Read Online Tales of the Red Panda: The Crime Cabal by Gregg Taylor - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gregg Taylor
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in,” a hard voice sang from the wings. A
woman’s voice. The assembled crowd of hoods buzzed once more as a dark-haired
woman strode forth from the shadows, a long, deep-green cloak billowing as she
moved, and clinging to her ample yet shapely form. She might have been as old
as forty, though something in her face defied such analysis.
“Gentlemen,” Malcolm said with a pleased sneer, “you all know Professor
Zombie.”
The effect on the room was immediate. Every man in the crowd took two
quick steps back without realizing they had done so. Had the devil himself
walked onto the stage, they might have taken as many as three.
Malcolm continued, “Scientist, visionary, mistress of the necromantic
arts. Her scientific analysis of ancient voodoo magic allows her to leech away
the higher powers of life, leaving only a shell behind to do her bidding. She
has created a small army of these zombies for the very purpose Mister Henderson
outlined.”
“They may not be terribly bright,” the woman interrupted, “but they’re
very determined and unquestionably loyal. Their pain threshold is off the
charts, their strength twice that of a normal man, and best of all… they don’t
ask for a cut of the take.”
The crowd was convinced. Now she was speaking their language. Malcolm
stepped into centre stage, his arms raised above his head in triumph.
“Gentlemen, I give you… The Crime Cabal!” he roared to thunderous
applause.
Nine
It was a week later, at nearly half past ten in the morning, when Kit
Baxter appeared in the doorway of a well-appointed dining room in a fashionable
district of the city. She squinted as she stepped into the broad sunbeam
pouring in through the large picture window and made her way towards the table
on the far side of the room. There was a time when she could not have helped
but realize that most of the house she had grown up in would likely fit inside
this opulent room. Even in the homes of the city’s finest families, this would
be considered a grand space. In this house, it was unofficially known among the
servants as the “breakfast nook,” as it was considered too modest to entertain
anyone worth having to dinner.
Not that the current resident of the Mansion entertained much in the
family home, but those who had been in the Fenwick family’s service since his
parents’ time could only remember and hope. Such a one was Thompson, the
butler, who stood near his master’s left shoulder awaiting instructions. It
was, of course, already an hour at which any respectable person should have
long-ago finished breakfast and begun their day, but Thompson was not one to judge
his betters. If the master of the house wished to play at gad-about for a few
years, it was the privilege of his position and his birth, and Thompson never
thought to disapprove.
He did, however, disapprove of Kit Baxter. He disapproved of her a
great deal. The head butler was considered to be the senior position in a
household such as this, and servants should know their place. So it had been
since Thompson had first entered service, and so it should always be as far as
he was concerned. But not only had the master defied tradition by taking on a
female chauffeur, but this young woman was scandalously familiar, spoke without
being spoken to and seemed to regard Thompson as a nuisance, or worse. He
glowered at her from under his great, flowing eyebrows as she sauntered into
the dining room without invitation, her driver’s cap still perched upon her
head. Perhaps it was the sunbeam in her eyes, but the butler’s gaze seemed to
have no effect.
“Mornin’ Boss!” she sang.
Thompson coughed his disapproval.
“Ah, Kit, there you are,” the master of the house said, draining his
coffee. “Have you had breakfast?”
Thompson’s cough of disapproval sputtered with surprise. Kit Baxter
seemed to catch that at least.
“Ah… yeah, thanks, Boss. I’m fine. Didya sleep all right?”
Thompson’s cough was
woman’s voice. The assembled crowd of hoods buzzed once more as a dark-haired
woman strode forth from the shadows, a long, deep-green cloak billowing as she
moved, and clinging to her ample yet shapely form. She might have been as old
as forty, though something in her face defied such analysis.
“Gentlemen,” Malcolm said with a pleased sneer, “you all know Professor
Zombie.”
The effect on the room was immediate. Every man in the crowd took two
quick steps back without realizing they had done so. Had the devil himself
walked onto the stage, they might have taken as many as three.
Malcolm continued, “Scientist, visionary, mistress of the necromantic
arts. Her scientific analysis of ancient voodoo magic allows her to leech away
the higher powers of life, leaving only a shell behind to do her bidding. She
has created a small army of these zombies for the very purpose Mister Henderson
outlined.”
“They may not be terribly bright,” the woman interrupted, “but they’re
very determined and unquestionably loyal. Their pain threshold is off the
charts, their strength twice that of a normal man, and best of all… they don’t
ask for a cut of the take.”
The crowd was convinced. Now she was speaking their language. Malcolm
stepped into centre stage, his arms raised above his head in triumph.
“Gentlemen, I give you… The Crime Cabal!” he roared to thunderous
applause.
Nine
It was a week later, at nearly half past ten in the morning, when Kit
Baxter appeared in the doorway of a well-appointed dining room in a fashionable
district of the city. She squinted as she stepped into the broad sunbeam
pouring in through the large picture window and made her way towards the table
on the far side of the room. There was a time when she could not have helped
but realize that most of the house she had grown up in would likely fit inside
this opulent room. Even in the homes of the city’s finest families, this would
be considered a grand space. In this house, it was unofficially known among the
servants as the “breakfast nook,” as it was considered too modest to entertain
anyone worth having to dinner.
Not that the current resident of the Mansion entertained much in the
family home, but those who had been in the Fenwick family’s service since his
parents’ time could only remember and hope. Such a one was Thompson, the
butler, who stood near his master’s left shoulder awaiting instructions. It
was, of course, already an hour at which any respectable person should have
long-ago finished breakfast and begun their day, but Thompson was not one to judge
his betters. If the master of the house wished to play at gad-about for a few
years, it was the privilege of his position and his birth, and Thompson never
thought to disapprove.
He did, however, disapprove of Kit Baxter. He disapproved of her a
great deal. The head butler was considered to be the senior position in a
household such as this, and servants should know their place. So it had been
since Thompson had first entered service, and so it should always be as far as
he was concerned. But not only had the master defied tradition by taking on a
female chauffeur, but this young woman was scandalously familiar, spoke without
being spoken to and seemed to regard Thompson as a nuisance, or worse. He
glowered at her from under his great, flowing eyebrows as she sauntered into
the dining room without invitation, her driver’s cap still perched upon her
head. Perhaps it was the sunbeam in her eyes, but the butler’s gaze seemed to
have no effect.
“Mornin’ Boss!” she sang.
Thompson coughed his disapproval.
“Ah, Kit, there you are,” the master of the house said, draining his
coffee. “Have you had breakfast?”
Thompson’s cough of disapproval sputtered with surprise. Kit Baxter
seemed to catch that at least.
“Ah… yeah, thanks, Boss. I’m fine. Didya sleep all right?”
Thompson’s cough was
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