Chapter 9
Suddenly there was an exclamation of fear from Shotgun Simmons, one of the Committee of Ten.
“She’s supposed to be in prison. Maybe she made a deal with the cops! Maybe she’s double-crossing us!”
The Catwoman’s eyes were cold as green ice: “Is someone in this room accusing me? Let him come forward.”
There was no movement from the men in the room. Shotgun Simmons moved slightly back into the crowd.
The Catwoman’s voice was a hiss: “My claws can deal out the same punishment to any of you that I gave to the guard at the prison wall. The poor fellow tried to stop me. One quick rake of these…” the Catwoman’s claws unsheathed and made a savage downthrust, “…and he regretted his mistake.”
John Whiting said, “So you escaped, Catwoman. I congratulate you. But I’m afraid that you’ve arrived too late to compete for the Tommy Award.”
The Catwoman’s hand gestured to her cat Hecate. In a single bound, the slinky black animal leaped to her shoulder and crouched there, regarding the men in the room with beady-eyed malevolence.
“Too late?” the Catwoman asked.
“I’m sorry, Catwoman,” John Whiting said. “Since our erstwhile colleagues—the Joker and the Penguin—have both come to grief, we of the committee have called off the contest. Any further attempts to defeat Batman and Robin may very well end in failure, if not total disaster. There’s no use looking for trouble.”
“I quite agree.” The Catwoman stroked the fur of Hecate, perched on her shoulder. “Therefore, I hope all of you will be wise enough not to look for trouble—with me!”
John Whiting answered firmly, “We have agreed by unanimous vote not to make the Tommy Award to anyone this year.”
“Without giving me a chance?” Catwoman inquired in her silkiest tone.
“If the Penguin failed,” Oliver Therry, the British representative on the committee said, “and the Joker as well, I fail to see why you should fare differently, Catwoman.”
“I’ll give you at least one reason,” the Catwoman answered. “The Penguin and the Joker are fools—and I am not. I know how to deal with Batman. My feminine intuition is sharper than his masculine intelligence.”
“You will have to persuade me,” Oliver Therry said, “that you are cleverer than the Penguin.”
“I shall,” the Catwoman sneered.
“I’m afraid not, Catwoman,” John Whiting said. “We all feel lucky to have escaped thus far ourselves. As it is, we had a mighty close call on the yacht. And I, for one, lost my respectable front when my pipe-organ manufacturing plant was uncovered. Others among us have lost dear comrades who were captured while fighting beside the Joker and the Penguin. We don’t intend to risk any more such losses. We’re smart enough to know when to quit.”
“If the Penguin had known that, he might be here today,”
Oliver Therry said. “What makes you so sure you can do better than he?”
The Catwoman’s tone was scathing. “His bird-crimes are juvenile escapades. His umbrellas are highly unreliable, often spur-of-the-moment devices. My cat-crimes are boldly conceived and thoroughly engineered. Nothing is left to chance.”
François, the French leader, replied, “Ze Joker is ver’—what you call?—thorough also. But hees attempt to defeat ze Batman also has fail’.”
“The Joker is a mad egotist,” retorted Catwoman. “I will riddle Batman no riddles. But I do have a scheme to prove once and for all that I am the world’s greatest artist in crime.”
John Whiting said dubiously, “I wish I could go along with you, Catwoman. I really do. But this meeting has been officially adjourned. And no award will be—”
The Catwoman drew a short, strange-looking whip from her belt and in a slashing motion lashed out. The whip struck Whiting right across the cheek.
He screamed with pain and grabbed his face.
“Ah, you don’t like the taste of my cat-o’-nine-tails. You’ll get worse than that, John Whiting, if you try to dictate to me.”
Oliver Therry said, “My dear Catwoman, you must be sensible and—EEEOW!”
The cat-o’-nine-tails had struck again. Welts appeared on Oliver Therry’s face and neck. He cowered back.
François snarled. He drew a stiletto from his shoulder sheath. But before he could raise it, the black cat Hecate leaped from Catwoman’s shoulder, hissing and screeching. The cat’s claws raked François’s eyes as he staggered back, yelling.
“Sacre Dieu! Take eet away!”
The stiletto clattered to the floor, then Hecate leapt down from François and with an insolent swagger went back to the Catwoman.
She glanced about her imperiously.
“Are there others who would care to challenge me?”
Seven craven heads shook in seven craven denials.
“Very well, then,” said the Catwoman. “It is the judgment of the Committee of Ten that I will get my chance to defeat Batman and Robin?”
Seven heads nodded in agreement.
Catwoman looked to where John Whiting, Oliver Therry, and François were sullenly nursing their wounds.
“I prefer unanimity,” the Catwoman said. “I hate dissenters. How do you three gentlemen feel about it?”
John Whiting said, “There should be a vote of the committee.”
“The voting will take place now.” The Catwoman’s cat-o’nine-tails cracked sharply against the floor. “I want the vote to be unanimous, gentlemen.”
Oliver Therry said, “This isn’t the democratic way. It’s coercion. It’s blackmail!”
The Catwoman smiled. “Like most women I am used to having my way. I have a whim of iron. And it is my whim that the vote in support of me shall be unanimous.” Her voice sharpened to a knife’s edge. “Of course, the dead cannot vote. If necessary, I can get a unanimous vote—from the seven survivors.”
François’s eyes widened. “I weel vote weeth you.”
“On further consideration,” said Oliver Therry nervously, “so will I.”
John Whiting’s gaze met the Catwoman’s for a moment.
Then he faltered and looked down. His voice was hardly audible as he said, “All right. I’ll go along with the others.”
Dinner at John Ross’s home was a bore. Bruce Wayne had never liked formal dinners at rich men’s homes. He just didn’t like sitting about in a dinner jacket and making forced conversation.
This party was made even less endurable by the fact that John Ross, his host, was obviously intent on doing business with Bruce Wayne. This became unmistakably clear shortly after dinner was over when, over brandy and cigars, John Ross cornered Bruce Wayne in the library.
“You ought to consider buying these oil leases, Bruce. For one thing, you’ve got the money to develop them properly. I haven’t. My capital is all tied up in real estate.”
Bruce Wayne said languidly, “John, I try not to bother my head too much with business affairs. I leave that to my lawyers and accountants.”
“Well, it’s time you did bother about business a little. You’re a young man, and you have a responsibility. You can’t just idle your time away with your books and hobbies.”
“I don’t see why not. I have enough money. I don’t have to work. Why should I take a job away from some poor devil who needs it?”
“I’m not talking about that sort of work,” John Ross answered snappishly. He was a dark, small man, with slightly yellowing teeth and an intense manner. “But you inherited a considerable fortune. It’s your duty to build it up—invest the money properly.”
“I’m quite satisfied, John, with the way my business affairs are being handled. My lawyers and accountants are better prepared than I am to deal with them. I—uh—prefer to devote my time to other pursuits.”
“Then you won’t fly up with me tomorrow to see the property on which I hold the oil leases? It’s in Canada.”
“I’m afraid not, John. I’m sorry.”
John Ross sat back in his chair. “Well,” he said with a dry chuckle, “it may be just as well. As long as you’re not coming, I can tell you it might have been a dangerous journey.”
Bruce Wayne patted a yawn. “Come now, John. A routine flight to Canada to examine some properties hardly belongs under the heading of a dangerous escapade.”
“Ordinarily, I suppose not. But I have some other business to transact while I’m up there. I’m closing a most important deal—for cash—and I’m taking the cash with me.”
“If you’re worried about being robbed, John, you can always take precautions.”
“Against black cats?” John Ross asked.
Bruce Wayne sat up suddenly.
John Ross smiled widely to show his yellow teeth. “Don’t worry. I haven’t taken leave of my sanity, Bruce. I’m not joking about the threat—although I admit I don’t take it seriously, if you understand what I mean.”
“I’m not sure I follow you, old man.”
“This morning I received a rather sinister letter. It said that unless I agree to pay fifty thousand dollars, a black cat would cross my path and cause me bad luck.” John Ross puffed his cigar with amusement. “Imagine that. A black cat! These crank letters get sillier all the time.”
“To whom were you supposed to pay the fifty thousand dollars, John?” Bruce Wayne asked quietly.
“Oh, the letter was signed by the Catwoman.”
“The Catwoman!”
John Ross smiled. “I see you have heard of her, Bruce. She’s supposed to be a well-known criminal. I read the other day where she escaped from prison.”
“It may not be safe for you, John, to dismiss a note from the Catwoman as a crank letter. Have you heard from her since you received the letter?”
“Now, how did you know that? Just half an hour before dinner, I had a phone call. A very attractive feline voice asked if I were ready to pay up.”
“What did you say?” Bruce Wayne asked, trying to keep the consternation he felt out of his voice.
“I laughed at her.”
“And what happened then, John?”
“She made a sort of hissing noise, and said she would show me that a black cat can indeed bring bad luck—and within twenty-four hours! At that point I simply hung up on her.”
“That may not have been wise, John,” Bruce Wayne said.
“Come now, Bruce. The woman is an obvious crackpot. And I’m not the sort who knuckles under to that sort of blackmail. I’m not superstitious about black cats—and I’m not afraid of slightly addled females who call themselves Catwomen.”
Bruce Wayne forced a smile. “I daresay you’re right, John. But I lead an unexciting life—and this does add a bit of excitement to that Canadian flight you were talking about. Would you object if I changed my mind and came along, after all?”
John Ross put down his cigar. “I’d be delighted, Bruce. You know, if the Catwoman is responsible for your change of mind, I feel I owe her a debt of gratitude. You may be grateful to her too—when you take a good look at the property I’ve been telling you about.”
Bruce Wayne toyed with his brandy glass. “Somehow I rather doubt that, John.”
The next morning, as the red glare of a morning sun illumined the Gotham City airfield, Bruce Wayne and John Ross watched a twin-engine Beechcraft trundle out of its hangar.
“I’m a good pilot, Bruce,” John Ross said. “Over a thousand flying hours. You don’t have to be nervous flying with me.”
“I’m not at all nervous.”
“I thought you were. You’ve been looking around apprehensively.”
“Was I? I wasn’t aware of it.”
John Ross laughed shortly. “Are you keeping an eye out for black cats? You won’t see any at this hour of the morning.”
Bruce Wayne was indeed keeping alert for some sign of the Catwoman. In the steadily increasing daylight the activity of the airport went on at its usual pace. There were planes waiting for instructions to move onto the runways, a jet plane was in the act of taking off, and a small private plane was coming in for a landing. Across the cement runway a luggage truck rumbled toward a huge jet plane to deposit its luggage in the cargo section. All was peaceful—all was routine.
John Ross and Bruce Wayne climbed into the comfortable cabin of the plane. From the picture windows Bruce saw no sign of danger in the offing.
He wondered whether Robin was already at his post and if he had noticed anything.
Bruce Wayne need not have worried about his young partner.
On the roof of a nearby hangar, Robin was keeping careful watch. He scanned the length and breadth of the airfield with his binoculars.
“The Catwoman will have to make her move soon,” Robin thought to himself. “If she lets John Ross take off in that plane, she’ll never be able to make good her threat to strike within twenty-four hours. Somehow, she has to try to bring him bad luck by letting a black cat cross his path. But how?”
Robin focused his binoculars on the plane. He could see Bruce Wayne at the window and John Ross at the controls. The propellers began turning as the twin engines warmed up. Robin’s binoculars swept away from the plane itself to survey the nearby area.
Robin told himself, “Bruce can handle anything that happens inside the plane. But if the Catwoman strikes from outside…”
The Beechcraft, with John Ross at the controls, moved out toward the runway assigned to it by Flight Control. Then the plane gathered speed, and began to race down the runway for the takeoff.
At this moment a tractor rumbled awkwardly from a field adjoining the airport, crashed through a fence, and began moving directly across the flight path of the plane.
From the hangar roof Robin saw what was happening.
“The plane’s going to crash!” he shouted.
He scrambled down from the roof, knowing as he did so that there was no chance in the world of his reaching the scene in time.
Inside the plane, John Ross saw the tractor cross his field of vision. Then a man jumped from the driver’s seat and ran.
John Ross hit the brakes in a quick instinctive motion. The plane’s tires screeched trying to hold the runway.
John Ross flung his hands up across his face to protect himself against the inevitable crash.
In that instant Bruce Wayne moved swiftly. He reached across John Ross, spun the wheel, and gave the plane a strong left rudder.
The sturdy plane responded instantly, veering out of its direct collision course. A wing swept the side of the tractor, crumpled, and in a savage, jolting turn the plane toppled onto its broken wing. The propeller of the starboard engine shattered with a rending noise. Forward motion abruptly stopped. John Ross was hurled forward against the windshield and knocked unconscious.
Bruce Wayne flung himself down in the seat as the plane toppled over. He was thrown forward by the crash, but was only badly shaken up. He did not lose consciousness.
His first thought was, “That tractor—it was painted black! A Caterpillar tractor. That’s the black ‘cat’ the Catwoman said would cross John Ross’s path and bring him bad luck!”
An ambulance with siren wailing sped across the field toward the site of the crash.
When the ambulance reached the scene, the Catwoman leaped out of the back with two of her henchmen.
“Perhaps John Ross will believe now that black cats are bad luck! Quick! Grab the money while they’re knocked out!”
“This oughta be a cinch, Catwoman,” said one of her men. Catwoman, a superb figure in sleek black leotard and furred cape, watched as her men clambered onto the stricken plane.
“So! John Ross did not take me seriously,” she thought. “Perhaps now he will realize that the Catwoman’s threats are always to be taken seriously!”
One of her henchmen stood on the upraised wing of the tilted, plane, trying to force open the handle of the cabin door.
As he did so, something suddenly seemed to propel him backward. He let go of the handle and staggered back, slipping on the wing and plunging to the ground below.
“Clumsy fool!” Catwoman said. Then her eyes widened.
Out of the cabin door of the plane erupted another caped figure—one that Catwoman recognized all too well.
BATMAN!
The Catwoman’s lean, black-furred figure tensed with rage.
Her henchman had not slipped. He had been driven back by a blow from the Caped Crusader!
Now the second henchman, a tall, rugged, broad-chested hoodlum, closed in struggle with Batman on the plane’s sloping wing.
As they struggled back and forth, each seeking an advantage, the Catwoman cursed the unfortunate turn of events. Then she swiftly ran and entered the plane’s cabin from below. Inside, John Ross was slumped unconscious against the wheel. Outside, through the picture window, she saw her rugged henchman slug Batman with a roundhouse wallop. Batman careened back to collide heavily with the fuselage, where he hung, dazed, for a long moment.
The Catwoman’s movements were sinuously quick. She searched John Ross’s jacket; next the side pockets inside the plane doors. She found nothing but a few useless documents. Then, half hidden under the seat that had been wrenched partly loose in the crash, she sighted a valise with a brass catch. She grabbed it, broke the catch, looked inside.
Neatly stacked bundles of currency in marked wrappers! Each bundle was labeled “Five Thousand Dollars.”
There were twenty of them.
“A hundred thousand dollars,” Catwoman breathed huskily. “TWICE the ransom I demanded! That’s what John Ross gets for choosing to pay me—the hard way!”
A quick glance at the plane’s wing sloping up from the cabin confirmed what Catwoman expected. Batman was winning the battle. The tall, broad-chested hoodlum—a former leading heavyweight pugilist whom she employed for just this sort of strong-arm encounter was swinging wildly in desperation. Even as Catwoman watched, Batman slipped inside his opponent’s punches and rocked him with a short, hard blow to the body. The tall hoodlum broke in the middle. As he bent over in pain, Batman brought up a swinging uppercut. The terrible power of that bludgeoning fist lifted the hoodlum several inches off the plane’s wing surface. Then he came down and collapsed as limply as a rag doll.
“Time to get out of here,” thought the Catwoman. She leaped nimbly to the downward angling side of the cabin, opened the door, and slid lithely to the ground.
As she ran toward the waiting ambulance, Robin came racing onto the scene.
“I thought I’d be too late,” the Boy Wonder said. “I’m glad to see that you’re still here, Catwoman.”
“I wish I could stay, Robin...” Catwoman flicked a match with her long claw fingernail. “But I do have a previous appointment.”
Casually, she flipped the flaming match behind her. It landed in a pool of gasoline that had leaked from the ruptured gas tank of the wrecked plane.
A puff of explosion, a quick yellow flare of light, then searing red-and-yellow flames intermingled and began to eat hungrily at the fuselage.
Robin started for the Catwoman.
“You she-devil!” he exclaimed angrily.
She said, “I should tell you, Robin. John Ross is still inside that plane.”
Robin halted abruptly. “What?”
Catwoman indicated the burning plane. Hungry flames were now sweeping around the entire bottom section. Through clouds of smoke, Robin saw Batman dragging the unconscious figure of the tall hoodlum to safety.
Catwoman said, “Are you going to let the poor man die? Tch-tch! Batman has more consideration for one of my men than you seem to have for poor John Ross!”
“Consideration!” Robin exclaimed. “You tried to murder him—and you talk about consideration!”
But he was already leaping toward the flaming pyre that moments ago had been an airplane. The intense heat would have driven anyone else back. But Robin pressed desperately ahead. Gasping for air, he reached the door to the cabin, opened it.
Smoke swirled throughout the cabin, at its densest right above the unconscious slumped figure of John Ross. Robin crawled in behind him. In the cramped area, Robin tried to lift Ross with both hands beneath his shoulders. The man’s inert body was a sodden weight. Robin tugged and pulled with all his strength but John Ross came only halfway out of his seat.
The smoke was now so thick Robin could not see. His breath came in choking gasps. Desperately he struggled to free John Ross. This time he got him out of the seat, moved him toward the door that led out onto the upward sloping wing.
Hot sheets of flame shot up in front of Robin’s blinded eyes. The fumace-like blast hit him a moment later. The skin of his hands and face seemed to shrivel.
A dark veil closed over his eyes. He fought it off. Once again he struggled to get John Ross’s unresisting body out of the cabin.
He succeeded in opening the cabin door. A dense cloud of oily smoke surrounded him. Robin tried to hold his breath. His face felt scorched.
He could see nothing.
Finally he simply had to release his breath. The smoke was suffocating. Choking, he was forced to release his hold on John Ross.
He fell to his knees, then slowly pitched forward onto his face.
Consciousness slipped away from him in the fiery cabin. “
To Be Continued...
Same Bat-Time!
Same Bat-Blog!
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