Batman Versus Three Villains of Doom

by Winston Lyon

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

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

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

  Seconds later Batman and Robin plunged through the front door.

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

  “Tear gas!” Robin exclaimed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Why, no.”

  “You have no idea how it got here?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Precisely.”

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

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

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

  “Exactly, Robin.”

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

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

  “But is that a bird clue?”

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

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

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

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

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

  “Who is it?”

  “A telegram, Mr. Maximilian.”

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

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

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

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

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

  Then he stopped.

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

  “Penguin!” gasped Maximilian.

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

  The Penguin kicked shut the door behind him.

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

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

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

  Maximilian made a squeaking sound.

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

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

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

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

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

  Maximilian’s face turned white.

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

  Maximilian nodded.

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

  “My friends and fellow bankers…”

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

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

  Robin lowered his binoculars and rubbed his eyes.

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

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

  “Did you see anything, Batman?”

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

  Robin focused the binoculars on the man Batman indicated.

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

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

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

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

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

  “All right, men. Get in quickly!”

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

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

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

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

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

  “You made me do it,” Maximilian whined.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  The Batmobile raced into the space below it.

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

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

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

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

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

  Robin pushed a button on the dashboard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  CHAPTER 3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  They took careful aim.

  “Ready…aim…fire!” said the Penguin.

  Three guns boomed at once.

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

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

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

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

  “And I had Robin,” said the other.

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

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

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

  “Drat,” said the Penguin.

  He pulled his head back in.

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

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

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

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