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!

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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!

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Batman vs 3 Villains of Doom

By Winston Lyon

BATMAN vs 3 VILLAINS of DOOM "Chapter 7"

Chapter 7

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

Batman struggled to get up.

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

“What have you done with Robin?”

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

“Where am I?”

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

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

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

“Good reasons?”

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

“I don’t believe you, Joker.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hyaaa-hahahahaha-hehehehehe!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Robin said, “The Tune Parade.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The Water Street station.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They had found what they were looking for.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you recognize that man, Inspector?”

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

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

“Shall I arrest him now, Robin?”

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

“What shall we do, then?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Robin—the Boy Wonder!

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

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

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

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

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

“Well?” the Joker demanded.

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

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

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

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

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

The Joker rubbed his hands together with satisfaction.

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

The Joker was right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he saw the Joker.

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

Suddenly Batman’s eyes turned upward to see Robin.

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

He crashed into the seated figure of the Joker.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Joker’s laughter grew shriller.

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

To Be Continued...

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Batman vs 3 Villains of Doom

By Winston Lyon

BATMAN vs 3 VILLAINS of DOOM "Chapter 6"

Chapter 6

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

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

The Joker shoved him roughly out from behind the wheel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you sure it’s a trick, Joker?”

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

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

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

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

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

And so did Batman and Robin!

KERPOW!

WHAM!

ZOWIE!

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

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

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

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

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

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

At that moment Batman turned on the switch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Batman!” he called.

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

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

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

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

Through incandescent steam they heard the Joker’s command:

“Quick, men. Into the truck!”

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

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

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

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

Steam rose higher and higher in menacing white billows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Very well, Batman.”

Commissioner Gordon hung up the phone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was a full moon that night.

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

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

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

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

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

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

On and on went the reports.

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

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

“What makes you think so, Robin?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you see anything, Batman?”

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

“Let me see, Batman!”

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

“How long ago was that, Robin?”

Robin consulted his notebook.

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

“Barely fifteen minutes ago.”

“That’s right, Batman.”

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

“Do you think…?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THUD!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The tall shelf teetered forward.

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

Batman fired the Batarang.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Farewell, Batman. Until we meet again!”

The wail of police sirens sounded from the street below.

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

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

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

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

“Surrender, Joker. Or we’ll shoot!”

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

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

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

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

“Not leaving after all?” Batman asked sarcastically.

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

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

The impact sent the Joker reeling back to the wall.

The Joker picked up a chair and threw it desperately.

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

He tore off the Batrespirator!

Instantly Batman was choking, his eyes smarting.

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

Batman went down heavily. He lay still.

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

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

Robin leaped at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But there was no choice.

To Be Continued...

MONDAY!

Same Bat-Time!

Same Bat-Blog!

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Batman vs 3 Villains of Doom

By Winston Lyon