John Whiting stared at the bound, captive figure of Batman with unbelieving eyes. Then he turned to the chalk-faced clown beside him.
“Joker,” he said, “this proves that you’re the greatest of them all. I never thought I’d see this day.”
The Joker made a slight ironic bow. “I appreciate the compliment, Mr. Whiting—although I must admit it is well deserved.”
“I’ll tell the committee about it. After that, the voting of the Tommy Award to you will be a mere formality. I don’t imagine even the Penguin and the Catwoman would challenge your right to it.”
“They can hardly do so, anyway, Mr. Whiting, since both of them are in jail.”
John Whiting said, “I’m eager to be an eyewitness to Batman’s death. Why not get started right away, Joker?”
“I intend to.”
“Will you shoot him?”
“Nothing so crude.” The Joker sniffed disdainfully.
“Poison him?”
“Much too mundane.”
John Whiting’s eyes gleamed. “I know. You’re going to dissolve him in the same carbolic acid bath that destroyed Robin?”
“Not at all.”
John Whiting’s manner became deferential. “Have you thought of something more spectacular?”
The Joker clasped his long fingers together. “I’ve planned an appropriate finish for Batman. Something really worthy of such an event. He will perish in the greatest pyrotechnic display of all time. Wreathed in a coronet of lightning! Surrounded in electrical fires! Incinerated by the most grandiose form of electrocution ever conceived!”
John Whiting asked, “Is it some device you’ve built especially for the purpose? Where is it?”
“At the Hall of Wonders,” the Joker replied.
John Whiting was puzzled. “The Hall of Wonders? The scientific exhibition that’s being put on by all the electrical companies of America?”
“Precisely. The most amazing of all the exhibits is the one in which a lightning storm is artificially created. That’s the spot I’ve chosen for Batman to make his never-to-be-forgotten exit from this planet. He’ll be tied to one of the gigantic electrodes—and when the lightning starts to flash, Batman will die!”
John Whiting forced an admiring smile. “It sounds brilliant, Joker. But wouldn’t it be easier just to get rid of Batman now—while he’s helpless and your prisoner?”
The Joker touched the outspread wings of his collar with irritation.
“The Joker never does anything the easy way, Mr. Whiting. I am not one of your ordinary criminals. My genius for crime is such that I choose to perform the impossible. Who else but the Joker would have informed Batman and Robin through the Tune Parade of exactly what he proposed to do—and then have gone ahead and done it?”
“I’m not questioning your genius, Joker. But…”
The Joker’s tone sharpened. “No buts! Batman is my prisoner. I decide which way he shall die. As for you, Mr. Whiting…” the Joker’s coal-black eyes sparked malignantly “...all you have to do is inform the Committee of Ten that I am ready to accept the Tommy Award. Let them designate the place and time.”
John Whiting stood up. “I’ll inform you as soon as the arrangements have been made, Joker,” he replied somewhat coldly. “I wish I could witness Batman’s demise. But I have a lot to do in order to gather the committee together.”
“I understand perfectly,” the Joker said. “But I’ll let you know when the Batman is officially dead. Just dial the Tune Parade program this afternoon.”
“You mean there will be an official announcement?” John Whiting asked incredulously.
“In a manner of speaking. You see, I’ve arranged for the top request tune to be ‘Stormy Weather.’ Hee-hee-heee! ‘Stormy Weather’—to report that Batman died in the withering blast of an electrical storm! Don’t you think that’s an appropriate touch?”
John Whiting swallowed nervously. Sooner or later it occurred to anyone who dealt with the Joker that he was indeed a madman—and at this moment the thought came forcibly home to John Whiting. He decided the safest course was to placate him.
“That’s very ingenious, Joker,” John Whiting said. “When the request number is played, it will be the official word that Batman is dead.”
The Joker lifted his arms in exultation. “What a finish! Only I could think of such a magnificent death. What a tribute it will be, both to Batman—and to ME!”
And what of Batman himself? Helplessly bound to his chair, Batman hardly heard the pronouncement of his doom. Ordinarily, Batman would have been busily trying to devise means of escape from what appeared to be a hopeless dilemma. But his senses were too numbed with despair to be fully alert to his predicament.
From the moment Batman had seen Robin plunge through the floor to hideous death, nothing else had seemed important to him.
Not even the chances of his own survival.
Batman was still in a stunned condition when the Joker’s black limousine pulled up in front of the Hall of Wonders.
Scotty Tucker, who was driving, indicated Batman seated in the back between two of the Joker’s henchmen.
“Did you slip him a drug or something, Boss?” he asked of the Joker seated beside him in the front seat. “He doesn’t seem to know what’s going on.”
The Joker chuckled. “He’s depressed, Scotty, that’s all. Wouldn’t you be depressed—facing the fate that awaits Batman?”
“I guess I would, Boss. But I never thought he’d act like this. I always thought he had more guts.”
“Batman’s always seemed brave because he’s always been on the winning side, Scotty. You can’t tell what a man’s really like when he’s a winner. I’ve seen this sort of thing happen before. Someone who’s been used to having things his own way suddenly discovers that his luck has run out—permanently. And he can’t stand it.”
Batman did not look up. Head bowed, he did not seem aware of the bonds that bit deeply into his shoulders and arms or of the guns which the two men guarding him on either side held tightly pressed against him.
When the time came, he left the car meekly and followed the Joker and his men into the Hall of Wonders—the place appointed for his execution.
Inside the towering auditorium, there was a strange and awesome sight. Within high walls of protective metal netting, on an island platform, stood a giant dynamo and two fortyfoot-high electrodes. A short flight of stairs led to the oddly shaped platform on which the giant electrical apparatus was located.
“I trust,” said the Joker, “that my orders have been obeyed. There must be no chance that we will be interrupted.”
“We did everything like you said, Boss. We caused a power breakdown in the underground cable near the Verona Street station. That’s keeping the electric company’s engineers busy. And we posted signs that the exhibit is shut down for repairs—so there won’t be any visitors.”
“What about the watchmen?”
“They’re locked up in the administrative office right now, Boss.”
“Fine,” said the Joker. “Then we will proceed with the execution as scheduled. Put Batman at the top of the negative electrode over there—in an exposed position where the first bolt of artificial lightning will strike right into his body.”
Unresisting, Batman was led past the protective netting and up the stairs to the platform where the giant electrodes were situated. A ladder had already been placed in position against the high ridged cathode, or negative electrode. The zinc tower ended in a short post topped with a large round metal ball. Under the watchful guns of the Joker’s men, Batman was forced to ascend the ladder to the top level of the highest ridge of the cathode, some forty feet above the platform itself.
Batman moved like a man in a trance. At the top he stepped off the ladder and stood still, while Scotty Tucker and another of the Joker’s henchmen bound him to the post that supported the huge ball overhead.
“You got any last words, Batman?” Scotty asked when he had finished. “Now’s the time to say them.”
Batman’s eyes were distant, and sad. He merely shook his head.
Scotty and his fellow henchman began to descend the ladder, leaving Batman alone on his unprotected height.
Scotty said, “He sure is taking this lying down. Batman’s a real spineless jellyfish!”
“The Joker had his number all along,” said the other.
“Yeah. I guess he did.”
Scotty and the other henchman joined the Joker in position behind the safety of the high wire netting.
The Joker gave a signal to another henchman waiting at the controls.
“All right,” he said. “Throw the switch.”
The giant room began to hum with droning electrical power. As the dynamo fed the positive electrode, the copper tower began to spark and crackle with flashes from its increasing electrical potential. As soon as the charge built to a sufficient degree there would be a release of energy—a flash of terrible destroying lightning across from the positive electrode to the negative one. The principle was the same as that which created nature’s own lightning: a discharge of electrical energy from a cloud with a high electrical potential to another cloud or to the earth.
Nearer and nearer came the moment. In less than a minute an awesome and terrible discharge of power would rend its way through the room—and shrivel Batman to a lifeless cinder! The Joker’s white face shone in the reflected glow as the electrical charge built up. His wide lips parted over prominent square teeth and his eyes reflected the small curving, dancing, jagged flashes that began arcing about the giant positive electrode a short distance from the Batman.
Some of the crackling power in the room seemed to enter the Joker’s own body—stiffening it with excitement.
And why not? He was on the eve of the greatest moment of his career—a moment he would cherish for the rest of his nefarious life.
In seconds the Joker’s dream would be realized.
He would witness the death of Batman!
On the top ridge of the negative electrode, Batman became slowly aware of his danger. He raised his head and looked around him. For the first time he understood the terrible fate that awaited him. He struggled against his bonds.
Too late! He was held fast. The doom the Joker had prepared was now only a few heartbeats away.
The Joker’s laugh rang out. It was savage anticipatory laughter—meant to join in and be drowned out by the cataclysmic roar of the lightning.
“Hyaaa-ha-ha-ha-ha!”
Nothing happened. The Joker’s laughter continued, echoing with an empty sound in the abandoned auditorium.
All other noise had stopped.
Then the Joker’s laughter ceased. He whirled on Scotty Tucker.
“The dynamo isn’t building up energy in the electrode. What’s wrong?”
“I dunno, Boss!”
“Get up to the control booth. Find out! If that dolt up there lets anything happen to spoil my big moment…”
Scotty started up toward the control booth, climbing hand over hand up the ladder toward it.
Before he reached the booth, a flashing figure catapulted down, carrying Scotty Tucker with him.
They crashed heavily to the flooring below, Scotty on the bottom. The impact knocked him cold.
The Joker’s incredulous voice rang with alarm.
“ROBIN!”
“In person,” Robin said.
He vaulted over a table to crash feet-first into the Joker.
The Crime Clown went reeling back to the protective wire netting.
“Shoot him!” the Joker yelled. “Shoot, you fools!”
The Joker’s henchmen opened fire. Shots crashed through the air and the echoes reverberated in the huge auditorium. But Robin was a quickly moving target. Before anyone realized what was happening, he was on the platform, scaling the zinc tower to where Batman was bound.
“Don’t let him reach Batman,” the Joker shouted. “KIILL HIM!”
Up the forty-foot height of the electrode went the Boy Wonder. Batman watched him approach with unbelieving eyes. Not until he felt Robin’s hands at work on his bonds did he seem to realize this was really the Boy Wonder.
“Robin,” he whispered. “You’re alive.”
“Neither of us will be for long, Batman,” Robin said, “unless we get out of the line of fire.”
A bullet ricocheted off the zinc side of the electrode and whined off into space.
Batman said, “How did you manage to do it? I thought you were…”
Whang-Splat!
Another bullet kicked paint off the post near the spot where Batman had been bound.
“I think explanations ought to come later, don’t you, Batman?” Robin inquired.
Batman laughed, and his voice had its old thrilling note of authority. “Get back behind the tower, Robin! Quickly!”
The Joker and his henchmen kept blasting away, but for the moment Batman and Robin were safe—hidden behind the giant cathode tower.
“Around this way,” the Joker commanded his men. “We’ll get a better line of fire.”
He crossed to a better vantage point at the wire protective netting. From this angle he could see the other side of the electrode.
The Joker gave a start.
“Where are they?”
Neither Batman nor Robin were visible on the far side.
“They couldn’t have disappeared into thin air,” the Joker said.
His answer came unexpectedly—from thin air.
“Who says we can’t?”
Swinging on the Batropes, Batman and Robin plummeted directly down toward the wire netting behind which the Joker and his men were stationed.
“Now’s the time for a little action,” Batman called out.
The Joker and his men began to run.
The momentum of Batman and Robin’s plunge carried them into the top of the wire netting. The poles swayed, and then began to topple, carrying the netting with them.
“LOOK OUT!” yelled the Joker.
The entire netting came down—on top of the Joker’s men who were pinned beneath it. The Joker scrambled free. Batman and Robin landed lightly on their feet nearby.
The Joker flung his gun at Batman. The next instant Batman’s thundering fist turned him completely around in his tracks and dropped him senseless.
“Shall we wrap the others up now, Batman?” Robin asked with a grin.
Batman turned to Robin to answer, and for a moment he could not speak. He reached out to touch Robin’s arm—just touch it. There was a mistiness in his eyes.
Then he managed to match Robin’s grin. “With a pink or a blue ribbon?” he asked.
Dick Grayson did a double backflip through the air.
His small, muscular, compact body rolled up like a ball as he whirled backward heels over head, somersaulting without touching the ground.
At the final instant when Dick should have straightened to land on his feet he performed an amazing feet of gymnastics.
Instead of coming out of the backflip to land on his feet he made his body as horizontally rigid as a board. And he passed right under the leaf of a long table in the library of Wayne Manor.
As his body passed beneath the tabletop, his fingers reached up to grip the table edge and he hung suspended there.
Bruce Wayne broke into applause.
“That’s the best gymnast’s trick I’ve seen in some time,” he said. “Where did you learn it, Dick? I never taught that one to you.”
Dick stood up, smiling. “It’s something I just picked up.”
“When?”
“I can tell you the instant I mastered it, Bruce. Approximately two seconds after I jumped down so recklessly on the dummy I thought was the Joker.”
Alfred, the butler, who had been listening with Bruce Wayne, looked mildly astonished.
“Master Grayson, what a curious time to practice gymnast’s tricks!”
“I wasn’t practicing,” Dick said. “As a matter of fact, Alfred, this was a matter of life—and death. When I touched that Joker dummy, I knew I’d been tricked. I was ready for almost anything to follow. I wasn’t surprised when the floor gave way under me.”
“What did you do, Master Grayson?”
“I knew that whatever was down in that hole wasn’t there to do me any good. So I flung myself into the backflip just as I went down in it. I straightened out below the floor as it came down over me and caught hold of the edge with my fingers.
Then I hung on. There was enough of a crack at the edge of that fake flooring for me to get a grip. And the rug that the Joker used to cover the trapdoor helped too. It concealed the grip I had on the edge of the flooring.”
“How did you get out of there, Dick?” Bruce Wayne asked.
“I hung on for a few minutes until my eyes adjusted and I saw the vat of liquid below me. I didn’t know what it was, but to test it I dropped a metal buckle from my utility belt into it. The buckle disappeared with a little hiss and that gave me a good idea of what would happen to me if I happened to drop in. So I moved carefully until I found the edge of the vat with my feet. Then I circled on the rim until I found a board in the wall that could be worked loose. After that, it was easy. I made a space big enough for me—and closed it up behind me when I left.”
“And the Joker thought you’d been dissolved in the carbolic acid vat,” Bruce Wayne said quietly.
Dick shivered. “I hate to think of how nearly right he was.”
“Pardon me, sir,” Alfred said. “I don’t like to interfere, but there is something I think you should hear.”
Alfred turned on the radio. In a moment the voice of Vance Jennings, disc jockey of the Tune Parade program, came on:
“And here is your top request number for today, folks. The tune most of you have asked to hear is—‘Stormy Weather.’
As the first strains of the melody came over the radio, Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson began to laugh.
Alfred permitted himself a slight frosty chuckle. “Rather fitting, don’t you think, sir? It would be quite accurate to predict ‘Stormy Weather’ for the Joker from now on!”
John Whiting turned off the radio with an angry snap of the dial. He turned to the other men gathered in the room.
“That’s the message the Joker said would mean Batman was dead,” John Whiting said.
Everyone was looking at him.
He picked up a newspaper from the table and flung it down. “But we know better! The newspapers tell the real story. The Joker and all his men have been captured. Batman and Robin are very much alive!”
As though John Whiting’s words had touched a switch, everyone transferred his gaze to the crumpled newspaper with its staring black headline: “JOKER CAPTURED!”
The effect was all that Batman and Robin could have wished for if they had been present at this meeting of the underworld’s Committee of Ten. The reaction could hardly have been improved upon. “Stunned” was an inadequate word to describe their mental state; “despair” might have been nearer to it.
John Whiting summoned their attention by slamming his fist down on the tabletop. The diamond ring on his hand glittered.
He thundered, “We’re all going to face the facts, whether we like it or not. All three of our candidates for the Tommy Award have been captured and are in prison. Therefore, I see no point in conducting this meeting any longer. Does anyone disagree?”
There was no sign of disagreement.
“Very well,” John Whiting said, “the motion is carried unanimously. There will be no Tommy Award. This meeting is adjourned and—”
A black object sprang to the table near the place where John Whiting’s hand rested.
The black object snarled, hunched its back, spat.
“A cat!” shouted someone near the table.
“A black cat!”
John Whiting stared at the hunched, snarling cat on the table—its eyes gleaming with emerald hate.
“A black cat,” he said. “That’s the symbol of…”
The sentence was finished by the tall, striking figure who appeared in the doorway.
“…the Catwoman!” she said.
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