THE SHADOW "Who He Is and How He Came to Be!" Chapter 4

To Be Continued

TOMORROW

Please Support Hero Histories

Visit Amazon and Buy...

The Shadow

by James Patterson and Brian Sitts

THE SHADOW "Who He Is and How He Came to Be!" Chapter 3

To Be Continued

TOMORROW

Please Support Hero Histories

Visit Amazon and Buy...

The Shadow

by James Patterson and Brian Sitts

THE SHADOW "Who He Is and How He Came to Be!" Chapter 2

To Be Continued

TOMORROW

Please Support Hero Histories

Visit Amazon and Buy...

The Shadow

by James Patterson and Brian Sitts

THE SHADOW "Who He Is and How He Came to Be" Chapter 1

With the most extensive revamp/reboot to the character since the 1960s Radio Comics version...

...by James Patterson and Brian Sitts (now in bookstores and at Amazon)...

...we hereby present the updated (as of the Silver Age) origin/reboot of He Who Knows What Evil Lurks in the Hearts of Men from Radio Comics The Shadow, beginning with this entry from #1 (1964)...

To Be Continued

TOMORROW

This ongoing text feature ran through the entire Radio Comics series (1964-1965).

The writer is unknown, but it might have been either Robert Bernstein (who wrote the first couple of issues of the comic, before it became a "campy" costumed superhero title under writer Jerry (Superman) Siegel...

...or Denys Lynds who scripted the updated, superspy-style Shadow novels being published simultaneously by Belmont Books...

...or somebody entirely different!

Only the Shadow Knows!

Please Support Hero Histories

Visit Amazon and Buy...

The Shadow

by James Patterson and Brian Sitts

BATMAN vs 3 VILLAINS of DOOM "Chapter 12"

Chapter 12

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mud?”

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

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

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

Batman turned with his foot on the step.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Batman and Robin?” someone asked.

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

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

Two caped figures vaulted down into the room.

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

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

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

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

François aimed a savage kick at Robin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ZOWIE!

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

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

“YEOWW!” Hardrock said fervently, in pain.

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

Batman turned to find Robin sitting up, dazed.

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

“What others?” Batman asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There she goes, Batman!”

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

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

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

In the Batmobile, Robin picked up the Batphone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Down toward the river below!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why, Robin?”

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

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

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

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

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

The End...???

Please Support Hero Histories!

Visit Amazon and Order...

Batman vs 3 Villains of Doom

By Winston Lyon