All those present remained in their positions for what seemed a long interval, thinking of the doom that was approaching with every tick of the clock. Actually no more than a few seconds passed before Robert Yarosh broke the silence.
“Two minutes! There’s no time to deactivate the bomb. We’re doomed!”
Batman said to Robin, “Come on. We’ve got to try to find that bomb before it’s too late.”
The engine room was a few short steps down the corridor. When they flung open the door, the hopelessness of their situation was clear. There were literally a thousand places in this room with its mighty complex metal maze of machinery where a bomb could have been hidden.
Meanwhile precious seconds were ticking off the time before they would all be blasted into eternity!
“What can we do, Batman?” Robin asked. “It’ll take us an hour to make a search—and we haven’t even got one full minute left!”
Batman flipped up the catch of a small delicate instrument in his belt. This utility belt—a veritable treasure trove of miniaturized scientific devices—served Batman well as an aid in his career of fighting crime.
“The chemo-detector,” Batman said. “I’m setting my dial for nitric acid. Most modern explosives are formed from nitric acid. You set your chemo-detector for mercury fulminate, Robin. That’s most often used as a detonator for explosives. If we get a reading from either of them we can pinpoint the location of the bomb.”
Robin nodded agreement, and quickly the dials were twirled and set.
If the experiment worked, small indicator needles would begin to vibrate in response to the indicated presence of the chemicals that had been dialed. The chemo-detector worked on the same principle as a Geiger counter which measures radioactivity. By watching the reaction of the indicator gauge Batman and Robin could tell whether they were on the right track.
Batman said, “I’m getting some reaction. How about you, Robin?”
Robin’s voice was tense with excitement. “So am I, Batman.”
“Good. I’ll try this end of the room. You start at the other.”
In the north comer of the engine room Batman’s indicator needle registered no strong impulses. But a cry from Robin summoned him:
“This way, Batman. My needle is jumping like crazy!”
Batman hurried over to Robin and together they closed in on the target. There could be no more than twenty seconds left.
“There it is!” Robin cried.
He pointed to a small black box secreted behind a coil of steam pipe. Batman snatched the lethal device and headed up the companionway from the windowless engine room.
Ten seconds left!
Batman cleared the staircase. Another short flight of stairs was still ahead of him. If he waited to reach the deck above and hurl the bomb, the explosion might happen in midair or too close to the yacht.
He could not delay. With a mighty heave he hurled the black box up the stairs, to arch high up and out over the deck railing. It was a formidable throw. The box soared out over the water fully four hundred feet away from the yacht. Then it dropped. Just as the box touched the crest of the waves the detonator went off. Deadly gases decomposed swiftly to create the wall of pressure that is called an explosion. The night air was split by a horrendous wrenching noise and the yacht heeled slightly to port from the impact of the rushing air. Robin came out of the engine room as Batman started down the steps.
“You all right, Batman?” he asked anxiously.
Batman smiled wryly. “I’m fine. But we had rather a close call. Now suppose we get on with the job of freeing Robert Yarosh and the others before we embark for home.”
Not long afterward, as the pontoon craft glided away from the yacht Ocean Venture, Robin, lying prone beside Batman in the hollowed-out hull, remarked:
“It’s been an interesting evening, don’t you think? After all, we’ve never encountered the Penguin, the Joker, and the Catwoman all in one place at one time.”
Batman said, “Each of them is quite enough to handle—one at a time.”
“Do you still think the underworld was going to give them some sort of an Academy Award?”
“The evidence points to it, Robin. I’ve been sure of it ever since we found that blank nominating slip at the headquarters of Red Eyes Lafferty. Of course I didn’t realize the three most dangerous villains of all time were going to be competing for the award.”
“With the Penguin, the Joker, and the Catwoman active, the good citizens of Gotham City may be in for an exciting time.”
“Exciting is not quite the word for it,” Batman admonished him. “Hectic, perhaps. I’d even say grim. But there is nothing exciting about a crime wave, Robin. Try to remember that.”
“I will, Batman,” Robin promised.
The pontoon craft bumped lightly into the piling of a pier in Gotham City Harbor.
On Tuesday morning at eleven o’clock, Bruce Wayne and his ward Dick Grayson were in the library of Wayne Manor. Bruce was behind a desk piled high with newspapers. He was reading in a fashion that would have astonished anyone who watched. The newspapers were from every major city in America. Bruce Wayne was methodically going through each—allowing scarcely more than a minute or two even for the bulkiest editions. He seemed to turn the pages with only casual interest, yet his amazing faculty for instant visualization did not permit the smallest item to escape his attention. He could have repeated, word for word, any of the news items that appeared on any page.
In due course he would follow the same procedure with the magazines and books that had arrived in the morning’s mail. A stupendous amount of reading material would occupy him scarcely more than two full hours, during which all of the significant content of the reading would be securely locked away in his memory for use whenever needed.
At this moment, having finished with newspapers from around the country, Bruce Wayne began rifling through the two chief Gotham City newspapers.
He stopped and lowered the newspaper to glance over at Dick Grayson. Dick was concentrating on creating a crossword puzzle using only Sanskrit verbs. The problem occupied Dick Grayson’s attention entirely because he had only become fluent in Sanskrit during the past few weeks.
“Dick, there’s an item in today’s local newspaper that may interest you.”
Dick put down the ruler and pencil with which he had been drawing additional squares for his puzzle.
“What’s that, Bruce?” he asked.
“The Gotham City Bird Show was robbed. The criminal escaped with all the day’s receipts. No one saw him because a tangled mass of decorative bunting happened to fall from the ceiling at the most inopportune moment.”
“Inopportune for whom, Bruce? Certainly not for the criminal.”
“A good point, Dick. I quite agree that the artful use of bunting as a method for confusing both the audience and the guards was clever. Is there any other comment you would care to make about this item?”
“I suppose you’re hinting that this could be the work of the Penguin. But there’s no evidence of that outside of the fact that it was a bird show that was robbed—and birds are the Penguin’s trademark.”
“Is that all, Dick?”
“Well, the clever use of decorative bunting indicates that no ordinary criminal was involved.”
“Think, now. What else strikes you as unusual about this news item?”
“I can’t think of anything else.”
Bruce Wayne’s head shook in disapproval. “Come now, Dick, you can do better. For instance, what is the state bird of Colorado?”
Dick Grayson thought a moment. “Is it…the lark?”
“To be exact, the lark bunting.”
“Holy robin redbreast! The lark bunting! And bunting was used to commit the crime. That certainly sounds like the Penguin’s work, doesn’t it?”
Bruce Wayne nodded. “This is undoubtedly only the first of the Penguin’s robberies. They will follow a pattern. In fact, I’m quite sure I’ve already located the site of the Penguin’s next plot!”
Dick Grayson put aside his Sanskrit puzzle. “Then what are we waiting for?” he said.
Bruce Wayne smiled. “Exactly. To the Batpoles!”
Bruce and Dick went into the living room of Wayne Manor. The butler Alfred was there.
“Is Aunt Harriet anywhere around?” Dick asked.
“No, Master Grayson,” Alfred replied. “The coast is quite clear.”
Bruce Wayne lifted the bald pate of a bust of William Shakespeare on a pedestal nearby. Inside there was a secret switch. This activated a panel in the wall which slid silently back to reveal the Batpoles and the twin circular openings which led down to the Batcave.
Dick Grayson waved goodbye to Alfred as Bruce Wayne and Dick disappeared into the opening in the wall which closed behind them. Seconds later they shed their outer clothing and, attired as Batman and Robin, entered the Batcave.
There was the Batmobile, fabulous wonder car, waiting. Soon, with jet exhausts flaring, the Batmobile was racing off, carrying the Terrific Two on a new adventure.
Meanwhile, at the Grover-Westford Auction Gallery, an item of rare exquisite beauty was being offered for sale to a select audience of a score of Gotham City’s wealthiest collectors.
The auctioneer’s face lit with pleasure as he held up the precious objet d’art.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, his voice quivering with pardonable pride, “this is what you have come to see—and wonder at. A four-thousand-year-old emerald statuette of the ancient god Thoth. It is shaped in the form of an ibis, the sacred bird of the ancient Egyptians who revered the god Thoth. As jewelry alone, this statuette is worth a fortune—but as a rarity, as a relic of a lost culture, the statuette is almost beyond price. Only the death of its former owner has now made it available for sale. I am sure none of you will object if I insist that the bidding begin at two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
The auctioneer had barely finished when someone called out, “Two hundred and eighty thousand.”
“Three hundred thousand.”
“Three hundred and fifty.”
“Three seventy-five.”
The auctioneer beamed at the spirited bidding from the group of collectors. He raised his yellow hammer to announce the latest bid.
“I have a bid of three hundred and seventy-five thousand. Do I hear four hundred? Going—going…”
“Four hundred!”
“Excellent. I have four hundred. Do I hear five? Five, gentlemen? Going—going—GONE!”
The auctioneer brought the yellow hammer down on the auction block. A surprising thing happened. The hammer broke open and a tear gas bomb planted inside it exploded on the impact.
Choking and gasping for breath, the auctioneer reeled away from the platform. As the tear gas flowed through the room the audience of wealthy collectors tried to flee, stumbling blindly with smarting eyes and torn by convulsions of coughing.
Amid the chaos, the round figure of the Penguin appeared. He wore a gas mask and moved calmly to the auctioneer’s block. There he picked up the emerald statuette of the birdgod Thoth and dropped it into his carry-all umbrella.
Delicately he avoided contact with the few remaining men who were still on their feet and groping helplessly in the clouds of tear gas. Most of the others had already fallen. The Penguin stepped over the prostrate form of the auctioneer and deposited a copy of the late afternoon edition of the Gotham Daily Eagle on the auctioneer’s podium.
As the Penguin started out the front door of the auction gallery, the Batmobile careened around the comer. The Penguin quickly went back inside.
He mused: “The Batman is cleverer than I thought. He’s figured out my pattern of bird-crimes. Oh, well, perhaps it is risky of me to leave him a clue as to my next banditry. But, as they say, nothing ventured, nothing gained. If I am to win the Tommy Award, I must outwit the Batman, and I might as well begin as soon as possible. The judging committee will have to consider that I’ve already clipped the Batman’s wings—twice!”
The auction room was permeated with tear gas, and by now everyone had been reduced to a miserable state of near-unconsciousness. The Penguin skipped nimbly through the fallen bodies and made his exit through the rear door.
Seconds later Batman and Robin plunged through the front door.
“Hold it, Robin! It seems that the Penguin has been here already!”
“Tear gas!” Robin exclaimed.
“Adjust your nose-breathing devices and put on the transparent eye shields. Then we’ll get some windows open and clear this place out.”
Soon the Gotham City Emergency Squad arrived on the scene with inhalators to revive the stricken victims, and Batman and Robin made their way to the auctioneer. He sat in a chair with his legs spread out weakly before him and moaned to himself.
“The ibis-god…gone. What an incalculable loss to the world of art!”
“Did you see the criminal who stole it?” Batman asked.
“No. The room was so filled up with tear gas I couldn’t see anything.”
“Was the gas bomb hidden in your auctioneer’s hammer?”
The auctioneer stared at Batman. “How did you know?”
Batman did not reply. He picked up the front page of the Gotham Daily Eagle which was lying on the podium and asked the auctioneer, “Is this your newspaper?”
“Why, no.”
“You have no idea how it got here?”
“None at all,” said the auctioneer. “And I can’t see why you’re so interested in a mere newspaper, Batman, when a criminal has made off with the priceless, irreplaceable statuette of the god Thoth.”
“I’m afraid the two items are closely linked,” Batman said. He turned to Robin. “Let’s go!”
Moments later the Batmobile was again roaring off through Gotham City streets.
“What did you mean, Batman, when you said that the front page of the newspaper and the theft of the emerald statuette were linked?” Robin asked.
“The missing link is our old enemy, the Penguin.”
“Did he leave the newspaper there for us to find?”
“Yes. Because it contains the clue to his next robbery.”
Robin quickly scanned the front page. “I don’t see anything.”
“The Penguin’s clues are obscurely planted, Robin. You have to put yourself into his evilly twisted mind to figure out what he means.”
“Is that how you knew he would strike at the auction gallery?”
“It wasn’t hard to figure out that an emerald statuette shaped in the form of an ancient bird, the ibis, would be a natural target for the Penguin.”
“There’s one thing you said back there that did surprise me, Batman. How did you know the tear gas bomb would be planted in the auctioneer’s hammer?”
Batman shrugged. “That was easy, Robin. The news item mentioned that the statuette of Thoth would be put up for auction—and the auctioneer would use a yellow hammer that had been used in the days of Louis Quatorze. The yellowhammer is a kind of bird. It was an irresistible pun pattern for the Penguin.”
“Holy hummingbird,” Robin exclaimed. “The Penguin substituted his own yellow hammer, complete with gas bomb, for the original.”
“Precisely.”
Robin looked at the newspaper. “And the front page of this paper has another clue, you say? Let me see… ‘Famous Mimic to Appear at Universe Room’…That seems the only possible item that would be of any interest, yet how…?”
“Remember, Robin, you must try to think like the Penguin. He sees bird analogies in some unlikely places.”
Robin frowned. “A mimic…hmm. What does a mimic do? He imitates other people’s voices…In a way, he might be said to mock them. Can that be it? A mockingbird?”
“Exactly, Robin.”
“But what possibility for profitable crime does a mimic have to offer? There has to be something else,” Robin persisted.
Batman nodded. “Elsewhere on the front page there’s a notice of a gold shipment that will be carried by blimp from a bank in Gotham City to Fort Knox.”
“But is that a bird clue?”
“A blimp is called a Dodo by Air Force pilots—because the dodo was a wingless bird. That’s the Penguin’s target. And there’s still a further irony to whet the Penguin’s villainous appetite for bird-puns.”
This time Robin got the point at once. “Both items appear on the same page of the Gotham Daily Eagle. Right, Batman?”
“You’re thinking on sixteen cylinders, Robin. I’m proud of you.”
Robin flushed with embarrassment. “Golly. Thanks, Batman.”
There was a sharp rap on the dressing room door of Maximilian, the world’s most famous mimic. Maximilian put down the atomizer with which he had been spraying his throat.
“Who is it?”
“A telegram, Mr. Maximilian.”
“Put it under the door. I do not wish to be disturbed.”
“I’m sorry, sir. You must sign for it.”
With an exclamation of annoyance, Maximilian got up, drawing the belt of his dressing gown tighter. He went to the door and unlocked it.
The door swung open violently, to pin Maximilian to the wall.
“Now, see here, what’s the meaning of—?” Maximilian began in fury.
Then he stopped.
The reason he stopped was that a bayonet was against his throat. The bayonet was part of a curious umbrella that was in the very firm grip of an even more curious-looking man, as round and firm as a…
“Penguin!” gasped Maximilian.
“Ah, you recognize me. Then you have some idea of how dangerous it would be to cross me, Mr. Maximilian. It would in all probability be the very last thing you would ever do in this life.”
The Penguin kicked shut the door behind him.
“Now you will do what I tell you.” The Penguin produced a small wax record from beneath his frock coat. “I have here a recording of the voice of Elmer Tuttle, president of the Gotham City Bank. The recording was made from a recent speech he made to a banker’s association.”
Maximilian’s voice was fluttery and faint with fear. “Wh-what do you want from me?”
“You will listen to Mr. Tuttle’s voice for a moment.” The Penguin brought his record to a phonograph turntable and placed it on the spindle. Holding the needle lever in his fingers before placing it on the record, he said, “I’m sure you’ll have no difficulty imitating Mr. Tuttle’s voice once you have heard it.”
Maximilian made a squeaking sound.
“I beg your pardon?” said the Penguin. “What did you say?”
“I-I…” Maximilian stopped. Then his professional pride strengthened his voice. “I can imitate anyone in the world.”
“Fine. Now study the voice of Mr. Tuttle very carefully. When you have mastered it, I am going to ask you to make a telephone call. That isn’t an unreasonable request, is it, Mr. Maximilian?”
“I-I don’t want to get involved in anything cr-criminal.”
“That’s laudable, I’m sure. But I suggest that you consider my request carefully before refusing. Because the price of your refusal will simply be…your life.”
Maximilian’s face turned white.
“We understand each other, don’t we, Mr. Maximilian?”
Maximilian nodded.
The Penguin placed the needle down on the record. The fiat, nasal, midwestern twangy voice of Elmer Tuttle began to come from the phonograph loudspeaker.
“My friends and fellow bankers…”
The Penguin smiled at Maximilian, angling his cigarette holder jauntily. Maximilian shivered.
From a treetop half a mile beyond the airfield where the blimp was being loaded with gold bullion for the flight to Fort Knox, Batman and Robin surveyed the scene. They were perched on stout tree branches about a foot distant from each other, watching the loading operation through powerful binoculars.
Robin lowered his binoculars and rubbed his eyes.
“I think we’ve guessed wrong, Batman. The loading is proceeding on schedule and there are plenty of guards around. It would be foolhardy of the Penguin to try to seize the shipment now.”
Batman said, “I was sure he’d strike before the blimp was completely loaded for the journey…wait a minute!”
“Did you see anything, Batman?”
“That short, plump guard toward the rear of that truck. Does he look familiar, Robin?”
Robin focused the binoculars on the man Batman indicated.
“Yes, he does resemble someone I’ve seen. To tell the truth, Batman, he looks a lot like...” Robin’s voice caught abruptly on a note of excitement: “The Penguin! But how did he ever manage to get in among the guards? Someone should have spotted him!”
“They have, Robin. In fact, they’re working for him. Those guards are the Penguin’s henchmen!”
“Holy camouflage!” Robin exclaimed. “They’ve just finished loading the gold bullion on the blimp. Let’s hurry!”
Lightly the Caped Crusaders leapt from the tree to the ground. They sped to the Batmobile waiting nearby. Seconds later they were zooming toward the spot where the blimp was preparing to cut loose its mooring ropes.
Beside the blimp’s gondola, the disguised Penguin watched the preparations for the ascent.
“All right, men. Get in quickly!”
Maximilian, also dressed in guard’s uniform, stood beside the Penguin, pleading with him.
“How about me! Why do I have to go along too?” he asked.
The Penguin smiled crookedly. “It won’t be for long. At about ten thousand feet we’ll dump you out. We’ll supply you with a parachute, of course.”
Maximilian blanched. “I-I’ve never made a parachute jump.”
“There’s a first time for all of us, dear fellow. I wish you luck when you finally return to civilization with your story of what happened. I hope you won’t have too much trouble explaining to the authorities why you mimicked the voice of Elmer Tuttle, president of the Gotham City Bank, and ordered a new platoon of guards to supervise this gold shipment.”
“You made me do it,” Maximilian whined.
“I won’t be there to support your story, will I? I fear the police may take a dim view of your explanation. They may even lock you up as an accomplice.”
“It—it’s a frame-up!” Maximilian quavered.
“A precaution. Perhaps you won’t be so anxious to tell exactly what happened, after all. You may even decide to keep your own counsel. That will make things so much easier all around.”
A sharp cry interrupted: “LOOK WHAT’S COMING!”
Barreling across the airfield, jet exhausts flaming, came—the Batmobile!
“Egad!” cried the Penguin. “Cut the mooring ropes at once! Get the blimp off the ground!”
The Penguin clambered agilely aboard the blimp’s gondola as the ropes were cut. The blimp, airborne, began to rise lumberingly.
From the still-open door of the gondola, the Penguin looked down at Maximilian below.
“I’m afraid we’ll have to postpone your initiation into the mysteries of parachute jumping, Mr. Maximilian,” he said.
The blimp lurched upward, five, ten feet into the air.
The Batmobile raced into the space below it.
“Take the wheel, Robin,” Batman commanded sharply.
He pushed back the cowling and stood up on the front seat. Robin held the wheel as he moved into the driver’s seat.
“The front mooring rope,” Batman said. He poised tensely as the powerful Batmobile surged forward beneath the length of the steadily rising blimp.
Batman stood up beneath the moving metal shape of the blimp. He was now several feet below the trailing line of the blimp’s front mooring rope.
“The escalating ladder,” Batman said. “Quickly!”
Robin pushed a button on the dashboard.
From behind the front seat of the Batmobile a small ladder rose swiftly. Batman mounted the ladder, swaying against the terrible pull of the wind.
He reached out for the mooring rope now almost within his grasp. A sudden movement of the blimp pulled the rope away from him. At the wheel of the Batmobile, Robin made an instant correction to bring the powerful car once again into line.
Again Batman reached for the trailing length of rope. This time he caught it.
Robin kept one hand on the wheel and reached over to activate the towing mechanism of the Batmobile. Then he tossed the tow chain up to Batman.
Batman hooked his legs into the ladder. He caught the chain with his free hand. Already the mooring rope was shortening in his grasp as the blimp continued its steady ascent. Batman swiftly tied chain and rope together in an inextricable and unbreakable Batknot—a complicated, ingenious knot that was only made stronger when pressure was exerted upon it.
“All secure,” Batman said. “Lower away.”
The ladder slowly drew back into the Batmobile. Batman dropped back into the seat beside Robin.
Robin’s voice was barely audible against the tearing noise of wind: “We’d better get back on the road, Batman. We’re heading over the edge of the cliff.”
“Throw on full power. Make a sharp left turn.”
Robin instantly did as directed. In a screeching fury of revved-up engines, the Batmobile wheeled sharply left. Like an unleashed metal monster it plunged along a new course bordering the side of the cliff.
The connecting link between the Batmobile and the blimp strained taut, held. The blimp’s course altered to follow that of the Batmobile below it.
Suddenly the blimp’s engines also began to race and whine as additional power was demanded. The blimp struggled upward like a trapped great bird.
The Batmobile continued its plunge along a chosen course back to the highway. But the powerful engines of the world’s most remarkable car were strained to the utmost to match the terrible lifting power of the blimp. Which would prevail—blimp or Batmobile? On the answer to that question the lives of Batman and Robin depended!
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