Batman Versus Three Villains of Doom

by Winston Lyon

  The Joker commanded, “Start loading these orchids aboard, men. Handle them gently. The least rough handling or cold might injure them. If that happens, whoever is responsible will answer—to me!”

  One burly henchman mopped his forehead. “Golly, Joker, it’s hot as blazes in this place. Couldn’t we get it a little cooler?”

  “I find this temperature pleasant,” the Joker said. As a thought struck him, he laughed: “Where else could you be where the climate is like—June in January?”

  The Joker nearly doubled up with laughter.

  Perspiring, as they removed the boxes of orchids into the heated interior of the truck one henchman whispered to another, “That guy kills himself with his jokes, don’t he?”

  “Yeah. He may be a genius—but he’s the first one to admit it!”

  At Gotham City Airport, Batman and Robin watched the arrival of the plane from Florida.

  “No sign of the Joker yet, Batman,” Robin remarked.

  The Batman was listening in on the conversation between the pilot of the incoming plane and the airport tower. Batman put down the earphones with abrupt violence. Over the microphone Robin could still hear the murmur of conversation between the pilot and the tower.

  “Robin,” Batman said. “I’ve been a fool.” His voice was calm, but full of self-reproach—the voice of a man in whom the cold, dismaying processes of reason had led to an unwelcome conclusion.

  “What do you mean, Batman?”

  “I’m switching from helicopter to forward flight,” Batman said as his hand flicked to the controls. “We’re going to Horace Holly’s estate.”

  “Horace Holly—the multimillionaire hobbyist? Why, Batman?”

  “Because that’s where the Joker is striking tonight.” Batwings slid slowly into position and in a sharp climbing turn the Batplane zoomed away from Gotham City Airport.

  Robin said, “How did you figure it out, Batman?”

  “I didn’t—until I overheard the conversation between the pilot of that incoming plane and the airport’s control tower.”

  “What did they say, Batman?”

  “The pilot told the tower he had a special hothouse section on board the plane—to protect the cargo. He wanted to know if similar arrangements had been made at the airport. It seems that he’s delivering a special consignment of orchids to Horace Holly.”

  “Orchids!’ Robin said. “Hothouse! They’re kept in a hothouse where the temperature is always—June in January!”

  “And the Horace Holly orchid collection is world-famous. It’s a perfect crime target for—the Joker!”

  “How can you be sure the Joker doesn’t intend to rob the shipment that’s coming on the plane?”

  “It wouldn’t make sense, Robin. Horace Holly’s greenhouse on his estate has a collection that’s at least ten times as valuable. And it won’t be under the kind of surveillance that a new shipment would be—which is guaranteed by an insurance company to arrive safely. The insurance company will make sure every security protection is taken—including police guards.”

  “Golly, Batman, I think you’ve finally solved the Joker’s crime riddle. I just hope it isn’t too late!”

  Batman did not reply. He was too busy urging every possible ounce of speed from the Batplane. That he had solved the Joker’s riddle he was pretty sure. But he bit his lips in chagrin at the thought of how he had been misled. The Joker’s crime clue had seemed vague but was, in fact, brilliantly precise.

  This was what Batman should have expected of a master criminal who thought of everything, made every possible provision against the slightest chance of failure.

  Still, even though furious at the delay, Batman thought he could cope with the situation.

  If only he could reach the Horace Holly estate in time!

  The last of the orchid boxes were being loaded aboard the waiting truck. The hard labor of carrying out the entire greenhouse full of orchids to store in the truck, together with the high temperature in the hothouse—at now higher than ninety degrees Fahrenheit—had left its mark on the Joker’s men. The burliest of them looked as though he had been shrunken by the heat; his face was pockmarked with streams of sweat. The others were exhausted, moving with mechanical, lackluster gestures. The insidious energy-sapping effects of the unnatural heat had already eaten deep into their physical reserves.

  The Joker himself sat watching them with expressionless coal-black eyes. He, too, felt the humidity in the place plaguing him. His breathing was difficult, and the sweet ethereal odor of the orchids assailed him.

  He was tempted to turn down the valves that controlled the temperature in the glass greenhouse. But he resisted the temptation. After all, it would not take long for his men to recover. But the orchids might be ruined by a change in temperature.

  Nevertheless the Joker was relieved when the work of loading came to an end at last.

  The driver started up the truck engines and the Joker got in beside him at the wheel. The powerful headlights of the truck switched on.

  The driver suddenly jumped up from the seat. “Hey, Joker. There’s somethin’ right ahead of us. A shadow!”

  The Joker saw it. But this was no ordinary shadow. It was not the reflection of any object in the path of the truck.

  This shadow came from above!

  And it was shaped like a bat!

  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 repor
ts. 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.”