“Vicki Vale . . . Vicki Vale . . . let’s see—” He snapped his fingers. “Vogue, Cosmo—I’ve seen your stuff.” His voice dropped to a more confidential tone. “Listen, you didn’t come here to ask me to pose nude—” He paused to wiggle his eyebrows. “—because you’re going to need a real long lens.”
“Actually,” Vicki replied, bright and businesslike, as if he hadn’t just made that incredibly tacky remark, “I’ve been to Corto Maltese.”
Corto Maltese? Knox thought. The war zone? That didn’t fit at all with the fashion plate he saw before him. She reached into her camera bag and pulled out a small portfolio of photos—combat photos. Knox leafed through them quickly. Guerrillas in hiding, an exploding jeep, government troops torching the peasants’ homes, bodies stacked like firewood. It was good stuff. Vicki wasn’t afraid to get close to the action. Her photos showed the faces of war and packed a real emotional punch.
“Hey,” he said in admiration, “a girl could get hurt doing this stuff.” He looked back up at her. “But what are you doing here?”
It was Vicki’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “I’m here to see some of the wildlife in Gotham City.”
Knox didn’t get it. “Wildlife? Like what?”
“Like bats.” She pointed down at the papers scattered across Knox’s desk. Papers filled with facts, speculation, false starts, even poorly drawn doodles, of Knox’s obsession—the human bat.
This couldn’t be real. Somebody actually believed him? He looked at Vicki with something akin to wonder.
“Who sent you?”
“No one,” she replied with a smile. “I read your piece. There’s something about this that’s very interesting to me.”
Interesting? No, Knox thought. This was still too simple.
“What’s your angle?” he insisted.
“A picture of a guy in a bat suit catching criminals?” She waved a hand in front of her, as if she was writing a headline in the air. “ ‘Batman Sweeps Crime From Gotham!’ My pictures. Your words. This is Pulitzer Prize material.”
Yeah. He’d thought that all along. Hadn’t he just said that to the guys in the city room? Knox laughed.
“You’re a visionary! Problem is, you’re the only one who believes me.” His elation started to die as reality once again sank in. “I need something tangible. Gordon’s got a file on this, but I can’t get him on the phone.”
“Gordon?” Vicki gave Knox a conspiratorial wink. “He’ll be at Bruce Wayne’s benefit, won’t he?”
Knox nodded, a bit bewildered. “I don’t seem to be on the guest list.” He stared up toward the ceiling. How was he going to get through to Gordon about this bat? What good was it for Knox to know the truth when he couldn’t get anybody to admit it?
What was that? Vicki had stuck something in his field of vision. Something small and white, dangling about three inches from his nose. Something that looked an awful lot like an invitation to Wayne Manor.
Knox almost whooped for joy. He grinned back at Vicki as she put the invitation back in her purse.
“Miss Vale,” he asked humbly. “Got a date?”
Miss Vale fluttered her long eyelashes as she shook her head no.
“Will you help me?” she asked.
“Yes,” he replied sincerely. “Will you marry me?”
“Perhaps,” she answered with a laugh. “Do you snore?”
“I’ll learn,” he promised with a grin.
Carl Grissom liked the finer things in life. Like this penthouse office. Best view in Gotham City. Or that blond model, Alicia, who looked so good hanging from his arm. That’s why he bought the best talent available in Gotham City, from accountants to politicians to enforcers. Men whom he could trust, or whom he disposed of. It had been a long time, though, since he had had to call all of that talent into one room like this.
But that’s why he had all this talent on the payroll—from the suit-and-tie boys to the guys who looked as if they’d just walked away from a street fight. He’d brought all the best here—so they could figure out what to do with that new political flea, Harvey Dent.
It had been a long time since Grissom had had to worry about a politician in Gotham City. The mayor was a fool—it was one of the reasons Grissom made sure Borg stayed in office. Commissioner Gordon might have been some trouble, except that Grissom had half of the police lieutenants under Gordon on his payroll. This Dent, though, refused to be bought, and was smart enough to assemble a brand-new team of honest associates. So Grissom had to find a new way to get Dent off his back. He didn’t need that kind of headache. That’s why he paid these dozen guys sitting around him, to take the headaches for him.
“You’ve all seen this?” Grissom called out as he waved a copy of the Globe. Harvey Dent’s picture took up a good part of page one.
Everyone looked up at the sound of their boss’s voice—everyone except Jack Napier, practicing his usual one-handed shuffle of a deck of cards.
Grissom looked over at Luce, one of his shirt-and-tie guys with both legal and financial experience. Grissom posed a question:
“Say this son of a bitch makes a connection with us and Axis Chemicals. What kind of damage are we looking at?”
Luce looked uncomfortable as he searched for an answer. “If he ties us in with Axis Chemical, we’re dead and buried.” He stopped to clear his throat. “We should move immediately.”
Jack Napier spoke without looking up from his cards.
“Let’s just break in, trash the offices, make off with the books. We can call it ‘industrial espionage.’ ”
Grissom grinned. This was just what he had been expecting. “Smart thinking, Jack. That’s the way to go.” He paused for a second, as if in thought. “In fact, I’d like you to handle this operation personally.”
Jack looked up for the first time. “Me?”
He flipped over a card. Grissom noticed it wasn’t a jack for a change. This time, he’d turned up a joker, with the bullet hole right in the middle of its face.
The silence was broken by the chime of Grissom’s private elevator. The metal doors slid open, and Alicia stepped out, carrying as many shopping bags as she could handle. As usual, Grissom thought. She was always happy if you let her go shopping. Or at least that’s what Grissom had thought till recently.
“Hello, sweetheart,” Grissom called, the smile still frozen on his face. “I wonder if you’d mind waiting in the other room.”
Alicia nodded from behind her mound of purchases. Her eyes slid over to look at Jack Napier as she disappeared through a door into Grissom’s private suite.
Exactly, Grissom thought.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” he announced briskly. “That’s all for now.”
All but one of Grissom’s men filed from the room. Jack Napier stood by his chair, his cards still spread on the table before him.
“Carl,” Napier asked, “can’t you send somebody else? The fumes in that place—”
“Jack,” Grissom reiterated, “it’s an important job. I need someone I can trust. You’re my number-one guy.” He smiled and pointed at the table. “Now, don’t forget your lucky deck.”
Jack nodded and scooped up the cards. Grissom was still smiling as he left the room.
“My friend,” he said softly, “your luck is just about to change.”
The side door opened. Alicia stepped through to model the first of her many purchases, as she always did.
Grissom wouid deal with her later. He picked up the phone.
“Get me Lieutenant Eckhardt.”
He’d have to give the lieutenant a little extra for his tip—after, of course, Eckhardt made sure Napier was dead.
CHAPTER THREE
Wayne Manor was something else.
Not that Vicki Vale was easily impressed. Her photography had taken her inside castles and palaces, to meet with kings and queens. Wayne Manor wasn’t quite in that league—it was merely very large and elegantly appointed. Still, there was something about this place, with
its high ceilings and acres of carved mahogany, something that spoke of history and purpose. Wayne Manor might not have been Buckingham Palace, but it was as close as one could get in the States to that feeling of royalty.
Vicki got the feeling that Allie Knox wasn’t as used to this kind of surroundings. He tended to slow down as they were shown through the sumptuous hallways on their way to the gallery. And, when they finally reached the room, Allie became frozen in place, unable to do anything but gawk.
Still, after a few minutes, Allie seemed to free himself up, and began to wander on his own. He still looked a little conspicuous, wandering around in that Sears special polyester-blend suit in a room full of tuxedos. But she couldn’t worry about him. He had his job to do, she had hers—and hers was to meet Bruce Wayne. She wanted to find out what drove this so-called philanthropic, millionaire playboy. She had an idea there might be a whole other story there—beyond the human bat.
If she could get to meet Bruce Wayne. She wondered how anybody got introductions around here.
One of the waiters handed a dark-haired fellow in a tuxedo something to sign. So the fellow in the tux must be somebody important. He wasn’t bad to look at, either. He signed the paper, and the waiter disappeared.
The fellow in the tux was left holding the pen. He looked around for a place to put it, apparently briefly considering a nearby flowerpot, when the thin, gray-haired, aesthetic fellow—the same one who had admitted Vicki and Allie to the manor—glided to the tuxedo’s side to smoothly accept the writing instrument. The gray-haired fellow smiled as his younger counterpart wandered out toward the grand ballroom, and casino night.
Half a dozen roulette wheels and as many blackjack and crap tables had been set up in the huge room, as large as some concert halls Vicki had seen. Small, tasteful, “Save the Festival!” banners were hung from the rafters. The floor below was so choked with people that it was difficult to move, with huge mirrors on either side of the great room, reflecting and re-reflecting all the revelry in between, so that it looked as though the party went on forever.
It was quite a sight, with all of Gotham’s power elite in all their finery, gambling away their money for charity. Vicki looked at all the jewels sparkling in the light of the great crystal chandeliers and thought of royalty one more time.
She glanced over at Allie Knox, who was once again staring at the ceiling. The aesthetic fellow who had admitted them walked across the room, a tray full of champagne glasses now in his hands. He stopped by Allie and looked up at the ceiling as well.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“You know,” Knox replied, “if you cut your bath in half, you’d have my whole apartment.”
“We do have a rather large bathroom, sir,” the gentleman agreed.
“No,” Knox added, “I meant your bath—as in tub.”
Allie took a glass of champagne. The gentleman nodded pleasantly and moved on. He walked quickly and assuredly through the crowd. By the time he reached Vicki, half the champagne glasses were gone.
She realized suddenly that he might be the butler—if people still had butlers. That was what butlers did—open doors, serve champagne—wasn’t it? A place the size of Wayne Manor almost had to have a butler, didn’t it?
The fellow, butler or no, leaned forward to pick up some empty glasses and place them on the tray. He had misjudged the weight of the glasses still taking up half the tray, glasses that now slid and threatened to spill. Vicki stepped to his side and caught the first pair of glasses before they could topple.
The butler righted the other glasses in an instant.
“You okay?” Vicki asked as she replaced the glassware she had saved.
“Yes, thank you,” the butler replied with a smile that was both warm and genuine. In all this wealth and power, it was the best smile Vicki had seen all night.
But she hadn’t gotten any closer to her goal—meeting Bruce Wayne. The butler had already glided away upon his errands. That good-looking fellow in the tux wandered by again. She turned to him as he passed. It was as good an excuse to talk to him as any.
“Excuse me?” she asked. “Which one of these guys is Bruce Wayne?”
The fellow in the tux looked a little startled. “I—I’m not sure.”
Vicki smiled at him anyway. “Thanks.”
“Uh—yeah,” he replied.
It looked as if Allie was having more luck than she. He had managed to catch Commissioner Gordon over by the crap tables. Vicki excused herself. Now, this could be interesting.
“Commissioner Gordon,” Allie began, “Mrs. Gordon. How nice you look tonight.” The pleasantries out of the way, he turned to the commissioner.
“Have you heard this crazy rumor that you have opened a file on the Batman? That’s not true, is it?”
As an extra special effect, Knox put his fingers behind his head to form two wiggling bat ears. Gordon groaned.
“Knox,” he replied, his voice nowhere near as calm as it should be, “for the ninth time, there is no bat. If there were, we would find him. We would arrest him!”
“Find him. Arrest him,” Knox agreed. “That’s what I always hear. Commissioner, be straight with me—”
Harvey Dent put his hand on Gordon’s shoulder. Vicki had been so intent on the exchange between the commissioner and Allie that she hadn’t even seen him walk up.
“How’s your luck, Jim?”
But before Gordon could answer him, Knox had turned on the fresh prey.
“Mr. Dent. Commissioner Gordon and I were just talking about winged vigilantes. What’s your stand?”
Dent looked directly at the reporter. He wouldn’t get harried like Gordon. His reply was serious and smooth: “Mr. Knox, we have enough real problems in this city without having to worry about ghosts.”
The reply was also meaningless. So Knox’s luck was turning bad as well. Vicki was starting to wonder if they’d have anything at all to show for their night in high society .
That’s when a policeman came in and waved for Gordon to follow him out of the room. Knox looked over at Vicki. She nodded, and they both walked casually in the direction Gordon had left. The night might still have a few surprises after all.
But where had Gordon gone?
Vicki and Allie walked out the first door, to be confronted by three more, each one closed. One led to a closet, another to a set of stairs leading down. By mutual consensus, they chose the door in the middle, which led to a hallway and another half a dozen doors.
It took them only a couple of minutes to realize they were hopelessly lost. Knox finally chose a door at random, opened it, and charged into the room. Vicki followed. There were no people in here. But there were quite a lot of other things.
“And here we are in the arsenal,” Knox quipped. He whistled. “Look at this stuff. Who is this guy?”
It looked as though he had every weapon known to man in this place. Broadswords hung on the wall. Glass cases were filled with everything from blowguns to hand grenades.
The door opened behind them. Allie was too engrossed studying the weapons, but Vicki looked around. It was the good-looking fellow in the tux, champagne glass in his hand. He smiled at her a bit sheepishly. So other people had gotten themselves lost in Wayne Manor too. For some reason, she smiled back.
There was something about this wandering soul, some little-boy-lost quality, perhaps, that Vicki found strangely appealing. She hoped he would stick around. She’d had the feeling, though, from the way he’d reacted the last time they met, that she’d almost scared him away. She’d talk to Allie for a minute, and see if maybe tuxedo would join in.
“Strange,” Vicki said to Knox. “He gives to humanitarian causes, and collects all this.”
“Probably does it to get goils.” Knox’s eyebrows wriggled again.
“I think it’s his enormous—” Vicki paused thoughtfully. “—bankroll they go for.”
Allie laughed ruefully. “Hey, the more they’ve got, the less they’re worth.”
Vicki nodded as she took in the size of this room alone. “This guy must be the most worthless man in America.”
Knox pointed to a long, slightly curved sword in an elaborate silver sheath.
“Where’d this come from?”
“It’s Japanese,” said a voice behind them.
Vicki and Knox both turned. The good-looking guy in the tux had spoken.
“How do you know?” Knox demanded.
The other guy smiled. “Because I got it in Japan.”
But Allie Knox didn’t give up that easily.
“Who are you?”
“Oh,” the tuxedo said. “Bruce Wayne.”
Bruce Wayne? Vicki thought. But he had— But she—
Knox walked quickly across the room, hand extended.
“Allie Knox.” They shook hands.
“I’ve been reading your work,” Bruce said. “I like it.”
“Great,” Knox replied without missing a beat. “Give me a grant.”
Bruce grinned, then looked at Vicki. So introductions were finally here. She put out her hand.
“Vicki Vale.”
They shook. He had a nice, firm handshake.
“Bruce Wayne.”
She looked at him doubtfully. “You sure?”
He replied with that grin again. Vicki realized he could get away with a lot with a smile like that.
“I’ve seen your photographs of Corto Maltese” was what he did say. “You’ve got an extraordinary eye.”
“Some people think she has two,” Allie mentioned as he stepped between them.
Uh-oh, Vicki thought. Male territoriality. Maybe Allie was looking at their date as something more than a convenient reporter’s fiction.
“This is an amazing house,” she said in an attempt to change the subject. “I’d love to shoot it sometime.”
There was a knock at the door. A stiff-backed fellow in a red uniform entered. Vicki’s and Knox’s eyes met again. How many servants did this Bruce Wayne have?
“Mr. Wayne,” began the servant, who must have been some sort of wine steward, “we need to open another five cases of champagne. Will that be all right?”
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