Free Tales of the Red Panda: The Crime Cabal by Gregg Taylor

almost a roar.
    “Eventually. I had a little… night table reading.”
    “I gathered.”
    “You were up early?” Fenwick said, peering at her just over the top of
his long-forgotten newspaper, which hid the smile that played around his lips.
    “Had a few errands to run. Ready to go whenever you finally get
dressed.”
    Thompson’s cough was furious.
    “Thompson,” the master broke in suddenly, “you should really get that
cough looked at.”
    Thompson was flustered. Persons of a certain class generally respected the
conventions of an aside among their servants, particularly when one needed
scolding as badly as Miss Baxter did. “Thank you, sir,” he said at last. “I
assure you I am quite well.”
    “I mean it,” August Fenwick said sternly. “You should have a doctor
look at that cough. Right. Now.”
    Thompson turned surprised to meet the man’s stern, hawk-like gaze. So
much like his father, and so completely different. It was not in Thompson’s
nature to disobey.
    “Yes, sir. At once, sir,” he said, slinking out of the room.
    Kit bounced at the knees, just a little, as the door closed, unable to
conceal her delight. The newspaper rose just a little higher to hide the smile
behind it.
    “Coffee?” he said at last, giving up the unequal task. He stood quickly
and turned his back, crossing the room to the silver service.
    “Are you getting it yourself?” she sassed. “I didn’t know you could do
that.”
    “Don’t tell Thompson,” he said. “He’d be scandalized. You didn’t answer
my question.”
    “I think you’d better go ahead and pour me a cup. A girl’s got to
gather her rosebuds while she may.” She bit her lip a little at the
possibilities of that allusion. He seemed not to notice.
    He handed her a cup of coffee with just exactly the right amount of
milk in it. He did that sort of thing every so often, proving without meaning
to that he had been paying attention after all. Kit did her best to quash the
thought that she may be reading just a little too much into this, and watched
him over the rim of her cup. He discarded the smoking jacket that was draped
across his form with a single catlike motion and pulled on his day coat. The
languid posture of the spoiled millionaire was gone, replaced with the dynamic
energy of the Red Panda.
    He stormed through the side door in the direction of the library, with his
eager partner swept up in his wake.
    “You picked up the night’s reports from the contact men?” Fenwick
asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.
    “In fact, I did,” she said, with a quick glance down the hall to make
sure they were unobserved. The rest of the staff didn’t seem to have as much
trouble as her Boss did in interpreting Kit’s feelings, which was the cause of
much mean-spirited speculation; she chose to ignore it in the name of even more
outrageous secrets.
    He opened the door into the library, and locked it behind them.
    “Anything interesting?” he said with an eyebrow arched.
    “Agent thirty-three seems to think there’s a protection racket
operating on the north side.”
    “Thirty-three? Gregor Sampson?” he said, pulling forward three volumes
in sequence to reveal a hidden panel beside the bookshelf which concealed an
electric switch.
    “That’s the one. He’s got good instincts. He says nobody’s talking, but
he can tell that everybody’s scared,” she said with a determined set to her
face.
    “Sampson’s a good man,” he said, pressing the switch in a precise
sequence. “Perhaps we should look into this.”
    “Geez, Boss. I thought we had these rackets licked.” A panel slid open
on the far side of the room to reveal an object that would have deeply
confounded poor old Thompson the butler.
    “Crime is like a hydra, Kit. Every time we cut off a head, another will
spring forth to take its place.”
    “Sure, but I thought it might take a little longer for them to rebuild.
We’ve been leanin’ awful hard on the organized