Batman Versus the Fearsome Foursome

by Winston Lyon

  “How can we do that, Batman?”

  Batman reached into his utility belt. “Well, first, swallow this pill.” A deft turn of the wheel kept the Batmobile on the road as it negotiated a sharp turn.

  “Then as soon as we round this curve, we’ll give our friend a whiff of the Batwake…”

  “I recognize where we are now, Batman. That shed over there…”

  “Exactly. Give the Penguin the Batwake now, Robin.” Robin took the aerosol can from his utility belt and gave the Penguin a brief whiff of Batwake.

  Instantly the Penguin sat up, blinking his eyes. He fingered his red beard as though to reassure himself that his disguise was in place.

  “Cheerio, old chaps. A refreshing little forty winks. Tip-top. Would you mind telling me where we are?”

  “We’re just a few miles from….” Suddenly Batman glanced down at the dashboard of the Batmobile and reached for a switch.

  “What’s wrong, Batman?” Robin asked.

  “Manifold pressure is dropping. We’d better stop and check it.”

  The Batmobile coasted off the highway and on to the shoulder of the road. Nothing was in sight but a small shed a few hundred yards ahead with a rather large sign: GOTHAM CITY PUBLIC WORKS DEPARTMENT

  Batman said, “I’m sorry, Commander. A minor repair job. Won’t take more than a minute.”

  “You’re wrong about that, Batman.”

  “Eh? What are you doing with that umbrel—?”

  Batman did not finish the question. With deceptive speed, the red-bearded Penguin raised his rolled umbrella and squeezed the handle. A jet of colored gas shot out.

  PWIFFF!

  Batman clutched at his throat, reeled back, and fell insensible on the ground.

  “Hey,” Robin exclaimed, rising angrily from his seat.

  The Penguin whirled, aimed his umbrella again.

  PWIFFF!

  Robin gasped, fell backward out of the cockpit of the Batmobile onto the road.

  “Quackk! Quackk!” chortled the Penguin triumphantly. “Now—away I go, in the BIRDMOBILE!”

  He slipped over into the driver’s seat so recently vacated by Batman, and his foot pressed down on the throttle.

  The Batmobile roared off down the road.

  The Penguin was burbling with joy. “Batman and Robin are dead! That dose of poisonous Penguin gas finished them forever. Yo-ho-ho! I can’t wait to tell my partners in crime about this!”

  Hardly was the Batmobile out of sight when Batman and Robin got up. They had been lying sprawled on the road.

  “Are you okay, Robin?”

  “I’m fine. Thanks to that anti-Penguin’s gas pill you gave me.”

  “I congratulate you. It was a mighty convincing fall you took. In fact, it almost convinced me.”

  “Lucky you checked the Penguin’s umbrella before we drove off with him. A real dose of that gas might have spelled curtains for us.”

  “The Penguin is a pompous fool, Robin, but a dangerous one. This time, though, he’s played right into our hands. Quick now! Via Batcycle to the Batcopter!”

  Batman raced to the small shed. He opened the padlock, flung open the door, and ran inside. Robin was at his heels.

  A moment later the Batcycle roared out of the shed.

  Batman was bent over the handlebars and Robin was hanging on for dear life in the sidecar. Batcycle almost flew over the roadway.

  “We’ll track the Penguin to the gang’s new hideout,” Batman said. “He can’t get away from us this time!”

  Onto the airport tarmac vroomed the powerful Batcycle. Those who saw it coming hurried out of the way. The Batcycle raced up in front of a hangar.

  As the versatile cycle entered the hangar it seemed to split into two separate vehicles. Batman rode the engine up to one side of the Batcopter and Robin rode the sidecar up to the other. They both jumped out and aboard the Batcopter.

  Less than a minute later the Batcopter rose swiftly into the air.

  Batman was at the controls while Robin worked the dials on the Batscanner.

  “I’m tracking the Batmobile perfectly,” Robin said.

  “Good. Keep it in sight. I’ll stay far enough back so the Penguin doesn’t know he’s being followed.”

  On the Batscanner appeared a picture of the road a few miles ahead with the Batmobile speeding along it.

  “Stolen Batmobile turning,” Robin reported after a few minutes. “Now heading up Gotham River Drive.”

  “Roger. We’ll cut across the harbor. He can’t spot us from that direction.” Batman swung the wheel of the Batcopter. “Meanwhile, Robin, you’d better activate the Remote Control Intercontinental Relay Link in the Batcave.”

  Robin picked up the mobile Batphone.

  “Any particular city in Europe you’d like to talk to, Batman?”

  “Get me Commander Redhead’s office in London.” Robin dialed three digits, waited, dialed another number. “It may be a minute or two, Batman. The Automatic Relay is still searching for a circuit. We should get a beep signal very soon, though…”

  “Look down there, Robin. The Batmobile seems to be headed toward the United World Building.”

  “Holy Peace Corps!” Robin said. “Does that mean the Penguin—and his three Supercriminal associates—are plotting against the United World? That’s a pretty big target, even for them, Batman.”

  “It’s exactly the sort of stupendously sinful scheme I supposed those sinister subverters of law and order would have struck upon.”

  “Holy peace-keepers!” said Robin. “They’ve got to be stopped!”

  “The time to stop them may be at hand, Robin,” Batman answered grimly. He pushed the wheel of the Batcopter slightly forward and the Wonder Craft began to descend on a diagonal flight path across the harbor toward the looming towers of the city.

  At this moment, almost directly beneath the Batcopter, a submarine was cruising sleekly twenty fathoms below the surface of Gotham City Harbor.

  In the command room of the submarine were the Catwoman, the Riddler and the Joker. Bluebeard and another pirate henchman were at the sonar detector which was giving off a loud ponging sound.

  The Joker glanced at the steering controls. “Port, two degrees,” he said. “Aft diving planes.”

  “We’re coming up to the surface,” reported the Riddler.

  The Catwoman said, “It’ll be good to see daylight again. Miaoww.”

  “I thought you cats preferred the nighttime,” the Riddler said jestingly.

  “Nighttime or daytime, anything is better on dry land. You know how cats hate the water,” the Catwoman told him. She gave a delicate shudder.

  “We’re nearing the surface,” the Joker announced. “Up periscope.”

  The Joker stayed at the steering controls while the Riddler moved over to look through the periscope. After a quick glance the Riddler began to hop around excitedly.

  “It’s them! It’s them!”

  “Who are you talking about?” the Joker asked.

  “Batman and Robin. In the Batcopter. They’re flying over Gotham Harbor right this minute! Take a look for yourself!”

  The Riddler began to laugh excitedly. Then he abandoned the periscope and started quickly aft.

  “Where are you going?” demanded the Catwoman.

  “To fire off some riddling clues, of course!”

  “You’re mad, Riddler!” said the Catwoman.

  “Am I? The Penguin was supposed to have finished off Batman and Robin. But I could have told you that meddling mountebank of a bird couldn’t finish off a bag of popcorn. Now it’s up to me—the Riddler—the world’s greatest concocter of criminal conundrums.”

  The Joker motioned to Bluebeard to take the wheel. He moved to stop the Riddler.

  “Listen to reason,” he pleaded. “It’s clear that the Penguin failed. But that’s all the more reason not to hand Batman and Robin any more of your crazy clues.”

  “I don’t follow your reasoning at all!” the Riddl
er said sulkily.

  “Well, I do,” Catwoman said. “Our plan is risky enough without adding risks to it. And Batman and Robin are dangerous enough without making them more dangerous by letting them know exactly what we’re up to.”

  The Riddler drew up his slender figure haughtily. “I promise you that this time I will construct a riddle not even Batman and Robin will be able to solve.”

  “If so, it would be the first time,” Catwoman answered dryly.

  “I forbid you to send up any more missile messages,” said the Joker. “Catwoman agrees. That makes us a majority—two to one.”

  “I won’t obey,” the Riddler said. “I’ll send up my missile messages anyhow. No matter what you say!”

  The Joker signaled a pirate henchman nearby. The henchman seized the Riddler while the Joker grabbed him, too.

  “Hold him,” Catwoman said. “In a few moments the Batcopter will be out of sight. He won’t be able to do anything about it!”

  “Let me go!” the Riddler wailed. “Outwitting Batman is my sole delight, my heaven on earth, my very paradise, my…”

  His protests went unheeded. The Joker and the pirate henchman kept him in a firm grip. Catwoman moved over to the periscope to check the Batcopter’s position.

  At that moment the submarine struck a submerged object. A strong vibration ran through the entire ship. The lights flickered. The floor tilted sharply.

  Everyone was thrown heavily to the floor.

  “Bluebeard, you&%$*!” swore the Joker. “What have you done?”

  “I don’t know, boss,” answered Bluebeard.

  Still swearing, the Joker scrambled to his feet and went to the controls.

  During the excitement, the Riddler darted off. The Catwoman’s cry of alarm came too late. By then the Riddler had reached the missile room, slammed the watertight door between, and locked it.

  In the missile room, gloating, the Riddler crossed to the console controls of his Missile Guidance Message Sender. He began dialing knobs rapidly.

  He made a final setting, pushed the Fire button.

  The submarine rocked slightly as the missile zoomed out of its launcher. Up through the water swooshed the sleek Polaris and broke the surface.

  It roared skyward.

  At this moment, in the Batcopter, Robin was busy on the mobile Batphone.

  “Automatic Relay is still searching for a circuit on your call to London, Batman,” he said. His eyes widened. The phone almost slipped from his grasp. “BATMAN! GUIDED MISSILE HEADED TOWARD US!”

  Batman had seen the danger. “Hang on, Robin,” he said tightly. “This may be tricky!”

  Batman leaned heavily on the controls, and the highly maneuverable Batcopter responded instantly, nosing over into a veering dive.

  The missile swooped up and tore into the rear of the Batcopter.

  KLANNGGG!

  Batman and Robin were burled violently forward.

  Batman hung on to the controls. There was a tremendous flash of light as the missile roared past on its continuing upward curve. A cloud of smoke poured into the cockpit. Gasping and struggling for breath, Batman fought to retain control of the badly damaged craft.

  “I can’t seem to regain altitude, Robin.”

  Robin’s voice was steady, “No wonder. The tail rotor is burned off!”

  “Brace yourself, Robin. We’re going down faster every second. I can hardly hold on to the controls.”

  As the Batcopter whirled downward, it began to spin.

  Batman fought valiantly to correct the bucking, careening gyrations of the wounded craft. Robin braced himself with his feet against the cowling in front of him.

  The Batcopter spun around in shorter and shorter spirals of stomach-churning dizziness. Sky and buildings merged, changing places, now up, now down: At each spiral the blurry ground came nearer and nearer.

  Now they were down to the topmost floor of skyscrapers around them, plunging in swifter and swifter turns into the canyoned streets of Gotham City.

  Batman said, “Robin, we’re going to crash. I fear this may be the end.”

  Robin nodded and shut his eyes. He waited for the inevitable rending jarring explosion.

  Down…

  Down…

  BLAMMMM!

  CHAPTER 12

  In the missile room of the submarine, the Riddler capered in a megalomaniac dance of glee. He had witnessed on the radar screen the collision between his missile and the Batcopter. Then he had followed the uncontrollable descent of the Batcopter toward doom in the streets of Gotham City.

  A small winking light that represented the Batcopter on the screen had flared up—and then there was nothing.

  Nothing at all!

  “I got them! I got them!” the Riddler shouted. “After all these years…Batman and Robin killed by one of my criminal conundrums! Oh, what joy!”

  There was a pounding at the locked watertight door that shut him off from the command room.

  The Riddler crossed quickly and threw the latch. The Joker flung his arms about him.

  “You did it! We watched the whole wonderful accident happen on the periscope. Your missile shot down the Batcopter!”

  The Catwoman was somewhat subdued. One might almost have thought she regretted the passing of her formidable antagonist.

  “They couldn’t have survived that crash,” she conceded. “There’s no doubt that you succeeded, Riddler, where the Penguin failed.”

  “It just goes to prove what I’ve always said,” the Riddler answered modestly. “I’m the greatest criminal genius in the whole wide world.”

  The Joker looked a bit sour. “Now we can proceed with the rest of our stupendous plan. After all, getting rid of Batman and Robin was only the first step.”

  “How about the submarine?” the Riddler asked anxiously. “What was that submerged object we struck?”

  “We bumped against the sandbar at the entrance to the grotto in the harbor below the United World Building. Just ahead of us should be the abandoned construction elevator indicated on those old blueprints.”

  “Then we’ve arrived,” the Riddler said. “There is no time to lose!”

  The busy intersection of Gotham Square and First Street was a bedlam of cars stalled bumper to bumper. Horns were blowing angrily.

  In the middle of the square a red-faced, perspiring traffic policeman was trying to untangle the chaos. He was laboring against impossible odds. Those nearest the center of the disturbance were unwilling to move on, and every moment larger and larger numbers of spectators were gathering on the sidewalks to gape in astonishment.

  They were looking at a huge flatbed truck loaded high and deep with a delivery of foam rubber for mattresses.

  On top of the high-piled foam rubber rested the Batcopter—tilted at a crazy angle. Its tail rotor was burned off, the windshield shattered, and part of the fuselage was badly dented. There were still a few stray wisps of smoke rising from the wrecked engine.

  But the crowd was mainly interested in the fact that Batman and Robin were seated in the cockpit. Batman was using powerful binoculars to peer skyward.

  “Everyone’s watching us, Batman,” Robin said. “They look at us like we were part of a sideshow attraction.”

  “You can’t blame them, Robin. We’re in a—uh—rather unusual situation. Nevertheless, we have no right to complain. Consider what might have happened to us if the Batcopter hadn’t landed on this foam rubber delivery truck.”

  “Holy horseshoe!” Robin said. “That was luck.”

  Batman kept the binoculars steady as he gazed skyward. “I’d say the odds against it would make even the most reckless gambler cringe. However, it wasn’t entirely luck, Robin. I did spot the truck as we were coming in for a crash landing. And I managed to maneuver the Batcopter to land here…Ah! The missile has finished writing its messages. There are two of them.”

  A dull distant BOOM sound reached them.

  “Now it’s blown up,” Robin said.

&n
bsp; “The Riddler uses a timing device to explode the Polaris when it finishes its skywriting. Fortunate for us, in a way. If the missile had exploded on contact it would have gone off when it hit the Batcopter.”

  “What are the missile messages this time, Batman?”

  High in the sky above Gotham City were written two smoke-wreathed messages:

  Batman read the first one, “What goes up white and comes down yellow and white?”

  “An egg,” Robin said quickly.

  “How do you divide seventeen apples among sixteen people?” Batman asked, reading the second of the riddles.

  “By making applesauce,” Robin answered promptly.

  Batman lowered his binoculars. “Hmmm. An egg and applesauce. Not a common combination…The riddles were no harder than usual, but the final answer must depend on some piece of information that is not yet in our possession.”

  He was interrupted by a steadily beeping sound in the cockpit of the wrecked Batcopter.

  “The mobile Batphone beep,” Robin said. “It must be your call to London.”

  “Sturdy device,” Batman said approvingly. “It’s still working. Hand it to me, will you, Robin?” He picked up the receiver of the Batphone. “Hello.”

  He heard a woman’s voice at the other end, in a cultivated British accent: “Schlepp’s Whiskey, Limited, Commander Redhead’s office…”

  “This is Batman calling from Gotham City, U.S.A. It is a matter of the greatest urgency. You must tell me at once: What was Commander Redhead’s mission in this country?”

  The woman’s voice sounded a bit puzzled: “Well, I suppose I can tell you, Batman. He’s marketing a new formula, actually. One that will dehydrate whiskey—remove all the water from it and make it into a powder which—”

  Batman cut in abruptly, “Thank you, madam. That’s all I need to know. Goodbye!”

  He replaced the mobile Batphone. Then he smashed his fist into his palm. “Those strange riddles. Now we have the clue that unravels their full meaning, Robin.”

  “What, Batman?”

  “Apples into applesauce, remember? A unification into one smooth mixture. An egg…nature’s perfect container. The container of all our hopes for the future.”