BATMAN vs 3 VILLAINS of DOOM "Chapter 3"

Chapter3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They took careful aim.

“Ready…aim…fire!” said the Penguin.

Three guns boomed at once.

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

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

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

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

“And I had Robin,” said the other.

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

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

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

“Drat,” said the Penguin.

He pulled his head back in.

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

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

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

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

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

“Then we’re finished. We’re licked!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

A mile unreeled in less than a minute.

Then:

WHOMP!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“All right, Batman.”

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

“The Penguin! Good heav—”

WHOMP!

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s the matter, Penguin?”

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

“That’s right.”

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

“That’s right.”

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

The henchman’s countenance turned ashen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He began a leisurely descent to earth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who, me?” asked one.

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

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

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

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

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

The Penguin was nowhere to be found.

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

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

But where had he gone?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Inspector O’Hara came over to the Batmobile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mind? I’ll help you, Boy Wonder.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The intercom on the plant manager’s desk crackled:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A voice cried out a warning.

A shadow loomed over his head.

Robin shot a worried glance over his shoulder.

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

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

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

Robin ran.

He crashed into the open doorway of the control booth.

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

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

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

Then he stopped.

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

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

Robin did not answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Robin could watch no more.

“You devil!” he cried.

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

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

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

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

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

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

To Be Continued...

TOMORROW!

Same Bat-Time!

Same Bat-Blog!

Please Support Hero Histories!

Visit Amazon and Order...

Batman vs 3 Villains of Doom

By Winston Lyon

BATMAN vs 3 VILLAINS of DOOM "Chapter 2"

Chapter 2

All those present remained in their positions for what seemed a long interval, thinking of the doom that was approaching with every tick of the clock. Actually no more than a few seconds passed before Robert Yarosh broke the silence.

“Two minutes! There’s no time to deactivate the bomb. We’re doomed!”

Batman said to Robin, “Come on. We’ve got to try to find that bomb before it’s too late.”

The engine room was a few short steps down the corridor. When they flung open the door, the hopelessness of their situation was clear. There were literally a thousand places in this room with its mighty complex metal maze of machinery where a bomb could have been hidden.

Meanwhile precious seconds were ticking off the time before they would all be blasted into eternity!

“What can we do, Batman?” Robin asked. “It’ll take us an hour to make a search—and we haven’t even got one full minute left!”

Batman flipped up the catch of a small delicate instrument in his belt. This utility belt—a veritable treasure trove of miniaturized scientific devices—served Batman well as an aid in his career of fighting crime.

“The chemo-detector,” Batman said. “I’m setting my dial for nitric acid. Most modern explosives are formed from nitric acid. You set your chemo-detector for mercury fulminate, Robin. That’s most often used as a detonator for explosives. If we get a reading from either of them we can pinpoint the location of the bomb.”

Robin nodded agreement, and quickly the dials were twirled and set.

If the experiment worked, small indicator needles would begin to vibrate in response to the indicated presence of the chemicals that had been dialed. The chemo-detector worked on the same principle as a Geiger counter which measures radioactivity. By watching the reaction of the indicator gauge Batman and Robin could tell whether they were on the right track.

Batman said, “I’m getting some reaction. How about you, Robin?”

Robin’s voice was tense with excitement. “So am I, Batman.”

“Good. I’ll try this end of the room. You start at the other.”

In the north comer of the engine room Batman’s indicator needle registered no strong impulses. But a cry from Robin summoned him:

“This way, Batman. My needle is jumping like crazy!”

Batman hurried over to Robin and together they closed in on the target. There could be no more than twenty seconds left.

“There it is!” Robin cried.

He pointed to a small black box secreted behind a coil of steam pipe. Batman snatched the lethal device and headed up the companionway from the windowless engine room.

Ten seconds left!

Batman cleared the staircase. Another short flight of stairs was still ahead of him. If he waited to reach the deck above and hurl the bomb, the explosion might happen in midair or too close to the yacht.

He could not delay. With a mighty heave he hurled the black box up the stairs, to arch high up and out over the deck railing. It was a formidable throw. The box soared out over the water fully four hundred feet away from the yacht. Then it dropped. Just as the box touched the crest of the waves the detonator went off. Deadly gases decomposed swiftly to create the wall of pressure that is called an explosion. The night air was split by a horrendous wrenching noise and the yacht heeled slightly to port from the impact of the rushing air. Robin came out of the engine room as Batman started down the steps.

“You all right, Batman?” he asked anxiously.

Batman smiled wryly. “I’m fine. But we had rather a close call. Now suppose we get on with the job of freeing Robert Yarosh and the others before we embark for home.”

Not long afterward, as the pontoon craft glided away from the yacht Ocean Venture, Robin, lying prone beside Batman in the hollowed-out hull, remarked:

“It’s been an interesting evening, don’t you think? After all, we’ve never encountered the Penguin, the Joker, and the Catwoman all in one place at one time.”

Batman said, “Each of them is quite enough to handle—one at a time.”

“Do you still think the underworld was going to give them some sort of an Academy Award?”

“The evidence points to it, Robin. I’ve been sure of it ever since we found that blank nominating slip at the headquarters of Red Eyes Lafferty. Of course I didn’t realize the three most dangerous villains of all time were going to be competing for the award.”

“With the Penguin, the Joker, and the Catwoman active, the good citizens of Gotham City may be in for an exciting time.”

“Exciting is not quite the word for it,” Batman admonished him. “Hectic, perhaps. I’d even say grim. But there is nothing exciting about a crime wave, Robin. Try to remember that.”

“I will, Batman,” Robin promised.

The pontoon craft bumped lightly into the piling of a pier in Gotham City Harbor.

On Tuesday morning at eleven o’clock, Bruce Wayne and his ward Dick Grayson were in the library of Wayne Manor. Bruce was behind a desk piled high with newspapers. He was reading in a fashion that would have astonished anyone who watched. The newspapers were from every major city in America. Bruce Wayne was methodically going through each—allowing scarcely more than a minute or two even for the bulkiest editions. He seemed to turn the pages with only casual interest, yet his amazing faculty for instant visualization did not permit the smallest item to escape his attention. He could have repeated, word for word, any of the news items that appeared on any page.

In due course he would follow the same procedure with the magazines and books that had arrived in the morning’s mail. A stupendous amount of reading material would occupy him scarcely more than two full hours, during which all of the significant content of the reading would be securely locked away in his memory for use whenever needed.

At this moment, having finished with newspapers from around the country, Bruce Wayne began rifling through the two chief Gotham City newspapers.

He stopped and lowered the newspaper to glance over at Dick Grayson. Dick was concentrating on creating a crossword puzzle using only Sanskrit verbs. The problem occupied Dick Grayson’s attention entirely because he had only become fluent in Sanskrit during the past few weeks.

“Dick, there’s an item in today’s local newspaper that may interest you.”

Dick put down the ruler and pencil with which he had been drawing additional squares for his puzzle.

“What’s that, Bruce?” he asked.

“The Gotham City Bird Show was robbed. The criminal escaped with all the day’s receipts. No one saw him because a tangled mass of decorative bunting happened to fall from the ceiling at the most inopportune moment.”

“Inopportune for whom, Bruce? Certainly not for the criminal.”

“A good point, Dick. I quite agree that the artful use of bunting as a method for confusing both the audience and the guards was clever. Is there any other comment you would care to make about this item?”

“I suppose you’re hinting that this could be the work of the Penguin. But there’s no evidence of that outside of the fact that it was a bird show that was robbed—and birds are the Penguin’s trademark.”

“Is that all, Dick?”

“Well, the clever use of decorative bunting indicates that no ordinary criminal was involved.”

“Think, now. What else strikes you as unusual about this news item?”

“I can’t think of anything else.”

Bruce Wayne’s head shook in disapproval. “Come now, Dick, you can do better. For instance, what is the state bird of Colorado?”

Dick Grayson thought a moment. “Is it…the lark?”

“To be exact, the lark bunting.”

“Holy robin redbreast! The lark bunting! And bunting was used to commit the crime. That certainly sounds like the Penguin’s work, doesn’t it?”

Bruce Wayne nodded. “This is undoubtedly only the first of the Penguin’s robberies. They will follow a pattern. In fact, I’m quite sure I’ve already located the site of the Penguin’s next plot!”

Dick Grayson put aside his Sanskrit puzzle. “Then what are we waiting for?” he said.

Bruce Wayne smiled. “Exactly. To the Batpoles!”

Bruce and Dick went into the living room of Wayne Manor. The butler Alfred was there.

“Is Aunt Harriet anywhere around?” Dick asked.

“No, Master Grayson,” Alfred replied. “The coast is quite clear.”

Bruce Wayne lifted the bald pate of a bust of William Shakespeare on a pedestal nearby. Inside there was a secret switch. This activated a panel in the wall which slid silently back to reveal the Batpoles and the twin circular openings which led down to the Batcave.

Dick Grayson waved goodbye to Alfred as Bruce Wayne and Dick disappeared into the opening in the wall which closed behind them. Seconds later they shed their outer clothing and, attired as Batman and Robin, entered the Batcave.

There was the Batmobile, fabulous wonder car, waiting. Soon, with jet exhausts flaring, the Batmobile was racing off, carrying the Terrific Two on a new adventure.

Meanwhile, at the Grover-Westford Auction Gallery, an item of rare exquisite beauty was being offered for sale to a select audience of a score of Gotham City’s wealthiest collectors.

The auctioneer’s face lit with pleasure as he held up the precious objet d’art.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, his voice quivering with pardonable pride, “this is what you have come to see—and wonder at. A four-thousand-year-old emerald statuette of the ancient god Thoth. It is shaped in the form of an ibis, the sacred bird of the ancient Egyptians who revered the god Thoth. As jewelry alone, this statuette is worth a fortune—but as a rarity, as a relic of a lost culture, the statuette is almost beyond price. Only the death of its former owner has now made it available for sale. I am sure none of you will object if I insist that the bidding begin at two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

The auctioneer had barely finished when someone called out, “Two hundred and eighty thousand.”

“Three hundred thousand.”

“Three hundred and fifty.”

“Three seventy-five.”

The auctioneer beamed at the spirited bidding from the group of collectors. He raised his yellow hammer to announce the latest bid.

“I have a bid of three hundred and seventy-five thousand. Do I hear four hundred? Going—going…”

“Four hundred!”

“Excellent. I have four hundred. Do I hear five? Five, gentlemen? Going—going—GONE!”

The auctioneer brought the yellow hammer down on the auction block. A surprising thing happened. The hammer broke open and a tear gas bomb planted inside it exploded on the impact.

Choking and gasping for breath, the auctioneer reeled away from the platform. As the tear gas flowed through the room the audience of wealthy collectors tried to flee, stumbling blindly with smarting eyes and torn by convulsions of coughing.

Amid the chaos, the round figure of the Penguin appeared. He wore a gas mask and moved calmly to the auctioneer’s block. There he picked up the emerald statuette of the birdgod Thoth and dropped it into his carry-all umbrella.

Delicately he avoided contact with the few remaining men who were still on their feet and groping helplessly in the clouds of tear gas. Most of the others had already fallen. The Penguin stepped over the prostrate form of the auctioneer and deposited a copy of the late afternoon edition of the Gotham Daily Eagle on the auctioneer’s podium.

As the Penguin started out the front door of the auction gallery, the Batmobile careened around the comer. The Penguin quickly went back inside.

He mused: “The Batman is cleverer than I thought. He’s figured out my pattern of bird-crimes. Oh, well, perhaps it is risky of me to leave him a clue as to my next banditry. But, as they say, nothing ventured, nothing gained. If I am to win the Tommy Award, I must outwit the Batman, and I might as well begin as soon as possible. The judging committee will have to consider that I’ve already clipped the Batman’s wings—twice!”

The auction room was permeated with tear gas, and by now everyone had been reduced to a miserable state of near-unconsciousness. The Penguin skipped nimbly through the fallen bodies and made his exit through the rear door.

Seconds later Batman and Robin plunged through the front door.

“Hold it, Robin! It seems that the Penguin has been here already!”

“Tear gas!” Robin exclaimed.

“Adjust your nose-breathing devices and put on the transparent eye shields. Then we’ll get some windows open and clear this place out.”

Soon the Gotham City Emergency Squad arrived on the scene with inhalators to revive the stricken victims, and Batman and Robin made their way to the auctioneer. He sat in a chair with his legs spread out weakly before him and moaned to himself.

“The ibis-god…gone. What an incalculable loss to the world of art!”

“Did you see the criminal who stole it?” Batman asked.

“No. The room was so filled up with tear gas I couldn’t see anything.”

“Was the gas bomb hidden in your auctioneer’s hammer?”

The auctioneer stared at Batman. “How did you know?”

Batman did not reply. He picked up the front page of the Gotham Daily Eagle which was lying on the podium and asked the auctioneer, “Is this your newspaper?”

“Why, no.”

“You have no idea how it got here?”

“None at all,” said the auctioneer. “And I can’t see why you’re so interested in a mere newspaper, Batman, when a criminal has made off with the priceless, irreplaceable statuette of the god Thoth.”

“I’m afraid the two items are closely linked,” Batman said. He turned to Robin. “Let’s go!”

Moments later the Batmobile was again roaring off through Gotham City streets.

“What did you mean, Batman, when you said that the front page of the newspaper and the theft of the emerald statuette were linked?” Robin asked.

“The missing link is our old enemy, the Penguin.”

“Did he leave the newspaper there for us to find?”

“Yes. Because it contains the clue to his next robbery.”

Robin quickly scanned the front page. “I don’t see anything.”

“The Penguin’s clues are obscurely planted, Robin. You have to put yourself into his evilly twisted mind to figure out what he means.”

“Is that how you knew he would strike at the auction gallery?”

“It wasn’t hard to figure out that an emerald statuette shaped in the form of an ancient bird, the ibis, would be a natural target for the Penguin.”

“There’s one thing you said back there that did surprise me, Batman. How did you know the tear gas bomb would be planted in the auctioneer’s hammer?”

Batman shrugged. “That was easy, Robin. The news item mentioned that the statuette of Thoth would be put up for auction—and the auctioneer would use a yellow hammer that had been used in the days of Louis Quatorze. The yellowhammer is a kind of bird. It was an irresistible pun pattern for the Penguin.”

“Holy hummingbird,” Robin exclaimed. “The Penguin substituted his own yellow hammer, complete with gas bomb, for the original.”

“Precisely.”

Robin looked at the newspaper. “And the front page of this paper has another clue, you say? Let me see… ‘Famous Mimic to Appear at Universe Room’…That seems the only possible item that would be of any interest, yet how…?”

“Remember, Robin, you must try to think like the Penguin. He sees bird analogies in some unlikely places.”

Robin frowned. “A mimic…hmm. What does a mimic do? He imitates other people’s voices…In a way, he might be said to mock them. Can that be it? A mockingbird?”

“Exactly, Robin.”

“But what possibility for profitable crime does a mimic have to offer? There has to be something else,” Robin persisted.

Batman nodded. “Elsewhere on the front page there’s a notice of a gold shipment that will be carried by blimp from a bank in Gotham City to Fort Knox.”

“But is that a bird clue?”

“A blimp is called a Dodo by Air Force pilots—because the dodo was a wingless bird. That’s the Penguin’s target. And there’s still a further irony to whet the Penguin’s villainous appetite for bird-puns.”

This time Robin got the point at once. “Both items appear on the same page of the Gotham Daily Eagle. Right, Batman?”

“You’re thinking on sixteen cylinders, Robin. I’m proud of you.”

Robin flushed with embarrassment. “Golly. Thanks, Batman.”

There was a sharp rap on the dressing room door of Maximilian, the world’s most famous mimic. Maximilian put down the atomizer with which he had been spraying his throat.

“Who is it?”

“A telegram, Mr. Maximilian.”

“Put it under the door. I do not wish to be disturbed.”

“I’m sorry, sir. You must sign for it.”

With an exclamation of annoyance, Maximilian got up, drawing the belt of his dressing gown tighter. He went to the door and unlocked it.

The door swung open violently, to pin Maximilian to the wall.

“Now, see here, what’s the meaning of—?” Maximilian began in fury.

Then he stopped.

The reason he stopped was that a bayonet was against his throat. The bayonet was part of a curious umbrella that was in the very firm grip of an even more curious-looking man, as round and firm as a…

“Penguin!” gasped Maximilian.

“Ah, you recognize me. Then you have some idea of how dangerous it would be to cross me, Mr. Maximilian. It would in all probability be the very last thing you would ever do in this life.”

The Penguin kicked shut the door behind him.

“Now you will do what I tell you.” The Penguin produced a small wax record from beneath his frock coat. “I have here a recording of the voice of Elmer Tuttle, president of the Gotham City Bank. The recording was made from a recent speech he made to a banker’s association.”

Maximilian’s voice was fluttery and faint with fear. “Wh-what do you want from me?”

“You will listen to Mr. Tuttle’s voice for a moment.” The Penguin brought his record to a phonograph turntable and placed it on the spindle. Holding the needle lever in his fingers before placing it on the record, he said, “I’m sure you’ll have no difficulty imitating Mr. Tuttle’s voice once you have heard it.”

Maximilian made a squeaking sound.

“I beg your pardon?” said the Penguin. “What did you say?”

“I-I…” Maximilian stopped. Then his professional pride strengthened his voice. “I can imitate anyone in the world.”

“Fine. Now study the voice of Mr. Tuttle very carefully. When you have mastered it, I am going to ask you to make a telephone call. That isn’t an unreasonable request, is it, Mr. Maximilian?”

“I-I don’t want to get involved in anything cr-criminal.”

“That’s laudable, I’m sure. But I suggest that you consider my request carefully before refusing. Because the price of your refusal will simply be…your life.”

Maximilian’s face turned white.

“We understand each other, don’t we, Mr. Maximilian?”

Maximilian nodded.

The Penguin placed the needle down on the record. The fiat, nasal, midwestern twangy voice of Elmer Tuttle began to come from the phonograph loudspeaker.

“My friends and fellow bankers…”

The Penguin smiled at Maximilian, angling his cigarette holder jauntily. Maximilian shivered.

From a treetop half a mile beyond the airfield where the blimp was being loaded with gold bullion for the flight to Fort Knox, Batman and Robin surveyed the scene. They were perched on stout tree branches about a foot distant from each other, watching the loading operation through powerful binoculars.

Robin lowered his binoculars and rubbed his eyes.

“I think we’ve guessed wrong, Batman. The loading is proceeding on schedule and there are plenty of guards around. It would be foolhardy of the Penguin to try to seize the shipment now.”

Batman said, “I was sure he’d strike before the blimp was completely loaded for the journey…wait a minute!”

“Did you see anything, Batman?”

“That short, plump guard toward the rear of that truck. Does he look familiar, Robin?”

Robin focused the binoculars on the man Batman indicated.

“Yes, he does resemble someone I’ve seen. To tell the truth, Batman, he looks a lot like...” Robin’s voice caught abruptly on a note of excitement: “The Penguin! But how did he ever manage to get in among the guards? Someone should have spotted him!”

“They have, Robin. In fact, they’re working for him. Those guards are the Penguin’s henchmen!”

“Holy camouflage!” Robin exclaimed. “They’ve just finished loading the gold bullion on the blimp. Let’s hurry!”

Lightly the Caped Crusaders leapt from the tree to the ground. They sped to the Batmobile waiting nearby. Seconds later they were zooming toward the spot where the blimp was preparing to cut loose its mooring ropes.

Beside the blimp’s gondola, the disguised Penguin watched the preparations for the ascent.

“All right, men. Get in quickly!”

Maximilian, also dressed in guard’s uniform, stood beside the Penguin, pleading with him.

“How about me! Why do I have to go along too?” he asked.

The Penguin smiled crookedly. “It won’t be for long. At about ten thousand feet we’ll dump you out. We’ll supply you with a parachute, of course.”

Maximilian blanched. “I-I’ve never made a parachute jump.”

“There’s a first time for all of us, dear fellow. I wish you luck when you finally return to civilization with your story of what happened. I hope you won’t have too much trouble explaining to the authorities why you mimicked the voice of Elmer Tuttle, president of the Gotham City Bank, and ordered a new platoon of guards to supervise this gold shipment.”

“You made me do it,” Maximilian whined.

“I won’t be there to support your story, will I? I fear the police may take a dim view of your explanation. They may even lock you up as an accomplice.”

“It—it’s a frame-up!” Maximilian quavered.

“A precaution. Perhaps you won’t be so anxious to tell exactly what happened, after all. You may even decide to keep your own counsel. That will make things so much easier all around.”

A sharp cry interrupted: “LOOK WHAT’S COMING!”

Barreling across the airfield, jet exhausts flaming, came—the Batmobile!

“Egad!” cried the Penguin. “Cut the mooring ropes at once! Get the blimp off the ground!”

The Penguin clambered agilely aboard the blimp’s gondola as the ropes were cut. The blimp, airborne, began to rise lumberingly.

From the still-open door of the gondola, the Penguin looked down at Maximilian below.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to postpone your initiation into the mysteries of parachute jumping, Mr. Maximilian,” he said.

The blimp lurched upward, five, ten feet into the air.

The Batmobile raced into the space below it.

“Take the wheel, Robin,” Batman commanded sharply.

He pushed back the cowling and stood up on the front seat. Robin held the wheel as he moved into the driver’s seat.

“The front mooring rope,” Batman said. He poised tensely as the powerful Batmobile surged forward beneath the length of the steadily rising blimp.

Batman stood up beneath the moving metal shape of the blimp. He was now several feet below the trailing line of the blimp’s front mooring rope.

“The escalating ladder,” Batman said. “Quickly!”

Robin pushed a button on the dashboard.

From behind the front seat of the Batmobile a small ladder rose swiftly. Batman mounted the ladder, swaying against the terrible pull of the wind.

He reached out for the mooring rope now almost within his grasp. A sudden movement of the blimp pulled the rope away from him. At the wheel of the Batmobile, Robin made an instant correction to bring the powerful car once again into line.

Again Batman reached for the trailing length of rope. This time he caught it.

Robin kept one hand on the wheel and reached over to activate the towing mechanism of the Batmobile. Then he tossed the tow chain up to Batman.

Batman hooked his legs into the ladder. He caught the chain with his free hand. Already the mooring rope was shortening in his grasp as the blimp continued its steady ascent. Batman swiftly tied chain and rope together in an inextricable and unbreakable Batknot—a complicated, ingenious knot that was only made stronger when pressure was exerted upon it.

“All secure,” Batman said. “Lower away.”

The ladder slowly drew back into the Batmobile. Batman dropped back into the seat beside Robin.

Robin’s voice was barely audible against the tearing noise of wind: “We’d better get back on the road, Batman. We’re heading over the edge of the cliff.”

“Throw on full power. Make a sharp left turn.”

Robin instantly did as directed. In a screeching fury of revved-up engines, the Batmobile wheeled sharply left. Like an unleashed metal monster it plunged along a new course bordering the side of the cliff.

The connecting link between the Batmobile and the blimp strained taut, held. The blimp’s course altered to follow that of the Batmobile below it.

Suddenly the blimp’s engines also began to race and whine as additional power was demanded. The blimp struggled upward like a trapped great bird.

The Batmobile continued its plunge along a chosen course back to the highway. But the powerful engines of the world’s most remarkable car were strained to the utmost to match the terrible lifting power of the blimp. Which would prevail—blimp or Batmobile? On the answer to that question the lives of Batman and Robin depended!

To Be Continued...

TOMORROW!

Same Bat-Time!

Same Bat-Blog!

Please Support Hero Histories!

Visit Amazon and Order...

Batman vs 3 Villains of Doom

By Winston Lyon

BATMAN vs 3 VILLAINS of DOOM "Chapter 1"

Chapter 1

A few miles outside Gotham City Harbor, the yacht Ocean Venture rode uneasily at anchor on the deep night swells of the ocean. No lights marked its presence. All the portholes were covered and the deck was bare.

From the main salon of the yacht came the babble of voices and the pop of champagne corks. At the long horseshoe-curved banquet table a dozen men and one woman were seated.

Ten of the men wore dinner jackets.

Two men and the one woman were in costume.

Seated to the right of the master of ceremonies was a tall, angularly lean man in a maroon formal coat with a bright yellow vest and a startling green shirt whose sharply pointed collar ends projected over his lapels. This bizarre costume was not the most striking feature of the tall, lean man. Indeed one hardly noticed his costume, outlandish as it was, because the face above it was so grotesque that it riveted the viewer’s attention.

The lean man’s face was chalk-white, unlike any human countenance, and the madly grinning mouth was triangular and incredibly large, displaying perfectly even rows of square white teeth. Thin scarlet-colored lips were drawn back in a nightmarish grin into folds of the cheeks. Coal-black eyes stared out of dead-white eyeballs beneath curving black brows that seemed painted on the forehead in an expression of perpetual mockery. Above this, most startling of all, was a full combed-back head of grass-green hair!

No one who looked upon this face once would be likely to forget it—or the name of the man. For this was the Joker—the formidable Clown of Crime.

Beside him was a man who barely reached to the Joker’s shoulder, a dumpy, comical-looking fellow in a rakish top hat who smoked a cigarette in a long holder. The cigarette holder projected at a steep angle from his sardonically twisted lips. He wore a black formal coat, a bow tie, and a shirtfront unmarred by stud or button. In the jowly, rubbery face the most notable feature was a long, sharp, arrogantly tilted nose of spectacular proportions. Taken together with his receding forehead and chin, and his slit-like, almost sleepy eyes, this nose gave him an unmistakable resemblance to a certain Antarctic bird—a resemblance which the man’s mode of dress pointed up all too clearly. The Antarctic bird, of course, is the penguin, and this was indeed the Penguin himself—birdman of banditry, whose wickedly ingenious umbrellas served him well as weapons in his forays for plunder.

On the left of the master of ceremonies sat a woman as lovely as her compatriots in crime were unprepossessing. Yet her costume was equally striking. The mask over her eyes also encased her head like a helmet that rose in two points at either side to resemble the pointed ears of a cat. The smoothly furred leotard that clung to her lissome, undeniably feminine figure was fastened at the waist by a belt, and from her shoulders a green cloak swirled down across the back of her chair. She wore black gloves, open at the finger-ends, and through the openings her incredibly long fingernails showed silver and gleaming-like claws.

The claws of—the Catwoman!

Amid the general hubbub, these three costumed figures sat almost silent, waiting. Occasionally one stole a glance at the others—a glance full of envy and malice. Abruptly the hubbub ceased.

The master of ceremonies—whose name was John Whiting—rose from the center of the table. He rapped a gavel on the tabletop to silence the few remaining whispers in the room.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “gentlemen of the underworld…”

All eyes were turned to him now. Whiting, a tall, commanding figure of a man, waited with burly patience until the silence was complete.

“We are met here tonight to choose the outstanding criminal of our decade. There are annual awards in other fields of endeavor—the Academy Awards given in motion pictures, the Emmy awards given in television, and the many, many plaques awarded in business, politics, the arts and sciences…But I believe it is fair to say that nothing—I emphasize nothing—equals in value, importance, or prestige the Tommy Award which is made every ten years by the members of our criminal society.”

“Hear, hear,” someone shouted, and there was prompt and vigorous applause.

Now Whiting reached beneath the table to produce a submachine gun. The submachine gun—familiarly known as a tommy gun—was coated entirely in gold. He placed it reverently on the center of the table.

“This award is coveted by every respectable member of the underworld—not only in our country but around the world. In one way we are fortunate that we have three contenders for this prize whose exploits in crime have, beyond dispute, fully entitled each to claim the prize. I refer, of course, to our three guests of honor—the Joker, the Penguin, and the Catwoman.”

The Joker’s grin seemed to stretch wider as he responded to the chorus of cheers and shouts. The Penguin puffed furiously at his cigarette, sending appreciative wreaths of smoke to the ceiling of the yacht’s salon. The Catwoman stretched languorously, linking her hands on the table before her, as though sheathing her claws.

John Whiting’s square, rugged countenance looked pained. “However, I’m afraid that I have to report bad news. The award due to be presented to one of these three candidates at this Tommy Award dinner will not be presented.”

Dismayed silence followed. Then:

“Why not?” the Joker demanded shrilly. “I insist upon an explanation, Mr. Whiting.”

“Egad, sir! So do I,” chimed in the Penguin.

There was silky menace in the Catwoman’s purring voice, “I’m sure Mr. Whiting will offer an explanation.”

John Whiting ran a finger under his shirt collar.

“Well, I’m afraid I must take the blame,” he said. “The decision of who gets the award is supposed to be reached by a majority vote of the ten leading crime overlords assembled here tonight—and I, of course, am one. The nine votes so far recorded are evenly split. Three votes each for the Joker, the Catwoman, and the Penguin.”

As the yacht rocked sullenly on the winter sea, in the main salon a few dishes slid along the length of the white tablecloth.

No one—and nothing else—stirred.

“Then,” said the Catwoman in her most feline tone, “the final decision is up to you, Mr. Whiting. You will cast the deciding vote.”

John Whiting nodded and flushed slightly. He was aware of the Catwoman’s malevolent gaze upon him, the Joker’s black pupils staring at him out of dead-white eyeballs, and the Penguin’s eyes narrowed to focus on him within almost invisible slits.

Someone called out, “Why drag out the suspense? Tell us who you pick, Whiting!”

“That’s just it,” John Whiting said. “I haven’t made up my mind.”

“You haven’t—what?” The Joker rose halfway out of his seat in anger.

John Whiting repeated firmly, “I haven’t made up my mind. There are strong claims presented by all three of the contenders for this fabulous prize. And I’ve come to the conclusion that the final decision must be postponed.”

“What good will that do?” a voice demanded harshly from the far end of the table.

John Whiting held up his hand in a silencing gesture. “We will postpone the decision for only one week. And in that time each of the three contenders will undergo a test that will establish his or her rightful claim to the Tommy Award—in a way that no one will be able to dispute. In fact, I am certain that at the end of the week the decision of the committee will be unanimous.”

“Unanimous?” The inquirer chuckled. “You’ll never get unanimous agreement about anything in the world of crime.”

“Oh, I think I can,” said John Whiting. “For instance, I will now ask all members present here tonight to name the greatest menace to organized crime that ever existed in the history of the world. Answer when I raise my hand.”

John Whiting raised his hand to give the signal.

A thunderous concerted reply came:

“BATMAN and ROBIN!”

John Whiting smiled. “It seems to me that it won’t be any more difficult to make our choice for the winner of the Tommy Award at the end of a week,” he said. “Because during that week, the Joker, the Penguin, and the Catwoman will compete against each other to outwit or destroy Batman and Robin. Their method will be simple—to commit crimes that bear their own unmistakable trademarks, and thereby to lure Batman and Robin into battle.”

He glanced round the table. The members of the crime syndicate were obviously excited by the idea. And the three principals—the Joker, the Penguin, and the Catwoman—were already anticipating the contest to come, their eyes glittering at the thought of a life-and-death struggle with their hated enemies Batman and Robin.

“Agreed?” asked John Whiting. “All those in favor say ‘Aye!’”

The room exploded with one roar. “AYE!”

“All right, then,” said John Whiting. “A battle—to the death, if necessary! And may the best man—or woman—win!”

Even as this strange conference was taking place, a small craft silently approached the yacht Ocean Venture. Low and riding almost level with the water, the strange craft was like a floating pontoon. To the casual eye it might have been merely a floating log.

Steadily the odd-shaped boat came nearer, moving gently with the current. The water slid under her hull, shining dimly.

And then the yacht’s starboard side upreared above, outlined in the gleam of pale moonlight.

Abruptly two caped figures stood up from the prone positions in which they had been riding the pontoon craft.

“Quiet, Robin,” said the taller figure. “We want to take them by surprise.”

Robin nodded. “You first, Batman,” he said.

Batman flung high a rope ladder. A magnet caught against the ship’s side and clung there to fix the rope ladder in place. Then he climbed agilely to the deck. In a moment Robin followed him.

There seemed to be no one around, but Batman’s hand on Robin’s arm was a warning.

“Someone’s coming,” Batman said.

Batman and Robin melted into the shadows near the ship’s railing. The faintest sound, which Batman’s keen hearing had picked up, now became clear. It was the slow, measured tread of footsteps on deck. Around a turn came a tall, muscular sailor, cradling a shotgun in his arms. He moved a few steps forward, then paused to listen.

Batman sprang from his crouch in a single bound. His hand was clamped over the surprised sailor’s mouth before the man could utter a cry. Batman wrenched the shotgun out of the sailor’s arms with his free hand and tossed it to Robin, who in a quick motion tossed it far out over the ship’s rail into the water.

The powerful sailor now bent forward, trying desperately to pull Batman over his shoulder. But he was caught in a viselike grip.

Batman’s arms closed tighter until the sailor gasped for breath. Then Batman’s fingers touched a nerve in the sailor’s neck. As the sailor slumped unconscious, Batman swung him up to deposit him on the tarpaulin of a lifeboat suspended in its davits.

The entire struggle, violent as it was, took no more than a few seconds.

Batman nodded to Robin, and the two caped figures moved swiftly toward a companionway that led below the deck.

In the main salon, a marksmanship contest was under way.

At one end of the huge room a large drawing of Batman was tacked up on the wall. The figure was drawn full size, with a circled target in the area of the heart.

John Whiting said, “This is how we will decide which of our three contenders will get the first chance to prove himself superior to Batman. The Joker, the Penguin, and the Catwoman will fire air pistols with special phosphorescent dye markings—red for the Joker, yellow for the Penguin, blue for the Catwoman. Whoever comes closest to hitting the heart of Batman will get the first opportunity to prove the master—or the mistress—of the real Batman.”

“Sacre bleu,” said François, the swarthy leader of the French underworld. “I must say you Americans have mos’ amusing ideas.”

“Will the three contenders move up to the firing line?” John Whiting asked. “I don’t believe anyone will object if the lady goes first.”

The Catwoman moved slowly, sensuously, over to the chalk mark on the salon floor, about thirty feet distant from the target. John Whiting handed her a long-barreled air pistol. The Catwoman’s arms extended, her claw-like fingers tightened.

WHOOSH!

“A nearly perfect shot, Catwoman,” John Whiting said admiringly. “Well within the target area of Batman’s heart.”

The Joker hunched his shoulders as he stepped forward to the firing line. His grinning face reflected only the smallest sign of tension as he took aim and fired.

WHOOSH!

“Well done, Joker! Hardly an inch separates the two,” John Whiting said. “We will have to measure to see which came closest to the center. It’s your turn now, Penguin.”

With a confident smirk, the Penguin stepped up to the mark, took aim, and fired.

The shot went straight into the very dead center of the target!

“You’ve earned the first chance at Batman,” John Whiting immediately announced. “Congratulations, Penguin.”

Even as John Whiting stretched out his hand to the Penguin, a new voice rang with command through the salon. “May I offer my congratulations, too?”

Everyone in the room seemed to freeze with terror. Then the Penguin whirled, his cigarette holder tilted at an incredulous angle.

“BATMAN!”

As though the name released everyone from a spell, they began to flee toward the rear entrance from the salon, with the Penguin himself in the lead. But before they reached the rear door, it flew open and the doughty figure of Robin, a red and green blur, sped across to crash into the Penguin full tilt, and send him flying back into the banquet table. He lay there like a plump sausage.

After a dazed moment, the Penguin revealed extraordinary reflexes in his deceptively soft-looking body. He whipped off the tablecloth and swirled it at Robin in a rain of dishes and cutlery. Knives, forks, and spoons flew through the air. Robin was forced to make a high vaulting leap to evade the deadly barrage.

Meanwhile, Batman exploded in the center of the other crooks, where he became a veritable spinning wheel of violent combat. The spokes were the flying, careening bodies of vanquished lords of the plunderworld.

“All right, Batman! Now it’s my turn!” a shrill voice cried. Batman spun about and came face-to-face with the Joker. In an instant, the two were locked in terrible, straining combat.

“Eet ees mos’ unfortunate zat you do not have zee eyes in back of zee head,” said François, the French leader, as he aimed a karate kick at Batman, who was struggling mightily with the Joker. In an instant, Batman swung the Joker about into the line of fire. The Clown of Crime collapsed with a groan as François’s kick caught him in the groin.

As François tried another kick, Batman caught his ankle in midair.

“You’re becoming a nuisance, chum,” said Batman. “Or should I say ‘mon ami’? My French is a little rusty.”

And Batman swung the hapless Frenchman around like a battering ram, colliding with Oliver Therry and Hardrock Henderson as they tried to get close to him.

Three surviving criminals tried to clamber out the main doorway. Batman abruptly dropped the senseless François. The coiling rope of his Batarang snaked out and whirled about the escaping crooks in a rapid series of loops that pinioned them helplessly.

Meanwhile the Catwoman found her progress toward the rear door blocked by the stalwart young figure of Robin.

“Don’t you dare try to stop me, you beastly boy!” she shrieked.

She lunged at Robin with her claws.

Robin kicked a chair into the Catwoman’s path. As the Catwoman went over it, she gave a screech and plunged heavily to the floor.

The salon now resembled a battlefield full of writhing, figures.

“Look out,” cried Robin. “Behind you, Batman!”

One antagonist remained standing—the formidable Penguin. Batman and Robin began to close in on him. The Penguin backed slowly toward the rear exit of the salon.

“Don’t come any closer, Batman or Robin! I may be compelled to deal severely with you.”

Batman answered, “If you’ve anything in mind, you’d better try it now, Penguin. Your time is up.”

“Well, sir, if you insist!…”

From beneath his coat the Penguin whipped out a small closed umbrella. His timing was absolutely perfect. Just as Batman and Robin were charging upon him, he pointed the ferrule of the umbrella directly at them and pushed a button.

The salon lit up with a dreadful, blinding glare—the intense, unbearably brilliant whiteness of ignited magnesium.

Batman clapped both hands to his eyes—a fraction of a second too late. He could not see anything at all.

He staggered and reeled across the room.

Robin reacted a split second later than Batman and was powerless to arrest his own charging motion. Unable to see, the Boy Wonder crashed into the far wall at full speed and dropped like a stone to the floor.

The Penguin chortled. “Oh, dear, I’m so glad I remembered to bring this umbrella. It’s terribly useful whenever there’s a spell of…er…violent weather!”

Batman moved blindly forward, trying to locate the Penguin by the sound of his voice. But his flailing arms grasped only empty air.

“You’re quite helpless, Batman,” the Penguin said exultantly. “I have you at my mercy.”

“There’s one way I can stop him,” thought Batman. “It’s a long shot, but I have to take it.”

With a motion almost too quick to follow, Batman made a gigantic sideways leap. His hand shot toward the light switch. The overhead chandelier in the salon blinked out.

The salon plunged into darkness!

“What a pother!” cried the Penguin, with an alarm he could not conceal.

“Now we’re even,” Batman said. “I can’t see—but you’re in the dark.”

“I have no doubt,” replied the Penguin, “that your infernal photographic mind, which enabled you to recall the exact location of the light switch, now gives you something of an advantage. I really underestimate you at times, Batman.”

Batman did not answer. During the Penguin’s speech, he had made a silent approach almost to within sound of the roly-poly man’s voice.

Now he leaped forward as the Penguin completed the sentence.

And crashed ignominiously to the floor!

Where the Penguin should have been standing there was nothing.

Well, not quite nothing. There was the Penguin’s trademark—a small furled umbrella. From the handle of the umbrella, as from a miniature loudspeaker, emerged the taunting tone of Batman’s criminal foe.

“Farewell, dear Batman. I must say that there are also times when you underestimate me!”

There was the sound of running feet on the companionway, and Batman without hesitation plunged toward it.

The sound-trail led him out on deck.

“Still following me, Batman?” asked the Penguin. “I admire your persistence. As you can tell from the sound of my voice I am quite beyond your reach.”

The Penguin’s voice was fading even as Batman listened to the parting sally; the words seemed to rise straight up into the air.

Batman halted, stymied, on deck.

High overhead, clinging with superb nonchalance to the handle of an umbrella that had a rotary spinning propeller and small jets for propulsion, the Penguin soared away from the Ocean Venture.

Batman’s vision began to return. He could see bulky shapes of dark and light, then as his blinded retina regained its ability to focus he made out his surroundings in detail.

He crossed the salon to where Robin was sitting up groggily, holding his head.

“Holy bifocals,” Robin said. “I feel as though someone clouted me with a meat cleaver.”

“You clouted yourself,” Batman said. “You kept on going full speed into that wall. You’re lucky you didn’t fracture your skull.”

“I still can’t see properly,” Robin said.

“That isn’t only from the knock on the head you took. The Penguin pulled a new trick on us. A magnesium flare umbrella.”

Robin looked about the empty salon wonderingly. “Where are the others?”

“Gone. The Joker—the Catwoman—everybody had time to escape while we were helpless.”

“There’s one thing I can’t understand, Batman.”

“What’s that?”

“If they had time to get away, they also had time to finish us off. Why didn’t they?”

“I’ve been wondering the same thing myself, Robin. Of course, the Joker and the Catwoman would have considered it beneath their dignity to accept so easy a conquest. But the other criminals—they should have been glad to rid themselves of us once and for all. Unless…”

“Unless what, Batman?”

“Unless they’re practically certain that we’ll be killed anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

Batman did not reply directly. He said, “The Ocean Venture is registered in the name of Mr. and Mrs. Robert Yarosh. They’re real society people—not just cover-ups for underworld figures. But I haven’t seen a sign of them—or of the yacht’s regular crew—since we came aboard.”

“You don’t think they’ve been…murdered?”

“No, I don’t think so, Robin. I believe they’re somewhere on the yacht at this very moment!”

“We’d better start looking for them right away.”

Batman nodded. “Yes, Robin—we’d better. For our sakes as well as theirs!”

Robin gave Batman a puzzled glance, but there was no time for further questions. Batman was racing out of the yacht’s salon.

Dividing up the search, Batman and Robin quickly made a canvass of the cabins aboard the yacht, the steward’s pantry, the galley, and the library. They descended to the engine room. There was no one in sight.

Suddenly Robin turned his head toward the bow of the ship.

“What is it?” asked Batman.

Robin put a warning finger to his lips. “I heard something strange up ahead. Listen…”

As they waited, motionless, a low, moaning sound met their ears.

“Come on,” said Batman. “It’s coming from in there.”

In the forward hold, Batman and Robin at last found what they were looking for.

Five men and a woman securely bound and trussed.

As Robin removed the woman’s gag—it was her moan they had heard—Batman took the gag off the mouth of a handsome, silver-haired man of about fifty years.

The man said, “I’m Robert Yarosh—and this is my wife, Barbara. The others are members of the yacht’s crew. Thank goodness you found us, Batman. There isn’t much time to spare.”

“To spare for what?” Batman sliced the ropes that bound the man’s wrists behind him.

Robert Yarosh glanced quickly at his watch.

“There’s a bomb planted somewhere in the engine room,” he said. “Those fiends told us that it would go off when they’d gotten safely away. Explosion and fire would destroy the evidence of sabotage, and send the yacht to the bottom of the sea. In these deep waters no one would be able to find it.”

“Did they tell you exactly when the bomb was timed to go off?” Batman asked.

“Yes. There’s still a little time. It isn’t due to go off until midnight. And it’s only a quarter to midnight.”

Batman’s voice was very low as he answered, “Your watch is slow, Mr. Yarosh. It’s exactly two minutes to midnight now.”

To Be Continued...

TOMORROW!

Same Bat-Time!

Same Bat-Blog!
Please Support Hero Histories!

Visit Amazon and Order...

Batman vs 3 Villains of Doom
By Winston Lyon

BATMAN vs 3 VILLAINS of DOOM "Introduction"

To the motion picture industry it’s an OSCAR.

To television it’s an EMMY.

But to the world of crime it’s a TOMMY…the gold-covered submachine gun that is awarded once every decade to the man or woman who has done the most for CRIME.

The world’s ten top crime-lords have voted for the criminal of their choice.

The time of presentation is at hand.

BUT  EEYOW…
IT’S A DEADLOCK!

There are not one—not two—but three—favorite finalists.

THE JOKER, that formidable clown of crime, has received three votes.

THE PENGUIN, birdman of foul banditry, has received three votes.

And THE CATWOMAN, the feline beauty with a purr-fect felon’s mind, has received three votes.

To one master criminal goes the decision.

YAA-AAA!

HE DECLARES THAT THIS DECADE THE TOMMY WILL GO TO THE MAN—OR WOMAN—WHO CAN DEFEAT THE CRIMEWORLD’S GREATEST ENEMIES: BATMAN AND THE BOY WONDER ROBIN.

POW!

KAZAM!

It's to be the Encounter of the Century.

The three Villains of Doom vs. the Caped Crusaders against crime.

MAY THE BEST MAN, MEN…OR WOMAN, WIN...Starting tomorrow!!

Origin PEACEMAKER Part 2 "Hostage"

He's the Man Who Loves Peace So Much, He'll Fight for It!

Though described by actor John Cena (who portrays him in the new movie The Suicide Squad and upcoming HBOMax mini-series The Peacemaker) as a "douchebag Captain America", the original version was actually far less, well, "douchey"!

We Have Already Seen...

Diplomat Christopher Smith engages Nora O'Rourke (a woman who is not what she seems) as his new secretary.

As he familiarizes her with her new duties, Smith also deals with several deadly threats against himself and associates (including O'Rourke) while explaining exactly what his mission entails!

He's surprised to discover she has figured out that he and the hero known as "PeaceMaker" are one and the same!

Of course, it's at that moment that a jet fighter launches a missile directly at his headquarters...

Sadly, the book ended with the next issue.

In the 1980s. after Crisis on Infinite Earths, DC revived and revamped the Charlton "Action Heroes" and integrated them into the DC Universe, giving a couple of them their own ongoing comics and making them Justice League members!

Peacemaker received a mini-series which revamped him into the schmuck John Cena is brilliantly-playing in The Suicide Squad!

Trivia: Though DC has reprinted the Peacemaker's fellow Silver Age heroes' (Blue Beetle, Captain Atom, Question) strips  in their Silver Age Archives hardcovers, Christopher Smith's Silver and Bronze Age solo adventures have never been reprinted!

Please Support Hero Histories

Visit Amazon and Order...

League of Regrettable SuperHeroes

Half-Baked Heroes from Comics History

....which, ironically, includes PeaceMaker!