BATMAN vs 3 VILLAINS of DOOM "Chapter 7"

Chapter 7

In the darkness of the room, broken only by the light of a single sputtering candle at a table, Batman made out the grinning apparition of the Joker. The Joker was seated opposite him at the table.

Batman struggled to get up.

“Ah, I’m glad you’re conscious, Batman,” the Joker said. “There’s no use struggling or trying to move, I assure you. You’ve been bound very securely indeed. Not even you can break out of these bonds.”

“What have you done with Robin?”

“Robin is safe and sound, I regret to say.”

“Where am I?”

“This is a room adjoining my temporary headquarters. You will be kept prisoner here for awhile, Batman.”

“Why bother to keep me prisoner, Joker? You can as easily kill me.”

“You mustn’t tempt me beyond endurance with such a pleasant prospect, Batman. After all, I’m only human. But I have good reasons for keeping you alive at least for a little while.”

“Good reasons?”

The Joker’s grin was a red malicious slash in his chalk-white face. “I promised Robin that I would only hold you as a hostage.”

“I don’t believe you, Joker.”

The Crime Clown’s upward-curved eyebrows moved still higher. “You wound me by saying that, Batman. I swear it’s true. When I held a gun to your temple as you lay unconscious, Robin agreed to let me get away provided I didn’t kill you. He even talked the police into agreeing to it.”

“I wouldn’t have allowed him to do that.”

“Probably not,” the Joker agreed. “But you’d be dead now. So everything worked out for the best.”

Batman said grimly, “You can’t fool me, Joker. You’re not keeping me alive simply because of a promise you made to Robin.”

“Why don’t you trust me, Batman?” the Joker asked in an injured tone.

“Only because I know you so well. A broken promise means nothing to you, Joker. What’s your real reason?”

The Joker’s ghastly white face seemed to shine in the candlelight.

“If I killed you now, Batman, you’d die thinking that Robin will carry on your work of fighting crime. I intend to deny you even that small comfort. Before you die, you’re going to witness the death of Robin!”

“How can you arrange that?” Batman asked. His heart beat strongly with fear. He knew the Joker never made idle threats.

“Oh, by using you to bait the trap. Robin will go anywhere, do anything, to find you again. I intend to give him the opportunity he craves.” The Joker’s eyes narrowed with evil mirth. “In fact, the last thing Robin ever sees on this earth will be you, Batman!”

Laughter bubbled in the Joker’s throat. He rocked in his chair with glee. The sound of his maniacal laughter seemed to fill the room, rebounding off the walls, deafening in its hideous din.

“Hyaaa-hahahahaha-hehehehehe!”

Meanwhile in Commissioner Gordon’s office, a tense Robin listened as Inspector O’Hara reported to the commissioner.

“I’ve had every man in the city on the lookout for the Joker and his men, Commissioner. We haven’t found anything that even resembled a clue.”

“We’ve got to find him!” Commissioner Gordon said. “Every hour that goes by means Batman’s chances of survival are growing dimmer.”

“I’ll cancel all leaves,” Inspector O’Hara said. “We’ll go through all known criminal haunts with a fine-tooth comb. If we even find one of his men, we can bring him in for questioning and...”

“We’ll never locate the Joker that way,” Robin interrupted. “He’s too clever to be caught in the ordinary fashion.”

Commissioner Gordon’s face was gray with fatigue. “How can we find him, Robin? Do you have any ideas?

Robin said, “The Tune Parade.”

Commissioner Gordon said blankly, “What about it? That’s just a musical program on the radio. Surely you don’t suspect that the disc jockey Vance Jennings has any part in this?”

“No—the Tune Parade is an honest program. Vance Jennings conducts a legitimate poll of his listeners to decide the top request tune. But how is that poll conducted, Commissioner?

“I imagine Vance Jennings counts the letters he receives. The song with the greatest number of requests is the one he plays.

“Exactly. So the Joker must be fixing the selection by having his thugs write hundreds of request letters.”

Commissioner Gordon’s face brightened with hope. “You mean the Joker makes sure, in advance, that the song clue will fit the crime?” Commissioner Gordon brought the palm of his hand down flat on the desk. “Of course! I should have thought of that. It’s the only way it could be done!”

“We may be able to trace the letters,” Robin said. “I suggest we pay a visit to the Gotham City post office. Someone there might be able to tell us from which station a large batch of letters has been mailed daily to the Tune Parade!”

Commissioner Gordon was up from his desk before Robin had finished speaking. He grabbed his hat.

“That’s the first constructive suggestion I’ve heard. Come on! We’ve no time to waste!”

Later, in separate rooms at the post office, Commissioner Gordon, Inspector O’Hara, and Robin, the Boy Wonder, questioned postmen as they returned from their rounds.

Robin was alone in a small cubicle of an office. At shortly past four o’clock, the door opened and still another postman entered. He was a surly-looking man whose gray uniform was wrinkled and stained with perspiration.

“The postmaster said you wanted to see me,” the man said to Robin.

“What part of the city do you cover, sir?”

“The Water Street station.”

Robin’s interest quickened slightly. Water Street was in a section of the city notorious for its underworld hideouts.

“Have you noticed an unusual amount of mail being sent from any particular post office box in that region?”

The surly-looking postman said: “There’s always plenty of mail. People will write letters, you know.”

“This mail would be different,” Robin said patiently. “The heavy volume would have occurred only in the last few days. Almost all of the new letters would have been addressed to the Tune Parade program on radio.”

The surly postman shifted slightly in his chair. “Funny you should mention that. The last few days I have picked up a big batch of letters like that. All mailed from a single box at Water Street and Granite Avenue.”

Robin could barely contain his excitement. But all he said was, “Thank you. I’d like to make one request. Don’t mention to anyone that we had this conversation.”

The postman shrugged. “Why should I? I don’t understand what it’s all about, anyhow.”

Robin went to the door of the small office with the postman.

“This is a routine investigation. But it is important that no word leak out. We intend to keep a special watch on that mailbox.”

“You don’t have to worry about me telling anyone. I mind my own business. Things are tough enough without trying to borrow anybody else’s trouble,” the man said sullenly.

“Well,” Robin thought, “things are bound to be unpleasant for anyone with a disposition like yours.” But he said nothing more as he watched the postman go off down the marble corridor of the post office building. Robin hurried in the other direction to inform Commissioner Gordon and Inspector O’Hara that there was no further need to question anyone.

They had found what they were looking for.

If Robin had followed the surly postman, though, he would have been surprised to note that as soon as the surly fellow left the post office building he went directly to a public telephone booth and dialed a number. After a moment, he said, “This is Frank Moro, Boss. I just finished talking with Robin, the Boy Wonder. Just like you said, he wanted to know about mail being delivered to the Tune Parade program.”

“I rather thought he’d get around to that angle about now. Good. Did you tell him the story we agreed on?”

“Right. He’s going to keep a check on the Water Street mailbox. I guess he won’t find anything mailed there from now on, eh?”

“On the contrary. Tonight at the usual time we will mail another batch of letters at that mailbox. And the man who mails them will be someone that Robin knows is working for me.”

Frank Moro said in a puzzled tone, “But, Boss, that’s just asking for trouble. I mean, if Robin follows the guy…”

Over the phone wires trilled the high hysterical laugh of—the Joker.

“That’s just what I expect him to do! The Boy Wonder will walk right into the dandy little trap I’ve prepared for him!”

Shortly before midnight, a man sidled up to the mailbox at the comer of Water Street and Granite Avenue. He was carrying a large satchel full of letters. As he emptied the letters into the box, he cast furtive glances over his shoulder to be sure no one was watching him.

Not far distant, someone was watching. Hidden behind a comer of a building, Robin, the Boy Wonder, was standing guard with Commissioner Gordon.

“Do you recognize that man, Inspector?”

“Scotty Tucker. He’s one of the Joker’s thugs.”

“Correct. And he’s mailing a lot of letters.”

“Shall I arrest him now, Robin?”

“That would be a mistake, Commissioner. Scotty would never tell you where the Joker is. He’s much too afraid of the Joker to betray him.”

“What shall we do, then?”

“Follow him. He has to return to the Joker’s headquarters. And that’s probably where Batman is being held a prisoner.”

“A good idea, Robin. I’ll detail some of my best men to shadow him and—”

“Scotty Tucker might see them and realize he’s being followed. This is one job I must handle completely alone.”

“It’s too dangerous, Robin. You can’t go up against the Joker and his men alone.”

“I’ll be careful, Commissioner. And I won’t be alone. Batman will be with me as soon as I can free him.”

“Yes. Yes, of course. I’d forgotten that.”

Commissioner Gordon had not forgotten. It just seemed to him that, after so much time in the Joker’s hands, there was a very good chance Batman was no longer alive.

Scotty Tucker returned toward the secret hideout of the Joker. Following a trail through narrow streets and criss-crossing alleyways, Scotty could have sworn that he was alone.

But above him, in the darkness, he was being trailed by a grim pursuing shadow.

Robin—the Boy Wonder!

At the entrance to an abandoned factory building, Scotty Tucker paused to look carefully about him. No one was in sight. Only a stray alley cat prowled the rusting debris of this long-forgotten site.

Scotty reached up to pull a loose board down beside the entrance to the factory.

There was a humming noise. The rusted metal of the overhead door slid smoothly upward to reveal a stairway leading to the second floor of the factory building where the windows were painted over with black paint.

Scotty entered the building. Moments later, the rusted overhead door slid smoothly back into position.

On the second floor landing, in a lushly furnished office, the Joker whirled as the door opened and Scotty Tucker entered.

“Well?” the Joker demanded.

Scotty shrugged. “Nothing happened, Boss. I mailed the letters like you said. But there was nobody around to see me do it. And nobody followed me here.”

The Joker snarled. “Are you sure of that, Scotty?”

“I been in this business a long time, Boss. Nobody could’ve followed me without me knowing it.”

On the wall, a small control box began to jangle softly.

“What’s that, Boss?” Scotty Tucker asked.

The Joker rubbed his hands together with satisfaction.

“So no one was following you, eh, Scotty? That alarm box doesn’t agree. It just gave a signal that someone is on the roof of this building at this very moment! I’m willing to lay odds that the intruder is none other than—Robin, the Boy Wonder!”

The Joker was right.

Robin, after some difficulty, had succeeded at last in prying up the cover to a ventilator shaft on the roof.

“Scotty Tucker went into this building,” Robin thought. “So the Joker’s hideout must be here.”

Carefully, Robin eased his body into the shaft. It was a close fit. But the Boy Wonder was able to work his way cautiously along the shaft to emerge into a narrow area that served as a kind of attic beneath the factory roof. He searched the dusty floor until he found a trapdoor.

Bending down, he listened at the trapdoor for a full minute. No sound came from below.

Using all his strength, Robin pried up the lid of the trapdoor. There was a little squeaking sound.

With the trapdoor open, Robin was able to look down into the room below.

What Robin saw in that room caused his breath to tighten in his throat.

In a chair against the wall, tightly bound and gagged, was Batman!

Robin could barely restrain himself from leaping down into the room. But a sense of caution deterred him. He made a careful survey of the room below him.

Then he saw the Joker.

There was no mistaking the Joker—even from behind. The familiar green shock of hair flowed back and down his neck, and the coattails of his maroon-colored frock coat spread out over the seat. He sat at a desk confronting the bound figure of Batman.

Suddenly Batman’s eyes turned upward to see Robin.

In that last moment, as Robin sprang for the Joker, it occurred to him that Batman’s eyes seemed to hold an agonized glance—of warning. But Robin was already in mid-flight.

He crashed into the seated figure of the Joker.

In that split second, the Boy Wonder’s superquick reflexes flashed their danger signal.

This was not the Joker at all. It was a dummy!

In the next split second, Robin realized that the dummy had set off an ingenious and diabolical trap.

The floor beneath the desk swung down. The desk and the dummy Joker remained bolted in position on the floor.

But Robin plunged through, into the blackness! Then the floor swung back into position.

From a far door to the room the real Joker emerged. He was in a triumphant mood.

“My dummy trap caught Robin! And you, Batman, were forced to watch it happen. Oh, what exquisite torture it must have been!”

Only the tense straining of Batman’s muscles against his bonds proved that he heard the Joker’s taunt.

The Joker laughed. “Hyaa-ha-ha! Perhaps you think your little friend will survive my trap, Batman. Well, he can’t. I was saving the cream of the jest to tell you later. Robin is already dead. Thoroughly and quite untraceably murdered!”

The chair in which Batman sat creaked with his terrible effort to move. But the chair legs were bolted firmly to the floor.

The Joker’s laughter grew shriller.

“Just five feet below this floor is a pool of carbolic acid. The moment Robin went through the floor he plunged into the pool. Hyaa-ha-ha-ha! Your young comrade-in-arms is nothing but a memory. Not a hank of his hair remains. He-he-he-he-he! He’s completely dissolved into his original atoms!” 

To Be Continued...

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Batman vs 3 Villains of Doom

By Winston Lyon

BATMAN vs 3 VILLAINS of DOOM "Chapter 6"

Chapter 6

“Step on the gas,” the Joker ordered. “Quick! It’s Batman and Robin!”

The henchman seemed to have forgotten where he was in his terror. His teeth chattered, and not from the cold.

The Joker shoved him roughly out from behind the wheel.

“I’ll drive myself, you cowardly idiot,” he cried.

The truck started up. But it went only a few feet before the Joker jammed on the brakes. The Batplane was coming down vertically—almost on top of him!

He flung open the truck door, jumped out, and ran. His henchmen were ahead of him. They were heading toward the only refuge in sight—the greenhouse which they had ransacked and deserted.

The Joker flung a shot back into the darkness behind him. He did not pause to see what effect the shot had.

He reached the greenhouse a step ahead of his men and held the door open until they were safely inside. Then he slammed the door.

“Turn the lights out,” he shouted. “Train your guns on that door. If Batman or Robin tries to come through it, blast them to bits!”

The burly henchman said, “H-how did they find us, J-Joker? Did somebody tip them off?”

The Joker snarled, “They guessed the clue hidden in my ‘June in January’ announcement. But they can’t stop me! They’re too late!”

Batman’s voice rang in the glass enclosure. “It’s never too late to trap rats!”

The burly henchman shivered violently. “Where did that v-voice come from? He’s inside here somewhere—in the dark with us!”

“He can’t be,” the, Joker said. “It’s a trick.”

“Are you sure it’s a trick, Joker?”

From another side of the glass house, a shot rang out as a nervous crook pressed a trigger.

“EEEYOW! It’s him!” a man shouted. “I’m hit!”

“Fools!” cried the Joker. “You’re shooting at each other.”

His warning went unheard in the general panic. Shots echoed. Men fought and clawed their way toward the exit door.

As they opened the door, a wintry blast blew in.

And so did Batman and Robin!

KERPOW!

WHAM!

ZOWIE!

In the dark interior of the greenhouse the Joker dropped to his hands and knees. The air above him was rent with the sound of blows. Someone gasped. A foot stamped near him on the ground. There was a grunt, and a body fell heavily.

“The steam pipes,” the Joker thought to himself. “That’s how Batman projected his voice into the greenhouse. Through those pipes! If I can reach the pipes I may be able to turn the tables on him.”

He crawled over two prostrate figures—Horace Holly and his gardener.

His hand touched a double row of horizontal pipes that ran along the side wall of the greenhouse. The pipes were red-hot to the touch. The heat went through the Joker’s gloves. He followed the horizontal pipes until he found a long, slender vertical pipe that fed steam into the system.

The sounds of battle were diminishing. Gasps had been replaced by groans.

“Batman and Robin will be after me next,” the Joker thought. “There’s no time to waste.” He stood up and grasped the handle that controlled the steam intake.

At that moment Batman turned on the switch.

One of the Joker’s henchmen glimpsed Batman. He aimed a gun at his back.

Robin quickly snatched up an empty flowerpot and hurled it with all his might. The pot struck the burly henchman’s elbow, and sent the gun flying from nerve-deadened fingers. The henchman’s wail of pain was cut short as Robin’s first drove home to the point of his jaw. He turned slowly, his legs twisting as he fell in a heap.

“Thanks, Robin,” said the Batman. “We’ve disposed of them all, except for…”

“Me?” asked the Joker. “How right you are, Batman!”

The mad Clown of Crime was already twisting the handle that controlled the input from the steam pipes.

“This hothouse is getting a little too hot for me!” The Joker finished wrenching the handle completely to its furthest arc.

“But turning this steam loose may make it even too hot for you!”

An explosive hiss of steam erupted into a scalding hot veil as Robin charged into the middle of it.

The fiery hot blast struck the Boy Wonder like a fist. He staggered back. Steam rose about him in a blinding white cloud.

“Batman!” he called.

The Joker’s high taunting laugh answered him. Valiantly Robin made an attempt to get to him. But it was like groping through a thick fog in a temperature higher than that of a steam room. Robin could scarcely breathe.

Robin’s groping arms caught a man’s body—and held on.

“Take it easy, Robin,” Batman told him. “It’s me. I’ll get you clear of this.”

Batman led the choking, gasping Boy Wonder to an area clear of the steam vapor.

Through incandescent steam they heard the Joker’s command:

“Quick, men. Into the truck!”

Robin shook his head dazedly. “We can’t let him get away, Batman. Let’s go after him.”

Batman shook his head. “We can’t. Not until we’ve found the steam intake valve and shut it down. I saw Horace Holly and his gardener lying on the ground near the steam pipes when I switched on the lights.”

“Can’t we come back for them later, Batman?” Robin pleaded. “Listen! The Joker and his men are getting away.” Outside the greenhouse the truck’s engine roared into life. There was a hasty grinding clash of gears.

“If we leave those two unconscious men here,” Batman said, “they’ll suffocate. This greenhouse will be full of scalding steam in a few more minutes. We don’t have a choice, Robin. We can’t leave Horace Holly and his gardener to die.”

Steam rose higher and higher in menacing white billows.

The temperature rose steadily—to the limits of human endurance.

Batman swept his cape up about his nose and mouth, and Robin did the same. They plunged into the swirling billows of red-hot steam.

When Batman found the intake valve, the handle was already so hot he could only touch it with his gloves for a second. But by turning the handle a bit at a time he managed to cut off the deadly hiss of incoming steam.

With Robin’s help, he carried Horace Holly and his unconscious gardener out of danger. In the cool air near the open door to the greenhouse the two men slowly revived.

Horace Holly said, “Batman—Robin. Thank goodness you’re here. Someone broke into my greenhouse and…”

Batman said gently, “I know, Mr. Holly. It was the Joker. He was after your rare orchid bulbs.”

“My orchids,” the old man gasped. “Nothing happened to my precious bulbs, did it?”

“I’m sorry to tell you this, Mr. Holly. But I’m afraid the Joker got them.”

“They’ll be ruined. A man like the Joker doesn’t know how to care for those flowers. The slightest rough handling…the merest frost…”

“You can rely on the Joker to take good care of them, Mr. Holly. He doesn’t know much about orchids—but he does know that your collection is worth a fortune. And one thing the Joker does understand, I assure you, is the proper care and handling of—money!”

Horace Holly was close to tears. “My precious orchids,” he said. “I’ve spent most of my life making my collection the finest in the world. How can I ever replace them?”

“You’ll get them back, Mr. Holly. The Joker doesn’t want to go into the business of raising orchids. He’ll unload them as soon as he can—on the market. You’ll be able to buy them back again.”

“Do you really think so? I don’t care about the money. I’ll pay anything.” A wavering smile appeared on Horace Holly’s seamed face. “I can’t tell you what your saying this means to me, Batman. I know it sounds foolish, but to think that all my work—my reputation as the world’s finest orchid grower—might have been undone by this cruel robbery. It’s almost too much for me to bear.”

“Mr. Holly, as soon as you feel better, call the police. When they get here, tell them exactly what happened.”

Horace Holly, with Batman’s assistance, got to his feet. “I surely will, Batman. And I’ll also tell them how you and Robin saved my life—and my gardener William’s life, too.”

Batman and Robin hurried off. A hundred yards distant, the Batplane was waiting.

“We have to face it, Batman,” Robin said grimly. “The Joker won round number two.”

“He’s laughing up his sleeve at us right now, Robin,” Batman said bitterly.

“We mustn’t get discouraged, Batman. You’ve always said that he who laughs last, laughs best!”

“Nevertheless, Robin, I knew what Horace Holly meant when he said that he had spent a lifetime building a reputation—only to see his work undone. That’s how I feel about us and the Joker right now. We’ve spent years building a reputation as crime fighters—and he’s making fools of us.”

“Our day will come, Batman. It may come sooner than the Joker thinks. After all, we’ve beaten the Penguin—and put the Catwoman in prison. The Joker is no tougher than they are.”

But even in Robin’s own ears his words had a false ring—the empty bravado of someone whistling in the dark.

The red phone rang on Commissioner Gordon’s desk. “Batman wants to talk to you, Commissioner,” said Inspector O’Hara.

“He must have heard the request number on the Tune Parade program,” Commissioner Gordon said. “I wonder if he’s reached the same conclusion as we have.”

He crossed the room to pick up the phone. “Yes, Batman?”

The Caped Crusader’s strong assured voice came over the wire, “I presume you heard the request number, Commissioner. ‘Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.’”

“Yes, I have, Batman. What do you think it means?”

“I’m not sure. The Joker is being more cryptic than usual.”

“I’ve been discussing it with Inspector O’Hara. We think he’s going to attempt a robbery with the aid of smoke bombs.”

“That would be a little too obvious for the Joker, I’m afraid.”

Commissioner Gordon tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice: “Well, then, Batman, what’s your answer?”

“The Joker will try to match his song clue with a crime, of course—although I doubt he’ll use smoke bombs. Commissioner, I’d like you to post men on rooftops throughout the city to report any suspicious signs.”

“All right, Batman. How will I reach you if there’s anything to report?”

“Use the regular police frequency to broadcast all reports. I’ll be listening.”

“Very well, Batman.”

Commissioner Gordon hung up the phone.

“He didn’t agree with our theory, did he now, Mr. Commissioner?” asked Inspector O’Hara.

“No, he didn’t. But whatever the answer to the Joker’s riddle is, Batman and Robin had better catch up with him soon. We can’t afford another mistake. The Crime Parade has got to stop!”

“What can we do to help Batman, Commissioner?”

“I want a hundred of your best men, O’Hara, posted on rooftops throughout the city at strategically located spots. The moment they see anything smoking, they’re to let me know at once.”

Inspector O’Hara looked dubious. “It’s a big city, Mr. Commissioner. You’ll get reports on every incinerator, every factory furnace, every one-alarm fire.”

“I know, Inspector. But this is what the Batman asked me to do. Do you have a better idea?”

Inspector O’Hara flushed. “No, sir, that I don’t. Is it a hundred men you want, sir? It’s a hundred men you’ll have.”

There was a full moon that night.

In the ghostly pale radiance the towers of Gotham City stood out sharp and clear.

On a rooftop with a commanding view of the business section of the city, Batman and Robin stood guard at a powerful telescope on a tripod. Every few minutes they changed the angle of the telescope’s vision. Either Batman or Robin was constantly at the eyepiece.

Nearby, on the ledge of the roof, stood a small radio tuned in to the police frequency:

“Officer Templeton reporting. Sighted smoke at the corner of Vineland and Roberts Streets. Checked same. Woman burning trash in her backyard…”

“Officer Nelson here. Smoke on Reit Avenue from a burning automobile. Conflagration has been extinguished…”

“Detective Sergeant Andrew Rose. Cause of smoke from a building at Alkon Street proved to be a roast beef left too long in the oven…”

On and on went the reports.

Robin replaced Batman on the telescope. Batman replaced Robin. The hour wore on toward eleven.

Robin said, “Batman, I hate to say it, but I think we’ve missed another of the Joker’s song clues.”

“What makes you think so, Robin?”

“I’m discouraged. Just listen to all these false alarms being checked by the police! And we haven’t noticed any suspicious signs of smoke…”

“I don’t expect any, Robin,” Batman said calmly.

“You don’t—what?” Robin stared at Batman. “But why all this fuss about putting police observers on rooftops? And what are we doing up here with this telescope?”

“The police are stationed out there to give the Joker a false sense of security, Robin. If the Joker thinks we’re actually looking for some sort of smoke signal to reveal the location of his next crime, he may very likely get a little careless. And that may uncover his real plan.”

“Holy firefighters!” Robin exclaimed. “I never thought of that. What do you expect his real plan is, Batman?”

“I wish I could tell you, Robin. All I do know is that the mere presence of smoke won’t give it away. The Joker is far too devious a scoundrel for—wait a minute!”

“Did you see anything, Batman?”

“It’s something I don’t see. The last time we looked through the telescope at the northeast section of the business district the factory chimney was smoking.”

“Let me see, Batman!”

Robin took over at the eyepiece of the powerful telescope. “You’re right, Batman. We had a report on it at that time. It’s a silk warehouse. They were burning the leftover cuttings and sweepings.”

“How long ago was that, Robin?”

Robin consulted his notebook.

“I have a report on it here. From Detective Sergeant Andrew Rose. Ten forty-seven.”

“Barely fifteen minutes ago.”

“That’s right, Batman.”

“And the police report said the smoke would continue for at least two hours. Why has it stopped so suddenly?”

“Do you think…?”

“This would be just like the Joker, wouldn’t it? To tip off his crime not by a smoke signal—but by the absence of smoke!”

Robin was already preparing the Batarang. “Let’s get there in a hurry, Batman!”

“Not so fast, Robin. Don’t forget the Batrespirators. The Joker also warned us that ‘smoke gets in your eyes.’ And we have learned to ignore his warnings only at our peril!”

Batman and Robin fixed respirators over the lower part of their faces. Then the caped duo set out for the silk warehouse about two miles distant. They did not waste time descending to the street. Instead they took the direct route over the rooftops and the streets.

Time and again the Batarangs shot out, coiled over an adjoining roof or ledge support, then Batman and Robin, supreme acrobats, swung on the Batropes high above the street.

The high-flying shortcut to the warehouse was saving precious minutes!

On the roof of the silk warehouse, a few minutes earlier, the Joker had put a daring plot into action.

At his orders, three of his henchmen took heavy bags of sand and dropped them down the stack of the smoking chimney. As the sandbags plunged through the stack, the smoke from the chimney thinned.

“Won’t somebody notice when the chimney stops smoking, Boss?”

The Joker whinnied triumphantly. “Haven’t you been listening to the police broadcasts? They’re watching for signs of smoke appearing—not disappearing! So they won’t think there’s anything suspicious about this. The poor dolts!” The smoke from the chimney stopped altogether.

“Shall we put on the oxygen masks now, Boss?” asked a second henchman.

“Plenty of time,” said the confident Joker. “Right now the smoke from this choked-up chimney is pouring through the building. And the watchmen are trying to get out. There won’t even be time for them to turn in an alarm.”

“Smoke will get in their eyes, eh, Joker? That was a good one.”

The Joker’s eyes flashed fire. “Good?”

“I mean great,” the henchman corrected himself hastily. “All your ideas are great, Boss. That’s because you’re a genius.”

“What a nice thing to say, Gorgo. As one devoted to the truth, I love to hear it spoken. And it is quite true—I am a genius.”

The third henchman ventured cautiously, “Shall we put on the masks now, Boss? And get started with our business?”

The Joker yawned. “Ah, yes,” he said. “We might as well. This is the part of committing a crime I enjoy the least. It’s so much like plain hard work. And it’s really quite boring for a man of my brilliance.”

They put on the oxygen masks and descended into the smoke-filled main room of the silk warehouse. Valuable rolls of fabrics were stored on shelves and in. huge bolts on the floor. The Joker leisurely watched his men pull and haul the goods into position.

“Shall we start dropping the stuff now, Joker?” one of the men asked through the microphone in his mask.

The room was aboil with acrid black smoke from the chimney, and the Joker could hardly see where the man was.

“Yes,” he said impatiently. “The rest of the boys are waiting below to put it into the trucks.”

“When we open the window, Joker, this smoke will get out. Won’t that signal the cops to come here?”

The Joker rasped irritably, “By the time they get here, we’ll be safely gone. I’ve allowed exactly three minutes for this part of the operation. Like all my superb crime plans, it’s been timed to the fraction of a split second. The nearest police are posted half a mile from here. It will take them exactly six minutes from the time they first sight the smoke to arrive on the scene. We have a more than adequate margin of safety.”

“You think of everything, Joker. Here we go.”

One henchman signaled the other, who rolled up the large window.

Black smoke poured out the window. At the same time the men dropped the first of the great bolts of silk to the pavement below.

On the pavement the Joker’s other men scurried to pick up the bolts and load them into the waiting trucks. The men working below could not even see the window from which the smoke—and a fortune in costly fabrics—was emerging.

So they did not see two caped figures swing in a long daring arc from a building opposite into the open window of the warehouse!

THUD!

“What was that?” asked the Joker. Then his voice became a trumpet of alarm: “BATMAN AND ROBIN!”

Out of the smoke charged two caped figures. They collided with two henchmen carrying a new bolt of silk to the window.

Down went the men, with the silk. The fabric unrolled and billowed out over them like the silken canopy of a parachute around a grounded parachutist.

“HELP!” screamed one of the men from beneath the silken prison.

The Joker did not answer the call for help. He took refuge behind the tall wooden shelves in which other bolts of silk were stored.

“A pox on Batman and that cursed brat!” he said. “They’re getting too good at detecting my song clues. Well, my men should delay them long enough for me to make my own escape. I’ll get away in one of the trucks waiting below!”

As the two henchmen tangled in silk tried to extricate themselves, Robin planted himself between them. He took their heads and expertly banged them into each other.

The remaining henchman tried to flee, tripped over a bolt of silk, and went sprawling. He rolled over on his back and managed to fire two quick shots as Batman lunged at him.

Batman landed heavily on him. A black-gloved fist struck—and that was all the henchman remembered.

Robin called, “The Joker! He’s hiding behind those tall shelves.”

The Joker cursed fluently. The delay he had counted on had not materialized. Batman and Robin had disposed of his men in just a few seconds of violent combat.

The Joker heaved at the shelf between him and Robin as the Boy Wonder raced toward him.

The tall shelf teetered forward.

“LOOK OUT!” Batman shouted to Robin. But the Boy Wonder, eager for battle, hardly noted the danger.

Batman fired the Batarang.

A coil of rope swept around Robin—and Batman hauled him back with all his power.

Robin yelled. “Batman! What’re you doing?”

Robin was pulled off his feet, sliding across the floor.

In that instant the huge shelving fell with a shattering crash—exactly where Robin had been a moment before! Batman quickly untied the ropes that bound Robin.

“I guess I should’ve watched where I was going, eh, Batman?”

“That’s always a good idea, Robin. If that shelving had landed on you, I’d be scraping you up now with a spoon!”

When Batman had finished freeing Robin he glanced around to see what had happened to the Joker.

The mad jester was poised on the edge of the window. The Joker’s long coattails flapped in the breeze from the window as he made ready to jump.

“Farewell, Batman. Until we meet again!”

The wail of police sirens sounded from the street below.

Looking down from his window perch, the Joker saw his trucks frantically start to pull away from the curb. But police cars were already on the scene. Police piled out, guns in hand.

The trucks screeched to a halt. The Joker’s henchmen stepped out of the trucks with their hands high in the air.

“Up there!” someone cried from the street below. “The Joker himself!”

A police searchlight flashed upward. The Joker’s tall figure was framed in the window with smoke still pouring out behind him.

“Surrender, Joker. Or we’ll shoot!”

“Oh, drat!” thought the Joker. “My timing was upset by Batman and Robin’s arrival. They delayed everything long enough for the cops to get here.”

A warning shot chipped wood from the window above the Joker’s head.

Down below waited certain capture. To remain at the window meant certain death.

The Joker leaped back into the room—to confront Batman and Robin!

“Not leaving after all?” Batman asked sarcastically.

“I simply can’t tear myself away, Batman,” answered the Joker.

Batman sprang for him. The Joker tried to fend off the blow, but Batman’s rock-hard fist drove home unerringly.

The impact sent the Joker reeling back to the wall.

The Joker picked up a chair and threw it desperately.

Batman ducked beneath it and dived in at the Joker again. His left hand dug deep into the Joker’s stomach. The Joker gave a wheezing gasp and his hands clawed upward blindly at the Batman’s face.

He tore off the Batrespirator!

Instantly Batman was choking, his eyes smarting.

In the acrid stinging smoke, Batman bent to recover the respirator. The Joker’s knee flashed upward and caught him on the point of the jaw.

Batman went down heavily. He lay still.

A furious small figure exploded with savage fury at the Joker.

Trying vainly to hold off Robin’s attack, the Joker stumbled backward and sprawled full length.

Robin leaped at him.

The Joker’s agile legs shot up, caught Robin, lifted him, and sent him flying across the room.

Robin was instantly on his feet, ready to do battle again.

But the Joker had his gun out—and it was aimed not at Robin.

The Joker was holding the gun tight against the temple of the fallen, unconscious Batman!

“I can’t miss at this range,” the Joker said. “If you move toward me, Robin, I will blow out Batman’s brains.”

Robin halted. Seeing the Boy Wonder’s hesitation, the Joker added, “Come now, Robin. You don’t want his blood on your conscience, do you?”

“I wish I had my hands on your throat right this minute, Joker.”

“Tsk-tsk. What a sadistic idea. However, there’s always hope that you may triumph one day, Robin. The question is, will Batman be alive to see it?”

“You know I can’t do anything, Joker. I’m helpless.”

The Joker grinned widely. “So you are. And so, in point of fact, are the police on the street downstairs. While I tie Batman securely with some of this silken rope, I would strongly suggest that you apprise them of the fact.”

Robin gritted his teeth. “What do you want me to do, Joker?”

“Go to that window over there and tell your police friends that Batman is my prisoner. Tell them that unless my men and I are allowed to go free, Batman will be killed!”

“I can’t make the police agree to a bargain like that.”

“You can’t make them do anything, Robin. All you can do is tell them the situation. I’ll risk what decision they make.”

“Suppose I do what you ask? Will you agree not to kill Batman later?”

“Why should I want to kill him? He’s much too valuable as a hostage.”

Robin stared at the Joker grimly. “If anything happens to him, I’ll track you down and make you pay for it if it takes the rest of my life.”

“Let’s not exchange any further pleasantries, Robin. You have my promise that Batman will not be harmed. Now, how about your informing the police?”

Robin hesitated for a long moment. Then he said, “All right, I’ll do it.”

The Joker chuckled. “I rather thought you would, dear boy.”

The Joker began to bind Batman’s hands behind him. Robin crossed the room to the window. It was, the Boy Wonder thought grimly, one of the worst moments of his life. He was making a bargain with the Joker—archfiend of crime—a bargain that Batman himself would never have approved of.

But there was no choice.

To Be Continued...

MONDAY!

Same Bat-Time!

Same Bat-Blog!

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Batman vs 3 Villains of Doom

By Winston Lyon

BATMAN vs 3 VILLAINS of DOOM "Chapter 5"

Chapter 5

When Bruce Wayne hung up the Batphone, he said, “Alfred, you’ll have to make our apologies to Aunt Harriet.”

“You won’t be here for dinner, sir?” “I’m afraid not.”

“I can’t imagine what to tell Mrs. Cooper this time, sir. She prepared a splendid meal for you and the young master, and she just went into the kitchen to warm your soup. How can I tell her that you’ve decided to go out again?”

“You’ll think of something, Alfred,” Dick Grayson said cheerfully. “You always do.”

“Yes, Master Grayson,” Alfred answered with a sigh. “But there certainly are times when one’s ingenuity is strained to the very limit.”

Bruce Wayne removed the top of the bust of Shakespeare and threw the switch. The secret door opened in the wall. In a moment Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson were sliding down the Batpoles into the hidden recesses of the Batcave.

Alfred returned to the dining room. Aunt Harriet came in carrying the plates of soup on a tray.

“Now, here we are. All nice and…” She stopped and looked about the empty dining room. “My gracious. Where did they go?”

“Master Grayson just recalled that he left his boots near the pond where he and Mr. Wayne were observing the habits of the fork-legged petrel.”

“Forgot his boots! How could he do a thing like that?”

Alfred said, “I am afraid, Mrs. Cooper, the boy must have removed them to go in wading.”

“Wading! In January! He could have caught his death of cold. I am going to speak to him when he returns.”

“That,” said Alfred, “is an excellent idea. There are times, Mrs. Cooper, when a maternal influence is sadly missed around this domicile. Particularly in the case of Master Grayson.”

Aunt Harriet put the soup plates down on the table. “Well, I suppose they won’t be back for a while. We might as well eat their dinners before they’re ruined.”

“If you recall, Mrs. Cooper, I have already dined.”

“Oh, Alfred, you can always make room for another bowl of my vegetable soup.”

Alfred sighed. “Of course. You do make a most commendable vegetable soup, Mrs. Cooper.”

Commissioner Gordon showed the note to Batman and Robin in his office. The note was made up entirely of letters cut out of a newspaper and pasted down on a sheet of paper to spell out the Joker’s message.

“Tune in the Tune Parade if you want to know the latest hit on the Joker’s Crime Parade.”

“Is that all, Commissioner?” Batman inquired.

Commissioner Gordon nodded gloomily. “It’s another of the Joker’s silly riddles. There’s always a meaning hidden in them, isn’t there?”

“Yes, there always is, Commissioner. What do you make of this one, Robin?”

Robin pondered the pasted-up message. “The Tune Parade is a popular program on Gotham City radio. He must be referring to that, Batman.”

Batman put the Joker’s message back on the police commissioner’s desk. “It would be the Joker’s idea of a comical clue. He’s planted what he intends to do in crime as an announcement on a popular radio program. I think we had better listen in.”

At eight o’clock when the Tune Parade program went on the air, Batman, Robin, and Commissioner Gordon all listened carefully. But there did not appear to be any message that could be interpreted as a clue for crime.

Finally, the disc jockey, Vance Jennings, played the last number on the regular program.

“Well,” Commissioner Gordon said, “it seems that there is no message for us from the Joker on tonight’s program.”

“Wait a minute,” Robin said as Commissioner Gordon was about to turn off the radio. “Isn’t there usually a request number?”

“That’s right, Robin,” said Batman. “And if the Joker has anything to tell us, that will be where he chooses to do it.”

In a moment, after a commercial announcement, Vance Jennings came back on the air.

“Now we’re going to play our request number—the tune most of you folks out there wanted to hear tonight. It’s that great melody ‘Old Man River.’”

“‘Old Man River,’” Batman repeated. “It’s from the musical ‘Show Boat.’ It might be a tip-off that the Joker plans some riverboat crime. No, that isn’t likely. He’s usually more specific than that.”

“You don’t suppose,” Robin said, “that there actually is an Old Man River, do you?”

Batman snapped his fingers. “That’s it, Robin!”

While Commissioner Gordon looked on puzzledly, Batman flung open a telephone directory and quickly went down the list of names.

“I find at least two possibilities,” he said. “An E. M. River, who’s a wholesale fur merchant. And a Jabez River, who deals in diamonds.”

“Sounds pretty farfetched to me,” Commissioner Gordon said. “You don’t seriously believe, Batman, that the Joker intends to rob one of these two men. Why, there are all sorts of other possible meanings…”

“You might save time, Commissioner, if you place two phone calls. One to E. M. River and the other to Jabez River.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Ask them one question,” Batman said. “How old are they?”

Commissioner Gordon stared. “How old are they?”

“That’s right, Commissioner.”

Commissioner Gordon called E. M. River, spoke for a moment, and hung up the telephone.

“He probably thinks I’m crazy,” the commissioner said grimly. “But he finally told me how old he is. He’s thirty-four.”

“Then he isn’t our man. Call Jabez River quickly, Commissioner. Find out how old he is. If he’s over sixty, tell him to lock up his store and not to let anyone in under any circumstances. Tell him we’ll be there right away!”

Commissioner Gordon seemed about to protest, but then he shrugged and made the phone call. When he put down the phone this time, his expression had changed to pure incredulity.

“That was Jabez River’s store I just called. But I couldn’t talk to Mr. River.”

“Why not?”

“He was busy with the police, who were in his store already. He’s just been robbed—by the Joker!”

Batman nodded. “Did you find out how old Mr. River is?”

“Yes. He’s seventy-four years old.”

“You see, Commissioner. In his own way, the Joker can be pretty specific. He told us that the first target on his Crime Parade was Old Man River—and that’s exactly who it was!” Commissioner Gordon took a handkerchief from his breast pocket to wipe his forehead. “Crime has changed from the days when I was a policeman on a beat. Sometimes I think it’s getting to be too much for me.”

“Commissioner, you do a fine job against the ordinary run of criminals. But the Joker is no ordinary criminal,” Batman said.

Batman started for the door, with Robin following him. “You’re not leaving now, are you, Batman?” Commissioner Gordon asked. “Don’t you want to question Jabez River?”

“No—that’s past history,” Batman said. “There isn’t anything we can do until the Joker gives us the clue for his next caper on…his Crime Parade.”

The next evening, during a fine dinner together, Aunt Harriet smiled brightly at Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson in the dining room.

“I’m so glad to have you two home for a change instead of traipsing all over the place on those silly bird-watching expeditions.”

“We’re not going off on any more of those for a spell, Aunt Harriet,” Dick Grayson assured her.

“Well, certainly hope not. Especially after you went wading in that cold pond yesterday without your boots!”

“After I went…?” Dick Grayson caught himself as Alfred, standing nearby, gave him a meaningful wink. “Oh, yes, that was careless of me, Aunt Harriet.”

“It was much worse than that, Dick. You risked catching pneumonia.” She turned to Bruce Wayne. “I really must say that you’re not living up to your responsibilities as Richard’s guardian when you let things like that happen.”

Bruce Wayne said seriously, “You’re quite right, Aunt Harriet. I’ll try to do better.”

“You don’t seem to realize the kind of danger a boy can get into sometimes,” Aunt Harriet observed. “A youngster like Richard needs someone older and wiser to protect him.”

There was a snuffling sound from the corner of the room where Alfred was standing.

Aunt Harriet said, “Whatever is the matter with you, Alfred? Are you laughing at anything I said?”

“Oh, no, Mrs. Cooper.” Alfred regained a measure of his customary solemnity. “I—er—had something caught in my throat.”

Aunt Harriet clasped her hands on the table. “Now that we’re all finished with the main course, I have a special surprise for dessert. Strawberry and pistachio ice cream parfait.”

Bruce Wayne said, “Do you mind if we have it in the library, Aunt Harriet? There’s a radio program we don’t want to miss. It’s coming on any minute.”

“That’s fine. It’s something educational, I hope.”

“Well—uh—not exactly. It’s the—er—Tune Parade.”

Aunt Harriet sighed reprovingly. “I do wish you’d try to encourage Richard’s interest in a better kind of music. Bach, Beethoven, and Brahms, for example.”

“Oh, I dig them, Aunt Harriet,” Dick Grayson said.

“You do—what?”

“I appreciate their music, I mean,” Dick Grayson corrected himself. “But the Tune Parade keeps me up to date on what most people like to listen to. And that’s something I have to know for an essay I’m writing in my sociology class.”

Aunt Harriet beamed approvingly. “That’s different. You two go right on ahead and listen to the radio. I’ll bring you your strawberry and pistachio ice cream.”

Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson listened intently through the regular program of the Tune Parade. There was no hint of anything resembling a clue by the Joker. Finally, it was time for Vance Jennings to announce the request number:

“Friends, today the request song is that old and familiar favorite, ‘It’s June in January.’”

The first strains of the melody began to come over the loudspeaker.

“What can it mean?” Dick Grayson asked. “It’s a pretty vague clue, if you ask me.”

“I’d better call Commissioner Gordon,” Bruce Wayne said. “He may have received further information from the Joker.” He handed Dick his emptied parfait glass. “Here, you bring these back to Aunt Harriet. Keep her talking in the kitchen until I finish making the phone call.”

“Okay, Bruce.”

Commissioner Gordon’s voice crackled over the Batphone,

“Yes, Batman, we got another message from the Joker. It said today’s clue to crime would reveal not the person—but the place at which the crime would occur.”

“I see.”

“Well, I don’t, Batman. I listened in and the song request was ‘It’s June in January.’ What’s that got to do with a place?”

“Offhand, I can only surmise that the Joker is referring to Florida—where the weather is like June in January.”

“If he’s going to strike in Florida next, I can’t do very much about it. My authority extends only to the limits of Gotham City.”

“We do have an airport, Commissioner—from which Florida-bound planes take off, and to which they return. The Joker may be referring to that.”

The commissioner sounded skeptical: “All right. I’ll post men at the airport with special instructions to watch every incoming and outgoing Florida plane. That’s about all I can do, Batman.”

“It may be very helpful, Commissioner.”

Bruce Wayne hung up the phone and replaced the lamp atop it. The voices of Dick Grayson and Aunt Harriet approached in the next room.

He went to meet Dick Grayson and Aunt Harriet at the door.

“I was just telling Richard,” Aunt Harriet said, “that if he has an important essay to write he ought to stay home and study instead of gallivanting around town with you tonight.”

“You certainly can’t complain about the marks Dick has been getting, Aunt Harriet. Straight A’s in every course.”

Aunt Harriet sighed bewilderedly. “I don’t know how he manages to do it. I never see him doing his regular schoolwork. He’s always off on peculiar projects with you—like bird-watching or studying Sanskrit. No boy his age ought to be interested in things like that.”

“It’s all part of his education, Aunt Harriet,” Bruce Wayne said. “I want Dick to be well informed about everything. Tonight, for instance, we’re going to the Gotham City Airport. I want to show him the intricate and complex operations of a modern airport.”

Aunt Harriet said, “I don’t see how that’s going to help him in his sociology class.”

“Sooner or later,” Bruce Wayne said, “everything we learn comes in handy. At least, that’s what I believe.”

Aunt Harriet sighed resignedly. “Well, have a good time. And be sure to be home in bed early. A growing boy needs his rest, Richard.”

“Yes, Aunt Harriet,” Dick Grayson said as he kissed her goodbye. He followed Bruce Wayne out of the room.

Aunt Harriet Cooper would have been a mightily surprised woman if she could have seen what Dick Grayson and Bruce Wayne were doing scarcely more than an hour later. They were hovering above Gotham City Airport in a black plane whose fuselage was shaped like a bat’s head, and whose oddly constructed wings ordinarily increased its resemblance to a bat. But now the retractable wings had been withdrawn and auxiliary helicopter gear enabled the Batplane to stay almost motionless in the air.

Inside the plane Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson had changed their costume. They were attired as—Batman and Robin!

Below them, a huge four-engined jet plane wheeled out onto the runway, waited for takeoff instructions, and then raced down the strip and zoomed up into the air.

Robin lowered his binoculars. “There goes another plane bound for Florida. Not a sign of anything amiss.”

“There’s another plane due to land from Florida in about twenty minutes, Robin. It may be carrying the cargo that the Joker is after.”

Robin turned to Batman anxiously. “I have a feeling that we haven’t found the right answer to the Joker’s riddle. He could easily have meant some other place where the weather is like June in January.”

“I’m a little worried about that too, Robin. The Joker’s already pulled off one of his Crime Parade robberies. I’d hate to see him get away with another.”

The throbbing roar of big jet engines came up to them from the airport below as the wind gusted and fell away. The sky was overcast and the air was full of millions of driving, icepointed droplets that swept over them from the darkness out of the east. When Batman lifted the cowling of the Batplane to look out, the narrow exposed area of his face beneath his mask was stung by, minute particles of bail like infuriated hornets.

It was a sharp, exquisite pain, but the pain vanished in the greater torment of Batman’s increasing suspicion that Robin was right—they had not interpreted the Joker correctly. But what else could the clue have meant?

Horace Holly was displeased.

His stooped, aging figure moved through the bitter January weather toward the glass hothouse where his gardener was waiting. As he opened the door, a blast of hot air struck him. The gardener was wearing only a shirt and light trousers, and his face was streaming perspiration.

“No use waiting any longer, William,” Horace Holly said. “I just called Gotham City Airport. The plane with my new collection of orchids from Florida isn’t due for twenty minutes. I told them to keep the boxes of orchids aboard the plane until tomorrow morning and then ship them over to me. It’s freezing cold tonight.”

“Will the orchids be safe, Mr. Holly? They’re worth a lot of money.”

“It’s the airline’s responsibility. I’m insured against loss. I’m not going to risk having those orchids delivered in weather like this. I’m going to bed!”

“Good night, Mr. Holly.”

The door to the hothouse opened and closed.

“Pleasant dreams, Mr. Holly,” added a rasping, mirthless voice.

The tall, grotesquely attired figure of the Joker stood inside the hothouse door. He fired a pellet from a gun—and that was the last thing Mr. Holly remembered for some time. He fell unconscious in the passageway between the double-tiered rows of boxes of his fabulous orchid collection.

The gardener William fell close beside him.

The Joker’s evil laugh rang out triumphantly. “When Mr. Holly awakens, his rare orchid collection will belong to me. Ha-ha-ha! I love to collect flowers too—but only for resale!” The Joker motioned to a truck standing outside.

The truck backed up to the hothouse door, and the rear opened.

The Joker commanded, “Start loading these orchids aboard, men. Handle them gently. The least rough handling or cold might injure them. If that happens, whoever is responsible will answer—to me!”

One burly henchman mopped his forehead. “Golly, Joker, it’s hot as blazes in this place. Couldn’t we get it a little cooler?”

“I find this temperature pleasant,” the Joker said. As a thought struck him, he laughed: “Where else could you be where the climate is like—June in January?”

The Joker nearly doubled up with laughter.

Perspiring, as they removed the boxes of orchids into the heated interior of the truck one henchman whispered to another, “That guy kills himself with his jokes, don’t he?”

“Yeah. He may be a genius—but he’s the first one to admit it!”

At Gotham City Airport, Batman and Robin watched the arrival of the plane from Florida.

“No sign of the Joker yet, Batman,” Robin remarked.

The Batman was listening in on the conversation between the pilot of the incoming plane and the airport tower. Batman put down the earphones with abrupt violence. Over the microphone Robin could still hear the murmur of conversation between the pilot and the tower.

“Robin,” Batman said. “I’ve been a fool.” His voice was calm, but full of self-reproach—the voice of a man in whom the cold, dismaying processes of reason had led to an unwelcome conclusion.

“What do you mean, Batman?”

“I’m switching from helicopter to forward flight,” Batman said as his hand flicked to the controls. “We’re going to Horace Holly’s estate.”

“Horace Holly—the multimillionaire hobbyist? Why, Batman?”

“Because that’s where the Joker is striking tonight.” Batwings slid slowly into position and in a sharp climbing turn the Batplane zoomed away from Gotham City Airport.

Robin said, “How did you figure it out, Batman?”

“I didn’t—until I overheard the conversation between the pilot of that incoming plane and the airport’s control tower.”

“What did they say, Batman?”

“The pilot told the tower he had a special hothouse section on board the plane—to protect the cargo. He wanted to know if similar arrangements had been made at the airport. It seems that he’s delivering a special consignment of orchids to Horace Holly.”

“Orchids!’ Robin said. “Hothouse! They’re kept in a hothouse where the temperature is always—June in January!”

“And the Horace Holly orchid collection is world-famous. It’s a perfect crime target for—the Joker!”

“How can you be sure the Joker doesn’t intend to rob the shipment that’s coming on the plane?”

“It wouldn’t make sense, Robin. Horace Holly’s greenhouse on his estate has a collection that’s at least ten times as valuable. And it won’t be under the kind of surveillance that a new shipment would be—which is guaranteed by an insurance company to arrive safely. The insurance company will make sure every security protection is taken—including police guards.”

“Golly, Batman, I think you’ve finally solved the Joker’s crime riddle. I just hope it isn’t too late!”

Batman did not reply. He was too busy urging every possible ounce of speed from the Batplane. That he had solved the Joker’s riddle he was pretty sure. But he bit his lips in chagrin at the thought of how he had been misled. The Joker’s crime clue had seemed vague but was, in fact, brilliantly precise.

This was what Batman should have expected of a master criminal who thought of everything, made every possible provision against the slightest chance of failure.

Still, even though furious at the delay, Batman thought he could cope with the situation.

If only he could reach the Horace Holly estate in time!

The last of the orchid boxes were being loaded aboard the waiting truck. The hard labor of carrying out the entire greenhouse full of orchids to store in the truck, together with the high temperature in the hothouse—at now higher than ninety degrees Fahrenheit—had left its mark on the Joker’s men. The burliest of them looked as though he had been shrunken by the heat; his face was pockmarked with streams of sweat. The others were exhausted, moving with mechanical, lackluster gestures. The insidious energy-sapping effects of the unnatural heat had already eaten deep into their physical reserves.

The Joker himself sat watching them with expressionless coal-black eyes. He, too, felt the humidity in the place plaguing him. His breathing was difficult, and the sweet ethereal odor of the orchids assailed him.

He was tempted to turn down the valves that controlled the temperature in the glass greenhouse. But he resisted the temptation. After all, it would not take long for his men to recover. But the orchids might be ruined by a change in temperature.

Nevertheless the Joker was relieved when the work of loading came to an end at last.

The driver started up the truck engines and the Joker got in beside him at the wheel. The powerful headlights of the truck switched on.

The driver suddenly jumped up from the seat. “Hey, Joker. There’s somethin’ right ahead of us. A shadow!”

The Joker saw it. But this was no ordinary shadow. It was not the reflection of any object in the path of the truck.

This shadow came from above!

And it was shaped like a bat!

To Be Continued...

TOMORROW!

Same Bat-Time!

Same Bat-Blog!

Please Support Hero Histories!

Visit Amazon and Order...

Batman vs 3 Villains of Doom

By Winston Lyon

BATMAN vs 3 VILLAINS of DOOM "Chapter 4"

Chapter 4

Slowly, consciousness came back to Robin. He had the feeling of drowning, deep in ocean depths, and struggling back toward surface and light.

His head ached horribly.

He tried to put his hand to his head and discovered that he could not move. He was bound hand and foot.

“How do you feel, dear boy?” asked a solicitous voice.

The Penguin’s pudgy frame was bending over him.

“If I could get my hands free I’d show you how I feel,” Robin replied. “I’d bash your head in.”

The Penguin chuckled with a burbling delight. “Ah—that’s the spirit. I’d hate to bring you in cowed and broken-spirited before the judges. It wouldn’t be quite as spectacular a triumph.”

Robin winced, not entirely from the racking pain in his head.

“I suppose it would be asking too much,” the Penguin went on, “to request that you give the committee a blow-by-blow account of how I defeated you. A vivid, firsthand personal account always has a great deal of influence.”

“On what?” Robin asked.

“They are going to decide whether I am the master criminal of our time. The only one entitled to the Tommy Award.”

The Penguin patted his protuberant stomach. “I can’t wait to see the Joker’s and the Catwoman’s faces when the committee gives the award to me.”

Robin was annoyed at the Penguin’s all too evident selfsatisfaction.

“Are you sure they will give it to you?”

“How can they give it to anyone else?” the Penguin demanded. “Here you are—Robin, the Boy Wonder, himself. My captive! This feat alone would entitle me to the prize. But then they must also consider my successful bird-crimes—in which I outwitted Batman. First, there was the robbery at the state bird exhibit in which I used the lark bunting as my method of executing the crime. Then there was the auction gallery where I made off with an emerald statuette of the ibis-god Thoth—using the auctioneer’s yellow hammer. The yellow hammer! Ha-ha. That’s also the name of a bird. Oh, how I tweaked the Batman’s nose!”

Robin said, “I could tell them about the fiasco when you tried to hijack that gold shipment. You deserted several men, allowed them to be captured, wrecked the blimp, and lost all the gold. And barely escaped yourself.”

The Penguin’s disdainful smile did not conceal a tremor of anxiety.

“Everyone is entitled to one mistake. And I redeemed myself by making my escape cleverly and by trapping you while committing my third and most profitable felony—stealing the payroll of the Robert O. Link Remote Control factory.”

“That crime wasn’t a part of your bird-pattern, Penguin. It was a lucky coincidence.”

“I deny that.”

“You were running away. I found your hiding place—inside that roll of newsprint on the truck. What an undignified exit for the Penguin. Your compatriots in crime will get a good laugh when I tell them about that.”

The Penguin’s jowls shook. “You wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t I?”

“You’re a nasty boy!”

Robin grinned. “I’m not such a prize package as a prisoner, am I? However, I don’t want to spoil your fun, Penguin. You’ve won fair and square.” Robin strained uncomfortably as the bonds cut deep into his arms. I’ll make a deal. How would you like me to keep quiet about these embarrassing incidents I spoke of?”

The Penguin glanced at him suspiciously. “What do you want in return?”

“I’m not in a good position to bargain. Just untie these ropes. They’re cutting into my arms.”

“It’s a trick.”

“You can keep a gun on me. I can’t do anything to you.”

“That’s true,” said the Penguin thoughtfully. “Well, if I do untie you, will you promise to be quiet about the gold shipment episode?”

“You have my word for that, Penguin.”

The Penguin kept his revolver pointed at Robin’s head while with one hand he untied the knots that bound the Boy Wonder’s arms.

Robin stretched his arms. “Golly. That feels much better.” The Penguin’s sleepy-lidded eyes smoldered at Robin from behind the gun muzzle.

He said nervously, “One false move and I’ll blow your head off.”

“Will you stop worrying?” Robin asked. “I’m not going to try anything rash while you’ve got that gun aimed at my head.” Even as he spoke, Robin’s elbow touched a section of his utility belt. From within a small protective shield, an ultrasonic frequency signal began to emit steady sounds too high for human hearing.

It was a signal to the Batman!

In the office of Police Commissioner Gordon, Batman was pacing the floor while the commissioner and Police Inspector O’Hara watched sympathetically.

“You’ve done a good job, Batman,” Commissioner Gordon said. “You have nothing to reproach yourself for. You saved that gold shipment, and captured three of the Penguin’s best men.”

“But the Penguin got away. And I haven’t heard from Robin. I’m starting to get worried.”

“I told you I saw him at that intersection,” Inspector O’Hara said. “He was hot on the trail of the Penguin. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Robin’s found the Penguin by now.”

“Or vice versa,” Batman said worriedly. “The fact that the Batmobile was found abandoned near the site of the robbery at the Robert O. Link factory is an ominous sign.”

“It might just mean that he’s pursuing the Penguin in some other way.”

“The Penguin is a formidable opponent. I shouldn’t have sent Robin after him alone,” Batman answered.

Commissioner Gordon said, “I wouldn’t concern myself about Robin. That young man certainly knows how to take care of himself.”

Batman did not appear to be listening. Or rather he was listening to something else. Suddenly he snapped open the shield on his utility belt. A tiny light flickered within…buzzed…flickered again…buzzed again.

“It’s Robin—broadcasting on our ultrasonic transmitting device. He’s in trouble!” Batman leaped toward the door. “I have to go!”

“How will you know where to find him?” Commissioner Gordon asked.

“I don’t—yet,” Batman said in the doorway. “But with the four-way directional antenna on the Batmobile it won’t take long to track down the source of that signal.”

The door closed behind Batman’s caped figure.

“Begorra,” exclaimed Inspector O’Hara. “Ultrasonic transmitters! Four-way directional antennas! Whoever Batman really is, he’s got to be a scientific genius as well as the world’s greatest crime fighter.”

Commissioner Gordon nodded. “I don’t know what we would ever do without him. Let’s hope we never have to find out.”

The Award Committee of the underworld convened in a bizarre setting. It was a huge warehouse with pipe organs lined up against the walls and placed every which way on the floor. At the far end of the warehouse there rose the mightiest pipe organ Robin had ever seen, a monstrous fifty-foot-high affair that reached almost to the ceiling. Its tremendous pipes were like so many missiles ready for launching.

The reason for this warehouse having been chosen as the meeting place was simple. John Whiting, chairman of the committee, operated behind a respectable business front as a distributor of pipe organs.

The giant pipe organ in the rear of the warehouse had been especially built for installation in a new motion picture palace meant to dwarf all such previous buildings, even the fabulous Radio City Music Hall in New York City. The organ was designed to be played by half a dozen organists at once—each stationed at a different part of the mighty instrument.

When the Penguin entered the meeting place with Robin in tow, the response was enthusiastic enough to please even the Penguin’s monumental ego.

“It’s Robin! The Penguin has taken him captive!”

“He’s delivering the Wonder Boy right into our hands!” “What an achievement!”

The Penguin beamed as he told of his exploits during the preliminary session of the committee.

The Committee of Ten listened gravely on their wooden chairs behind a wooden table. Nearby, present as witnesses, lounged the Joker and the Catwoman.

The Penguin concluded his presentation proudly: “And during my last bird-crime, Robin made an attempt to stop me. We battled—I overcame him. Now I have brought him here as a captive so this committee can judge for itself whether I—and I alone—am not entitled to the top prize in gangsterdom!”

The Penguin ended with a flourish and a bow. He took his seat.

John Whiting, seated in the center of the Committee of Ten at the table said gravely, “Robin, is there anything you would care to say at this time?”

Robin said, “I have nothing to add to the Penguin’s testimony.”

“Then you support his version of what occurred?”

“Allowing for his excessive ego, it’s a fairly honest report.”

The Penguin sat on the edge of his chair, teetering there more like a proud pouter pigeon than a penguin. John Whiting was silent, obviously impressed. So were the other members of the committee.

The Joker’s mad grin seemed forced. He asked Robin angrily, “Did you make some sort of a deal with the Penguin? You’re taking his side.”

Catwoman purred with menace: “Where is the Batman? That’s what I’d like to know.”

The Joker said triumphantly, “Catwoman is right. How can we make an award to the Penguin when we don’t even know what Batman is doing right this very moment?”

The Penguin jumped up indignantly. “Mr. Chairman.”

John Whiting brought down his gavel sharply.

“Order! There must be order, gentlemen. One at a time, please. I believe the Penguin now has the floor.”

“Thank you, Mr. Chairman. I just want to say that it is most unfair of the Joker and Catwoman to cast aspersions. The whereabouts of Batman is not important. The fact remains that I pulled off my robberies just as I said I would—and I’ve brought Robin here in captivity. What more can anyone ask?”

John Whiting nodded. “You have a very strong case, Penguin. Perhaps we should now proceed to a vote “

“I protest!” said the Joker.

“So do I,” said the Catwoman.

“And so do I,” said a strange voice.

Everyone in the room looked at each other to see who had spoken.

Robin gave them the answer.

“BATMAN!” he shouted.

Then everyone cried out at once. Chairs toppled backward and fell fiat on the warehouse floor.

Through dimly lit upper regions of the high-ceilinged warehouse swung the caped figure that struck terror to the hearts of all criminals. Batman’s cape flew out from his shoulders, and the lights cast a huge shadow before him as he swept down on a Batrope.

He swung feet-first into John Whiting. Whiting was slammed backward with such force that all the members of the committee fell like a row of dominoes.

The Penguin fired at Batman and missed. He took careful aim again.

Robin’s legs were bound to the chair. But he tilted himself forward. His head butted the Penguin deep in his soft, protruding belly.

The Penguin gasped and went down.

The Joker reacted quickly. Gauntly agile, he fled toward the massive organ in the rear of the warehouse. As Batman charged him, the Joker stamped down heavily on the foot pedal of the huge organ, at the same time stuffing his fingers tightly into his ears.

KAROOM!

A terrific diapason of sound stunned the racing Batman. He was literally buffeted by the booming sound of the organ at close range.

The Joker’s mad laugh rang out eerily. “Hyaaa-ha-ha-ha-ha!”

Batman’s head seemed to be ringing like a bell tower in which a thousand bells were chiming all at once. He fell to one knee.

He heard the Joker’s triumphant cackle:

“Didn’t count on that little maneuver, did you? You’re dealing with the Joker now, Batman. Not that frumptious fool—the Penguin!”

Batman struggled erect. But there was a terrible, dizzying din in his head. He had to stand still a moment to get his bearings. As he did, the Joker and John Whiting fled with the other members of the committee.

Meanwhile Catwoman was struggling wildly, futilely, in the grasp of Robin, the Boy Wonder.

Robin gasped, “Help me, Batman. She’s trying to get at me with her claws. I can’t hold her off much longer!”

Batman went to Robin’s aid. Together they forced the Catwoman into the seat in which Robin had been a prisoner and bound her with his ropes. She raged and snarled and hissed at them. Her lovely features were distorted with fury.

“A fine pair of heroes!” she said. “While you’ve been busy with me, you let the Joker and the others escape.”

“Don’t bet on it, Catwoman,” Batman told her. “I have the Batmobile waiting outside and…”

“LOOK OUT, BATMAN!”

Without a second’s hesitation, Batman heeded Robin’s warning and ducked. That quick action undoubtedly saved his life. A short, deadly spear whizzed narrowly over his head to embed itself in the opposite wall.

Nearby the Penguin stood with an umbrella aimed directly at Batman. The spear had been fired from the muzzle of the Penguin’s umbrella, which was poised to fire again.

Reacting with lightning fast reflexes, Batman lunged for the Penguin.

The roly-poly little man was uncommonly swift of foot. He fled toward the rear of the warehouse and the giant organ towering to the ceiling.

‘The Joker used that trick,” Batman warned. “It won’t work again, Penguin. If you step on that pedal…”

“I have no intention of employing sound as a weapon against you, Batman. But I thought you might like to match skills with me—at pipe-organ climbing. It’s an exhilarating sport!”

In a twinkling the Penguin leapt to a projecting ledge above the huge pipe-organ leg. Soon he was scrambling up the slippery slope beside the giant keyboard.

Batman was close in pursuit. As the Penguin’s feet found the support of the lower rim of the music stand, the Batman drew himself up the precarious slope adjoining the keyboard.

Poised on the music stand, the Penguin emptied his revolver at Batman. When the last wild shot was fired, he threw the revolver at Batman in disgust.

“I should never rely on clumsy weapons,” the Penguin said as he drew out an umbrella. “Umbrellas always serve me so much better.”

He pushed a button and the handle sprang out on an extension. The umbrella tip reached toward Batman.

“The point is sharp, Batman—and coated with curare,” said the Penguin. “One puncture of the skin and you die horribly—in seconds.”

There was only one chance to evade the deadly umbrella tip. Batman simply hurled himself up and backward in a somersault.

And came down with both feet on the keyboard.

The sudden uprush of air from an organ pipe under the Penguin caught his umbrella, opened it, sent it soaring toward the ceiling.

Holding firmly to the handle, the Penguin was wafted upward along with it!

As the uprush of air subsided, the umbrella started to lower the Penguin again. Batman pushed another key which controlled a giant pipe directly beneath the Penguin.

Again there was a booming musical note and a rush of air from the organ pipe.

Up the Penguin went again!

Batman called to Robin: “Care to join me? Between the two of us, we ought to be able to play a simple little melody.”

Robin laughed. “A great idea, Batman.”

In moments Robin was beside Batman and, in turn, they picked out the notes.

Each successive blast of air, as a key was pushed, sent the Penguin up toward the roof. The warehouse shook and thundered with booming notes from the giant organ.

The Penguin’s face was a mask of misery. “L-let me down, Batman. P-p-please!”

“What’s wrong, Penguin?” Batman challenged. “Don’t you think music is very elevating?”

“Oh, dear,” said the Penguin, dangling helplessly in the air. “It’s bad enough to be pinioned up here, pummeled by all that noise, but I refuse to be perpetually plagued by your persistently bad puns. Let me down, Batman, and I’ll surrender. Anything—even prison—is better than this!”

“Shall we bring him down, Robin?” Batman asked.

Robin shrugged. “It’s not our fault if the Penguin doesn’t appreciate good music.”

They ceased pushing the keys.

As the constant rush of air ceased, the Penguin began to float slowly down from the rooftop with his umbrella—to where Batman and Robin waited below.

“Here he comes,” said Batman. “Just like a bird!” said Robin.

The Penguin groaned.

Later, when Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson appeared for dinner in Wayne Manor, they were sternly rebuked by Aunt Harriet Cooper.

“You know perfectly well that dinner was to be at seven o’clock. It’s half past seven, and your soup is cold. I’ll have to go into the kitchen and heat it up again.” She put the plates on a tray, a fussy, matronly woman whose natural kindness was such that she had great difficulty even in acting annoyed. “I suppose you were off on another of your bird-watching expeditions. I swear to goodness, you two are irresponsible when it comes to your hobbies!”

Aunt Harriet Cooper marched off to the kitchen.

Alfred, the butler, entered the dining room.

“I beg your pardon, sir. You’re wanted on the telephone.”

Bruce Wayne said, “Alfred, we just got home!”

“I know, sir. But it’s the special phone in the living room.”

Since Alfred knew the secret identities of Bruce Wayne, the wealthy socialite, and his young ward Dick Grayson, he was privileged to answer the Batphone whenever there was an urgent summons from the police commissioner’s office.

Bruce Wayne sighed and went into the living room. Dick Grayson followed. At the base of a lamp there was a glowing box. Bruce Wayne removed the lamp while Alfred and Dick Grayson kept a cautious eye out for the approach of Aunt Harriet who, of course, knew nothing at all about the double lives of Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson.

Bruce picked up the glowing box that served as a base for the lamp and took out the telephone.

“Yes, Commissioner.”

Commissioner Gordon said, “First, I want to congratulate you, Batman, on the capture of both the Penguin and the Catwoman. There’s never been a catch like that in the entire history of the Gotham City Police Department.”

“I’m sorry that the others escaped, Commissioner. Especially the Joker.”

Commissioner Gordon’s voice took on an anxious tinge. “That’s why I’m calling you, Batman. I’m afraid there’s bad news. Very bad news indeed! I’ve received a communication from that archfiend who calls himself…the Joker! It looks as though we’re in serious trouble!”

To Be Continued...

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Batman vs 3 Villains of Doom

By Winston Lyon

BATMAN vs 3 VILLAINS of DOOM "Chapter 3"

Chapter3

“We’re being lifted off the road, Batman.” Robin’s voice was tense.

The Batmobile did not hold the road as snugly as before. The wheels were no longer supporting the entire weight of the car.

“We need more forward thrust. That will offset their pulling power.” Batman’s hand flicked to a switch.

There was a great rumbling roar as the rocket-accelerators came into play. Responding to the enormous thrust, the Batmobile leaped forward with renewed energy.

The blimp was hauled along the Batmobile’s path, as helplessly as a kite!

Over a meadow, through a narrow opening in a fence, the Batmobile sped to regain the highway. “Which way, Batman?”

“North. To Gotham City. We’ll deliver the Penguin and his henchmen directly to the city jail.”

In the blimp’s gondola, the Penguin raged at the controls of the blimp.

“Bah!” he said, noting there was no directional change in the blimp’s path. “Next time I’ll get a zeppelin to compete against that infernal Batmobile.”

“What can we do, Penguin?” asked one of his henchmen piteously. “You’ll think of something, won’t you? You won’t let us be dragged in with the blimp like some old alley cat.”

“Our engines aren’t powerful enough to battle the Batmobile. But there’s nothing to prevent us from turning our fire on Batman and Robin themselves, is there?”

The henchman’s face lit. “Say, that’s right. They don’t have any guns, but we do!”

“Take positions at the window. Try to pick them off!”

Three of the Penguin’s henchmen drew pistols and went to the gondola windows.

“Don’t fire until you see the whites of their faces,” said the Penguin.

They took careful aim.

“Ready…aim…fire!” said the Penguin.

Three guns boomed at once.

The Penguin pushed out a pane of bullet-shattered glass and craned his neck impatiently to look.

Beneath the blimp the Batmobile held to a steady course. The Penguin turned back to the men in the gondola.

“Blundering, pop-eyed fools! You missed them!”

“We couldn’t have missed them, Penguin. I had Batman square in my sights.”

“And I had Robin,” said the other.

“I could swear Batman was looking right up at me when I fired at him. I aimed right between his eyes!”

“Well, they’re not acting like a couple of ghosts,” the Penguin said. “They look remarkably healthy. Try again. This time I’ll watch to see what happens.”

The three men took aim—and fired. Penguin peered out through the window of the gondola.

“Drat,” said the Penguin.

He pulled his head back in.

“What’s goin’ wrong, Penguin?” one of the henchmen asked. “I won second prize in the underworld sharpshooting contest last year. A thing like this shakes a man’s confidence.”

“It’s obviously some sort of invisible shield over the driver’s seat,” the Penguin said. “Apparently Batman foresaw this kind of attack.”

“Maybe we can knock out one of the tires,” another henchman suggested hopefully.

The Penguin sniffed. “Try not to be any stupider than nature intended you to be. The Batmobile’s tires are bulletproof—and so is the body of the car. That infernal auto is better protected than an army tank!”

A gun clattered to the floor from a nerveless henchman’s fingers.

“Then we’re finished. We’re licked!”

“Not at all,” the Penguin replied. “The situation merely calls for emergency—although rather painful—measures.”

The Penguin’s sleepy-looking eyes glittered with a cold excitement.

“Never fear. I have an excellent plan to outwit them!”

On the highway below, the Batmobile was racing along at a steady pace.

Robin said cheerily, “Well, they’ve figured out by now that we’re protected by the transparent shield. The Penguin must be a pretty discouraged bird.”

“Never count your penguins until they’re safely caged,” Batman advised. “We’ve still got fifteen miles to go. That gives the Penguin more than enough time to devise some other scheme.”

A mile unreeled in less than a minute.

Then:

WHOMP!

A heavy crate landed on the highway to break open and spew forth glittering golden bars.

“I was afraid he’d think of that,” Batman muttered.

Robin gripped the wheel. “He’s dumping the gold shipment. Sacrificing millions of dollars to purchase his freedom!”

“He thinks we’ll be forced to recover the gold. He’s probably waiting right now to see what our reaction will be. If we don’t cut him loose, he’ll dump the next crate.”

“What can we do, Batman? We can’t abandon the gold!”

Batman swiftly unhooked the Batphone and dialed a number—the private code number on the phone used only for direct calls between Batman and Police Commissioner Gordon.

An instant later Commissioner Gordon’s voice answered. “Yes, Batman. What is it?”

“A crate full of gold bullion on Highway Ninety-six. Send out police radio cars to recover it immediately.”

“All right, Batman.”

“Tell them to follow Highway Ninety-six on a route north. The bullion is part of the shipment intended to go to Fort Knox this morning. The Penguin’s hijacked it!”

“The Penguin! Good heav—”

WHOMP!

Another crate landed on the highway to break open on impact.

Batman hung up the phone and tapped Robin’s arm. “Speed up to a hundred miles an hour. There’s a tunnel right ahead on this route. That’ll stop the Penguin from dumping any more gold bars.”

Robin’s foot pressed down on the pedal. “Hang on to your cowl, Batman. Here we go!”

Watching from the blimp gondola above, a henchman of the Penguin lapsed into despondency.

“He isn’t slowing down. And he isn’t cuttin’ us loose. He’s pickin’ up speed.”

The Penguin said, “Obviously he has some dastardly scheme to keep us from jettisoning the rest of the gold. Oh, dear!”

“What’s the matter, Penguin?”

“This is the highway going north to Gotham City, isn’t it?”

“That’s right.”

“We just passed the Andersonville interchange, didn’t we?”

“That’s right.”

“If memory serves me, there is a tunnel through that hill just ahead of us—and it’s coming up very fast. The Batmobile is leading us on a collision course!”

The henchman’s countenance turned ashen.

“We’re sunk, Penguin! The Batmobile will go through the t-tunnel. But we-we’ll c-crash head-on into the mountain!”

The Penguin sighed. “Batman has played his trump card in our little game of wits. I do believe he’s won. I did pretty well with the lark bunting—and the yellow hammer. But I’ve struck out—as a goldfinch.”

“You’re not giving up, Penguin? Not you!” another henchman protested.

“Only for the moment, dear comrades. One must always remember the truth of the old adage...” The Penguin stripped off his guard’s uniform to reveal himself in his accustomed finery. He picked up his flattened-out top hat, sprung it open to full size, and placed it carefully on his head. “‘He who steals and runs away, lives to steal another day!’”

“How can we run away? We’re stuck up here in this % $#$%! blimp!”

“You are,” said the Penguin with aplomb as he produced an umbrella. “I am not.”

With an insolent grin, the Penguin crossed to the door of the gondola, opened it, and stepped into space.

“He’s killed himself!” shouted one of the henchmen.

The Penguin had taken no such rash action. He pressed a spring in his umbrella which opened out above him in the flowering canopy of a parachute.

He began a leisurely descent to earth.

“Unfortunately,” he thought, “the gold is too heavy to take with me. But when one is deserting a sinking ship one can hardly choose a perfect means of escape.”

In the speeding car below, Batman and Robin witnessed the parachute-escape of the Penguin from the blimp.

“Shall we turn back and go after him?” Robin asked. Ahead of the Batmobile loomed the dark mouth of the tunnel set into the hillside.

Batman said, “I have to take care of the blimp and the gold shipment. But you can go back for the Penguin.”

The Batmobile sped into the mouth of the tunnel and halted. The blimp continued on its involuntary course straight into the hillside. There was a shattering, grinding crash—and the capsized blimp slowly settled toward the ground.

Batman leaped nimbly out of the Batmobile, which backed up, veered, and sped off in the opposite direction.

“Good luck, Robin,” Batman called after the Boy Wonder. “And be careful!”

Batman clambered over the hillside to where the partly crumpled gondola lay. Three dazed crooks were crawling out of it when Batman appeared.

Batman said, “The police will be along any minute. Just to pass the time until then, boys, we’ll unload the remaining gold shipment.” Batman put his hands on his hips and looked at the shaken survivors of the blimp crash. “Or would you prefer to put up an argument?”

“Who, me?” asked one.

“Anything you say is fine with me, Batman,” said the second.

“You’re the boss, Batman,” said the third.

Meanwhile, Robin in the Batmobile was speeding south along the highway, back to where the Penguin had come down.

“He was only a few hundred feet high when he jumped,” Robin thought to himself. “He couldn’t have maneuvered far. He must have landed near that clump of trees over there.”

Robin parked the Batmobile off the highway. He crossed to the clump of trees.

The Penguin was nowhere to be found.

After a moment Robin bent low. The winter grass was sparse and brown, but at the edge of a small knoll Robin found part of the grass pressed flat. “As though a man’s foot had stepped on it,” Robin thought. High on an oak tree he spotted a small white bare spot where bark was scraped loose. “As though something had grazed it,” Robin thought.

To the Boy Wonder’s trained eye the story was now clear. The Penguin in his descent had narrowly scraped past the oak tree, knocking off a part of the bark with the heel of his shoe, landing below its spreading branches.

But where had he gone?

At this moment the Penguin was safely wrapped up in paper.

To be accurate, the Penguin had hitched a ride on a truck delivering huge rolls of newsprint to a printing plant. Unnoticed by the driver, he had wedged his way into the center core of a huge newsprint roll and was now reclining there, not too comfortably, as the truck made its way south back along the highway.

From his hiding place, the Penguin heard the sirens of police cars responding to Batman’s call to Commissioner Gordon. Once he peered out to see the police rounding up stray bars of precious gold bullion that had rolled out of the broken crates. At an intersection the police held up the truck for a few minutes until the highway was cleared before waving it on its way.

The Penguin fumed. “All that gold would have been mine—if it weren’t for Batman! And that isn’t the worst. When word of this gets out, my chance of winning the Tommy Award will be practically zero. I must think of another scheme quickly. Something that will convince the Award Committee they shouldn’t count me out of the running yet!”

After an hour of riding in his cramped hiding space, the Penguin decided he must be far enough away to be in the clear. He wriggled out, waited until the truck slowed down for a traffic light, and skipped nimbly off.

It was almost dusk, and as the Penguin looked about him his wicked smile gleamed like a scimitar in the failing light. He decided that the fates were favoring him, after all.

He was opposite a huge factory gate, with a low-lying, ultramodern glassed factory behind it. A sign over the gate read: ROBERT O. LINK REMOTE CONTROL MACHINERY COMPANY.

“How delicious,” thought the Penguin. “Such a prosperous concern. And the name is an intriguing invitation. Robert O. Link—Bob O. Link, for short. Bobolink is the name of a bird—and that’s my cue for plunder!”

Robin stopped briefly at the intersection where the police were gathering up the last bars of the Penguin’s jettisoned gold bullion. Inspector O’Hara was supervising the recovery operation.

Inspector O’Hara came over to the Batmobile.

“Hi, Robin. Why are you out here alone?”

“Batman’s guarding the blimp with the rest of the gold shipment—and the Penguin’s men. I’m looking for the Penguin. Did he come this way, Inspector?”

Inspector O’Hara pushed back his police cap, scratching his head in bewilderment.

“Why, no. We stopped all the cars going each way until we cleared the highway. We’d sure have seen him if he’d tried to get past us.”

“Was there any vehicle that looked suspicious to you, Inspector O’Hara?”

“None I can think of. I’m sorry I can’t be of any help to you, Robin.”

Robin pursed his lips. “Perhaps you can be of help to Batman. Will you detail a few police to arrest those crooks and take charge of the blimp with the stolen gold shipment? It’s only a few miles north of here, at the tunnel.”

“I’ll do that right away, Robin. And good luck with your hunt for the Penguin.”

The Batmobile roared on. Alone at the wheel, the Boy Wonder’s mind was churning furiously. How could the Penguin have escaped once he’d landed on the ground? He couldn’t have used one of his flying umbrellas again. That would have been a sight no one would have forgotten. He couldn’t have tried to escape on foot. The Penguin’s peculiar physical appearance would have resulted in an immediate identification. No, he had to have taken the highway. That meant he must be hiding in some sort of vehicle. In a wagon? There are no horses and wagons on modern superhighways. In a car trunk? How could he have secreted himself in the trunk without the owner being aware of it? In a truck…

“That’s it!” Robin thought. “A truck with a loading platform in the rear—perhaps carrying some cargo in which the Penguin could hide. I should have thought of that before.”

The Batmobile sped on past the gate of a modern glass-walled factory. A bit further on Robin overtook a truck carrying heavy rolls of newspaper. Robin cut off the truck to speak to the driver.

“I think someone may be hiding in the rear of your truck. Do you mind if I have a look?”

“Mind? I’ll help you, Boy Wonder.”

Robin clambered into the rear of the truck and searched through the mountainous rolls of paper. Near the very top of the pile he found one on which the covering had been broken to expose the hollow core within—an opening large enough to have concealed a man.

“He was here, all right,” Robin told the driver. “But I’m afraid he’s gone now. I’ll retrace my steps. Somewhere along the way the Penguin must have found a better hiding place.”

Once again the Batmobile got under way, this time heading again in a northerly direction. Robin kept a sharp lookout for some place in which the Penguin might have sought sanctuary. A few miles along the highway he again approached the glass-walled factory.

Suddenly Robin stepped on the brake. The Batmobile shrieked to a halt.

“Robert O. Link Remote Control Machinery,” he read aloud. “Bobolink is a bird. That’s just the sort of idea that would appeal to the Penguin.”

Robin, the Boy Wonder, was learning to think like the Penguin at last.

A few moments later, Robin was in the office of the plant manager.

“I’m sorry, Robin,” the manager said. “There’s been no sign of an intruder in this building. Each visitor has to be identified. I’d be sure to know if a stranger had tried to get in.”

“I can’t see why the Penguin would pass up an opportunity like this. It’s a perfect setup for…”

The intercom on the plant manager’s desk crackled:

“Sir, will you come out to the main yard at once? Something’s gone wrong with the power equipment on display there.”

The manager clicked the switch and answered: “I’ll be there right away.”

“You’d better hurry, sir. I don’t understand this. But the power shovel is—EEYOW! IT’S RUNNING WILD!”

The intercom fell silent. Glancing out the window, Robin could see the main yard of the plant. Various power machines, operated by remote control radios, were stationed there for exhibit. The tallest and most imposing of these, a gigantic power shovel, was now in motion. Its caterpillar-tread body was grinding steadily forward.

The plant manager stood at his desk, paralyzed with astonishment.

“This is incredible. It can’t be happening!”

“There’s no one in the cab of the power shovel,” Robin said.

“There wouldn’t be. It’s operated by remote control from a radio sending set.” The plant manager’s voice cracked. “But—but how can it respond to signals if no one is sending them?”

“Someone is sending them,” Robin said quickly. “I don’t need two guesses to tell you who it is!”

He flung open the window and nimbly vaulted twenty feet to the courtyard below. He landed lightly and, ignoring the giant power shovel, headed straight for the radio control cabin at the far end of the exhibit yard.

A voice cried out a warning.

A shadow loomed over his head.

Robin shot a worried glance over his shoulder.

The great crane of the power shovel was swooping the shovel down at him like an angry projectile. He was directly in its path.

Robin flung himself headlong, scraping on his belly along the rasping concrete of the yard. The jaws of the shovel clanged together inches above his body. He felt the stir of wind created by the meshing of the iron jaws.

The crane hauled the shovel back again—while its motorized platform crunched toward Robin on slow-rolling caterpillar treads.

Robin ran.

He crashed into the open doorway of the control booth.

The Penguin, seated at a table, was operating the radio controls, using two levers on a small black box that resembled a radio. On a television screen nearby the response of the power shovel was clearly shown.

“Dear me,” said the Penguin. “I really thought I had you that time, Robin. I haven’t quite mastered the trick of this remote control gadget as yet.”

“You’ve had all the practice you’re going to get,” Robin said as he started toward him.

Then he stopped.

The Penguin held a revolver pointed squarely at the middle of Robin’s chest.

“I wouldn’t come closer if I were you,” the Penguin said. “This would be quite an unimaginative way for you to die. I’d almost be ashamed of myself if I were compelled to shoot you now. But I won’t have the least hesitation if you make it necessary to do it.”

Robin did not answer.

The Penguin gestured with his revolver toward a corner of the cabin. “Sit there,” be commanded.

“What are you planning to do?” Robin asked.

The Penguin’s long nose quivered. “I’m going to let you watch while I maneuver the giant shovel to crash into the accounting office of the plant—and neatly remove the safe which contains the payroll for one thousand people who work here. It should amount to a tidy sum. A very tidy sum!”

“You can’t get away with it!” Robin warned. “The alarm is out already. The guards will be swarming into the yard in a moment. They’ll stop you!”

“I’ve thought of that, dear boy.” The Penguin stood up from the table. Keeping the gun carefully trained on Robin, be moved to a counter where a dozen other black boxes waited with their protruding control levers. He reached up with his free hand quite deliberately and calmly and began to pull the levers on one box after the other.

In the small confines of the control cabin the results were all too soon apparent. The room shook with the vibrations of giant machines rumbling into action. On the television monitor screen, Robin saw the machines moving on a blind and purposeless course.

A bulldozer, careening like an out-of-control tank, crashed into a farm tractor. An angry hissing of steam came from a steamroller headed remorselessly into collision with an earthmoving machine. A farm tractor truck sped on its wildly errant course directly into the path of a derrick swinging a great steel ball. The swinging ball caught the tractor truck broadside and smashed it into a giant pile of debris.

In a moment the whole yard was turned into a pandemonium of shrieking machinery at war with other machinery. No human would have dared to venture into that inferno of metal gone mad!

Through the confusion, the gigantic power shovel moved on a straight relentless course toward the wall of the plant. Its caterpillar treads moved faster and faster until at last the great steel body slammed full tilt into the wall. The wall collapsed. There was a great shower of broken glass and metal stripping. In the wreckage, shown clearly on the TV screen, a few human figures struggled feebly. The giant shovel moved into the shattered wall and its jaws closed on a safe near the wall. The safe was lifted free and clear.

Robin could watch no more.

“You devil!” he cried.

He sprang for the Penguin. The sudden attack almost took the Penguin by surprise. He had time to fire a quick shot, but Robin’s arm knocked the gun awry. Then both Penguin and Robin toppled back over the table in a melee of flailing arms and legs.

For an instant the Penguin’s roly-poly form was on top of Robin. He got one arm free.

The Penguin raised the gun and brought down the barrel with sickening force on Robin’s head.

The Boy Wonder did not utter a sound. His arms fell limply. His head dropped to one side.

The Penguin stood up to brush the dust of battle from his frock coat.

“It serves you right,” the Penguin said. “I rather hope that didn’t kill you. It will be so much more fun to produce you—alive and kicking—as a prisoner of the Penguin!”

To Be Continued...

TOMORROW!

Same Bat-Time!

Same Bat-Blog!

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Batman vs 3 Villains of Doom

By Winston Lyon