by Winston Lyon
“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 th
e 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!”
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.