Tales of the Red Panda: The Android Assassins (4 page)

The constant low chatter around the table made
distinguishing individual words nearly impossible, but the tone was clear. The
men seated around the great mahogany table in the Club Macaw's conference room
were grave, worried and becoming angry.

Marcus Bennett was there, still looking ashen after his
brush with doom. To his right sat Gilbert MacKinnon, whose company ran much of
the shipping in and out of Toronto
Harbor.
MacKinnon's
close-cropped grey beard was twisted in frustration as he leaned to his right
to hear what Byron Page was saying. Like MacKinnon, Page also ran a line of
lake freighters and held a great number of railway interests besides. He had
brought detailed reports of several mishaps that had befallen his company of
late and had passed them around for the rest of the committee to consider, as
had Arthur Welles, seated to Page's right. Welles was a generation younger than
most of the table, having assumed the mantle of his family manufacturing empire
upon his father's death a year before. Thus far his reign had not been all that
he had imagined it might be.

Stanley Church, bald and taciturn, had not bothered to bring
along details of his own company's recent misfortunes. The collapse of the
Masterson Tower had been a public event and had received a great deal of unkind
attention from the press, much of it directed towards Church's construction
interests. In addition to the loss of life and the huge financial setback to
the project, the accident had cost his company millions in new contracts and he
was now having trouble with his workers. Church's construction interests were
vast but his company could not stand much more loss, and Stanley Church knew
it.

To Church's right was a small mousey man with thick
spectacles and an oversize tweed jacket, which made him appear even more
dwarfish. The fact that this man was Quincy Harrison, the weapons manufacturing
magnate, would have astonished any who did not know him, but within the
well-heeled confines of the Club Macaw there were no such strangers. He spoke
nervously with a pale man with a well-trimmed van Dyke beard. Ian James' family
fortune had its roots in long-forgotten history, but it had been as battered by
the Depression as many others. James had sunk what remained into developing one
of the finest research and development laboratories in the country, and already
had recovered much of what had been lost in the stock market crash in the
process. Word was that
many of the innovations that had come
out of his company were pioneered by James' own son
, but the wealthy man
preferred not to discuss such things. Lab coats were not, he felt, the
dignified apparel of a man of means.

To say that everyone was a little surprised by the presence
of the man to James' right was something of an understatement. August Fenwick
did not have a reputation for being at all interested in anything even remotely
serious. Like Welles, he was a generation younger than most of the table, but
unlike the industrious Arthur Welles, Fenwick seemed concerned with nothing
beyond his own pleasure. Even now he appeared to have barely made it to the
first meeting of this committee. To look at Mister Fenwick, one could only
assume that he had been out all night indulging his reputation as a
ne'er-do-well. No one believed that his presence would be of benefit to the
committee, but when he had expressed an interest, it was quite impossible to
say no. His family's holdings were vast and varied, and his fortune almost
untouched by the calamities of recent years. Every man at the table had
dealings with one of his companies or another, and Fenwick himself owned shares
in everything. Let him come, the men of industry had thought, assuming that he
would soon get bored and wander off.

In this, the members of the committee were deeply mistaken.
For the rich young man named August Fenwick was now little more than a thin
character sketch, maintained to cover what the man seated in their midst now
considered to be his true identity. August Fenwick was the Red Panda!

Far from holding late hours at some nightclub, Fenwick had
been awake most of the night running his investigation into the tragic turn of
events of the night before. He had even considered skipping the committee
meeting in favor of focusing on the return of their old foe Captain Clockwork,
but in the end Kit had persuaded him to come. The men at the table thought he
was lounging in his place, enjoying a cup of the Club Macaw's excellent coffee.
They had no idea that he could follow every conversation at the table
simultaneously, scouring each of them for any clue in the matter of this fiend
who called himself the Viper. So intently was he engaged in this activity that
he almost failed to notice when Chief
O'Mally
walked
in the room, and it was only the sudden end of several of the conversations
that drew his attention.

“Well,
O'Mally
,” MacKinnon said
crossly, “I'm pleased you could finally join us.”

O'Mally
looked flustered and went
beet-red for a moment as he struggled for a reply. His defense came from an
unexpected quarter.

“I think that you will find, gentlemen, that Chief
O'Mally
has been engaged in the matter of the mechanical
men much ballyhooed in the morning papers,” August Fenwick said lazily. “I
should be very surprised to learn that he had slept, and the fact that he is in
attendance here at all is a sure sign of the gravity with which he views this
situation.”

Apart from greeting his fellows upon arriving, these were
the first words spoken by young Fenwick, and as such they left the table a
little taken aback. But when they had dealt with their surprise, the men of the
committee nodded gravely in agreement.

Chief
O'Mally
looked gratefully at
August Fenwick and took the remaining empty chair to Fenwick's right. He had
little time or patience for this specimen under normal circumstances, but there
was no doubt in
O'Mally's
mind that an angry response
from the Chief to MacKinnon's rebuke would have helped nothing, and would have
made what was to follow a great deal more difficult. He was a tough man, but
fair, and he was prepared to give August Fenwick the benefit of the doubt.

“Thank you, Mister Fenwick, and you happen to be right. For
those of you unaware of the situation, eighteen people are dead and a hundred
more injured after the most bizarre and unmotivated attack upon the citizenry
that I can recall.”
O'Mally
was gruff but civil. “Of
course, I continue to be concerned about this man who calls himself the Viper,
but–”

“There were twenty-nine killed on the New York Special,” Marcus
Bennett said quietly but forcefully, cutting the Chief off.

Gilbert MacKinnon, who seemed to have appointed himself
chairman of the committee, took up the theme. “And, of course, there was a
substantial loss of life when the Masterson tower collapsed, to say nothing of
the fire at the Welles plant or the accidents suffered by Page's companies.
Every one of those workers killed or maimed was also a citizen, Chief
O'Mally
, and every bit as deserving of your protection.”

Chief
O'Mally
squirmed in his
chair and said nothing.

Ian James took up the thread. “I know that you look around
this room and see a collection of wealthy men motivated by self-interest,
O'Mally
. And I know that the newspapers would not look
kindly upon our concerns when there are men and women about the city living in
fear of tin soldiers. But those journals are misguided,
O'Mally
.
The companies and financial empires represented at this table by a few old men
feed and clothe a great percentage of the ordinary people of Toronto. And many
more are dependent upon those employees spending their
paycheques
for their own livelihoods.” James acknowledged the general grumble of agreement
about the table and met Chief
O'Mally's
gaze with a
cold stare. “I think that it is fair to say that a man who gained control of
our combined operations would effectively own this city. And that the
consequences for Toronto, should our companies be allowed to fail, would be as
dire as the collapse of the stock market was.”

O'Mally
shook his head a little.
“I'm sorry, Mister James, but are we really discussing that as a possibility?”
he asked in disbelief.

“That is exactly where we are,” Arthur Welles said frankly.
“The damage to our main plant has meant we have lost a number of important
contracts, along with our reputation for reliability that has served us well in
signing new projects. Frankly, we are having more than a little difficulty with
liquidity.”

The Chief's brows knit at the unfamiliar term. August
Fenwick saw this and answered
O'Mally's
unspoken
question quietly. “The money required for day-to-day business, Chief,” he said.

Stanley Church scowled. “The banks won't advance credit
because they can't afford to take chances. They are hanging on by a thread
themselves. Times are hard, Chief
O'Mally
, but if
this 'Viper' succeeds, they will become a great deal harder, and not just for
the men in this room. The whole city could be plunged into a chaos that would
make your tin soldier problem pale in comparison.”

“Or, as I say,” James insisted, “the city could fall completely
under a single individual's control. That must be the Viper's plan.”

O'Mally
held up his hands. “Now,
wait, please, Mister James. Gentlemen,” he said, “at the moment we have
desperately little information on this man who calls himself the Viper. It
seems certain that he was responsible for the destruction of Bennett's aircraft
and the murder of the passengers and crew in the process. But as for his claims
of responsibility for other recent misfortunes, we have no proof at all beyond
an oblique reference in his threat note to Bennett.”

Stanley Church brought his fist down upon the table, hard.
“My company has never faced a disaster like the Masterson Tower. Never!” he
thundered. “It is too much to be a coincidence!”

“And yet it may be exactly that, Mister Church. There is no
common thread between these accidents.”
O'Mally
was
stern, but he was pleading for calm.

“With respect, Chief
O'Mally
, that
is not entirely true.”

The room fell silent as every man turned in surprise towards
August Fenwick, who let a sheepish half-smile creep across his face just for an
instant. “Forgive me,” the billionaire said quietly, “but I have glanced at the
summaries brought by Page and Welles, and have recalled newspaper stories of
the other matters, and a thought occurs.”

“Well?”
O'Mally
almost sighed.

“In every case, access to the site of the disaster was
restricted,” Fenwick began. “Only those trusted by the company, and themselves
vulnerable to any mishap, were allowed near the key location. All were valued
employees with long service. And in every case, the aftermath of the accident
was so severe, that more than a few bodies could not be identified, and of
some, no trace at all has been found.”

“I say, Fenwick,” Arthur Welles said, “a bit morbid, don't
you think?”

“That all seems quite common,” Gilbert MacKinnon tried to
steer the conversation away. Fenwick would have none of it.

“Is it, gentlemen? I confess I am no kind of expert on the
subject, but
is
it really that common for bodies to be
completely obliterated? Common enough that when it happens four times in a row,
it does not bear some thought?”

Chief
O'Mally
drummed his fingers
on the mahogany table slowly, as if lost in thought. “Well, I'll give you that,
Mister Fenwick. It may mean something, though for the moment I cannot imagine
just what. But it is… interesting.” He looked up and addressed the table at
large. “Then we are all in agreement, gentlemen, about just how serious this
threat to our city may be.” There was a general assent from the group.
O'Mally
continued, “Then I must remind you all of the need
to share information, and not just after the fact, as we are today. Mister
Bennett received a warning from this 'Viper', and chose to keep it to himself.
The passengers of the New York Special paid a price for that secrecy.”

Marcus Bennett turned ashen at this, but nodded grimly.

O'Mally
continued. “If some of
your companies are as fragile as you suggest, then I must ask that you share
information with this committee – not just when the Viper decides to make
his intentions known, but before disaster strikes, so that we may know his
likely targets and protect them.”

Quincy Harrison raised his hand at this. “I don't know if
this is relevant, Chief
O'Mally
,” the little man
said, “but my company is demonstrating our new armored transport in just a few
days at our testing ground. It is a device long in development, and I do not
think it is an exaggeration to say that much of my company's immediate future
depends upon its success.” Harrison appeared very sheepish at this. “If the
Viper truly wished to do my company harm, it would be a very tempting target.”

“Excellent, Harrison!” boomed Chief
O'Mally
.
“Who else knows about this?”

“No more than a handful of senior managers. We have been
concerned about security, so most of our employees will only learn of the tests
on the day they are to happen and our dignitaries think they are coming to town
for a budget meeting.”

“Well done, Mister Harrison, well done indeed,”
O'Mally
beamed. “You will have the full support of my
police force, and if this 'Viper' does strike again, we will have him right
where we want him!”