear he didn’t mean
to say, she stomped her foot. “Darn it! I love to watch those wheels work, and
now I’ve gone and spoiled it.”

“Let’s just say I’d rather not say this one out loud until I have
something more than wild hunches and a splitting headache.”

“Swell. Except we ain’t havin’ a lot of luck comin’ up with leads,” she
sighed. “And I don’t know about you, but I’d just as soon not wait for these
jokers to come up with another trap. The only way this ends good is if it ends
quick.”

“What are you thinking?” he said, picking up his mask and gauntlets
from the table.

“I’m thinkin’ that John Law’s got more goods than we do, but they’ve
got no clue what to do with ‘em.”

“It’s possible.”

“I’m also thinkin’ that I’m sick and tired of askin’ politely. I say we
stick our paws in the cookie jar.”

He smiled, “It’s a pretty heavily guarded cookie jar.”

“You should see Ma Baxter with a wooden spoon. The woman is deadly.”

“I’m sure.” He headed for the door.

“Where ya goin’?” she called.

“To suit up. And no backtalk. I’m fine.”

“Yes, Boss. Where do we hit first?”

“I think we should pay a little visit to an old friend, don’t you?”

She sighed. “Poor old Bert. He was probably having such a nice day
too.”

“We’ve given him a little space lately, in deference to his nervous
disposition. But the man is an agent. He took an oath. And we need all the help
we can get.”

She grinned and pulled her cowl up. “Looks like the Assistant Coroner has
a date with the Red Panda!”

Malcolm sat alone in his spacious command office, deep within the
bunker of the Crime Cabal. This office was designed to be impervious to attack.
A fortress within a fortress. From the earliest planning stages of this
bunker’s construction, when he was still the chief lieutenant for the Sclareli family,
Malcolm had always envisioned this sanctum as an oasis – a private
enclave where the elite men of crime might feel themselves truly secure,
totally shielded from fear of attack and thus completely free.

Now it was his prison.

He was deep under the city, beneath a vacant lot, in a headquarters few
knew existed. Two steel doors and a sixty-foot tunnel separated the fortress
from the outside world. An armed camp of gangsters he could no longer trust
stood between him and those doors. How many sided with him and how many with
his former partners, he could not say. But it only took one.

Two men had been strong enough in his camp to leave the confrontation
at his side. Simon and Len. On his orders, Len had left to summon more support
from outside. More former members of the Sclareli mob, if any could be found.
That was ten hours ago, and Malcolm had to admit he had no idea if the man was
truly coming back, if he was successful in his quest or indeed even if he had
been allowed to leave. Had the roles been reversed, Malcolm would never have
let his enemy out of his sight.

Simon had left the office to sound out the feelings of the men. Those
once loyal to Sclareli must surely feel a sense of obedience to Malcolm. Even
those who had formerly been members of rival factions must feel some gratitude
to Malcolm for re-organizing, for including them, for giving them another
chance to rule the city.

Mustn’t they?

Three hours after Simon had left the sanctuary of Malcolm’s office with
no sign of his return, Malcolm was forced to concede that perhaps they did not.
He still held the belief that most of the men would rather deal with someone
they could trust. Someone who did business as they always had, as their fathers
had. Someone who understood that even crime had certain rules. A code of
conduct. But if even a handful were loyal to the mad fools that he himself had
recruited… If only a few were ready to do the bidding of Kid Chaos and
Professor Zombie, a bloodbath would follow.

He gripped the .45 he had been holding for hours. Hard. If he could
hold this office… maintain at least a semblance of command…

He choked a little at how hollow his own words sounded, even to
himself. The office was bullet-proof. It was fire-proof. It had a ventilation
system separate from the rest of the bunker. Even Chaos’ bombs could not
penetrate the door. But he was cut off, and there could be little doubt that he
was in hiding.

Still, in this hour of darkness, he could not accept his own fault,
could not accept the truth that all criminals must learn in the end.

One by one, the organized rackets in the city had fallen before the
daring of an unpredictable new foe. One that could not be bought like the law,
or intimidated like the people. An enemy that could not be defended against by
the normal rules of gang warfare because territory and tribute were not among
their goals. These self-appointed guardians of justice, whatever that meant…
they sought nothing less than the outright destruction of the crime that preyed
upon a desperate city. At any cost.

And what a cost it had been. In the months since they turned their full
attention to organized crime, mobs that had stood the test of time had been
wiped out. Everything Malcolm had known had been pulled down around him. He had
felt in his heart that it would take something more than he could give to end
this reign of terror. These super-criminals had given the Red Panda such
trouble with their own small gangs and bizarre plots that surely twinning their
creativity to his organizational genius, and the last, best hopes the
underworld had to offer – surely that would bring destruction to his
enemies.

And yet here he sat. Alone.

He began to panic, just a little. There was a tightness in his chest
suddenly. He coughed once as he struggled to compose himself. His knuckles were
white with the effort as he recovered his veneer of control. He breathed deeply
and calmly. There must be some way out of this.

There must be some way out.

If he could only make that tunnel. If only, somehow, he could hit the
bright light that burned around the clock in Fong’s Laundromat. Then he’d make
them pay for casting him aside. If he could only have the chance, he’d sing to
the cops, to O’Mally, even to the Red Panda himself. Malcolm laughed at the
thought, lost for a moment in the sheer fantasy. It never occurred to him that
these same thoughts, this same giddiness had passed over hundreds of men as the
treacherous net of his fellow gangsters closed in on him. That these same
thoughts had come to men whom he had betrayed and ordered killed before they
could act on their last desperate plots. All he could think of was the final
revenge he would have if he could only one more time taste the sweet air of
freedom…

Sweet… air…

Something was wrong. Malcolm coughed again. The air was heavy and had a
sweet aftertaste. It burned a little, though he hadn’t noticed it at first. He
couldn’t say how long it had been like that. Had it just begun, or had he been
sitting in it, oblivious, like a frog in a slowly boiling pot?

He staggered to his feet. Of course! The ventilation system. It was
separate from the rest of the bunker, but if they got to the control centre and
knew what they were doing, they could gas him where he stood and not affect the
rest of the building.

Malcolm struggled to place a handkerchief over his mouth. He tried to
think of what they might be using. He had tasted tear gas, and heard poison
gases described by men who had fought in the Great War. This was nothing like
any of them. Besides, the Crime Cabal had no stockpile of noxious gases, and
they were unlikely to bring them in just for this. Not when they had him
trapped like a rat. If they were going to kill him, they’d want it to be on the
sly. Bringing gas canisters through the main entrance didn’t seem likely.

No, it had to be something on hand,
something…

Something from the laboratory!

Now Malcolm began to truly panic. This could be almost anything. This
could– No. In an instant, he remembered something Professor Zombie had…
something he hadn’t listened to… Necronium 234 in a suspension of… something…
then she… electrified the field. He couldn’t remember, and it didn’t seem to
matter. They were pumping the room full of gas that would turn him into a
zombie! What had she said? Leech from his body the sweet gift of life and leave
only cold obedience. That was how they planned to keep control of the
organization! They would use him as a puppet. Keep him isolated, but on-side.
The men would assume that the confrontation had blown over and Malcolm had
become a figurehead. They would cease to question the arrangement and when
Malcolm was well and truly forgotten, he would meet with an accident and no one
would ever be the wiser. It was brilliant. It was exactly what he would have
done, had he had the means.

“Well,” he thought, “at least I can cheat them of that.” And for a
moment the barrel of the .45 was in his mouth. If he blew the back of his head
off there would be no nice, tidy corpse to resurrect.

At once, he heard a small noise outside the door. Through that great
mass of iron and bulletproof glass, any sound that could penetrate would be far
from subtle. He gripped the handle of the .45, his Roman act for the moment
forgotten. If they were coming for him, by God he would take a few of them with
him.

He crept up to the small porthole in the door and turned back the
cover. Through the thick pane of bulletproof glass, he could see… one man. Only
one. And it was Hook Henderson. The fool was monkeying with something, but it
was on the wrong side of the door. The fool must be trying to force the door,
but instead of working the lock, he was playing with the intercom that was
built into the wall.

Henderson worked feverishly for a moment, and then suddenly he was
finished, though Malcolm could not say what he thought he might have accomplished.
Henderson stepped back from the door and smiled at Malcolm through the window,
as if he had known the crime lord was there the whole time. He waved slightly,
in a flippant manner, and stood watching.

Malcolm was furious. He jammed the speaker button on the intercom to
tell Henderson just exactly what he thought of traitors. At the moment he did
so, the short circuit Henderson had set up inside the intercom system
overloaded and arced inside the sanctum. The suspension solution was
electrified in a mighty surge of power throughout the room, and Malcolm felt
the Necronium 234 he had inhaled activated, like a thousand icy knives cutting
into his brain from the inside.

And at that moment, Malcolm learned the truth that all criminals must
one day accept. That evil only begets evil.

With a final scream, Malcolm found his way out.