Tales of the Red Panda: Pyramid of Peril (2 page)

The Red Panda peeled back the bright red gauntlet from his left wrist and glanced at his wristwatch. He was a little early. He stepped quietly to the edge of the rooftop and surveyed his domain. Even at this late hour, his city still hummed as if it were living thing and shone in the darkness like a tarnished jewel. He stood easily, with one foot up on the lip of the roof, his hands resting on his raised leg. But even in stillness, there was no disguising the energy within, like a tiger in repose.

He resisted the impulse to glance at his watch again. It had been two and a half minutes since the last time he looked, and that meant she was not
yet late. Below him, Bloor Street stretched to the west, receding into the distance until the lights became indistinct points and continued far beyond. To the south, Jarvis Street was eerily calm. The evenings were warm now, with the promise of the real heat of summer soon to come hanging above the pavement late into the night. It would take until near dawn for the streets to cool off, but here at rooftop level the air was fresh. He leaned forward and surveyed the street directly below the Robinson building with a clinical air. Nothing. The streets were almost entirely empty, and those few who ventured forth moved quickly, quietly and unmolested.

He held this pose for another three minutes and twenty seconds. He knew that it had been three minutes and twenty seconds, and that meant she was a minute late. He looked at his watch anyway. She was one minute and fifteen seconds late. The Red Panda looked up into the low-hanging mist above him for the first time. His hand moved to the side of his mask, as if to activate the infrared lenses, and thought better of it. He looked back towards the street for a moment, not really thinking about what he was seeing. He almost looked at his watch again when he heard it. From far above, just the slightest note of a joyful
Whoop
on the wind.

He stood stock still, his eyes tearing at the sky for another moment before she appeared, rolling from one low cloud into another. The angle she was stretched out on said her circles of the building would be wide and slow, as befit the lack of visibility. He waited a moment and she appeared again, below the haze at last. The Flying Squirrel’s lean, athletic shape stretched out across the night sky as she lo
oped down in lazy circles, the wind whipping in her face, the gliding membranes built into her costume taut with the strain, a smile of perfect contentment on the girl’s face. It was good to have a job you really loved.

She swooped in, circling one final time and
almost brushing against his fedora and she passed above him. He did not move or flinch. She was low now, and still moving too fast. She pulled her elbows down and allowed her gliders to billow like a pair of sails and pull her upright. She rolled with the momentum and flipped backwards once, firing the counter-charge in her Static Shoes as she twisted to return to a vertical position, mere inches above the ground. Sparks flew from the soles of her shoes for an instant, and she landed as softly as a cloud.

She walked forward with her momentum and turned to face him just as casually as if she were stepping off a bus. He resisted the urge to smile. That last bit with the mid-air flip had been just for him and he knew it, but he tried to look mildly disapproving.

“Didja miss me?” she asked coyly, walking toward him.

“You’re late,” he said flatly.

She smiled, and her toothy grin seemed to light up the night. “You missed me,” she said with a confidence she was not truly possessed of. She flipped the goggles on her flying helmet to the top of her cowl and gave her head a little shake. She had used these gliders almost every night since he had given them to her, but it was still a rush of adrenaline, even on a quiet night like this. She could feel a little sweat forming on her upper lip and brushed it away with her grey gloved hand as casually as she could as she looked up at him expectantly.

“Well?”
she asked.

He frowned. He had clearly missed something. “Well what?”
he asked.

“You have notes,” she said, matter-of-factly, her left hand on her hip.

“I do?” He tried not to sound surprised, before deciding that it would have been better to try not to sound confused.

She pursed her lips to one side and scrunched up her nose at him, buying none of it. “You watched me circle that whole way down, and that means you have a little something to say about it.”

“Ah,” he said wisely, stalling for time. It had not really occurred to him that he had been watching closely the entire time, but he knew that it was true. Almost any other person in the city would have watched, rapt, at the athletic wonder of the girl in flight, and fully half of the population would have been unable to look away from the unmistakably feminine shape that graced the form-fitting catsuit of the Flying Squirrel. But it was an activity in which he tried very hard not to indulge.

She looked up at him expectantly, braced for a critique. In an instant, he disliked that this was what she expected from him.

“No notes,” he said simply.

She cocked her head to one side, surprised. The ears on the top of her cowl waggled a little when she did so, and he tried not to notice it.

“Nothing?” she said, surprised and, he thought, perhaps a touch disappointed. Disappointed? What chance did this give him?

“The roll at the end seemed a little dramatic,” he said wryly, “but that was rather the point, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, Boss,” she beamed. “I toyed with swiping your hat.”

“I could tell,” he said, stone-faced.

“One of these days I’m going to do it, you know,” she said.

“That will be an interesting day,” he nodded.

She smiled and broke to the left a bit, to look over the edge of the rooftop. She stretched her arms as she did so, but stopped and suddenly spun around on her heels to face him again.

“So if you have no notes,” she said, with her chin tucked in and looking up at him with her brown eyes as big as dinner plates, “what were you looking at all that time?”

She was vamping a little, and clearly teasing him. Had anyone else been watching, it would also have been clear to them that the Flying Squirrel was not really kidding. It sounded like she was, but she wasn’t. Not really. And just about anyone else watching the two of them would have known it in an instant. But not him.

“Kit Baxter, behave yourself,” he scolded. He could feel his ears grow hot, but felt certain that she couldn’t see
them in the darkness.

She grinned and held her hands up in mock protest. “I’m just sayin’…” she trailed off.

The Red Panda drew himself up to his considerable height, and gave the distinct impression that he was done being teased. “Just because I didn’t see any mistakes, doesn’t mean that I wasn’t watching for them,” he said sternly.

“Oh,” she said, her smile fading.

“You just didn’t make any,” he said, trying to cushion his last statement. She shrugged a little. “Anyway,” he added, “if you did, I couldn’t tell. I don’t glide, you’re the expert.”

She seemed quite pleased by this, and turned back toward
the lights of the city with her chin just slightly in the air, and said nothing.

“Quiet tonight,” he offered.

“Very,” she said. “I even took a turn down the Danforth, it was like church on Saturday.”

“You flew across the valley?” He seemed surprised.

“Sure,” she said, “it’s beautiful at night. So dark and quiet.”

“Seems like a long glide,” he said
. “What if you ran out of steam?”

She looked at him quizzically. “I’d land in a tree and have a long walk home, I guess,” she said. “But I have
Static Shoes to help push, and I can catch a thermal and ride it like a hawk. I’m the expert, remember?” She smiled and batted her eyelashes at him.

“I’m the Boss,” he said
, “remember?”

She flashed a look up the length of him that was so quick she probably didn’t realize that she’d done it. “Sure,” she offered
, “I remember.”

He blinked beneath his mask, not quite knowing what to do with that, and turned back towards the city
lights. They stood in silence for a moment.

“Why don’t you?”
she asked at last.

“Why don’t I what?”
he asked, confused.

“Glide,” she said. “You built the things for me, why did you never whip up a pair for yourself?”

“I did,” he said.

She blinked at him in astonishment and said nothing.

“They didn’t work,” he said. “Too heavy. They were a promising failure that I pulled out of mothballs when I suddenly had a much smaller partner.”

“You never told me that,” she said, astonished.

“I was trying to get you to use them to jump off buildings,” he grinned. “I tried not to use words like
promising failure
.”

“It’s an interesting point,” she agreed, and turned back to the city stretched out before them.

“Besides,” he said, “they require the use of tights. And real men fight crime in a nice suit.”

“Yes
, Boss,” she grinned.

They watched the street for another moment.

“Quiet tonight,” she said.

“Yes,” he agreed.

“No gang activity, no supervillains, no crazed killer robots on a spree,” she continued.

“Yes,” he said again.

“Kinda boring, really,” she said.

“It is, a bit,” he nodded.

“I just jinxed it, didn’t I?” she asked.

“
Oh, I should think so,” he said.

“Good,” she smiled.

August Fenwick sat at a long
table surrounded by the city’s early editions. He was dressed in an elegant morning robe, though the strength of the sunlight that poured through the windows suggested that it might be closer to noon despite the breakfast trappings that still littered the table in the large and airy room. And while he looked like the very picture of indolence and idle wealth, Fenwick poured over the crime reports in the dailies spread out before him with the intensity of a predator on the hunt.

For August Fenwick lived a double life.
The only son of the city’s wealthiest family, he had grown to manhood secure in his privilege and his place. Not even the monster of a Depression that had torn so many lives asunder could shake the Fenwick fortune. He came from a long line of men, born to great wealth, who spent the balance of their lives amassing still more, and August Fenwick was never expected to be anything more or less than the latest branch on that tree of greed. Instead, he had chosen to devote his life to justice, to walk a road of danger and fight against impossible odds as the champion of those oppressed by these desperate times. He had trained his body to the peak of fitness and his mind in a dozen disciplines, and when at last he felt himself ready he had made an outlaw of himself, as any man must who truly fights for the honest citizen. Behind a crimson mask he lived a life of secret adventure as the Red Panda, but as devoted as he was to his work, mornings came early and were not always kind.

From the door to his left there was a small noise. Fenwick ignored it and continued reading, searching for any clue that might set him upon the scent of crime, and finding little but padded column inches in every paper in town. Toronto was
enjoying a quiet spell, that much seemed certain.

The small noise came again, and seemed to last a little longer. Fenwick’s eyebrows furrowed in annoyance. The noise came once again, and was finally distinct enough for it to occur to him that it was the sound of a man clearing his throat. Fenwick dropped his paper, and the man who had made the noise jumped in response. It was one of the young men of his household, with an older man behind him dressed in a conservative black suit and holding a bowler hat in his hand. Fenwick frowned. He wasn’t expecting any bankers.

“Yes?” he asked.

The young man squirmed. “Begging your pardon, sir,” he began
, “but a Mister Weston is here, sir. About the position.”

Fenwick blinked at the
servant and said nothing.

“The
head butler, sir,” the young man said. “Mister Sterling’s replacement.”

“Ah!” Fenwick considered the older man in a new light. His face was calm and impassive and graced with an extremely well cared-for
moustache. There was no note of surprise upon his face at finding the master of the house in his dressing gown surrounded by newspapers, or still at breakfast at this hour. This struck Fenwick as an acceptable way to begin. He didn’t mind being disapproved of, he just didn’t care to hear about it. He snapped the newspaper, making the young man jump again, and thrust the crime report to one side.

“Right,” he said. “Show him in.”

The young man made an impossibly awkward display of not quite knowing what to do, since Mister Weston already
was
in. At last he waved his hand, as if showing Weston into the room, and Weston took another step forward, effectively letting the young man off the hook. The young man smiled at Weston wanly and retired immediately. The older man stood quietly, awaiting his prospective employer’s inquiry.

“Weston, you say?” Fenwick began without getting up.

“Yes, sir,” the older man said with a pleasant nod.

“I know you, don’t I?” Fenwick said with a pull at his coffee, which had grown stone cold. “We have met.”

Weston smiled, as if pleased. “We have indeed, sir.”

“The Gardeners,” Fenwick said, recalling it at last. “You’re the Gardeners
’ man.”

Weston nodded. “I was so for many years
, sir,” he agreed.

“That’s quite a household,” Fenwick said, putting his cup down and pushing it away. “Large staff, a lot of responsibility.”

“Yes, sir,” Weston said. He didn’t exactly smile, but his moustache moved, and Fenwick could tell that he was pleased.

“So what happened?” Fenwick asked,
leaning back in his chair.

“Sir?” The
moustache settled in quite a different place, and Fenwick felt sure that the smile was gone.

“A man of your experience does not come on the job market very often, Mister Weston,” Fenwick said casually. “So what happened?”

Weston shifted slightly. “I could not say, sir,” he said.

Fenwick smiled. “Come now,” he said
, “we’re both men of the world. Was there some sort of scandal?”

Weston’s eyes grew grave. “No
, sir,” he said simply. There was no conflict to be seen in those eyes, no indignation at the suggestion of impropriety, no outward sign of anything but that he simply did not know the answer to the question. Which was a lie, but a noble one. Fenwick had thought to press this a little further, but couldn’t bring himself to do it.

“Or is it just possible that the Gardeners
’ estate has been foreclosed at last?” Fenwick asked calmly.

“I could not say, sir,” Weston said again.

“No, but I can,” Fenwick said. “I’ve known the Gardeners since I was a boy. They have had great difficulty, but they speak the world of you. And in spite of the fact that the household you spent your life in service to quite suddenly evaporated through no fault of your own, and that positions are not as plentiful as they once were, you still could not bring yourself to discuss their financial problems with a relative stranger.”

Weston said nothing.

“All right,” Fenwick nodded, “that seems just as it should be. But I don’t mind telling you, Mister Weston, we’ve had no end of trouble with butlers lately, and I find myself a little sick and tired of the subject. You knew Thompson?”

“Indeed I did
, sir, if only casually.” Thompson had been the head butler at the Fenwick Estate for decades, and though he was much older than Weston, their positions would have made the two social equals.

“He asked me to help him find a position in the country,” Fenwick said
. “For his health.”

“Yes
, sir,” Weston replied.

“And to be quite candid,” Fenwick said
, “by the time he went, I wasn’t sorry to see the back of him.”

“No
, sir,” Weston said simply.

Fenwick regarded Weston again for a moment, trying to tell
, without resorting to the mental powers of his alter ego, if the older man knew of his running conflicts with Thompson, or was simply being agreeable. He honestly couldn’t tell. The man seemed quite inscrutable.

“And Sterling
, his replacement, departed for a post in Montreal, which I was extremely pleased to help him arrange.” Fenwick smiled, but his meaning was entirely clear. One of them should try and be entirely clear, or it wouldn’t be much of a conversation. Sterling had worn out his welcome at the Fenwick Mansion with a speed that would be the subject of conversation for many years, at least among people with an interest in such things, and had taken a considerably more junior position in another city by the end of it all. Weston had to be aware of all of this.

“To be frank,” Fenwick said, settling back in his chair, “I am strongly considering not staffing the position at all, and just be done with it.”

Weston raised an eyebrow, but stood quietly for a moment. “Permission to speak freely, sir?” he said at last.

It was a formal request, and a bit military, but following upon Weston’s inscrutability, Fenwick found
frankness an impossible prospect to resist. “Yes, all right,” he said.

“Please understand
, sir, it is not a privilege which I request lightly. May I ask you several questions, sir?”

Fenwick nodded.

“What would you say was the approximate temperature of the coffee in that cup, sir?” Weston asked.

Fenwick smiled and said nothing.

“And exactly how long have you been allowed to sit surrounded by your breakfast leavings?” Weston asked, his moustache bristling.

Fenwick raised an eyebrow of his own. “I frequently rise late, Mister Weston,” he said
, “and choose upon occasion to take considerable time with the newspapers upon doing so.”

“Forgive me
, sir,” Weston began, “my problem was not with you sitting, or your presence at the table. A man may sit and read the paper in his own home for as long as he pleases. But he need not compete for space with dirty dishes while he does so.”

Fenwick looked around and saw that it was true, nothing had been cleared, and it had been quite some time.

“They have taken to clearing the table when I am finished,” Fenwick said.

“I daresay they have,” Weston said. “I imagine they have taken to doing a number of things which you have not yet had cause to take notice of. A
head butler is more than a manservant. He is a commanding officer. The head of the household staff.”

“I always imagined that
I
was the head of the household staff,” Fenwick said dryly.

Weston nodded. “And when the household is running smoothly, that is just how you should feel,” he said. “But when things begin to go off the rails, and
it becomes clear that you do not know exactly what is wrong or who is responsible for it, that is when you realize that this is not a position for which you are trained, in which you have an interest, or to which you have sufficient hours in the day to properly devote.”

Fenwick smiled. He was beginning to like this one. “Example,” he said.

“The young man who showed me in,” Weston said, without missing a beat, “can you tell me his name, sir?”

“I believe it is David,” Fenwick said.

“It may indeed be so, sir,” Weston nodded. “However he introduced himself to me as Roger.”

“Ah,” Fenwick said. “Well, I’m sure there is a David somewhere.”

“Yes, sir,” Weston said, his moustache waggling ever so slightly. “Do you know what his job is?”

Fenwick frowned. “Roger?”
he asked.

Weston
nodded. “Or David, either one,” he said.

There was a small pause. “He is a
footman,” Fenwick said at last.

“Very good
, sir,” Weston smiled. “I think that might have been a bit of a guess, but yes, he is indeed a footman. Can you tell me what a footman does?”

There was no reply, but Fenwick was still smiling.

“And if you do not know, how will you know if Roger is doing it or not?” Weston was gaining steam now. “And if he does not, will you fire David in response?”

Fenwick crossed his arms and sat back still further in his chair.

“It has been but a short time since Mister Sterling departed,” Weston said, “and already things are not being done, and others not being done properly. Footmen are rather awkwardly showing people, unannounced, into a room with dishes upon the table. And forgive me, sir, if I have the impression that you had quite forgotten about this meeting, and there is no reason why you should not have. It is someone’s job to remind you, sir. It is someone’s job to ensure that your large and efficient staff do their jobs to the very best of their abilities, knowing that someone is watching, and taking personal responsibility to the Master for the quality of their work. That is what I do, Mister Fenwick, and whether or not you wish for me to do it here, you do need
someone
to do it, sir. You need it rather badly.”

“As
long as we are speaking frankly, Weston,” Fenwick said, leaning forward in his chair and resting his arms upon the table before him, “I wonder what you know about the real source of the conflict between Sterling, Thompson and myself?”

Weston bristled slightly. “I’m not certain it is entirely proper-”

“It is more than proper,” Fenwick said, “it is necessary.”

“I am not a gossip, Mister Fenwick,” the older man protested.

“Of course not,” Fenwick said, “but one hears things. And it isn’t gossip if you’re actually talking to
me
about it. Come now. Let us speak as men do.”

Weston regarded the young man calmly.

“You have a lady driver, sir,” he began, “Miss Baxter, I believe. I have not seen her, but I am told that to simply describe her as
pretty
is an understatement that borders upon the cruel.”

“Weston,” Fenwick said
, “you have a touch of the poet in your soul.”

The moustache waggled again. “Never,” he protested. “As your driver, she is compel
led to keep your hours and to spend many of those hours alone with you, unsupervised.”

“Yes, she
is,” Fenwick said, “and does.”

“Mister Sterling and Mister Thompson found that impossible to accept,” Weston said.