by Gregg Taylor
“I guess so.” Peters' eye was drawn a few yards away where he saw a familiar face. “Hang on a minute, Paulie,” he said, walking away.
“Peters, you get anything, I want it,” Bailey said quietly.
“I'll bet you do, Spanky,” Jack said with a grin. “I'll bet you do.”
A dozen long strides carried Jack Peters to the side of a fresh-faced police constable, standing at attention as if ready to hold back the rampaging hordes of Toronto newsmen in the unlikely event that they should appear. There were plenty of police who would talk to Peters before they'd talk to any other reporter and plenty more that crossed to the other side of the street when they saw him coming, but Jack reckoned that he had home-court advantage here. The constable in question was Andy Parker, and like Jack Peters he held down a second job as an agent of the Red Panda.
“Afternoon, Andy,” Peters said jovially.
Andy Parker said nothing and stared straight ahead.
“Oh-ho,” Peters said, “it's like that, is it? The strong, silent type?”
Andy Parker said nothing and stared straight ahead.
“Like those British guards, what do they call them?” Peters asked, lighting a cigarette. “Beefeaters? Is it Beefeaters? Don't they all eat beef?”
Andy Parker said nothing, but his eyes moved a little. Just enough to allow him to glare at Peters for an instant.
“Come on, Parker, be a pal,” Peters cajoled. “I got places to go and human tragedy to sensationalize.”
Andy Parker said nothing and stared straight ahead.
“It's Winnick, isn't it? He'll bust you down to crossing guard if you spoil his show, won't he?”
Parker closed both his eyes just long enough to suggest a nod.
“Un-huh,” Peters said, disgusted. “He's a little man, Parker. I hear he wears lifts.”
Parker snorted as he held back a peal of laughter.
“Can you officially deny any knowledge of same?” Peters grinned. “No? 'Sources within Toronto Police refused to deny reports that Departmental Spokesman Captain Clarence P. Winnick wears elevator shoes. Or high heels.' It's got a nice ring, don't it?”
Andy Parker's hand moved to rest on his nightstick.
“Un-huh,” Peters said, spotting an officer walking towards the barricade. “Nice talking to you, Andy,” he said as he moved away.
“Get a four-part exclusive, did we?” Bailey was grinning so hard the toothpick in his teeth was in grave peril of snapping at any moment.
A little man in a long blue dress uniform stopped on the other side of the sawhorse and looked scornfully at the tiny group of reporters. He pulled out a pocket watch and flipped it open, as if unable to believe his eyes.
“Come on, Captain Winnick,” Bailey pleaded, “this is all you're gonna get today. Can we get on with this, please?”
Winnick frowned and did not respond directly, but held up a hand as if to silence a crowd. “Gentlemen of the press,” said Winnick. Bailey nudged Peters in time to see that the kid from the Telegraph had actually written that down. Both men struggled to contain themselves.
Winnick looked pained and glared at the two reporters. “Gentlemen of the press,” he began again, “no doubt you have many questions about the grave events of earlier today. We can begin with any questions you might have before we tour the scene.”
The kid's hand shot up into the air. Peters interrupted. “For Pete's sake, Captain, can we skip the Socratic method today? We've all been upstaged by the Midnight Massacre, let's just accept it and move on.”
Winnick looked sour, but he seemed to nod a little and took a deep breath before speaking again. “At one o'clock this afternoon a test commenced before a panel of investors and representatives of our federal government. Harrison Arms Manufacturing was to conduct a display of the capabilities of their new armored transport, the HM-111B, nicknamed the 'Wildcat'. The transport was designed to move men and machines through areas of live fire and extreme peril with the greatest possible degree of safety. Harrison Arms president Quincy Harrison made a short speech of welcome and the test began with some simple maneuvers. Almost immediately the machine began to emit plumes of thick, black smoke, and then shook as a series of explosions tore through it. Police services are continuing our investigation, but it appears that the blasts originated within the fuel system. All four members of the test crew were killed, but they are not being identified until their next of kin have been notified. I will now take any questions before a brief opportunity for pictures.”
The kid's hand shot up again. Bailey was having none of this. “Winnick, can we do questions while we walk? It's not like you can't manage the crowd.”
Winnick was flustered, but he agreed. Two junior officers moved in to remove the barricade, but Peters and Bailey just walked around it.
“Have investigators ruled out the possibility of sabotage?” the kid asked.
“Nothing has been ruled out at this time, though it is considered unlikely,” Winnick growled in his most impressive fashion.
“Why is that?” The kid was finding it tough to write and walk at the same time.
“The device had a full check and a clean bill of health from a dozen mechanics immediately before the test. Any sabotage would have had to occur from within the machine while it was in operation, and that would certainly have been a suicide mission.” Winnick was pleased with this line of questioning.
“Will Mister Harrison be available for questions?” the kid asked.
“You'll have to communicate with his office, but until such time as the police investigation is closed, Quincy Harrison will not be making a statement to the press.”
The small group was nearly to a pavilion beside a grandstand, beyond which was an open field. Peters could smell whatever was in that field, and they would be close enough to see it in a moment.
“Were any of the spectators injured?” The kid didn't let up.
“No, but several were overcome by the smoke.”
“Are any of them available for questions?”
“No, but we will have a list of witnesses for you to, follow up with as you see fit,” Winnick said as they turned the corner. The kid seemed pleased.
Jack Peters let a low whistle escape as he spied the twisted mass of metal in the middle of the green field. The kid was right about one thing, on another day this would be front-page news. He began to walk closer.
“I must ask that you not proceed any closer than this for photographs, Mister Peters,” Winnick scolded. “This device is considered secret by the Ministry.”
“Or what's left of it is anyway,” Bailey growled, wishing he'd bothered to bring a camera.
“Hey Winnick,” Peters pointed, “that bit there, where the blast punched a hole right through the armor, you're saying a fuel explosion did that?”
“That is what our investigators believe at this time, Mister Peters.”
“There couldn't have been much left of that crewman,” Jack muttered.
“In fact, Mister Peters, one body was not recovered at all, and all of the others were torn apart pretty badly by the ferocity of the blast.” Winnick seemed to enjoy saying that last part.
“I'll bet,” was all that Jack Peters had to say as he began to snap photographs. Editor Pearly might stick this story on page twenty-six below the crossword, but he had a feeling that the Red Panda would want to see these pictures. Something wasn't right here. Something wasn't right at all.
Nine
“Incompetence!” Gilbert MacKinnon's fist crashed down on the great mahogany table within the conference room of the Club Macaw. “Nothing short of the most blazing display of incompetence this city has ever seen!”
There was a chorus of assent from around the table. Chief O'Mally stood at the opposite end of the table from MacKinnon, who had now fully installed himself as the head of the committee. O'Mally's ears were red but he had otherwise reigned in his temper, in part because he did not wholly disagree with the condemnation with which he
had been served.
“You knew the test of Harrison's armored transport was a likely target for this fiend who calls himself the Viper,” MacKinnon began anew. “You knew the time and place where the test was to take place, and you had ample opportunity to defend it against attack. And yet here we are, with another of the city's great industries near the brink of collapse!”
Quincy Harrison, smaller than ever within his tweeds, seemed to shrink still more at this, but he did not disagree.
“And before our young friend Mister Fenwick can leap forward with another defense based solely on your inability to thwart a different criminal madman,” MacKinnon raised his hand dismissively towards August Fenwick, who had not moved or spoken, “let me say that I consider that to be no sort of excuse at all, O'Mally. Though perhaps it is a sure sign that what our city needs the most is a new Chief of Police!”
At this, O'Mally's clipped, military-style mustache bristled, but a small, tight smile appeared beneath it. “Perhaps it is, Mister MacKinnon,” O'Mally said calmly. “Perhaps it is. And if there is a man at this table who can tell me precisely what I or my police force could have done differently to save Harrison's machine, I will gladly recommend him for the position. It is true that my force is stretched thin by the panic caused by these terrible attacks of Captain Clockwork's mechanical army, but I fail to see how a greater police presence could have prevented this explosion.”
There was a derisive chorus at this which O'Mally ignored as he pressed on. “The machine was checked and re-checked by Harrison's own teams of engineers. The only people near enough to the craft to cause it harm were the highly trained operators, none of whom had the smallest prospect to survive such a calamity. Neither my investigators nor those in Mister Harrison's own employ have yet found any proof that this disaster was anything more than another terrible accident.”
“Preposterous!” Marcus Bennett cried. “That was no more an accident than the destruction of the New York Special!”
“I share that belief myself, Mister Bennett,” O'Mally said forcefully. “I ask merely what I could have been expected to do differently to prevent an attack which we do not yet even begin to understand.”
“Excuses!” MacKinnon thundered. “When you knew the very time and the place in which it was to occur!”
“He did know, didn't he?” a voice interrupted, as if thinking out loud. Every man in the room turned to face August Fenwick where he sat draped in his chair like a truant schoolboy. He smiled to find himself the inadvertent center of attention. “Forgive me, Gilbert, but you raise an interesting point.”
“Well?” MacKinnon sighed.
“Thus far, for every disaster of which this 'Viper' stands accused of engineering, the time and place have been open knowledge. Page and Welles, the accidents within your plants could have happened at any time, could they not? There was security, yes, but no great secrecy.”
“What are you getting at, Fen?” Welles asked in frustration.
“And of course, the schedule of the New York Special was a matter of public knowledge. Anyone who could afford a morning Chronicle could have had all the details they needed. But the test of Quincy's transport, that was a matter of secrecy even within his own company, known only to a few hand-picked men. The only other people to have the complete details were Chief O'Mally and the rest of us who were in this room when Mister Harrison revealed the details of the test to him.”
“I see what you're suggesting, Fenwick,” O'Mally said. “One of Harrison's senior managers must have ties to the Viper! The link must be there!”
“Perhaps,” August Fenwick said casually.
“This is foolishness,” Quincy Harrison said, his outrage overcoming his grief. “Every one of the men you accuse has been known to me for years. And what is more, each of them holds a substantial number of shares in Harrison Arms Manufacturing. If the company should fail,” Harrison's voice faltered at the suggestion, “each of them would stand to lose everything.”
“And that is just exactly where we stand, Chief O'Mally,” Byron Page said, quite distraught. “I understand that the destruction of innocent people by these mechanical men is grave indeed, but if the companies represented at this table are allowed to fail, it will plunge this city into a darkness from which it will not escape for a great long while. We have seen in recent years the cancer that poverty can become to a city, the way it can spread despair and darkness like a plague. Please understand that it is this which we are desperate to prevent.”
Silence hung in the tastefully appointed room for a moment. Every man at the table, captains of industry and members of the privileged class to a man, knew that there was more to Page's speech than the simple truth it represented. His company had not recovered from its string of accidents, and he faced the prospect of real ruin and the loss of everything which generations of his family had built. And yet the words that he had spoken were no less true. If Page's company were to collapse, hundreds of families that had thus far escaped the darkest days of this Depression would soon be thrown into despair.
Chief O'Mally nodded gravely. “Thank you, Mister Page. And I assure you that I am well aware of the stakes, and will do everything in my power to find the links to the Viper and bring him down. I ask only for your patience. This city has been driven almost to the brink by these senseless attacks of android assassins, and if we cannot bring Captain Clockwork to justice before that powder keg of terror explodes, then there might not be enough left of this city for the Viper to dominate.” O'Mally appeared momentarily embarrassed by his own hyperbole, but the men of the committee only nodded gravely.
From somewhere behind O'Mally a door opened, but he did not turn around. Only Ian James appeared to react to whomever had entered, and he merely glared and shook his head. O'Mally continued, “For the first time, we have a real break in this case. A substantial number of mechanical men responsible for what the press has dubbed the 'Midnight Massacre' were left intact and are being studied by top men even as we speak. It is my hope that they will make a discovery that will allow us to put an end to Clockwork's reign of senseless terror and focus the full weight of my police force on finding this 'Viper' and thwarting his plans once and for all!”
O'Mally was not much of a public speaker – he was a career cop, not a politician, but he did inspire confidence and the men around the conference table seemed mollified for the moment.
“Very well, O'Mally,” MacKinnon said. “I only pray that it will be soon enough to prevent calamity.”
“Perhaps I can be of assistance on that front, MacKinnon.” Again the faces around the table turned towards August Fenwick. “I don't pretend to understand anything about mechanical men or any such gobbledygook, but I think that I can buy Chief O'Mally's experts a little time to do whatever it is that they do,” Fenwick waved his hands dismissively. “Mister Page, the banks will not advance you funds nor will investors, as they have lost faith in your company. I have not.” Page looked up suddenly without meaning to. “I share the belief of this committee that a single force is behind these attacks on otherwise healthy companies. I shall instruct the boards of directors at my various corporate divisions to advance Page Holdings needed funds. And that goes for every company represented here.”
There was a moment of silence with some brief, awkward looks exchanged. “I understand your trepidation, gentlemen, but I am speaking of fair investment at fair prices. This chair is not occupied by the robber baron that it might have been a generation ago…” There was some quiet laughter around the table at this. “…And I feel certain that, had he lived to see these dark times, my father would have let his… business instincts be overwhelmed by the voices of his better angels as well.”
There were a few discreet looks exchanged that suggested this charitable view of the late Thomas Fenwick was not shared by all, but the mood of the committee was one of palpable relief. For the second time in recent days, Chief O'Mally was forced to feel grateful to young August Fenwick, though of co
urse he did not say so. There were handshakes all around, and only one listener seemed dissatisfied.
“That was a pretty speech, Auggie,” came a voice that sounded as if being extremely pleased with itself was its usual state. The meeting was breaking up, and Ian James moved around the table to intercede.
“Fenwick, you remember my son, Wentworth,” the elder James said with a slight scowl at his son's casual attire and lab coat.
“Yes, of course,” Fenwick said with an air that suggested he very well might not recall the new arrival at all, and if so only slightly.
“Of course he remembers me, Father,” Wentworth James said. “We were at school together.”
Fenwick smiled slightly and raised an eyebrow, looking as if he were thinking of nothing so much as an excuse to be somewhere else.
“He was my lab partner for years,” the younger James said with a gleam in his eye, “and he used to be almost as clever as me.” Wentworth James watched Fenwick's eyes and saw the counter-claim that he did not hear. If James was surprised by his inability to bait Fenwick into their old rivalry, he did not show it. But he did seem a little disappointed.
“Used to have quite a good brain back in the day, old man,” James said, “and now you don't pretend to understand… what was the word… gobbledygook? I do hope that when my dear old father shuffles off this mortal coil I don't turn into a fool as well.”
Fenwick smiled and said nothing. Ian James was mortified however. “That's quite enough, Wentworth,” he scolded as if speaking to a small, disobedient child. “I apologize for him, Fenwick. Always did love the sound of his own voice.”
“Yes,” Fenwick smiled, “I recall.”
“If you're quite done playing, Father,” the younger James said, “perhaps you'd like to be on hand for the launch of the new power plant?”
“What's that?” James sputtered. “Yes, yes of course.”
“Quite a clever piece of work, Auggie, if I do say so myself,” Wentworth said. “It'll serve the power needs of James Laboratories for years, and then some. Save a fortune and make five or six new ones at that. But I don't suppose such 'gobbledygook' would interest a… captain of industry like yourself.”