BATMAN vs 3 VILLAINS of DOOM "Chapter 12"

Chapter 12

The watchman had white hair, a red face, and gray eyes that were choleric and protuberant.

“This is where they grabbed me,” he said. He pointed toward the partly open door of an office. “And that’s where they tied me up.”

He turned indignantly to where Batman and Robin were standing near him on the ground floor level of the Statue of Freedom.

Despite their recent grueling ordeal—less than twenty-four hours had passed since their narrow escape from drowning—the Dynamic Duo were back in action, trying to pick up the trail of Catwoman. Outside of a pallor that was unusual for Robin, they looked and seemed fit enough.

Batman asked the watchman, “Did they say anything—anything at all—that would indicate where they were going when they left?”

The watchman shook his head. “Nothing I heard, Batman.”

“Do you mind if we take a look around ourselves?” Batman asked.

“Not at all.” The watchman added a bit petulantly: “But please wipe your feet before you go traipsing on my clean floors. Catwoman and her men tracked mud all through this place.”

“Mud?”

“I barely got it cleaned up downstairs here. I haven’t gotten around to the upper level yet.”

Batman and Robin started up the winding staircase that led to the upper part of the statue.

“Just a moment, Batman,” Robin said faintly.

Batman turned with his foot on the step.

Robin forced a weak grin. “Do you mind if we take the elevator? It’s four hundred and forty-four steps to the top. And I’m not in the best of condition yet.”

Batman was immediately solicitous. “Of course. The doctor did warn us about any strenuous exercise for awhile. We’ll ride up.”

From the upper level, the view was breathtaking. The entire harbor of Gotham City was visible. They went through the open area, searching carefully.

“Nothing here that even resembles a clue, Batman,” said Robin. “Just a few traces of dried-out mud.”

“We’ll take a sample back to the Batcave, Robin. Perhaps we’ll find something under closer scientific examination.”

Robin carefully scooped up some mud and put it into a receptacle in his utility belt. He looked at Batman.

“I know,” said Batman. “It isn’t much to go on, but there’s no use complaining. It’s all we’ve got.”

In the Batcave, early that evening, Batman and Robin worked like the precise scientists that they were. At a superelectron microscope, Robin studied minute particles of the mud sample. Batman subjected them to spectrographic and chemical analysis.

Robin said, “I’ve discovered what those almost invisible specks of a foreign substance are, Batman. They’re pine needles!”

“Very interesting, Robin. The spectroscope revealed another substance, too. I think I know what it is. I can prove it by heating it over the Bunsen burner.”

A few moments later Batman indicated to Robin the result of his experiment. Under examination the incandescent vapor caused by the heating showed in the line spectrum as a brilliant yellow hue.

“That indicates the presence of sodium chloride,” Batman said. “There can’t be a mistake. The position and color of the lines is never the same for any two elements.”

“So we know that the mud contains pine needles and sodium chloride. What’s the next step, Batman?”

“We’ll check our geological maps of Gotham City and it nearby suburbs.”

On a nearby light-table Batman spread out several maps which, illuminated from below, showed clearly the topography and the composition of the soil throughout the city and its environs.

While checking one map, Robin pointed to an area near the bottom right.

“That Bayshore area has a good deal of sodium chloride—from old saltwater marshes that used to exist there.”

“You’re right, Robin. And several clusters of pine trees grow there. Also, the ground is still a semi-swamp, which would account for the dried mud.”

“I think we’ve found the area we’re searching for, eh, Batman?”

Moments later the powerful Batmobile swiveled on its turntable until it faced the hidden entrance to the cave. As the wonder car began to move, an electronic switch was thrown by the tires passing over it. A camouflaged section of hill which was the secret entrance to the Batcave swung back, and through the opening thus created raced the Batmobile—the most fabulous car in the world!

In the Bayshore marshes, two limousines pulled up before a wooden shack.

In the lead limousine John Whiting turned to his guide—one of the Catwoman’s henchmen.

“Is this the place? You can’t be serious. It’s only a shack. I never expected Catwoman’s hideout to be in a place like this.”

“That shack is just what’s above ground. Wait’ll you see the rest of the layout, Mr. Whiting.”

As John Whiting and the other members of the Award Committee entered the shack, their guide led them to a straw rug that covered part of the floor. Moving this rug aside, the guide revealed a trapdoor which he then pulled up by a handle. A flight of carpeted steps led down into the interior.

When the group of men descended the steps they entered a room of such opulent dimensions and decor that even John Whiting gave an involuntary gasp.

“This is more like it, eh, Mr. Whiting?” a silky voice asked. Lounging on a leopard-skin sofa at the far end of the room was the feline mistress of the underworld—the Catwoman. She was smoking a cigarette in her long holder, and on the back of the sofa crouched her black cat Hecate.

“Welcome to my lair, gentlemen,” she said. “I know the errand on which you’ve come. Shall we get down to business quickly? Unlike most women, I abhor ceremony. Did you bring me the Tommy Award?”

John Whiting turned to Oliver Therry at his side. Oliver unwrapped a long vertical package to reveal the gold-plated magnificence of the underworld’s top prize.

Catwoman’s claws tensed and she seemed to purr as she eyed the coveted treasure.

“It’s everything I ever wanted,” she murmured. Hecate gave a small meowing whine of pleasure.

“If we had time, we’d have had your name engraved on the barrel,” John Whiting said. “But as it was, we didn’t hear about how you bumped off Batman and Robin until it was too late to do it up properly.”

“It will do just fine the way it is,” Catwoman said. Her green eyes glowed with anticipation. Hecate licked its black whiskers with an indolently curving tongue.

John Whiting took out a small sheet of notepaper from his pocket.

“I do have with me a short tribute to you, Catwoman, which sets forth the reason we think you are entitled to the Tommy Award.” John Whiting cleared his throat and began, “First, because of your long and admirable devotion to a career of crime. Second, because of your outstanding success in creating and carrying out crimes which have the stamp of your own personality, viz and to wit, the cat-crimes hereinafter enumerated. Third, and by far the most important, we award this Tommy to you, Catwoman, because of the magnificent, unparalleled feat performed in ridding the underworld of the two worst plagues ever known in its history. Namely—”

“Batman and Robin?” someone asked.

John Whiting answered, annoyed, “Of course it’s Batman and Robin, you ignoramus!”

Suddenly Catwoman’s voice hissed: “Who said that? Who asked that question?”

Two caped figures vaulted down into the room.

“Would you believe it if we said—Batman and Robin?” Robin asked with a grin.

John Whiting yelped, “I thought you were—I mean, you’re supposed to be—”

Oliver Therry swung up the gold-plated tommy gun. “This tommy gun is loaded. You have the distinction, Batman and Robin, of being killed by the Tommy Award itself!”

Batman hurled a lamp through the air to shatter against Oliver Therry’s arm. As he staggered back, the tommy gun fired wildly into the ceiling bringing down a flaky hail of plaster and debris.

François aimed a savage kick at Robin.

Robin caught François’s leg in midair and swung him off his feet.

“I’m getting a little tired,” Robin said, “of your kind of ballet. Now try mine for a change!”

He swung François is around like a battering ram. From all sides other members of the committee were sent reeling as they collided with the swinging body of the Frenchman.

One committee member tried to escape up the steps. Batman grabbed him from behind and he fell face-forward, clattering down the steps to the bottom.

The room filled with the roaring of guns and the wild trampling of men rushing and the crash of furniture being overturned.

John Whiting called over the tumult, “Stand together! They can’t lick all of us. Don’t try to fight alone!” His cry went unheeded.

John Whiting saw Batman come at him. He swung wildly. Something that felt like a rock hit Whiting on the side of the head, knocking him flat. Dazed, he saw a man lift a chair high to crash down on Batman.

Batman ducked adroitly out of the way. The chair came zooming down toward Whiting.

He barely had time to start to cry out and to lift his hand before the chair landed full on him. That was the last John Whiting remembered of the battle.

If he had stayed conscious a moment longer, he would have seen what happened to the chair wielder. That unfortunate man found himself holding one broken chair leg which he flung at Batman. Then his face turned the color of a pasty dough as Batman’s fist sank six inches deep into his stomach. An uppercut lifted him off his feet as it cracked beneath his jaw. He landed on a pile of three other bodies.

Another hoodlum scrambled desperately up the stairs to the trapdoor. He succeeded in pushing it partway open. Robin, close behind him, grabbed the handle of the trapdoor and pulled it abruptly down again. The top came down with crunching force on the hoodlum’s head. He gave a deep sigh and slid all the way back down to the floor of the room.

Hecate sprang at Robin. Clawing and spitting, the venomous black cat raked its claws at Robin’s eyes. The Boy Wonder, half-blinded, swayed back off the staircase. Unable to stop, he lost his balance and plunged to the floor himself.

“Robin!” Batman called and started to go to him. But Hardrock Henderson, the six-foot-six giant of the Committee of Ten, stood in his path.

ZOWIE!

Hardrock Henderson’s fist met Batman’s jaw squarely. The Caped Crusader staggered back to the wall. Hardrock, with the glitter of triumph in his eyes, came at him. Hardrock’s hamlike fist shot forward like a piston.

Batman moved his head. Hardrock’s fist went past him to collide solidly with the wall.

“YEOWW!” Hardrock said fervently, in pain.

He didn’t feel the pain long. Batman gave a chop at the side of Hardrock’s neck, hitting a certain nerve that put the burly fellow quietly to sleep.

Batman turned to find Robin sitting up, dazed.

“Don’t bother about me, Batman,” Robin said. “I’m okay. Get the others.”

“What others?” Batman asked.

They looked about the room. Prominent members of the underworld were draped over chairs, piled in heaps in a corner, lying peacefully asleep by the wall, sprawled at the bottom of the staircase. None stirred.

Batman said, “Too bad we couldn’t follow the doctor’s orders about avoiding strenuous exercise.”

“The Catwoman!” Robin suddenly exclaimed. “Where is she?”

“She started up the stairs when her cat Hecate attacked you,” Batman said. “I was—uh—delayed by Hardrock Henderson.”

“Let’s go after her,” Robin said, pushing himself to his feet.

Batman said, “I was about to make the same suggestion.”

As they emerged from the wooden shack above, they heard the roar of a car’s engine. Past a grove of pine trees sped the Kitty-Car, outlined by the full moon. Catwoman’s green cape flew out behind her as she drove. Perched on her shoulder was her black cat Hecate.

“There she goes, Batman!”

“Get into the Batmobile! Quick! Not a moment to lose!” Down a single lane of road that was like a silver thread in the moonlight the two cars sped. Catwoman drove recklessly in an attempt to evade her pursuers. She made a turn onto a connecting highway at full speed. The Kitty-Car clung with its giant wheels to the road but screeched in protest at the almost impossible demands made on it.

But somehow it held to the road and raced on, with Catwoman hunched over the wheel.

The Batmobile made the turn a moment after her, slowing only slightly as it shrieked around the intersection and then rapidly gathering momentum again.

In the Batmobile, Robin picked up the Batphone.

“Commissioner Gordon,” he said. “This is Robin. You can pick up a number of underworld chieftains in a shack over on the northeast side of the Bayshore marshes. You can’t miss the place. There’ll be two limousines parked nearby. Inside the shack there’s a secret entrance to a hideout apartment. That’s where you’ll find them.”

“Thank you, Robin,” Commissioner Gordon said. “I’ll send Inspector O’Hara and some of my best men over there right away. Where are you now?”

Robin said, “Batman and I are in the Batmobile—hot on the trail of Catwoman—uh, pardon me, Commissioner!”

The Kitty-Car raced over a railroad crossing, crashing through wooden gateposts. Speeding down the track a locomotive shrilled a warning blast on its steam whistle.

Closer and closer came the rocketing train as the Batmobile raced for the crossing.

The Batmobile seemed to leap across the tracks, directly in front of the square metal face of the onrushing train.

The wind whipped up by the train’s passage touched the back of Robin’s neck as it thundered by.

“I’m sorry, Commissioner,” Robin said calmly, “I was interrupted there for a moment. Maybe I’d better call you back.” He hung up the Batphone.

Down the main highway leading to Gotham City Bridge the two cars zoomed. The Kitty-Car wove in and out of steadily increasing traffic. Cars veered off the road to get out of the way of the two behemoths.

Despite every evasive trick Catwoman tried, the Batmobile crept ever closer. Now it was barely a car’s length behind.

Batman swung out and started to pull alongside. Robin rose slightly in his seat, prepared to jump across the intervening space. Catwoman pushed a button. Saber knives in her car wheels shot out further, whirring dangerously near to the Batmobile. With the merest touch on the wheel Batman moved the car expertly out of danger.

But the distance between the two cars was now too great for Robin to make the jump.

Batman saw a truck approaching on his side of the highway. He cut back in sharply, reducing speed for a moment. The truck rumbled swiftly by.

But the Kitty-Car surged once again into the lead.

They sped as though drawn by the same string toward the great bridge span that led to Gotham City.

“Holy jumping grasshoppers!” exclaimed Robin. “The drawbridge! It’s open!”

The Kitty-Car had now reached the entrance to the bridge. The red light was winking furiously. It warned all cars to halt because the drawbridge had opened to allow a ship to pass on its way upriver.

The Kitty-Car did not slow down for a second. It flashed past the red-light warning. A policeman dashed out of a booth to shrill a whistled command.

Up the ascending ramp went the Kitty-Car. Catwoman’s green cape flowed defiantly behind her.

In the pursuing Batmobile, Batman’s jaw set grimly.

“She’s headed straight for the drawbridge! She’s going to try to jump it!”

“She can’t make it, Batman! It’s too far across!”

The Kitty-Car roared up the last fifty yards of the incline.

Straight out into empty space the car zoomed. Rocket jet flared.

Across the wide gap in the bridge soared the Kitty-Car with Catwoman at the wheel.

Suddenly the car’s forward speed diminished, the nose turned downward.

A hundred feet short of the connecting end of the drawbridge the Kitty-Car plunged down into the black void.

Down toward the river below!

A geysering spout of water rose as the car plunged in. A second later the sound of the crash reached the height of the drawbridge where Batman had brought the Batmobile to a halt.

Batman got out of the car slowly and went to the very edge. Robin came over beside him.

In the darkness below a widening circle of water marked the spot where the Kitty-Car had taken its death plunge.

Batman said slowly, “She went into the river rather than be captured. She must have known the Kitty-Car could never make that jump.”

Robin said, “There’s no sign of life, Batman. But you can’t tell. She might have survived. She’s always claimed to have nine lives…like a cat…”

Batman was silent a moment before be turned and went back toward the Batmobile. His gloved hands were tightly clenched.

“He doesn’t believe she survived,” Robin thought. “To tell the truth, I don’t either…but with Catwoman, you never can really tell.”

The next afternoon, in the trophy room of the Batcave, where mementos of the Caped Crusaders’ many battles with criminals were kept, a glass case was opened to receive a new trophy.

It was the gold-plated tommy gun, the Tommy Award of the underworld.

Batman placed the tommy gun inside the glass case. He closed the lid.

Robin regarded it admiringly. “It was nice of Commissioner Gordon to turn this over to us, Batman. If you ask me, it’s the trophy I’ll always prize most.”

“Why, Robin?”

“We got it only by defeating the Penguin, the Joker, and the Catwoman. We’ll never have a tougher time collecting any other trophy. At least, I certainly hope not!”

Batman smiled at his young comrade. He said, “I guess you’re right. Now, suppose we change and go upstairs for dinner. Alfred told me Aunt Harriet has roast turkey and a special dessert for us. She’ll be disappointed if we decide to go bird-watching again.”

Robin nodded cheerfully. “There’s a time and place for everything,” he said. “Right now, I’m awfully hungry. The only bird-watching I’m interested in is Aunt Harriet’s delicious roast turkey.”

Batman flung his arm about Robin’s shoulders. Together they started out of the Batcave.

Behind them, resplendent in its glass trophy case, they left the gold-plated Tommy Award for which the Penguin and the Joker had given their freedom—and Catwoman had sacrificed her life.

The End...???

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Batman vs 3 Villains of Doom

By Winston Lyon

BATMAN vs 3 VILLAINS of DOOM "Chapter 11"

Chapter 11

On the far side of the excavation, the Kitty-Car made a landing that was cushioned by its giant wheels. It raced away into the night.

The Batmobile shuddered as it decelerated and came to a sudden stop at the very edge of the excavation.

“Holy jumpin’ jeeps! Did I see what I think I saw?” Robin asked. “Did that car fly?”

Batman’s hands gripped the wheel tightly, and then slowly relaxed. “Not really, Robin. The car must be equipped with rocket jets so it can make short jumps! An interesting advance in automotive mechanics—and one that we might do well to incorporate into our Batmobile.”

“You’re taking it pretty calmly, Batman,” Robin said.

“I don’t seem to have much choice, Robin.”

“The Catwoman outsmarted us. She got away!”

“That fact is all too apparent, so we have to make the best of it. The Catwoman has proved before this that she is a clever opponent. We’ll get another chance at her, I’m sure—and next time the result may be different.”

Robin shook his head. “I wonder if we will get another chance at her. Unlike the Penguin and the Joker, she doesn’t advertise where she’ll strike next.”

“That makes the problem more difficult, Robin. But you know the saying ‘crime will out.’ When it does, we’ll try to be on hand to deal with the Catwoman’s next infernal scheme.”

Robin nodded his head in agreement, but it was plain to see that the Wonder Boy was unhappy about the way things had turned out.

Silently Batman backed the Batmobile away from he excavation, turned the car about, and began the journey back to Gotham City.

Aunt Harriet said, “A-plus in your sociology composition, Dick! My, my, that’s wonderful. I’m very proud of you.”

It was three days later, and Dick Grayson and Bruce Wayne were sitting with Aunt Harriet in the spacious living room of Wayne Manor.

She handed the composition papers back to Dick. “It’s amazing how you do it. You have so many interests, like birdwatching and everything, that one would think you hardly had any time for schoolwork.”

Dick Grayson took his composition paper ruefully. “I’ve had a lot of time these past few days, Aunt Harriet. There’s hardly been any opportunity at all for—uh—bird-watching.” Bruce Wayne, reading in an easy chair nearby, lowered his newspaper.

“I thought we might try our luck again tonight, Dick.

There’s a good chance we might catch sight of a night-warbling catbird.”

Dick Grayson’s face lit. “Do you really think so, Bruce?”

“We can’t lose anything by looking for it. And we’ll certainly never see one sitting around here.”

“That’s right, Bruce. I’m ready any time you are.”

Aunt Harriet picked up her knitting. She lowered the glasses on her nose to see better through the bifocals.

“Dear me,” she sighed. “I don’t understand why you two like to gallivant about at night when you have such a nice comfortable home to stay in. Night-warbling catbirds and the like! I never heard of half these creatures you talk about!”

Later that night, through the dark streets of Gotham City, the Batmobile was on the prowl.

At an intersection a policeman making his call from a night box saw the Batmobile glide past and waved to it.

A young girl, hurrying home from a date, anxious and a little afraid on the solitary night streets, saw the Batmobile’s shadow glide by. She smiled. Nothing could happen to her while Batman and Robin were nearby.

Outside a poolroom a hoodlum, smoking a cigarette, saw the Batmobile turn a corner. He threw down the cigarette, stamped on it hastily, and retreated out of sight into the poolroom.

In these and countless other ways, the presence of Batman and Robin was felt in Gotham City.

But inside the Batmobile, a most discontented duo rode through the silent streets.

“Three days now,” Robin said, “and not a word of Catwoman’s activities. This isn’t like her, Batman. She couldn’t stop with only two conquests—I mean John Ross and Samuel Slade, of course. Victory only whets her thirst for more victory.”

“Check, Robin,” Batman said. “That’s why I thought we might find something by resuming our usual night patrol.”

Robin sighed. “This seems to be one time your hunch didn’t pan out. We’ve been patrolling for hours. I’m tired, Batman. We might as well go home and—”

Batman pointed off. “Robin, look here! Up the side of Gotham City Tower!”

Against the height of the skyscraper—the tallest building in the city—there flashed a wide circle of light. Within the light appeared the awesome winged symbol of—a bat!

“Commissioner Gordon’s signal,” Robin said. “He wants us!”

“He must have been trying to reach us at home. It’s urgent—or he wouldn’t have resorted to the emergency signal to contact us.”

The Batsignal flashed off, flashed on again.

The Batmobile sped up, turned sharply at a comer, and within a minute was pulling up at police headquarters.

Inside the building, the desk sergeant looked up from his ledger.

“Oh, hello, Batman and Robin,” he said. “The commissioner is waiting for you in his office. Go right in.”

“Thank you, Sergeant,” Batman said.

Commissioner Gordon was staring out impatiently at the light signal on Gotham City Tower that was summoning Batman. A tall, elegantly attired man, with slightly receding hair and a brown moustache was seated at the desk smoking a cigarette.

Commissioner Gordon turned impatiently as the door to his office opened.

“Batman, thank goodness you’re here,” he said. He indicated the man seated at his desk. “This is Mr. Ellison Drew, of the ship-owning family. He’s received a threatening letter from Catwoman.”

“When did you receive this letter, Mr. Drew?” Batman inquired.

“This morning,” Ellison Drew drawled in answer. “But I debated whether to mention the fact to the police at all. It seemed quite unnecessary.”

“Why is that, Mr. Drew?” Batman asked.

As Bruce Wayne, Batman knew Ellison Drew. Ellison was the third generation of the Drew family, a playboy whose interests were more centered in wine and women than in his business. Ellison Drew had once tried to cultivate Bruce Wayne as a friend, believing they had a mutual interest in a love of idleness and an abhorrence of honest labor. He soon found, however, that Bruce Wayne was not an idler or playboy, but a rich man who kept busy with many interests outside of business. From that point on the two men saw little of each other. Now there was no hint of recognition in Ellison Drew’s gaze as he regarded the famous crusader against crime.

Ellison Drew blew out a casual wreath of smoke. “There actually isn’t much point in getting the police involved. Because, you see, I fully intend to pay the fifty thousand dollars that the Catwoman demands.”

Commissioner Gordon blurted, “You can’t! That’s surrendering to blackmail!”

“And what would you suggest, Commissioner? That I should put my faith—not to mention my safety—in the hands of Batman and Robin? They haven’t been notably successful against the Catwoman thus far.” His tone was supercilious.

Batman said, “If you refuse to pay the blackmail, Mr. Drew, we will undertake to protect you.”

“And how about my ships, Batman? I have a freighter sailing at midnight with a cargo worth far more than fifty thousand dollars. Suppose the Catwoman decides to seize that instead of taking a ransom?”

“She might try, Mr. Drew,” Batman said thoughtfully. “What does the cargo consist of?”

“It happens to be a load of trees being transshipped from the southeastern United States where this species is common. They’re being purchased by a very wealthy man to beautify the parks and gardens of his own city. The contract of sale insists that they arrive in perfect condition for transplanting. If anything should happen to that valuable cargo…”

Batman said, “Is this a tree conspicuous for white flowers which appear in June? A stately and rather large-leaved tree?” Ellison Drew made a small moue of distaste. “You don’t have to parade your knowledge to me, Batman. I don’t know how you knew it, but yes, the tree is a catalpa.”

Batman said, “A catalpa, Robin. What do you think of that?”

“I think we might meet our mutual friend the Catwoman when the ship sails,” Robin said, with a slight grin.

Batman turned to Mr. Drew. “I imagine you can arrange for us to be taken on board as ordinary crewmen?”

“Of course I can,” Ellison Drew said coldly. “The question is, will I?”

From behind the mask that covered Batman’s eyes a stem and demanding gaze was fixed on Ellison Drew. Ellison Drew met that gaze with an insolence that quickly faltered. A nervous smile crossed his face. With an effort he wrenched his glance away from Batman’s unyielding stare.

“Well, of course, Batman, I’ll do anything I can to help.” His tone hardened. “But I do expect protection. If anything happens, I’ll hold you personally responsible, Batman.”

“I’ll take that risk, Mr. Drew.”

“Very good, then,” Ellison Drew said smugly. “I suppose that will be enough. If you should fail, you’ll be disgraced forever in Gotham City. You can’t afford to have that happen to you any more than I can risk losing that cargo.”

Batman inclined his head in a small ironic bow. “You’ve put the matter very neatly, Mr. Drew. I can scarcely improve on it.”

Uncomfortably, Ellison Drew looked toward Commissioner Gordon. The commissioner was examining him as though he were some sort of specimen under a microscope.

Ellison Drew straightened his tie, stood up. “I’ll be in touch with you when I’ve made the necessary arrangements,” he said.

Without a further word he left Commissioner Gordon’s office.

At midnight the freighter Simon Bolivar pulled steadily away from Gotham City docks into the middle of the river. A tug whistle blew a hoarse farewell. A huge yellow moon rose behind the giant Statue of Freedom that stood with flaming torch held high near the harbor mouth. The shadow of the giant statue fell athwart the prow of the Simon Bolivar as the freighter slowly turned for the journey down-river to the sea.

Out of the shadows of the giant statue, sailing directly into the path of the oncoming freighter, there appeared a tiny craft.

Dick Grayson, acting as lookout on the prow of the freighter, grabbed a megaphone and shouted down to the single occupant of the sailing craft:

“AHOY, THERE! HARD ASTARBOARD!”

Bruce Wayne was working nearby. He wore the tight corduroy trousers and striped shirt of an ordinary seaman. He dropped the mop and pail with which he was swabbing the deck and ran to the railing beside Dick Grayson.

Into the very lee of the freighter, barely fifty feet away, the small craft sailed on, headed toward disaster. The man at the steering wheel seemed unaware of danger.

Dick turned an agonized face toward Bruce. “He must be deaf! He’ll be killed!”

Bruce Wayne’s answer was simply, “That craft has only one small triangular sail!”

Dick looked at him as if he’d taken leave of his senses.

“It’s a catboat!” Bruce Wayne said grimly.

The freighter’s horn squawked a frantic warning. Its sharp cutting prow began to veer—ever so slowly.

At that instant the man at the steering wheel of the tiny sailing craft leaped overboard. He began to swim rapidly toward the dock.

Aboard the freighter, Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson stripped off their sailor costumes.

A moment later two diving figures split the water near the catboat as it was drifting helplessly toward the oncoming prow of the freighter Simon Bolivar.

Batman and Robin came up almost directly beneath the hull of the catboat. They heard the powerful groaning sound of the freighter’s straining rudders. There was a milky turbulence in the water.

Unable to communicate underwater, the duo nevertheless instantly realized the danger. They saw why the catboat had been steered into the freighter’s path.

Slung beneath the hull was the long pointed metal shape of—a torpedo!

“We’ve got to release the torpedo!” Batman thought.

Working swiftly, the Daring Duo struggled to loosen the supports that held the torpedo in place.

By this time, the water near them was thrashing violently, stirred up by the propellers of the freighter. Batman and Robin fought desperately to hold their place in the surging streams and currents.

Finally the last support came free and the torpedo dropped of its own weight, down toward the bottom of the river.

“Robin!”

Batman’s silent cry was one of despair.

With a splintering, terrible crash, the tiny catboat was struck at the stem by the freighter’s prow. The shearing impact hurled Batman and Robin down in the wake of the torpedo.

They twisted and tumbled helplessly.

Shattered bits of wooden debris from the catboat settled down in the water. The catboat itself rapidly filled and floundered.

Batman and Robin, still feebly struggling, were driven further toward the river bottom.

Far below, the torpedo—meant to explode on contact with the freighter’s hull—settled into the soft mud of the river bottom.

The daring of Batman and Robin bad saved the freighter from certain destruction.

But they were unaware of it. Dazed and on the brink of unconsciousness, their bodies spun and sank toward a final resting place on the river bottom…

Not far distant, the dramatic struggle bad been watched. Inside the Statue of Freedom, on a platform inside the hollow immensity of the statue’s lifted torch, Catwoman lowered her binoculars.

Nearby, a henchman, also watching, found his voice. “Batman and Robin must’ve loosened the torpedo lashed under that catboat. I dunno how they managed to do it—but they did.”

The Catwoman’s voice was slightly unsteady. “That’s obvious—from the fact that there was no explosion. They had time to fix the torpedo so it wouldn’t explode. But they certainly did not have time to escape.”

Another henchman nearby said unbelievingly, “Ya mean—Batman is dead?”

Catwoman turned her head away. She was silent for a long moment.

“Yes,” she said finally. “Batman is dead.”

“Boy, this is gonna wrap up the Tommy Award for you, Catwoman. I bet this is the happiest day of your life.”

Catwoman whirled. “Fool!” she snapped. “Don’t say such idiotic things to me!”

Before Catwoman’s fury, her henchman stepped back as though he bad received a blow.

“I didn’t mean nothin’ by it, Catwoman,” he mumbled. “Gee—you’re glad Batman is dead, aincha?”

“Glad?” The green eyes of the Catwoman flashed fire. Her hands opened to show her claws, and closed again. “Glad? Of course I’m glad. Why shouldn’t I be? Can you think of any greater triumph than killing Batman?”

At this moment, on board the freighter Simon Bolivar, two limp bodies were hauled over the railing.

Batman and Robin lay still, their hands loosely flung out on the deck and their bodies crumpled over the railing.

Behind them two sailors clambered up rope ladders to the ship’s deck. The ship’s captain watched as the two bodies were laid out on the deck.

“We found them floating face up on the water near the wreck of that catboat, Captain,” said one sailor. “I guess they must’ve been in the boat when we crashed into it.”

The captain removed his braided cap. “Batman and Robin—drowned! Who would have thought their careers could end this way—in a simple boating accident?”

One of the sailors, bending over the prostrate form of Batman said, “Sir! I think this one is still alive! I just felt a heartbeat!”

“Begin artificial respiration at once,” the captain commanded. “How about the boy—Robin?”

“I’m afraid he’s gone, sir,” the other sailor said.

The captain’s face saddened. “Well, try artificial respiration with him too. There’s nothing to lose. Get started right away.” Two sailors took their places beside the bodies of Batman and Robin and the rhythmic pumping motion began, forcing water out of Batman’s and Robin’s lungs, trying to get their natural breathing started again.

On and on the sailors worked; forward and back, rest, forward and back, rest. The only sound was the heavy breathing of the sailors themselves as they persevered in the seemingly hopeless task…

On the deck of the Simon Bolivar, a miracle began to happen.

Bubbling, harsh inspirations of air came from Robin’s pale lips. His chest rose in a shaky forced gasp, subsided, rose again. His breathing began to settle into a steadier rhythm. “I thought he was a goner,” the sailor said in astonishment.

“He’s as tough as they come, though. A real plucky kid.”

The captain, standing nearby, turned to where the other sailor was working over the unconscious Batman.

“How is Batman?”

“I think he’ll be okay, Captain. His breathing’s more regular. And his pulse is pretty strong.”

The captain lifted his cap to wipe his forehead. “As soon as it’s safe to move them, send them down to the ship’s infirmary. At the lighthouse, we can put them ashore with the harbor pilot. They may need hospital care after what they’ve been through!”

The Kitty-Car stopped before a wooden shack on the outskirts of Bayshore Marsh. Catwoman got out from behind the wheel and strode quickly into the shack. She was alone. Her henchmen had remained behind in Gotham City to contact John Whiting and the other members of the Committee of Ten. They were to arrange the Tommy Award ceremonies…

Catwoman entered the shack and closed the door behind her. The dark interior was lighted only by the pale rays of the moon entering through a window. A pine tree outside the window cast a long black mourning shadow…

Catwoman leaned back against the door. All the strength abruptly went out of her body. She brought her hands up to cover her face.

She sobbed.

“I—I never meant to kill him,” she said aloud. “But now he’s dead! The only man I ever loved!”

To Be Concluded...

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Batman vs 3 Villains of Doom

By Winston Lyon

BATMAN vs 3 VILLAINS of DOOM "Chapter 10"

Chapter 10

As Batman deposited the limp body of the hoodlum on the ground he saw Robin run toward the plane. Flames were shooting up on all sides. It was obvious that if Robin did not emerge within seconds, he would never come out.

No human being could survive in that inferno of flame and smoke for longer than that!

Crackling fire swept up along the fuselage almost to the cabin.

Heedless of danger, Batman ran toward the plane.

Behind him, the airport’s fire truck roared to a stop. The crew of firemen leaped out.

“There goes Batman—into the fire!”

“Stop him,” said the chief fireman.

“We can’t. It’s too late. He’ll never reach the cabin!”

“Play your hoses on him,” the chief commanded. “It’s his only chance!”

The fire hose spurted water. As the stream strengthened and shot through the smoke and fire, Batman plunged toward the cabin door.

He felt the cooling shock of the water just as it seemed he could go no further. It gave him new strength. In seconds, he reached the door of the cabin. It was partly open. But its metal was red hot to the touch. Batman’s black leather gloves smoked at the first contact.

Then the great cold torrent of water splashed against the door, played over it. Batman grabbed the half-melted handle and pulled the door fully open.

Robin and John Ross, half in the doorway, fell out to the ground.

A tiny ribbon of fire moved along the ground toward the fallen Robin. Quick as a flash Batman leaped down and stamped it out with his foot. Then, dragging Robin with his right hand and John Ross with his left, he started back out of the blazing inferno.

To the firemen, doggedly playing streams of water onto the ever-increasing blaze, the sight of Batman returning was hard to believe. Smoke-blackened, wisps rising from his scorched costume, the Caped Crusader came steadily forward. He was dragging the two unconscious bodies of Robin and John Ross behind him.

“He made it!” a fireman breathed incredulously.

“There isn’t another man in the world who could have done it,” said the fire chief reverently.

Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson, wearing bath towels, were feeling much refreshed after a shower. They had applied medicinal salve to their minor burns and now waited for Alfred to return to the Batcave.

“Too bad Catwoman escaped,” Dick Grayson said.

“There was no choice,” Batman replied. “It was you or her.”

Dick Grayson said nothing, but his eyes spoke volumes of gratitude.

The tall, solemn Alfred appeared, carrying Batman’s and Robin’s uniforms over one arm.

“I regret to inform you, sir,” he said somewhat reproachfully, “that your uniforms are scorched beyond repair.”

“Nothing can be done with them, eh, Alfred?” Bruce Wayne asked.

“I suppose I could mend and patch them,” Alfred answered disdainfully, “but that would hardly be proper, sir. One would hardly expect Batman and Robin to go about in patched uniforms.”

“No, I suppose not,” Bruce Wayne agreed. He and Dick Grayson managed to repress grins. “But we do have spare uniforms and if the occasion arises we can use them.”

“Yes, sir,” Alfred said. “I must say that the wear and tear on your clothing is simply staggering, sir.”

“We’ll try to be careful in the future,” Dick Grayson promised, trying to hold back his laughter.

Alfred bowed slightly. “I would appreciate that, Master Grayson. I realize that the—uh—exigencies of your profession make it impossible to take proper care of your costumes. But perhaps, if you took a bit more care.”

“We’ll certainly try,” Bruce Wayne said. “I say—is that a newspaper I see sticking out of your pocket, Alfred?”

Alfred was flustered at his breach of etiquette. “Oh, yes, sir,” he said. “I’m sorry. But I was obliged to put it there so I could carry the costumes. It contains an item I believe may possibly be of interest to you.”

“What is it, Alfred?”

Alfred took the rolled-up newspaper from his coat pocket and gave it to Bruce Wayne. A small column had been carefully outlined in blue crayon.

It read:

CIRCUS ACQUIRES VALUABLE BLACK CAT!

The Samuel Slade Circus announced today that it had purchased a rare black Tibetan panther. The animal was captured several weeks ago and sold to the circus for a record price. Samuel Slade, owner of the circus, announces the rare Tibetan panther will be on display in a special cage during performances of the circus here in Gotham City for the next three weeks.

Alfred cleared his throat. “This is somewhat presumptuous of me, I know, sir. But the reference to a black cat—at a time when the Catwoman is obviously on the prowl—struck me as of possibly more than passing interest.”

“You’re quite right, Alfred. We were just wondering when we’d run into her next. This is the sort of item that would attract her. I’d better make a phone call to Samuel Slade.”

A few moments later, Bruce Wayne was on the telephone.

Samuel Slade’s voice was understandably suspicious. “How do I know this isn’t some sort of a gag?”

“A gag?”

“How do I know you’re really Batman?”

“I’ll come to you in person, Mr. Slade, if you prefer. But there is a question I would like you to answer first. Have you received a threatening letter in the last day or so?”

“We get all sorts of crackpot letters here,” Samuel Slade answered in a surly tone.

“This letter would be different,” Batman said firmly. “It would be from—the Catwoman.”

Silence at the other end of the telephone.

“I don’t keep track of everybody who writes me threatening letters,” Samuel Slade said. “In my business you got to expect all sorts of crackpots.”

“She would demand a ransom—threaten to bring you bad luck by having a black cat cross your path.”

“I’m not superstitious,” Samuel Slade answered, too quickly.

“Have you received such a letter?” Batman persisted.

“I’m not saying I have—and I’m not saying I haven’t,” Slade parried. “Look, Batman—if that’s who you really are—in my business it don’t pay to get the wrong kind of publicity. It could scare away customers if they thought there was likely to be trouble.” Samuel Slade’s voice hardened. “Besides, nobody scares me into coughing up money just because they make some crazy talk about black cats and bad luck. Don’t you worry about Sam Slade. I know how to take care of myself!”

“I hope so, Mr. Slade,” Bruce Wayne said politely.

There was a click at the other end of the line; Sam Slade had hung up. Bruce Wayne turned to Dick Grayson. “I have a feeling we’ll need our spare costumes, Dick. Alfred’s hunch was right. Sam Slade and his circus are next on the Catwoman’s list of victims.”

“I guess she’ll try to steal that Tibetan panther, huh, Bruce?”

“It’s dangerous to try to outguess the Catwoman. Stealing the panther would be the obvious crime, Dick. We can rely on the Catwoman not to be obvious. Our role is simply to be prepared for anything.”

Somewhat chastened, Dick Grayson replied: “Right, Bruce.”

That evening, at shortly past eight o’clock, the opening parade of the circus got under way. Into the center ring tumbled the clowns in their outlandish costumes—one wearing a skull cap and a polka-dotted balloon-shaped outfit, another with a tiny straw hat and an enormous starched shirtfront bulging over outsized trousers, and still a third wearing a daisy collar and a shapeless woman’s dress with flopping giant shoes. The clowns were closely followed by a matched team of eight white Arabian stallions, prancing with heads down and limbs rising and falling in stiffly ceremonial rhythms. Skimpily attired ladies of the high-wire act followed, and behind them Waldo the Performing Seal balanced a huge striped balloon on its nose as it moved along the ground on its flippers. Then came the Lilliputians, the tiniest people ever known, each of them floating on a balloon tied to a single string that was held by Bonzo, the world’s smartest orangutan. Behind the Lilliputians came the platoon of elephants, towering in slow-footed majesty.

In the circular arena, the audience watched, fascinated, as the endless parade of color and spectacle went on. Again and again applause swept up to greet a new act as it joined the throng of performers steadily gathering for the ceremonies in the center ring.

The sound of the applause rose up, up toward the coneshaped top of the mighty circus tent. There was an opening at the top of the huge tent where all its supporting wires and posts converged.

There, at the very apex, were—Batman and Robin.

They were lying prone on the very height of the tent, peering down through the opening at the ceremonies below. From this vantage point they could watch everything taking place in the center ring as well as in the spectators’ section. By turning their heads they could see the grounds outside the big top, with the trailers that the circus people lived and traveled in and the cages in which the animals were kept.

Tiny figures on a great billowing mountain of canvas, Batman and Robin watched and waited.

After a few minutes, Robin nudged Batman’s elbow.

“They’re moving the cage with the Tibetan panther,” he said.

Batman studied the scene below. “They’re bringing him into the big tent for display in the climax of the opening ceremonies. Nothing wrong in that, Robin.”

“That panther looks vicious to me. Look how he’s prowling around in his cage.”

Batman narrowed his eyes as he peered below. He said, “He’s not used to captivity. It’ll take a while to train him. He is a magnificent-looking specimen, isn’t he?”

Suddenly, the ornamented cage which was being hauled by two circus strong men tipped over. A front wheel axle broke. The entire cage lurched forward and toppled to one side. Inside the cage the black panther howled in fear and fury.

The two strong men started back for the trailer-cage to lift it. They began to waver. Their faces took on a puzzled expression and they sank down to collapse in a heap.

From the shadows appeared the Catwoman and two men. She holstered a narrow-barreled pistol in her waistband.

“Those hypodermic cartridges I shot into them will insure a pleasant catnap,” she said. “All right, men. Spread the catnip along a path leading to the big tent. Then open the cage!”

One henchman hesitated. “I dunno, Catwoman. That panther looks plenty mean. Are you sure he won’t turn on us?”

“Not when he gets a whiff of the catnip. He’ll follow that trail right into the big tent. During the pandemonium that follows, we’ll make off with Mr. Samuel Slade’s opening-week receipts. They amount to a great deal more than fifty thousand dollars!”

At that instant a high yodeling sound commanded the Catwoman’s attention. She glanced up.

Down steeply sloping canvas sides of the big tent, as though riding toboggans, came the swiftly sliding figures of—BATMAN AND ROBIN!

The Terrific Two shot off the canvas ledge above the poles and catapulted through the air.

Catwoman’s hand flashed to her holster, came up with her hypodermic gun.

SWOOSH!

The sound of the cartridge being fired was hardly audible.

But the shot went wild as Batman and Robin tumbled past Catwoman right toward the cage where the black panther was being released.

As Batman sped past, his arm swept up and delivered a quick judo chop on Catwoman’s wrist. Her gun went spinning high into the air.

Catwoman cursed, fluently.

One henchman had been working with a crowbar to break the lock on the cage. The lock snapped open just as Batman and Robin landed a few feet away.

The henchman whirled, lifting the crowbar as a weapon to use against Batman.

Batman sailed into the henchman with fists flying. The crowbar flew, and the thug let out a yell. Batman hit him again and he suddenly stopped yelling. He was out cold.

Robin’s charge slammed the other henchman against the side of the overturned cage. The breath was knocked out of him. He tried to grab Robin’s arm to twist it so it would break. Robin tapped the man on the temple with his free fist, a light but accurately delivered blow. The henchman’s eyes rolled up. Robin stepped aside as the man fell heavily beside his inert companion.

“Robin!” Batman shouted. “LOOK OUT!”

Batman hurtled into the Boy Wonder, carrying him down as a black blurred shape leaped over them.

“The black panther is loose!” Robin said, as he rolled over to get to his feet. “And he’s headed into the big tent!”

“He’s following some trail,” Batman said. “The Catwoman must have planned it this way, Robin. But we can’t worry about that! If that black cat gets loose in the arena, he’ll cause more than bad luck! He’ll cause a panic!”

“What can we do?”

“I’ll try to divert him, Robin. You get close enough to use the Batarang.” Batman’s grin flickered briefly. “And may I make a suggestion? Don’t miss!”

Robin’s answer was unsmiling. “I won’t, Batman!”

The powerfully muscled panther, head down, on the trail, sniffed his way quickly through the entrance. Two jugglers, waiting to go on, were in the corridor. Up went their dumbbells to fall in a clatter as they dove for safety.

Not far from the entrance, at the edge of the center ring, were the finely matched white Arabian stallions. One stallion got the first scent of the killer panther. The stallion reared up high, snorting wildly, and unseated its rider.

The other stallions veered away. A bull elephant trumpeted loudly.

Batman and Robin reached the corridor.

“The panic is starting,” Batman said tensely. “We have to capture the panther before he causes a stampede that costs people their lives!”

Batman leaped to the side railing of the spectators’ section, ran nimbly along it, jumped down in the corridor directly ahead of the black panther.

The panther raised its head; a low growl rumbled out to warn the strange intruder out of its path.

As the panther growled, the panic of the horses in the arena increased. The handlers fought feverishly to keep them in rein. The whinnying rose to a crescendo.

The panther advanced on Batman with its muscles knotting, bunching, and slowly relaxing within powerful haunches.

The panther’s tail abruptly came down, the hind legs crouched.

“Now, Robin!” Batman called. “It’s going to jump!”

The panther uncoiled from the ground and rose in an angry black stab toward Batman. Suddenly its body straightened, its forelegs came up clawing the air, and the long tail lashed out in futile fury.

Batarang coils had wrapped themselves about the lower part of the animal’s torso!

Batman rushed forward, evading the wild groping of the infuriated panther’s claws, and tied the animal’s hind legs securely with a trailing end of the Batarang.

The panther snorted in baffled rage.

The swift and dangerous struggle near the edge of the center ring had caught the attention of a part of the crowd. The spectators were on their feet, poised between terror and excitement.

“It’s Batman and Robin! They’re fighting the black panther!”

“Say, that’s some act! How did the Slade circus ever get Batman and Robin to perform for them?”

Now the battle was ending. Tightly trussed up by the Batarang, the panther lay on its side, making convulsive attempts to free itself.

Sam Slade, the circus owner, bustled up to Batman and Robin.

“I don’t know how to thank you, Batman,” he said, mopping his brow. “That was a close call. If the panther had ever gotten loose in the arena, there would have been real trouble!”

“And a black cat would have caused it!” Batman observed meaningfully.

Sam Slade stopped patting his forehead with his handkerchief. “You mean—the Catwoman?”

“You did get a threatening letter, didn’t you, Mr. Slade?”

“Yes, Batman. But I didn’t take it seriously. All that nutty talk about black cats and bad luck. I didn’t know she meant—”

Someone shouted, “MR. SLADE!”

A slender man wearing whipcord breeches and a flannel shirt raced into the entrance. There was desperation in his voice:

“Mr. Slade! I’ve been trying to get you. Someone broke into the treasurer’s office during all the excitement! The week’s cash receipts are gone. More than eighty thousand dollars!” Batman and Robin stared at each other.

“The Catwoman!” Batman said. “So this was her plot!”

“She’s collected her ransom from Sam Slade,” Robin said.

Batman started off down the corridor at full speed. “Well, she won’t get away with it! To the Batmobile, Robin!”

They raced out of the big tent. They heard the explosive roar of a powerful car engine and a low-slung black car raced past with turbines blasting. The prow of the car was shaped like the head of a great cat staring down at the ground with yellow headlight eyes as though seeking its prey. The wheels reached as high as the body, wheels with protruding, sharp-pointed, dangerously whirring sabers that made them a weapon to be reckoned with if another car came alongside. These were the dangerous claw-weapons of—the Catwoman!

“There she goes,” Robin cried. “She’s escaping in her Kitty-Car!”

In seconds the Daring Duo reached the Batmobile. The fabulous wonder car roared off in pursuit.

Batman pressed the accelerator to the floorboard. Thrumming engines rose in a high paean of response.

“We’ll get her!” Robin said confidently. “The Batmobile can catch anything on wheels!”

The Batmobile seemed to float over a rough-rutted side road that led away from the circus big top. Soon they spotted the cloud of dust the Kitty-Car was kicking up in its trail.

“That’s her!”

At the same moment the Catwoman spotted her pursuers. “It’s Batman—in the Batmobile!”

A henchman at her side swallowed anxiously as he watched the Batmobile surge forward in the rear-vision mirror.

“They’re gainin’ on us, Catwoman. Can’t this Kitty-Car go any faster?”

“We’re going faster than any racing car ever built,” Catwoman snarled. “What kind of engines does he have in that thing?”

Desperately she worked the throttle, trying to coax more speed out of the Kitty-Car.

The Batmobile gained steadily. The grim chase sped across a main highway and into a wooded section. The two weird supercars maneuvered in and out through the trees.

Still the Batmobile came on!

The henchman quavered: “Maybe we better give up, Catwoman! It’ll go easier with us!”

“Don’t be a fool. I haven’t pulled the last trick in my bag of surprises. They’re digging a construction site for a new office building not far from here. That’s where we’re going!”

The Kitty-Car roared past a warning sign, sent a wooden roadblock crashing out of its way.

“There it is!” Catwoman said.

The henchman stared ahead unbelievingly. “Nothin’ but a hole in the ground! Fifty foot deep! You’re not gonna drive us there, Catwoman? It’s sure death!”

The Catwoman did not reply. The Kitty-Car raced straight for the excavation site.

In the pursuing Batmobile, Robin gripped Batman’s arm.

“She’s going to crash, Batman. She’s driving right into…”

Robin did not finish what he was saying. As the Kitty-Car neared the excavation site, it put on another burst of power.

Then the incredible happened!

The Kitty-Car seemed to leap out into space like a real cat. It soared across the dark yawning pit of the building excavation with its giant wheels spinning in the air!

To Be Continued...

TOMORROW!

Same Bat-Time!

Same Bat-Blog!

Please Support Hero Histories!

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Batman vs 3 Villains of Doom

By Winston Lyon

BATMAN vs 3 VILLAINS of DOOM "Chapter 9"

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...

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Batman vs 3 Villains of Doom

By Winston Lyon

BATMAN vs 3 VILLAINS of DOOM "Chapter 8"

Chapter 8

John Whiting stared at the bound, captive figure of Batman with unbelieving eyes. Then he turned to the chalk-faced clown beside him.

“Joker,” he said, “this proves that you’re the greatest of them all. I never thought I’d see this day.”

The Joker made a slight ironic bow. “I appreciate the compliment, Mr. Whiting—although I must admit it is well deserved.”

“I’ll tell the committee about it. After that, the voting of the Tommy Award to you will be a mere formality. I don’t imagine even the Penguin and the Catwoman would challenge your right to it.”

“They can hardly do so, anyway, Mr. Whiting, since both of them are in jail.”

John Whiting said, “I’m eager to be an eyewitness to Batman’s death. Why not get started right away, Joker?”

“I intend to.”

“Will you shoot him?”

“Nothing so crude.” The Joker sniffed disdainfully.

“Poison him?”

“Much too mundane.”

John Whiting’s eyes gleamed. “I know. You’re going to dissolve him in the same carbolic acid bath that destroyed Robin?”

“Not at all.”

John Whiting’s manner became deferential. “Have you thought of something more spectacular?”

The Joker clasped his long fingers together. “I’ve planned an appropriate finish for Batman. Something really worthy of such an event. He will perish in the greatest pyrotechnic display of all time. Wreathed in a coronet of lightning! Surrounded in electrical fires! Incinerated by the most grandiose form of electrocution ever conceived!”

John Whiting asked, “Is it some device you’ve built especially for the purpose? Where is it?”

“At the Hall of Wonders,” the Joker replied.

John Whiting was puzzled. “The Hall of Wonders? The scientific exhibition that’s being put on by all the electrical companies of America?”

“Precisely. The most amazing of all the exhibits is the one in which a lightning storm is artificially created. That’s the spot I’ve chosen for Batman to make his never-to-be-forgotten exit from this planet. He’ll be tied to one of the gigantic electrodes—and when the lightning starts to flash, Batman will die!”

John Whiting forced an admiring smile. “It sounds brilliant, Joker. But wouldn’t it be easier just to get rid of Batman now—while he’s helpless and your prisoner?”

The Joker touched the outspread wings of his collar with irritation.

“The Joker never does anything the easy way, Mr. Whiting. I am not one of your ordinary criminals. My genius for crime is such that I choose to perform the impossible. Who else but the Joker would have informed Batman and Robin through the Tune Parade of exactly what he proposed to do—and then have gone ahead and done it?”

“I’m not questioning your genius, Joker. But…”

The Joker’s tone sharpened. “No buts! Batman is my prisoner. I decide which way he shall die. As for you, Mr. Whiting…” the Joker’s coal-black eyes sparked malignantly “...all you have to do is inform the Committee of Ten that I am ready to accept the Tommy Award. Let them designate the place and time.”

John Whiting stood up. “I’ll inform you as soon as the arrangements have been made, Joker,” he replied somewhat coldly. “I wish I could witness Batman’s demise. But I have a lot to do in order to gather the committee together.”

“I understand perfectly,” the Joker said. “But I’ll let you know when the Batman is officially dead. Just dial the Tune Parade program this afternoon.”

“You mean there will be an official announcement?” John Whiting asked incredulously.

“In a manner of speaking. You see, I’ve arranged for the top request tune to be ‘Stormy Weather.’ Hee-hee-heee! ‘Stormy Weather’—to report that Batman died in the withering blast of an electrical storm! Don’t you think that’s an appropriate touch?”

John Whiting swallowed nervously. Sooner or later it occurred to anyone who dealt with the Joker that he was indeed a madman—and at this moment the thought came forcibly home to John Whiting. He decided the safest course was to placate him.

“That’s very ingenious, Joker,” John Whiting said. “When the request number is played, it will be the official word that Batman is dead.”

The Joker lifted his arms in exultation. “What a finish! Only I could think of such a magnificent death. What a tribute it will be, both to Batman—and to ME!”

And what of Batman himself? Helplessly bound to his chair, Batman hardly heard the pronouncement of his doom. Ordinarily, Batman would have been busily trying to devise means of escape from what appeared to be a hopeless dilemma. But his senses were too numbed with despair to be fully alert to his predicament.

From the moment Batman had seen Robin plunge through the floor to hideous death, nothing else had seemed important to him.

Not even the chances of his own survival.

Batman was still in a stunned condition when the Joker’s black limousine pulled up in front of the Hall of Wonders.

Scotty Tucker, who was driving, indicated Batman seated in the back between two of the Joker’s henchmen.

“Did you slip him a drug or something, Boss?” he asked of the Joker seated beside him in the front seat. “He doesn’t seem to know what’s going on.”

The Joker chuckled. “He’s depressed, Scotty, that’s all. Wouldn’t you be depressed—facing the fate that awaits Batman?”

“I guess I would, Boss. But I never thought he’d act like this. I always thought he had more guts.”

“Batman’s always seemed brave because he’s always been on the winning side, Scotty. You can’t tell what a man’s really like when he’s a winner. I’ve seen this sort of thing happen before. Someone who’s been used to having things his own way suddenly discovers that his luck has run out—permanently. And he can’t stand it.”

Batman did not look up. Head bowed, he did not seem aware of the bonds that bit deeply into his shoulders and arms or of the guns which the two men guarding him on either side held tightly pressed against him.

When the time came, he left the car meekly and followed the Joker and his men into the Hall of Wonders—the place appointed for his execution.

Inside the towering auditorium, there was a strange and awesome sight. Within high walls of protective metal netting, on an island platform, stood a giant dynamo and two fortyfoot-high electrodes. A short flight of stairs led to the oddly shaped platform on which the giant electrical apparatus was located.

“I trust,” said the Joker, “that my orders have been obeyed. There must be no chance that we will be interrupted.”

“We did everything like you said, Boss. We caused a power breakdown in the underground cable near the Verona Street station. That’s keeping the electric company’s engineers busy. And we posted signs that the exhibit is shut down for repairs—so there won’t be any visitors.”

“What about the watchmen?”

“They’re locked up in the administrative office right now, Boss.”

“Fine,” said the Joker. “Then we will proceed with the execution as scheduled. Put Batman at the top of the negative electrode over there—in an exposed position where the first bolt of artificial lightning will strike right into his body.”

Unresisting, Batman was led past the protective netting and up the stairs to the platform where the giant electrodes were situated. A ladder had already been placed in position against the high ridged cathode, or negative electrode. The zinc tower ended in a short post topped with a large round metal ball. Under the watchful guns of the Joker’s men, Batman was forced to ascend the ladder to the top level of the highest ridge of the cathode, some forty feet above the platform itself.

Batman moved like a man in a trance. At the top he stepped off the ladder and stood still, while Scotty Tucker and another of the Joker’s henchmen bound him to the post that supported the huge ball overhead.

“You got any last words, Batman?” Scotty asked when he had finished. “Now’s the time to say them.”

Batman’s eyes were distant, and sad. He merely shook his head.

Scotty and his fellow henchman began to descend the ladder, leaving Batman alone on his unprotected height.

Scotty said, “He sure is taking this lying down. Batman’s a real spineless jellyfish!”

“The Joker had his number all along,” said the other.

“Yeah. I guess he did.”

Scotty and the other henchman joined the Joker in position behind the safety of the high wire netting.

The Joker gave a signal to another henchman waiting at the controls.

“All right,” he said. “Throw the switch.”

The giant room began to hum with droning electrical power. As the dynamo fed the positive electrode, the copper tower began to spark and crackle with flashes from its increasing electrical potential. As soon as the charge built to a sufficient degree there would be a release of energy—a flash of terrible destroying lightning across from the positive electrode to the negative one. The principle was the same as that which created nature’s own lightning: a discharge of electrical energy from a cloud with a high electrical potential to another cloud or to the earth.

Nearer and nearer came the moment. In less than a minute an awesome and terrible discharge of power would rend its way through the room—and shrivel Batman to a lifeless cinder! The Joker’s white face shone in the reflected glow as the electrical charge built up. His wide lips parted over prominent square teeth and his eyes reflected the small curving, dancing, jagged flashes that began arcing about the giant positive electrode a short distance from the Batman.

Some of the crackling power in the room seemed to enter the Joker’s own body—stiffening it with excitement.

And why not? He was on the eve of the greatest moment of his career—a moment he would cherish for the rest of his nefarious life.

In seconds the Joker’s dream would be realized.

He would witness the death of Batman!

On the top ridge of the negative electrode, Batman became slowly aware of his danger. He raised his head and looked around him. For the first time he understood the terrible fate that awaited him. He struggled against his bonds.

Too late! He was held fast. The doom the Joker had prepared was now only a few heartbeats away.

The Joker’s laugh rang out. It was savage anticipatory laughter—meant to join in and be drowned out by the cataclysmic roar of the lightning.

“Hyaaa-ha-ha-ha-ha!”

Nothing happened. The Joker’s laughter continued, echoing with an empty sound in the abandoned auditorium.

All other noise had stopped.

Then the Joker’s laughter ceased. He whirled on Scotty Tucker.

“The dynamo isn’t building up energy in the electrode. What’s wrong?”

“I dunno, Boss!”

“Get up to the control booth. Find out! If that dolt up there lets anything happen to spoil my big moment…”

Scotty started up toward the control booth, climbing hand over hand up the ladder toward it.

Before he reached the booth, a flashing figure catapulted down, carrying Scotty Tucker with him.

They crashed heavily to the flooring below, Scotty on the bottom. The impact knocked him cold.

The Joker’s incredulous voice rang with alarm.

“ROBIN!”

“In person,” Robin said.

He vaulted over a table to crash feet-first into the Joker.

The Crime Clown went reeling back to the protective wire netting.

“Shoot him!” the Joker yelled. “Shoot, you fools!”

The Joker’s henchmen opened fire. Shots crashed through the air and the echoes reverberated in the huge auditorium. But Robin was a quickly moving target. Before anyone realized what was happening, he was on the platform, scaling the zinc tower to where Batman was bound.

“Don’t let him reach Batman,” the Joker shouted. “KIILL HIM!”

Up the forty-foot height of the electrode went the Boy Wonder. Batman watched him approach with unbelieving eyes. Not until he felt Robin’s hands at work on his bonds did he seem to realize this was really the Boy Wonder.

“Robin,” he whispered. “You’re alive.”

“Neither of us will be for long, Batman,” Robin said, “unless we get out of the line of fire.”

A bullet ricocheted off the zinc side of the electrode and whined off into space.

Batman said, “How did you manage to do it? I thought you were…”

Whang-Splat!

Another bullet kicked paint off the post near the spot where Batman had been bound.

“I think explanations ought to come later, don’t you, Batman?” Robin inquired.

Batman laughed, and his voice had its old thrilling note of authority. “Get back behind the tower, Robin! Quickly!”

The Joker and his henchmen kept blasting away, but for the moment Batman and Robin were safe—hidden behind the giant cathode tower.

“Around this way,” the Joker commanded his men. “We’ll get a better line of fire.”

He crossed to a better vantage point at the wire protective netting. From this angle he could see the other side of the electrode.

The Joker gave a start.

“Where are they?”

Neither Batman nor Robin were visible on the far side.

“They couldn’t have disappeared into thin air,” the Joker said.

His answer came unexpectedly—from thin air.

“Who says we can’t?”

Swinging on the Batropes, Batman and Robin plummeted directly down toward the wire netting behind which the Joker and his men were stationed.

“Now’s the time for a little action,” Batman called out.

The Joker and his men began to run.

The momentum of Batman and Robin’s plunge carried them into the top of the wire netting. The poles swayed, and then began to topple, carrying the netting with them.

“LOOK OUT!” yelled the Joker.

The entire netting came down—on top of the Joker’s men who were pinned beneath it. The Joker scrambled free. Batman and Robin landed lightly on their feet nearby.

The Joker flung his gun at Batman. The next instant Batman’s thundering fist turned him completely around in his tracks and dropped him senseless.

“Shall we wrap the others up now, Batman?” Robin asked with a grin.

Batman turned to Robin to answer, and for a moment he could not speak. He reached out to touch Robin’s arm—just touch it. There was a mistiness in his eyes.

Then he managed to match Robin’s grin. “With a pink or a blue ribbon?” he asked.

Dick Grayson did a double backflip through the air.

His small, muscular, compact body rolled up like a ball as he whirled backward heels over head, somersaulting without touching the ground.

At the final instant when Dick should have straightened to land on his feet he performed an amazing feet of gymnastics.

Instead of coming out of the backflip to land on his feet he made his body as horizontally rigid as a board. And he passed right under the leaf of a long table in the library of Wayne Manor.

As his body passed beneath the tabletop, his fingers reached up to grip the table edge and he hung suspended there.

Bruce Wayne broke into applause.

“That’s the best gymnast’s trick I’ve seen in some time,” he said. “Where did you learn it, Dick? I never taught that one to you.”

Dick stood up, smiling. “It’s something I just picked up.”

“When?”

“I can tell you the instant I mastered it, Bruce. Approximately two seconds after I jumped down so recklessly on the dummy I thought was the Joker.”

Alfred, the butler, who had been listening with Bruce Wayne, looked mildly astonished.

“Master Grayson, what a curious time to practice gymnast’s tricks!”

“I wasn’t practicing,” Dick said. “As a matter of fact, Alfred, this was a matter of life—and death. When I touched that Joker dummy, I knew I’d been tricked. I was ready for almost anything to follow. I wasn’t surprised when the floor gave way under me.”

“What did you do, Master Grayson?”

“I knew that whatever was down in that hole wasn’t there to do me any good. So I flung myself into the backflip just as I went down in it. I straightened out below the floor as it came down over me and caught hold of the edge with my fingers.

Then I hung on. There was enough of a crack at the edge of that fake flooring for me to get a grip. And the rug that the Joker used to cover the trapdoor helped too. It concealed the grip I had on the edge of the flooring.”

“How did you get out of there, Dick?” Bruce Wayne asked.

“I hung on for a few minutes until my eyes adjusted and I saw the vat of liquid below me. I didn’t know what it was, but to test it I dropped a metal buckle from my utility belt into it. The buckle disappeared with a little hiss and that gave me a good idea of what would happen to me if I happened to drop in. So I moved carefully until I found the edge of the vat with my feet. Then I circled on the rim until I found a board in the wall that could be worked loose. After that, it was easy. I made a space big enough for me—and closed it up behind me when I left.”

“And the Joker thought you’d been dissolved in the carbolic acid vat,” Bruce Wayne said quietly.

Dick shivered. “I hate to think of how nearly right he was.”

“Pardon me, sir,” Alfred said. “I don’t like to interfere, but there is something I think you should hear.”

Alfred turned on the radio. In a moment the voice of Vance Jennings, disc jockey of the Tune Parade program, came on:

“And here is your top request number for today, folks. The tune most of you have asked to hear is—‘Stormy Weather.’

As the first strains of the melody came over the radio, Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson began to laugh.

Alfred permitted himself a slight frosty chuckle. “Rather fitting, don’t you think, sir? It would be quite accurate to predict ‘Stormy Weather’ for the Joker from now on!”

John Whiting turned off the radio with an angry snap of the dial. He turned to the other men gathered in the room.

“That’s the message the Joker said would mean Batman was dead,” John Whiting said.

Everyone was looking at him.

He picked up a newspaper from the table and flung it down. “But we know better! The newspapers tell the real story. The Joker and all his men have been captured. Batman and Robin are very much alive!”

As though John Whiting’s words had touched a switch, everyone transferred his gaze to the crumpled newspaper with its staring black headline: “JOKER CAPTURED!”

The effect was all that Batman and Robin could have wished for if they had been present at this meeting of the underworld’s Committee of Ten. The reaction could hardly have been improved upon. “Stunned” was an inadequate word to describe their mental state; “despair” might have been nearer to it.

John Whiting summoned their attention by slamming his fist down on the tabletop. The diamond ring on his hand glittered.

He thundered, “We’re all going to face the facts, whether we like it or not. All three of our candidates for the Tommy Award have been captured and are in prison. Therefore, I see no point in conducting this meeting any longer. Does anyone disagree?”

There was no sign of disagreement.

“Very well,” John Whiting said, “the motion is carried unanimously. There will be no Tommy Award. This meeting is adjourned and—”

A black object sprang to the table near the place where John Whiting’s hand rested.

The black object snarled, hunched its back, spat.

“A cat!” shouted someone near the table.

“A black cat!”

John Whiting stared at the hunched, snarling cat on the table—its eyes gleaming with emerald hate.

“A black cat,” he said. “That’s the symbol of…”

The sentence was finished by the tall, striking figure who appeared in the doorway.

“…the Catwoman!” she said.

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