The Further Adventures of Batman Page 7

  James Nelson looked at the hooded figure and laughed. “Are you going to stop us? According to the standard biographical material, you are vulnerable to human weapons, unlike your hardshelled friend Superman.”

  “I puncture as easily as other men,” Batman said. “But first you have to hit me.”

  Nelson raised his gun. Batman opened his hand. A flock of tiny motes flew out of the capsule at the end of his little finger which he had managed to puncture while Nelson was ranting. The motes flew toward the light sources. The lights flashed crazily, dimmed, and went black.

  “Chinese light-suckers!” Nelson exclaimed. “You are clever, Batman. But it will do you no good. Shoot, men!”

  The CIA men swung into action. Shots crashed through the room, ricocheting off filing cabinets, screaming off the hardened plastic walls like a swarm of enraged hornets. But Batman was already moving, an inky shadow in the darkened room. The Joint Chiefs, too, had dived under tables and were answering the CIA fire with their own sidearms.

  The outcome was never really in doubt, but perhaps it was just as well that James Gordon at the head of platoon of New Gotham’s finest burst through the door just then. The hard-bitten boys in blue made short work of the seer-suckered government operatives.

  “Gordon!” Batman said. “What are you doing here?”

  “After you called me, I figured you might need a little backup,” Gordon said. “So I brought a platoon of my Gotham City boys for a tour of Washington.”

  “Don’t kill Nelson!” Batman said.

  “The rat deserves it,” Gordon said, but held his fire.

  “I know he does,” Batman said. “But he has to take us to wherever he’s hidden the President.”

  Nelson, in handcuffs, led them to a small storage room in the basement. There, haggard and unshaven, they found President Marshall Seldon.

  “Batman,” Seldon said. “I might have guessed it’d be you.”

  “I thought I had taken care of you, Batman,” Nelson said. “I seem to have been mistaken.” The tan man bit down hard and grimaced, then slumped to the floor. The acrid odor of bitter almonds filled the room.

  “A cyanide capsule,” Batman said. “Poor deluded fool. It’s all over now, Mr. President. But I think you’re going to need a new deputy director.”

  Back at his house in Gotham City, Bruce Wayne was reading the newspaper in the drawing room when Alfred came in with a letter on a silver tray. “For you, sir. From Miss Vera.”

  Bruce opened it and scanned it quickly. “She says she’s having a wonderful time,” he said, “but misses me and wishes I would join her.”

  “A very good idea, sir,” Alfred said from the door.

  Bruce Wayne needed less than a second to consider and make up his mind. “Alfred, pack my tropicals and book me the next flight to Rio.”

  “Very good, sir!” the butler said, smiling despite his best efforts to maintain a grave face. “And the Batman Suit, sir?”

  “Don’t pack it. This time I’m really going to take a vacation.”

  Bats

  Henry Slesar

  I have always resisted the temptation to keep a diary. In my privileged position, a journal of my experiences would undoubtedly be of incalculable value, both commercial and historic, but it would also reveal secrets entrusted to me by the person to whom I owe my loyalty and my devoted service, to say nothing of my weekly salary. My name is Alfred Pennyworth, and I am Batman’s butler.

  It was only when that estimable person seemed lost to me (indeed, to the whole world) that I found myself in need of the cathartic that a diary often provides. I had a desperate yearning to share my pain and grief with someone, but my sacred vow of silence regarding Batman’s secret identity left me with only one confidante: myself. And on that unhappy evening when I returned from the Pine-Whatney Clinic where Batman was languishing, I inserted a sheet of paper into a rather cranky portable typewriter (a sad reminder of Master Robin’s school days) and made the first entry, beginning with an account of my visit to the hospital, an experience still vivid in my mind.

  I have just returned from the Clinic, and Commissioner Gordon was kind enough to permit me a glimpse of Batman in his private room, in what he later described to me as his “antiseptic prison.” I was impressed with the security arrangements the Commissioner had made to avoid any public disclosure of the fact that the legendary figure was a patient at the institution located in a secluded suburb of Gotham City. I was even more impressed by how zealously he had guarded Batman’s concealed identity. Under the circumstances, he could easily have satisfied a long-standing curiosity concerning the face behind the Batmask, but the Commissioner did the honorable thing. The sedated man I saw in that hospital bed with those pitiful guard rails not only wore a hospital gown, he also wore his mask.

  I had arrived in a disguise of my own. I came as an emissary of good will, from my employer, the wealthy Bruce Wayne, to offer whatever financial assistance necessary to provide Batman with the best of medical care. The ruse was of my own devising, but I soon learned from the Commissioner that I wasn’t the first to extend a helping hand. Hundreds, even thousands of people, stricken by the news of Batman’s breakdown, had volunteered their aid. It was a touching tribute from a grateful citizenry, and I felt a bit ashamed that my own offer was merely a subterfuge. Even though Batman’s medical expenses were eventually paid by “The Wayne Foundation,” Bruce Wayne was actually paying for his own care. Mr. Wayne, you see, is not only my employer and Commissioner Gordon’s friend; he is also Batman’s everyday identity.

  It was during my visit to the Pine-Whatney that I learned the true details of the event that led to Batman’s hospitalization. To this point, all my information had come from the lurid accounts in the press, including that ignominious headline that defaced the front page of the Gotham City Post:

  BATMAN GOES BATS!

  There have been many lies blazoned about Batman. But the shock of those words was heightened by my realization that the announcement may well have been valid. I was only too painfully aware of the troubled condition of Batman’s mind ever since the death of Robin. His grief was understandable, of course, and while I am not a qualified psychiatrist, I have read enough in the field to know that his reaction may have been magnified by feelings of guilt. Robin’s safety had always been Batman’s first priority in all of their adventures, and Robin himself always recognized the perils he faced as Batman’s partner in crime-fighting. Nevertheless, Batman may well have blamed himself for the loss of that brave young man.

  There could not have been a worse time for Batman to fall into this “slough of despond,” to quote Reverend Bunyan. Whether it was an evil conjunction of stars, or because the underworld had been emboldened by Robin’s death, Gotham City was undergoing its worst crime wave in decades. The number of profit-motivated felonies, with all of their attendant violence, had risen sharply. A dozen banks had been robbed in a three-week period, two of them on the same day. The city’s best and best-guarded jeweler had been plundered of almost ten million dollars worth of gems. Five payroll robberies had succeeded, in plants where the security systems had been vaunted as unassailable. Worst of all, a dozen innocent people had been slain or injured during the commission of these offenses. Despite their audacity, the police seemed helpless to prevent them or to apprehend their perpetrators.

  I was privy to the abysmal depth of the law’s frustration when Commissioner Gordon came to dine with Mr. Wayne only a few days before his breakdown. As I served their meal, I overheard him express his anxiety in no uncertain terms.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it.” he said, savagely attacking his ris de veau. “These hoodlums are acting as if there simply isn’t any police deterrent in this city. Sometimes,” he added gloomily, “I think it may be my fault, that perhaps I should offer the Mayor my resignation.”

  Mr. Wayne murmured some placating response, but I could see that his mind wasn’t really on the conversation.

  “Ther
e’s organization behind it all,” Commissioner Gordon said. “But we just can’t determine where the leadership is, even though we’ve rounded up all the usual suspects.”

  Mr. Wayne smiled thinly at this echo of Captain Renault’s line from Casablanca. It was the last smile I saw on his face for a very long time.

  “What about Federal assistance?” he asked. “Two of the banks that were robbed were Federal institutions.”

  “I spoke to my friend from the FBI, Randolph Spicer. He offered his aid but he seems as baffled and helpless as I am.”

  “You’ve been under a lot of pressure, Commissioner,” Mr. Wayne said. “Your wife’s long illness, and the problems you’ve had with your daughter . . .” (Barbara Gordon was a handful, and Commissioner Gordon would have been even more upset if he knew of her secret life as Batgirl.)

  “Yes,” the Commissioner sighed, “I haven’t been myself lately. And, for that matter, neither has . . .” He stopped, as if reluctant to complete his thought. Both Mr. Wayne and I reached the same conclusion, but since I was only the butler, I allowed Mr. Wayne to express it.

  “Neither has Batman?” he asked lightly.

  “Not that I blame the man,” Gordon said. “He’s obviously still in mourning for poor Robin. And I haven’t been upholding my part of our bargain lately. He always relied on me for briefings, and I haven’t been in touch with him for weeks . . .”

  Of course, the Commissioner, unaware of Mr. Wayne’s other identity, didn’t know he was “in touch” with Batman at that very moment. If there was an anticipatory gleam in Mr. Wayne’s eyes, I failed to detect it in the candlelight; he merely regarded Commissioner Gordon in solemn contemplation and said nothing.

  I recalled that last encounter when I faced the despondent Commissioner again, this time in the cold white confines of the Pine-Whatney Clinic, and heard his pathetic description of Batman as he had been discovered just twenty-four hours before.

  “It was in Wellman’s department store,” he said. “An alarm had sounded, signaling that a robbery was in progress. I personally dispatched a dozen officers to the scene. Somehow, they got to the wrong floor, and the criminals who were ransacking the company safe escaped with half a million dollars in cash receipts . . . But this time, despite my respect for this mourning period, I decided to use my hot line to reach Batman. I told him what was happening, and he responded.”

  “But wasn’t it too late?” I ventured. “Since the criminals had already escaped?”

  “Batman isn’t all brawn and acrobatics, you know. He has a keen intelligence, especially when it comes to crime detection. I hoped he might have some idea about tracking the culprits to their hideout. But—well, you heard what happened.”

  I confessed to a mistrust of the newspaper count.

  “It was accurate enough,” Commissioner Gordon said ruefully. “A woman on the Lingerie floor of Wellman’s screamed at the sight of the costumed man who was wandering aimlessly down the center aisle. A saleslady approached him, recognizing him as Batman, and asked if he needed help. He looked at her blankly and muttered something incoherent. Then he sat down on the carpet and put his head in his hands and . . . wept.”

  I couldn’t exhibit my heartbroken reaction without revealing my close connection to the Caped Crusader. Instead, I merely clucked in sympathy and, fighting tears of my own, asked the Commissioner about the current state of Batman’s health.

  “He’s coherent again,” Gordon told me. “But he has no recollection of the ‘fugue’ he suffered. He’s refused to remain at the Clinic for treatment, but he has agreed to enter intensive therapy at once.”

  I expressed my gratification, and inquired about the sort of treatment indicated.

  “I’ve asked my own therapist to take him on as a patient,” Gordon said, “and she’s agreed.”

  “She?” I said, with a raised eyebrow that didn’t escape his notice.

  “Yes,” Gordon said. “She happens to be one of the most eminent psychiatrists in Gotham City. Her name is Dr. Letitia Lace, and she was recommended to me by Randolph Spicer of the FBI. She was enormously helpful to me during my wife’s serious illness . . .”

  “But what about . . . well, Batman’s actual identity? Won’t that be . . . compromised by psychiatric treatment?”

  “Dr. Lace has agreed to respect his desire for anonymity. And even if his identity is . . . well, spontaneously revealed, you can be sure she’ll protect his secret. Professional confidentiality and all that.”

  This time, I couldn’t conceal my look of skepticism, but the Commissioner merely shrugged.

  “Who knows, perhaps it would do Batman good to stop playing a dual role. Maybe he’s suffering an identity crisis. Perhaps if he was one person, he could lead a more normal life, settle down, marry perhaps . . .”

  “Oh, dear,” I said, trying to envision a woman in the Batcave. Batman has always resisted commitment because of his dedication, and it has cost him the love of several remarkable females. But right now, I was worrying about the new woman who was about to enter Batman’s life.

  Of course, I wasn’t present when Batman first stretched his magnificent costumed frame on Dr. Lace’s leather couch, and began psychoanalysis. This account, however, may be considered quite veracious, since it came to me from Batman himself, whose memory is as formidable as his musculature.

  The first thing that must be said about Dr. Letitia Lace was that she failed utterly to inspire confidence in her patients upon their first encounter.

  The reason was simple enough. The doctor, in parlance, was a “dish.” She made a serious effort to disguise her pulchritude by wearing almost shapeless lead-gray suits, but her curvacious figure insisted upon reshaping them into voluptuous lines. Her hair was as black as a raven’s wing, and she wore it severely, but the style only emphasized the striking violet of her eyes and the perfection of her features. The eyes, by the way, were shielded by thick-rimmed spectacles, but Batman’s own sharp vision detected the plate glass within the frames.

  Batman, however, harbored no prejudices and was willing to give Dr. Lace the benefit of the doubt, even when she began their session with a shocking question.

  “Can you tell me why you have no respect for the American legal system?”

  “Now wait a minute—” Batman said.

  “Taking the law into one’s hands is opposed to everything our criminal code stands for. Who gave you the right to be judge and jury over your fellow men?”

  “Listen, doctor, there are some things you must not understand—”

  “I understand vigilante justice,” Dr. Lace said cooly. “And can you deny that it always leads to a breakdown of constitutional guarantees? That it denies due process, harms the innocent more than it punishes the guilty, that it leads to anarchy and even fascism?”

  Batman started to sit up, indignation stirring, but then he decided he was being deliberately baited and relaxed.

  “I happen to agree with you,” he said disarmingly. “I don’t believe in vigilantism either, Doctor. That’s why I was officially deputized by the Commissioner of Police many years ago. I don’t judge criminals; I try to apprehend them, and then turn them over to the proper authorities. I’m simply another sort of police officer. Does that answer your question?”

  “One doesn’t see many police officers in cowls, skintight bodysuits, and capes shaped like batwings.”

  “I have a reason for this costume.”

  “Would you care to tell me what it is?”

  Batman hesitated. It had been a long time since he had experienced the necessity of explaining himself.

  “When I first decided to dedicate my life to fighting crime, something happened—something you might call . . . symbolic.” He smiled wryly. “You know all about symbols, don’t you, Doctor?”

  “Go on.”

  “A large black bat flew into the open window of my study . . . Do you like bats, Dr. Lace?” She didn’t reply. “I don’t suppose you do. Most people are terrified by
bats; they inspire us with superstitious dread, even though the majority of them are harmless creatures, quite useful in the ecological balance.”

  “Is that what you wanted to do? Inspire superstitious dread in people?”

  “Not ‘people,’ Doctor. Only criminals.”

  “Like the ones who killed your parents?”

  “I see you know something about my background.”

  “Not your background,” Dr. Lace said. “Your legend, Batman. It is a legend, isn’t it?”

  “Are you implying that it isn’t true?”

  Batman was conscious of the psychiatrist’s shrug even though he couldn’t see her from the couch.

  “I think you’re determined to create a mythology,” she said. “Isn’t that apparent from your behavior? My only question is whether the myth was created to help you in your ‘career,’ or to rationalize away some secret iniquity of your own.”

  “You think I’m hiding something?” Batman asked, amused.

  “I have no idea,” Dr. Lace confessed. “That’s why we’re here, to find out what might be happening beneath the surface of your life. The Batcave of your mind, you might say.”

  “And just what do you think that might be?”

  “If I had to venture a guess, which would be very unprofessional—”

  “You’re among friends.”

  “I’d say guilt was a possibility. The guilt you may have felt the night your parents were shot down by that street-corner holdup man . . . You didn’t do much to save them, did you?”

  “I was only a boy. What could I have done?”

  “You could have died with them,” Dr. Lace said. “But you survived . . . This coldblooded killer let you live. Isn’t that the truth of the situation?”

  Batman frowned.

  “Yes,” he said. “He heard the sound of a police whistle after the shots were fired, and ran away.”

  “And what did you feel after it happened? After you realized that both your parents were dead? Pain, rage, the desire for revenge?”