Tales of the Red Panda: The Crime Cabal (2 page)

At last, there he stood, not three feet away, towering above Reynard.
The long grey coat, the immaculate suit beneath and the grey fedora impossibly
still perched on his head. The bright red gauntlets and domino mask. And those
terrible eyes. It was
him
. The man
that fifty gunmen had watched for and guarded against, and all in vain.

It was the Red Panda.

The right gauntlet thrust forward at unbelievable speed, gripping
Reynard by the throat. The left hand lashed out in a crimson blur and sent the
Thompson clattering to the floor. Reynard stared in disbelief at the cold,
white eyes hovering behind the colorful mask. This… this thing couldn’t be
human, could it? No one could do what he did. No living man could have eyes
like that. He could feel his entire body shaking, but was powerless to make it
stop. Beneath the mask, Reynard could see the smile playing about his
tormentor’s face.

“You’re afraid, aren’t you, Mitch Reynard?” the masked man said
quietly, in a voice like a far-off roll of thunder. Reynard started. It knew
his name. Mitch Reynard: career criminal, multiple murderer, proud parasite
upon the living city, soldier in the Sclareli mob. Despite himself, Mitch
Reynard began to quietly sob. The creature of the night that suspended him
above the floor in a vice-like grip made no effort to conceal his amusement.

“You fear the Red Panda, do you not?” came the voice again.

Mitch could only sputter and nod.

“As well you might. For you have much to answer for, Mitch Reynard.”

The weeping gangster became quieter, calmer, as the voice washed over
him, smooth and even-toned. Reynard could feel something… a coldness…

“All who cause the innocent to suffer in the name of greed will be made
to answer, Reynard.” The voice seemed so far away now.

…No, not cold… a… numbness… creeping tendrils of another mind in his…

“The Red Panda is coming to make you pay, Mitch Reynard.”

There were cries from below. The remnants of the Sclareli mob were
getting organized for a last offensive – a final push up the stairs to
finish off the masked intruder in their midst who had suddenly vanished.

“But I am not the Red Panda.”

Mitch could not bring himself to question this. Of course this was not
the Red Panda.

“I am your trusted associate. Don’t you recognize me?”

Mitch smiled in warm relief. It was good to see a friendly face.

“But he is here. Dozens of him. Coming this way.”

The gangster’s brows furrowed in confusion for just a moment.

“He’s not just one man. He’s a small army. Can’t you hear them coming?”

Mitch could hear them. Hear them creeping up towards the catwalk. Of
course – it all made sense now. No one man could have fought such a war
on crime and the gangs of men who controlled it. No one man. An army. And they
were here!

“They will take you, if you let them, Mitch Reynard. And they will make
you pay. Pay for every wrong thing you have ever done, even the ones you think
no one knows about. If you let them.” The voice felt closer now. Like a warm
whisper in Reynard’s ear that fanned the almost extinguished fires of his
courage. Reynard felt strong. Stronger than he had in years. The great gloved
hand set him back upon his feet and patted him on the shoulder.

“You won’t let them, will you, Mitch?”

Reynard shook his head slowly, as if it took all of his concentration.
He moved as one in a daze to his right and picked up the Thompson. At last he
had the strength to use it. At last. He crept to the edge of the catwalk.
There… just past the shadows… there was the Red Panda. Two of them. And there
were more, coming from the left. And another, on the ground with a rifle. One
of them suddenly looked up.

“Mitch!” called the masked man.

As Mitch Reynard opened fire, the roar of the submachine gun almost
drowned out the ringing peals of laughter from somewhere far above.

Minutes later, as the sounds of furious battle continued, a small,
lithe shape moved quietly through Vic Sclareli’s inner sanctum. The Red Panda
watched from the shadows as it padded, almost silently, towards an oversized
portrait of Vic’s uncle Tony, the founder of the Sclareli criminal empire who
currently resided in a maximum security penitentiary for his trouble.
Grey-gloved hands lifted the portrait down to reveal a wall safe behind. The
hands set the painting on the floor, against the wall. For a moment, the garish
colors served to highlight the silhouette of the cat burglar. It was a pleasant
sort of a shape – female, athletic and yet softly curved. If the masked
man took note of any of that, he gave no outward sign. Her gloved hands began
to work the safe. The roar of gunfire in the outer chambers continued, muted
though it was by the cork-lined walls of Sclareli’s office.

The Red Panda stepped forward from the shadows, gliding silently
towards the intruder. With both stealth and speed he moved towards the girl.
Again, the smile played upon his face. She could have no idea he was here.

“How am I supposed to crack this safe with you making that racket?”
came a voice that was equal parts sass and laughter. “Or is that you being
quiet?”

The Red Panda smiled ruefully. His partner either had remarkable
hearing or that was a very lucky guess. He decided to presume the former.

“How are we doing?” he asked coldly.

“Not bad. Most of what we need is in a pile on the desk,” said the
Flying Squirrel with a glance back and a smile. “I thought you were keeping
them busy.”

“Don’t they sound busy?” came the reply as he pulled a folding satchel
from the depths of his coat.

“Who’s the shooter?” the masked young woman at the safe asked casually.

“Mitch Reynard,” replied the Red Panda, as he quickly scanned the files
his partner had selected before placing them into the satchel.

“Mitch Reynard? You big softie.” The Flying Squirrel’s voice was
amused, but not disappointed. “He’s the worst shot in gangland. He’d be lucky
to hit the broad side of a barn at ten paces.”

“It’s still safer in here,” he said, as he completed his task.

“And here I thought you just missed me,” she sighed as she turned the
latch and opened the safe. “Are we interested in any cash or negotiables
today?”

“I think we’re covered. Grab the ledger and burn the rest.”

“You rich boys don’t know the value of a dollar, do you?” There was a
note of genuine disdain in her voice. He tried to think where he’d gone wrong.
She turned her head in his direction, her steel grey cowl that blended
perfectly into her catsuit turned to the side, waiting. He tried not to smile
at the false ears on her cowl as they waggled at him slightly.

“All right, grab the ledger, burn the bonds and we’ll drop the cash off
at St. Michael’s.” He was fairly sure she was after the Robin Hood play.

“That’s my Boss. He gets there in the end. Your ledger, sahib.” She
handed him a thick black tome that, together with the other documents in the
bag, spelled doom for Sclareli’s rackets.

“Good work, Squirrel. This should be the end of the Sclareli crime
family once and for all.”

“Nothin’ personal, Boss, but we’ve said that before. Of course, if
‘dead shot’ Reynard has his way…” As if on cue, the roar of the machine gun
stopped, leaving only an echo in its wake. They exchanged a look. Without a
word, she grabbed the last stack of bills and thrust it into her own satchel as
he produced a small, round device from the folds of his coat. He depressed a
button and the ball began to whir.

“Down!” ordered the Red Panda calmly, and he threw the incendiary into
the safe. The remainder of Sclareli’s nest egg went up in flames.

As the wail of police sirens descended on the
place, two almost-invisible shapes leaped from the rooftop and were swallowed
up into the night. If the arriving policemen heard the far-off peals of
laughter as they stormed the broken fortress, they gave no outward sign.

Police Chief O’Mally stormed along the crowded sidewalk like a man in a
great hurry. Two aides followed behind him, trying to keep up with the large,
thick-necked form. The crowd seemed to part before him, some because they knew
of his position, but most because the scowl on O’Mally’s face would make anyone
think twice before crossing his path.

Almost anyone. Twenty yards from O’Mally’s destination, a tall, lanky
man leaned against a red brick wall. The pleasant smirk on his face said it
all; he knew the storm that was coming, and had no intention of heading for the
hills. O’Mally’s shoulders seemed to barrel down just a little at the sight of
the man, like a linebacker, as if he intended to ram straight through any
attempt to impede his progress.

If the lanky man noticed the change in his quarry’s posture, he didn’t
seem terribly impressed. He pushed himself away from the wall and loped
forward, matching the police chief’s pace with long, easy steps.

“Chief O’Mally… Jack Peters,
Toronto
Chronicle
,” the man said through a smile.

“I know who you are, Mister Peters,” growled the Chief. “I have nothing
to say to you.”

“You did see the banner article in the paper today?” Peters asked,
knowing full well what the answer would be.

“I saw it, Mister Peters. I saw it and several other, much better
written articles very much like it. Like yours, the others were rife with
factual errors that my office would have been pleased to address had any of you
thought to consult us.”

O’Mally’s aides were frantically trying to catch up to deflect Jack
Peters’ questions. They needn’t have bothered. Their boss had things well in
hand.

“I did feel, however, that your article, as befits the paper for which
you work, stood out as having the most lurid prose, and the most glaring
grammatical errors.”

O’Mally was good at this. He had closed most of the distance to the
front drive of the Club Macaw. In a few more steps, he would be in an area
reserved for members and guests. Jack Peters was neither, and O’Mally had given
him not one word to print. Peters could see what was coming and quickened his
stride. He reached the Club’s gates just ahead of O’Mally and blocked the
Chief’s advance with a long, thin arm.

“Come on, O’Mally. Every paper in town is screaming that the Red Panda
broke up the Sclareli gang last night. They say the Crown Prosecutor found
enough evidence on his desk this morning to lock the whole gang away for twenty
years. And all I want to know is when you’ll admit that the Red Panda is
working for the public good?”

A few passersby had slowed to watch the men talking. O’Mally’s hands
had clenched into fists when his path was blocked, but they relaxed now and he
smiled, just a little, at the intrepid reporter. He leaned in just slightly, as
if sharing a private joke.

“Not much call for one-armed newspapermen around here, is there, Jack?”

Jack Peters drew himself up for a moment, and immediately thought
better of it. He could see that O’Mally was in no mood to play. A voice came
from behind him.

“Excuse me sir, would you kindly not block the entrance?” It was a
large man in a formal doorman’s uniform. The polite manner was clearly an act.
Peters held the Chief’s eye for just a moment.

“Sure,” he said finally. “Have a nice lunch, Chief O’Mally.”

O’Mally sighed. “My aides will be happy to give you a statement, Mister
Peters.”

Peters looked at the pair of officials. They did look pleased. He would
learn nothing from these two departmental spokesmen, but it might give him
something to print.

“Thanks, Chief,” he said with a wave over his shoulder as he took out
his notebook. O’Mally moved past the doorman into the courtyard of the Club
Macaw, a gentleman’s club for many of the city’s elite. O’Mally smiled
ruefully. They had made him a member when he became the Chief of Police, mostly
at the request of the Mayor, who seemed to use the Club as a second office and
wanted his high officials at his beck and call. O’Mally was no politician; he
was a career cop and a good one, if a little stubborn and a great deal stuck in
his ways. He led his force as well as he could against the legions of crime in
the city, but some days it just didn’t pay to get out of bed. He made his way
toward the front door.

“Mornin’ Chief!” sang a voice to his right.

O’Mally turned quickly at the sound of the voice, his whole posture
changing and his ears already turning just a little red. There behind him was a
girl in a form-fitting black chauffeur’s uniform, casually shining the hood of
the most absurdly enormous limousine on the premises. She smiled at him as she
worked, going momentarily cross-eyed as she blew aside a long curl of red hair
that had freed itself from under her cap. It was impossible not to stop and
greet Kit Baxter, and O’Mally made no effort to try.

“Good morning, Miss Baxter. And a fine morning it is,” he beamed.

The girl glanced skyward. “It’s a little grey,” she countered.

“Is it?” O’Mally seemed genuinely surprised for a moment. “I mean, yes,
it is, but a fine morning nonetheless.” The Chief recovered, but neither
quickly nor well, and the girl tried not to smile at it.

“I expect you’re a happy man today. I hear you nabbed the Sclareli
gang.”

“What’s that?” The Chief’s ears were quite dark red now. “Well, not
exactly…”

“Not exactly? I heard the whole gang had been rounded up.”

“Well, yes, Miss Baxter. They have at that.”

“Aw, you’re just being modest, aren’t you?” the girl said in a manner
that left the Chief not at all sure she wasn’t playing with him.

“Well, of course, my men were on the scene,” he said, puffing up just a
little in spite of himself.

“I knew it. I told my Ma the cops must’ve been working with the Red
Panda.”

“The…,” O’Mally sputtered. “Working with…”

Kit turned her back to O’Mally as if she were putting the chamois away.
She bit her lip hard to keep from laughing at the Chief’s discomfort.

“We… that is… I…”

“Hallo, O’Mally,” came a voice from the direction of the club. For the
first time ever, O’Mally was relieved to see August Fenwick, Kit Baxter’s
employer. One of the city’s wealthiest young men, Fenwick was a member of the
desperately idle rich for whom Chief O’Mally had no patience at all. Given how
few problems people like this had, and the disproportionate amount of his time
and energy they demanded, it was a small wonder. Fenwick was, as always,
immaculately groomed and clothed with a casual elegance which suggested to a
working man like O’Mally that getting dressed was probably the greatest effort
this specimen would expend all day. O’Mally looked at the young man’s face. If
Fenwick looked a little tired, O’Mally was sure it was from his well-known
activities as a ne’er-do-well. But on this occasion, he had rescued the Chief
from a line of questioning O’Mally wanted nothing to do with.

“Good morning to you, sir,” O’Mally said with a nod. The young man
paused at the door of the limousine, never taking his hands from his pockets,
as his lovely young chauffeur made her way around the car.

“I say, O’Mally, that was awfully good work in the papers today.”

“Thank you, Fenwick.” O’Mally seemed to be waiting for the other shoe
to drop.

“Yes, getting that sort of organized criminal element out of the city
gives me real peace of mind.” August Fenwick smiled almost serenely.

“Well, I’m pleased to hear that, sir,” O’Mally said, trying very hard
not to show how little that revelation mattered to him.

Kit Baxter had reached the door and opened it for her employer. Unlike
most servants O’Mally saw around the Club Macaw, she always spoke freely.

“I was just telling Chief O’Mally how glad I was to see him working
with the Red Panda,” she said, with another winning smile at the Chief.

“The thing about that is–,” began O’Mally, before being cut off.

“The Red Panda? Oh, Kit, don’t be ridiculous,” Fenwick scoffed. “To
think the police force would ally itself with a masked vigilante like that.”

“Thank you, sir.” O’Mally breathed his relief. It was short-lived.

“Why, I’ve told you before, there’s no such thing as the Red Panda.”

O’Mally was sputtering again. “No… no such thing…?”

“Of course,” Fenwick said, climbing into the car. “Perfectly absurd. I
recognize, O’Mally, that the police force cannot always fully protect the
people of Toronto within the bounds of the law. I’m quite sure this ‘Red Panda’
is an invention of your own department to shield some cases where your methods
are… unconventional. People have simply latched on to it. Sells papers,” said
the man, tapping the copy of the
Chronicle
under his arm.

Chief O’Mally sputtered a little more.

“Well done,” Fenwick called again as his chauffeur shut the door. She
made her way to the driver’s door and lowered herself in with a wink to the
Chief that sent his ears back into a deep crimson shade.

“Chief O’Mally?” It was the doorman at his arm. “The Mayor is waiting.”

O’Mally sighed. It just got better and better.

As the limousine pulled away, Kit Baxter looked back in the mirror. The
casual laziness of the figure that had been lolling in the back seat was gone.
In its place was an energy like a caged tiger, and eyes that burned with an
intensity Chief O’Mally would have never recognized.

“You’re terrible,” she said, her eyes lingering in the mirror a little
longer than they should.

“Me?” said August Fenwick, the unmistakable smirk of the Red Panda
spreading across his face. “What about you? One day you’ll make that man’s ears
explode.”

“Maybe. If I don’t get a better offer,” she said with a teasing tone.

The Red Panda chewed the inside of his lip to keep from smiling.

“Kit Baxter, behave yourself,” he scolded.

“Yes, Boss,” she said, not meaning it. “Where to?”

“To the lair,” came the voice from the rear
seat. “We’ve got work to do.