Tales of the Red Panda: The Mind Master (11 page)

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.

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.

“With you?”

“Who else?”

“No, thank you,” he laughed.

“What does that mean?” she said, taking offense in spite of
herself.

“It means I’ve been down here for hours, and you’re fresh,”
he said seriously.

“As a daisy,” she smiled. “You worried I’ll clean your
clock?”

“Not worried,” he said. “Dead certain. Come hold the heavy
bag.”

They moved to the opposite wall and she braced herself
against the bag. He landed a pair of solid rights that might have impressed
most training partners. Kit had held down this spot too many times. The Red
Panda knew more about fighting than most ten men, even if each of those men was
a martial arts master. But he was just hitting, throwing hard, wild punches
into the heavy bag. His mind was somewhere else entirely.

“I’m sorry about Richard Granville,” she said at last.

The punching stopped. He ran his hand over his brow.

“Did you know him well?” she asked.

“I used to,” came the reply.

He began to pull the tape off his hands.

“Do they think he might recover?” she said quietly.

“No,” he said. “They’re just waiting.”

“Aw Boss, that’s terrible.”

“It is,” he said. “And that’s what’s bothering me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“If I’ve learned one thing from the last few years, Kit,
it’s that when something is terrible for one person, it is generally excellent
news for someone else.” His brow furrowed. “The question is: who?”

“But Boss, Richard Granville ran his car into a tree. It was
an accident.”

“Richard Granville owns a dozen cars, Kit, but he doesn’t
drive
them. Not himself… not on a
country road far from help in the middle of the night.”

“You think it was a set-up? Why wouldn’t… if somebody wanted
him dead, why wouldn’t they just shoot him? Or… I don’t know…
anything
else?” Kit came around from
behind the heavy bag and crossed her arms.

“I wondered that,” he nodded slowly, as if he were still in
the process of wondering. “What if you had only recently burned Martin Davies’
home to the ground to cover the theft of the wealth in that building? You
wouldn’t be so reckless as to strike at another wealthy young man so quickly,
would you?”

“I might,” she nodded, “if I could make it look like a
completely different kind of accident. But I’d make darn sure the accident did
the trick.”

“And so you would. Davies’ home was destroyed, and it will
be very hard to prove that anything was removed. Much of Granville’s fortune is
in bonds. If he had died in the accident, the executor of his estate would
immediately have noticed if those bonds were missing.” His eyes narrowed. “But
if Richard Granville holds on for weeks, or even longer–”

“It might give somebody time to strike again,” Kit agreed.
“But wouldn’t this all be pretty tough to arrange?”

“It was chancy at best,” he nodded. “But the police still
don’t know who called for the ambulance. There was no one around for miles.
Richard would have died for certain without that intervention.”

Kit whistled. “If you’re right about this, we’re dealing
with one very cool customer.”

“Indeed,” he said, reaching for a towel. “What if it’s all
the same cool customer?”

“All what?” she said, her brow furrowed. “You mean… the
Empire Bank job too?”

“And making a solid attempt at blowing you and I to kingdom
come? Yes, that’s more or less the idea.”

She placed her hands on her hips. “You got anything to go on
here?”

“Just the usual,” he smiled a little.

“Gettin’ by on looks again?” she said, shaking her head. He
obliged with a slight crimson flush about the cheeks. She was satisfied and
picked up the thread. “So it plays like this: our boy pulls the deposit boxes
at the bank, that’s probably a little start-up change. But he leaves eight
guards with the same memory, and he booby-traps their brains in case you get
hold of them.”

“Right,” Fenwick nodded. “Then he finds my radio tracker in
with the loot, recognizes it for what it is and arranges the explosion at the
warehouse to get rid of us immediately.”

“So he’s teasing us and trying to kill us dead, both in the
same night,” Kit said gravely. “Somebody has problems.”

Fenwick nodded. “And believing us to be out of the picture,
he begins to loot the city’s richest families, killing ruthlessly as he does
so.”

Kit shook her head. “It ain’t bad. But how does what
happened to Gregor relate?”

“We won’t know for certain until he wakes up,” came the
reply. “But he was on the trail of the fence from the Empire Bank caper.”

“Which would be enough to get him beaten and roasted all on
its own,” she said. “We aren’t even sure that Davies’ fire and Granville’s
accident are anything other than they look to be, much less related. You got
anything
else to go on?”

“Two things,” he said. “One: a man at my club, Wallace
Blake. He was profoundly uncomfortable when Davies’ connection to a certain
oriental visitor was mentioned. He couldn’t leave quickly enough.”

“This would be the mysterious Ajay Shah,” Kit said.

“It would.”

“Then maybe we should turn Wallace Blake upside down and see
what drops out of his pockets,” Kit suggested helpfully.

“That would be difficult,” he said grimly. “Blake hung
himself last night.”

“Boss?”

“It was buried in the papers. And they didn’t come right out
and say it, but I know my journalistic euphemisms. It happened.”

“Was Blake rich too?”

The Red Panda shook his head. “The money was long gone. No
one was supposed to know.”

“Then what’s the connection?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But Wallace Blake was too much
of a coward to commit suicide. And I’m aware of the irony. Suicide may be the
death of a coward, but it requires at least a single moment of iron resolve.”

“And you don’t think Blake had it in him?”

The Red Panda shook his head.

Kit thought for a moment. “What’s the other thing?”

“What other thing?”

“You said there were two–”

“Ah,” he said, catching up. “Yes. The other thing.”

“Well?” she said, her head cocked to one side.

He gave her a crooked, half smile. “The inescapable feeling
that I’m looking right at the answer and just can’t see it.”