The Further Adventures of The Joker

by Martin H. Greenberg

  “Where’d you learn about American food?” The Joker asked. “You’ve got a good accent but you’re not American, are you?”

  “No, I am not,” the woman said. “But I have relatives in America. I visited them on their estate outside of Philadelphia a few years ago, before the war. I am the Baroness Petra von Sidow.”

  “And I am Alfred Simmons,” the Joker said, smiling his smile that split his face laterally from ear to ear. The Joker’s smile was a sight that, under other circumstances, had made strong men flinch and had given women nightmares. But the Baroness Petra seemed not to be disconcerted by it.

  The Joker looked at her and saw a young woman dressed in the latest Parisian fashion. She was not exactly pretty; her features were too severe for that. But she was as handsome as a young lioness, and looked about as dangerous. Her ash blonde hair was pulled tightly back. Her thin lips were outlined in a dark red lipstick. Her blue eyes were highlighted by dark makeup. Her off-the-shoulder dress displayed her magnificent shoulders and bosom.

  “Perhaps you would care to join me for dinner, Herr Simmons?” she said.

  “Only if you permit me to buy a bottle of the finest champagne,” the Joker said gallantly.

  The dinner went well. The Joker was amazed, because he had never been much of a ladies’ man, certainly not since the death of Jeanne and his bath in the chemical vat while making his escape from Batman. The immersion in the hellish mix of chemicals had resulted in permanently dying his face dead white, his lips red, and his hair green. But Petra didn’t seem to mind. After dinner there was a dance in the spa’s grand ballroom. The Joker hadn’t planned on attending. But Petra wanted him to go. He accompanied her to her room so she could get a light stole.

  Her room was a suite on the spa’s top floor. Petra let them in with her key. The first sight that greeted their eyes was a little chambermaid in black costume and frilly white cap asleep in one of the big armchairs.

  The Joker found this amusing. Not so Petra.

  “Asleep?” she cried. “How dare she sleep when she should be tidying up my things!”

  Petra looked around furiously as the maid stumbled to her feet babbling apologies. Petra’s gaze fell on a riding crop hanging from the wall. She seized it and flailed furiously at the maid, once, twice, three times, reducing her to tears.

  “Now, little fool,” Petra said, “find me my stole and don’t let me ever find you sleeping in here again!”

  The maid hurried off and returned a moment later, wiping her tears with the stole. It was at that moment that the Joker fell in love with Petra.

  That evening, dancing with Petra under the stars, on the balcony of the hotel, was the most romantic evening the Joker had ever spent. Petra seemed to be taken with him, too.

  “I hope to see you again,” the Joker said, when the evening was at an end.

  “But of course! We are staying in the same hotel, after all.”

  “Unfortunately,” the Joker said, “I must leave tomorrow on business. But I’ll be back in a day or so.”

  “You have not told me what is your business, bad boy,” Petra said.

  “I’m a businessman,” the Joker said, “I get things and sell things. You know how it is with business.”

  “I have always thought business was very dull,” Petra said. “But perhaps that is because my family has not had to engage in it. We have lived from the income of our family estates in East Prussia for hundreds of years.”

  “You got a good thing going,” the Joker said.

  She shrugged. “East Prussia is home, of course, but I have always wanted to travel. I enjoyed my stay in America, but there is another place I want to go to.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Rio de Janeiro!” Her eyes gleamed. “I have relatives there. They tell me it is the most fabulous life. And I simply love to samba!”

  “I’ve got some contacts there, too,” the Joker said. “Look, Petra, we must talk more about this.”

  “I would be delighted,” Petra said. “Good night, Herr Simmons. Or should I say—Herr Joker!”

  The Joker returned to his chalet. He was walking on air. It took an effort to remind himself that he had come to Europe for a purpose, and that the time for action was almost at hand.

  Early the next morning his chauffeur arrived punctually at the chalet. The Joker had him put two suitcases into the trunk, and then told him to drive to Flugelhoff Airport, the nearest international airport to the spa. Arriving, he saw that most of the field was taken up with military activities. There were two squadrons of Heinkel bombers parked wing to wing at one end of the field. Security was tight. But the Joker’s passport and the letter in it from Obermeier were more than sufficient to get him through. Soon they were in the air. The Joker watched through the window as they crossed the Alps and began the journey down the Italian peninsula.

  Despite the air of ingenuousness that he put on, the Joker was very well aware that there was a war on. It was inescapable, even far away in America. He had followed Hitler’s progress, taking the Rhineland, the Sudetenland, then launching the blitzkrieg against Poland. The Poles had resisted gallantly but couldn’t stand up to the German army of more than a million men and the great panzer divisions that raced on ahead of the troops. Norway and Denmark had fallen. Britain and France were in a state of war with Germany, but so far little had happened. Both sides, Allies and Axis, mobilized, but the French stayed behind the Maginot Line, the Germans behind the Seigfried Line. And the world waited to see what would happen next.

  The Joker was a master criminal. He knew that war brought great opportunities for those who could move fast, fearlessly, and with imagination. Those were his qualities. A scheme had lain in the back of his mind for a long time. The present state of upset in Europe made it the perfect opportunity. Now he was doing it.

  The German plane flew down the Po Valley and at last began the descent at Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci Airport. Customs and immigration were simple. The Joker had several letters of introduction. And he had a well-filled wallet and spread money around liberally among the delighted customs and immigration people.

  He went through the formalities quickly and there was a chauffeur to meet him just outside the customs area.

  “Signore Simmons?”

  “You got it,” the Joker said.

  “Giuseppe sent me,” the chauffeur said. “I am Pietro. I am to take you to where the others are awaiting your arrival.”

  “Sounds good to me,” the Joker said. He let Pietro open the door for him. The vehicle was an old but immaculate Hispano-Suiza, the deluxe model with gold fittings.

  “Nice bus,” the Joker commented.

  “Nothing but the best for you, Signore,” Pietro said. “That is what Signore Giuseppe said.”

  They drove off into the streets of downtown Rome. It was late afternoon. The brilliance was just going out of the sky. By the time Pietro had fought the traffic and brought them to Trastevere, it was early evening.

  Evening in Trastevere. The skies of Italy were as brilliant as those of Germany were gloomy. The streets were filled with banners from a recent Fascist rally. Huge portraits of Il Duce hung from the sides of the tall terracotta buildings. The limo pulled up in front of a large restaurant. There were potted palms in front. Several men in business suits lounged in front of the entrance. From the sag in their pinstriped suits, the Joker could tell they were armed. He had no doubt they were the guards for Giuseppe Scuzzi, his contact in Rome for the coming operation.

  The Joker emerged, and his bizarre and colorful appearance gave pause for the moment even to these hardened criminals. They didn’t let their awe show for long. One of them said, in broken English, “You are the Signore Joker, eh? They are inside, waiting for you.”

  The Joker swept inside past the guards. The restaurant was large, but it was nearly empty. All the tables were neatly stacked, with chairs on top of them. Only one table was filled, and that was at the rear. There, a group of about a dozen men
sat over straw-covered bottles of Chianti and little plates of calamari, deep fried to a golden brown. They were arguing together in low ominous voices, but looked up when the Joker pranced in.

  One of them, a short rotund man sitting at the head of the table, stood up. This was Scuzzi himself, mastermind of mafia operations in the Rome area.

  “Eh,” Scuzzi said, “that’s-a da Signore Joker!” He stood up, the white-and-black check suit emphasizing his girth. He swept the broad-brimmed Panama hat off his head and made a mock bow. “Long have I heard of your fame, Joker, since it stretches to the four corners of the Earth, and beyond! It is a privilege for me and my associates, poor hoodlums though we are, to be permitted to assist you in what our associates assured us would be the caper of the century!”

  The Joker smiled his ghastly smile. He had no difficulty detecting the note of irony in Scuzzi’s gallant speech. The other mafia men at the table were grinning and nudging each other.

  “And how is our mutual friend?” Scuzzi said. “I refer, of course, to Antonio Patina, the famous padrino of Gotham City?”

  “Patina is well,” the Joker said. “As you know, he is presently behind bars in Gotham Penitentiary on a trifling charge of income tax evasion. We are working night and day to get him off, and expect to succeed in the near future. Patina sends you his great love and asserts again that you are to obey me in all things during the course of this job.”

  “Of course!” Scuzzi said, his grin too broad to be convincing. “You are a world-famous figure, Signore Joker. It brings great honor upon us to serve you in this. There also is the matter of the division of the booty.”

  “That has already been arranged,” the Joker said. “Half for you and your men, half for me.”

  “That is correct,” Scuzzi said. “We are only poor mafiosi, we are of course content with half to be divided among us. The rest goes to you, eh, Joker?”

  “I need a full half,” the Joker said. “I would remind you that I have been setting up this scheme for a long time. I have had high expenses, traveling to Europe, bribing people, either buying or making special equipment. Are you dissatisfied, then?”

  “Not at all!” Scuzzi said, with too great heartiness. “It is only fair, as you point out. And now, perhaps you will favor us with the knowledge of what this job is. We have noted that you did not entrust us with the secret of your destination before now. Are you going to tell us, or do we go into the job blind?”

  “There has been a need for secrecy,” the Joker said. “As long as only I knew, there was no chance of anyone else finding out. I do not talk in my sleep, gentlemen! But yes, now is the time and now you shall know.” The Joker opened his briefcase and took out a large folded sheet of paper.

  Next day, early in the morning, the crowds came across the Vittorio Emanuele Bridge and onto the broad Via della Conciliazione. There were no French or British tourists in that war year, but they were more than made up for by the crowds of German and Austrian tourists, plus the Italians, of course, and a large group of Spaniards and Portuguese. They were like sightseers at any time and any palace; they stopped to peer at the Swiss guards in their traditional uniforms of red, yellow, and blue stripes, carrying their ceremonial halberds. They stood for a while in Saint Peter’s Square, each group gathered around his docent. Lectures in many languages were carried on near the big ranks of tourist buses. There were many independent tourists as well; they flocked up the stairs, leaving the Arco delle Campane on the left, with the Vatican Palace and museums and the Sistine Chapel on the right. There were many native Italians among the sightseers, some seeking audience with the pope, others merely passing a mild day in mid-March.

  Within Saint Peter’s Basilica they went, clustering around the great statues, especially the great bronze Saint Peter by Cambio, where many stopped to kiss its foot.

  Inside they scattered in many directions, some exploring the transept and apse, others examining the tombs of Pius VII and the monument of Leo XI.

  All of this was under the watchful eye of guards. Those within were armed with pistols. There were many guards, because within these walls were some of the costliest as well as holiest treasures in Europe.

  All day the tourists came and went. By five in the afternoon the last of them had left, ushered out by the guards. A careful double check was made to be sure that no one had been left behind. Despite its holiness, it was considered unlucky to be locked into Saint Peter’s at night. Some said that the ghosts of early martyrs still walked these marble halls.

  By nine in the evening everything had been carefully locked up. The alarm system was tested. A last examination of the galleries was made. And at last Saint Peter’s was ready to settle down for the night.

  Dark and mysterious, night came again to Rome. Lights were burning late in nearby Castel Sant’Angelo, where the pope worked late with his assistants, trying to bring some sense and order to a Europe gone mad with war.

  Guard dogs prowled the grassy walks and the colonnaded aisles. A special patrol of carabinieri made their rounds and declared that all was well. The Vatican was safe again for the night. Or so it seemed.

  Dim lights glowed in the great art galleries. Saint Peter’s chair glowed with the color of soft gold. Michelangelo’s Pietà seemed like old ivory in that subdued lighting.

  In the picture galleries, bearded popes and antique saints looked down from their golden frames. In the Vatican Picture Gallery there were row upon row of them.

  Not all the paintings were of religious subjects, however. Here and there was a portrait of a shepherd. And at the far end of one gallery, life-size, was a portrait of a Venetian reveler. He wore clown’s costume, a white satin outfit with dark blue polka dots. A domino half mask covered his eyes, and his lower face showed a smile that stretched from ear to ear and seemed to mock the somber religious paintings on all sides of him. He was perfectly immobile, a strange figure in his finery.

  The Lateran clock struck midnight. The figure of the Venetian clown moved, stretched, and stepped out of its frame.

  The Joker stretched luxuriously, then walked quickly toward Leo the Great’s monument. He moved behind it and located the little door set in the stone, sealed many years before. He had a knapsack under his white gown. Taking from it a small amount of plastic, he patted it quickly into place. Then he looked up. He could hear footsteps approaching.

  Two carabinieri came, walking their rounds. The Joker made no attempt to conceal himself. He had been expecting these men.

  “Hi, fellows,” he said.

  The guards looked up unbelievingly.

  The Joker grinned even wider, advanced toward them, saying, “Look, guys. I can explain everything. It was a bet, you understand what I mean? Look, I got something for both of you . . .”

  He reached them and opened his hands. A cloud of dust flew out. The guards coughed, sneezed, and then slumped to the floor.

  “You’ll be OK,” the Joker said to their recumbent bodies. “Just a slightly altered formula of my Joker venom, in handy powder form. Sweet dreams, fellows.”

  The Joker moved swiftly through the basilica. He had memorized its layout, back when he first conceived this idea. He remembered the time well. He had been reading about the Huns and how they had marched down the Italian peninsula and sacked Rome. The Joker had always admired Atilla. There was a man for you! And the Joker had thought to himself, anything Atilla can do, I can do, too. And I don’t need a million Huns to help me.

  Just a few mafiosi, who, according to the plan, ought to be outside waiting to be let in.

  The Joker went out into the soft Roman night. He went past the tall poplars to the gate on the left side. This was a small gate, solidly barred. The Joker met two more guards on his way there. Swiftly he put them to sleep with his patented gas. A plastic explosive was enough to blow open the lock. He swung the gate open, hearing it make a soft screeching noise.

  “Come on out, fellows,” the Joker said.

  A group of shadows detached
themselves from the dense shadows along the Vatican wall. It was Giuseppe and a dozen of his men. They looked in awe at the open gate, hesitated before going in.

  “Well, whatsa matter?” the Joker asked. “This is what we agreed on, isn’t it?”

  “I just never thought you could bring it off,” Giuseppe Scuzzi said. “Come on, boys!”

  They hurried into the Vatican.

  Spreading out, they went about their tasks like a well-oiled machine. The Joker had shown them on a map of the Vatican which were the paintings to take, the ones which were small enough to be portable but worth a lot of money. They hurried around to the rooms while the Joker himself went to the crypt.

  The door did not hold him up long. He went down, following the strong yellow beam of a flashlight he’d had under his clothing.

  There was deep dust on the steps. They had been a long time unused. The flashlight threw great shadows over suits of armor, great chests, more paintings. The Joker went to one side of the room and searched more carefully. Yes, here it was, just as his researches in America had shown him. The never-used doorway into the secret underground crypt.

  Working more quickly now, the Joker found the ringbolt in the floor. With the aid of a miniature fulcrum of his own invention he hoisted it up. The trapdoor, which was a slab of marble half a foot thick, yielded grudgingly. The Joker finally had it levered up and pushed aside. He went down into the subcellar.

  He was in a sort of underground dungeon. Skeletons hung in chains from the wall. A scurry of movement proved to be rats, scrambling back to their holes. The sight of them amused the Joker.

  “I won’t disturb you for long, fellows,” he said. The Joker had always felt a kinship with rats.

  In a far end of the dungeon he found what he was looking for: a small coffer, about two feet long by one foot wide and a foot deep, made of rare enameled wood, now dusty and with no shine. He pried it open. Yes, just as he had been told, here was a box full of the rarest treasure—great pearls, some lustrous white, others dusky. There were diamonds and rubies, too, some of them set in red-gold, others loose. There were ornaments—brooches and pins, all made of pure gold and crusted with precious stones. This take alone was worth millions.