His second shock came when he faced the owner of the voice. He was looking at a tall man dressed entirely in black and gray. A wide cloak with many points flowed from the man’s broad shoulders. The man wore a cowl and a half mask. On top of the cowl-like covering, there were small pointed ears.
“Batman!” Murphy cried, clutching at his chest. The pain had just hit him, the almost-forgotten pain in his chest and neck that he used to get before the triple bypass; the sudden attack brought on by the shock of seeing the legendary figure here, in the midst of his fortifications; the pain brought on by long anxiety and a guilty conscience.
Murphy collapsed suddenly, and wasn’t aware that blue-gauntleted arms caught him before he hit the floor.
Murphy’s eyes fluttered, then opened wide. “You still here?” he asked.
He was stretched out on the bed. His tie had been loosened and his shoes taken off. The tall figure of Batman stood near the bedside.
“Yes, I’m still here,” Batman said. “How are you feeling?”
“Not bad, for a man who didn’t expect to open his eyes this side of the Jordon. What’d you do?”
“I gave you an injection of hectomorphinate. It’s one of the antidotes I carry in my utility belt. I couldn’t be sure, but it seemed that you were having a heart attack.”
“And what does this hecto whatever-you-call-it do?”
“It acts on the blood vessel walls, taking them out of the fatal spasms that presage death.”
“My doctor never mentioned this stuff to me.”
“He will. It will be coming on the market in the fall.”
Murphy sat up cautiously. “I guess I don’t have to ask who you are. I’ve heard about you for years, but never thought I’d meet you. I did meet Superman once, at a fund raising for crippled children in Washington. Seemed like a nice fellow.”
“Superman’s OK,” Batman said. “But I didn’t come here to discuss superheroes with you.”
“I didn’t think so. Do you think I can walk all right? No, don’t help me. If I can’t make it to the liquor cabinet myself, I’m washed up anyway.”
He moved in a slightly creaky fashion to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a double shot of bourbon. It steadied him so nicely that he immediately poured another.
“Hitting that stuff a little hard, aren’t you?” Batman said.
“So what are you? Murphy said belligerently. “An advanceman for the WCTU or something?”
“Just a concerned bystander,” Batman said. “I need an explanation from you, Mr. Murphy.”
“About what?”
“This.” Batman produced the two halves of the little hemisphere with which Ilona had tried to gas him.
Murphy examined it. “Yeah, that’s our trademark. Where’d you get this?”
“Somebody tried to use it on me.”
“So? Is Colt responsible for every revolver that gets used on somebody?”
“That’s beside the point,” Batman said. “I know you know something about this because other weapons like this have been turning up. They’ve been traced to your factory.”
“You can’t prove a thing,” Murphy said.
“Maybe I can’t,” Batman said. “Not yet. But I will.”
“Go ahead and try,” Murphy said, and put away half the shot, looking up startled when Batman slapped the glass out of his hand.
“What’s the big idea?”
“Get hold of yourself, Murphy,” Batman said. “You’ve got quite a reputation in this country. People consider you a brilliant operator and a straight shooter. You’ve always had a reputation for being forthright, accessible. Now suddenly you’re hiding inside your own factory, you’ve got the place guarded like it was Hitler’s hideout, and you’re drinking heavily. You’ve got troubles, Murphy; something’s turned your life around, and I want you to tell me about it.”
“Why should I?”
“Because you’ve got to tell somebody, otherwise you’ll explode. And why not me? If you can’t tell your troubles to a superhero, whom can you tell them to?”
Murphy stared at him, open mouthed.
“And anyhow, Red,” Batman said, “maybe I can help. I’d like to try.”
Murphy continued to stare at him. Suddenly there were tears in his eyes.
He said, “When I was a kid, I loved the superheroes and wanted more than anything to be like them. Tarzan was the first for me, and then there were a lot after that. You were always special for me, Batman. I liked you because you were more human than most of them. For a while I tried to be like you . . . Funny, isn’t it? You ought to get a good laugh out of this.”
“I’m not laughing,” Batman said. “And I don’t look down on you. Talk to me, Red. Tell me what’s going on.”
Murphy looked uncertain. “I could get killed for talking to you.”
“You’re killing yourself by not talking to me.”
“I guess that’s so,” Murphy said. “Yes, I’m in trouble, Batman. It all started about a year ago . . .”
Murphy told about how, a year ago, when ARDC went public for the first time, Teufel Corporation, a big Swiss-based corporation, made hidden purchases all over the world through designated nominees and acquired a controlling share of ARDC’s outstanding stocks. Teufel had taken over ARDC, and they had the right to retire Red Murphy if they so desired. Murphy didn’t figure out for a long time how it had happened. It all took place so rapidly that he was shocked and apathetic at a time when all his senses should have been on alert. The new owners never appeared. Operating behind on screen of lawyers, they proposed to allow Murphy to continue running ARDC. They even promised him a chance to buy back a majority interest in the stock, and so reacquire his own company. But first, for a while, he had to do things their way.
“Several of my people warned me about them,” Murphy said. “I should have listened. Especially when they started screwing up the research and production divisions. But I thought that playing along would get me back in control faster. I figured that with their sloppy methods and inadequate quality control they’d fail, you see. I didn’t know then what they were really up to.”
He reached for the bourbon bottle. Batman pushed it gently out of his reach.
“Might as well give it up now, Red. You can’t keep on hiding here forever and drinking. You’ll never find a better chance to quit than now.”
Murphy looked at Batman and knew that the masked man spoke the truth; you don’t get a superhero telling you to quit the booze every day.
Murphy reached out and grabbed the bottle. He threw it against the wall as hard as he could. It made a satisfying sound as it shattered.
Soon after that his telephone rang. Murphy answered it. “Blaise? Yes, I’m fine. Yeah, that was me firing the .44 earlier. And breaking the bottle now. I was having a little celebration. Yeah, sure, all by myself. Me and my bats. The bats in my belfry, I mean. Sure, I’m fine, see you in the morning.”
He hung up the phone and said to Batman, “Suppose I make us some coffee. We’ve got a lot of talking to do, and not much time to do it in.”
“What do you mean?” Batman asked.
“The Joint Chiefs are about to sign a contract with ARDC for a new computerized weapons system.”
“What’s so bad about that?” Batman asked.
“Let’s get that coffee and I’ll tell you.”
In the morning, Red Murphy surprised his staff by announcing that he was going to Lake Sarmatian, the manmade lake that had been created by the recent damming of the North Pecos River. He had his staff pack the new Carlino-Gar Wood monohull, still in its packing case, onto the back of his heavy-duty pickup. The gates opened and Murphy sped through, waving to his guards.
Twenty miles down the road there was a grove of cottonwood trees used by the local high school and bible college for barbecues and song fests. It was deserted now. Murphy negotiated the steep dirt road and pulled out of sight of the highway. He got out and went back, pry bar in hand, to open the packin
g case.
Batman, who had been secreted within the packing case, had already worked his way out and was sitting under a tarpaulin, reading a plane schedule with a little penlight.
“Hope it wasn’t too uncomfortable for you,” Murphy said.
“I’ve been in worse,” Batman said. “It was easier than breaking out of your factory again.”
“What do you want me to do now?” Murphy asked.
“I’d like to leave you here for a while,” Batman said. “I’ll drive your truck to the airport alone, and arrange to have someone drive it back here.”
“That’s fine with me,” Murphy said. “Lucky I brought along a newspaper. But why can’t I drive you to the airport myself?”
“When I reach the airport,” Batman said, “I will have changed clothes and become someone else.”
“And you don’t want me to know who that someone else is?”
“That’s it. Please understand, it’s not that I don’t trust you. But it should be obvious that there’s no sense being an anonymous figure if everyone knows who you are in real life.”
“Makes sense,” Murphy said.
“Sometimes,” Batman said, “the costume changes are more difficult to arrange than solving the case.”
“I can imagine,” Murphy said. “Here, Batman.” He handed the masked man the car keys. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Just a final point or two. You said that the Joint Chiefs are about to sign the contract with ARDC?”
“I got confirmation of that only yesterday. It ought to be signed into law by tonight.”
Batman nodded. “I think there’s still time to do something. I’m glad you let me have the facsimile plans for your production models. I’ll have a chance to study them on the plane to Washington.”
“My competition would do a lot to get their hands on those blueprints.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll destroy them when I’m finished with them. Now, these people who took over your company. You really have no idea who is in control of them?”
“None at all. Whoever it is, they seem to have some friends in high places. I’ve never seen a contract go through so smoothly.”
“One more question. Do any of your weapons systems make use of hallucinogens?”
Murphy looked surprised. “How did you know? That’s the tightest secret of the century.”
“I learned it from a man with green hair,” Batman said.
“Come again?”
“Forget I said it. Goodbye, Murphy.”
“Good luck, Batman.”
“Thanks,” Batman said. “I suspect I’m going to need it.”
Batman drove another five miles down the highway. No cars passed him in either direction. That was just as well; your average cowboy might become curious if he passed a new red pickup driven by a man over six feet tall dressed as a bat. Not that that was likely. Batman had taken the precaution of spraying the windshield and windows of the pickup with a glare-resistant compound that did not impede vision from inside the vehicle but rendered it opaque from the outside. He had neglected to tell Murphy that the compound washed off with soap and water—an uncustomary lapse, but no doubt Murphy could figure that out for himself.
Batman stopped the pickup on a turnout and quickly changed to the sober and well-tailored suit of Charlie Morrison. He packed up the Batman gear in the folding valise he had brought along for that purpose, and went on to the airport.
Bruce decided not to take a commercial aircraft, since none were scheduled at a suitable hour. He quickly arranged to charter a plane for the trip to Washington. Although he was an experienced pilot, he also hired a pilot. It was simply easier that way.
The Batman gear, the two suitcases of special equipment, and the utility belt fit nicely into the Lear jet he had rented.
He had time for a quick brunch while the pilot fueled up and made out a flight plan. He had a small green salad and a side dish of guacamole, accompanied by plenty of strong black coffee. He had just paid his bill when he remembered a phone call he had to make. He telephoned Commissioner James Gordon in Gotham City and told him briefly where he was going. That was necessary in case anything happened to him. If Robin could be killed, then Batman could be killed, too. But crime fighting had to go on.
Then he went to the Personal Services Booth and arranged for a chauffeur to take Red Murphy’s pickup to where he was waiting, reading a newspaper under the cottonwoods. And then it was plane time.
It was early evening when the quick little Lear jet flew into Washington’s Reagan airport. The evening lights were on in the city; twinkling little fairy lights belying the skullduggery that went on in the nation’s capital.
In the airport, taking a private booth in the first-class lounge’s men’s room, Bruce dressed again in the Batman outfit. This time he left off the mask and cowl, concealing his costume under a long camel’s hair overcoat. He was going to need both of his identities if he hoped to get this job done.
When he emerged, he looked like any well-dressed young man.
The overcoat was loose enough to conceal the bulky utility belt. It was difficult to know in advance exactly which piece of equipment he would need.
He caught a taxi into Washington proper, directing the driver to take him to Old Edward’s Chop House on Fifth and Ohio. It was a popular dining place for Washingtonians. It also was just across the street from the Gaudi Building, where, in the General Procurement offices on the fortieth floor, the contracts for ARDC were to be signed.
The Gaudi Building was not a simple glass tower like so much of the recent construction in Washington. It had been done in a florid neo-Baroque style, with pediments and gargoyles and odd curves and unexpected angles. The architect, Nino de Talaveres of Barcelona, the eccentric Spanish mystic who had won the Prix de Rome for architecture two years running, had predicted, accurately, as it turned out, that the Gaudi Building would introduce a new and popular style into the sterile skyline of the nation’s capital.
This unique and unexpected building was liked by many.
Batman was not one of them.
Batman’s judgment was not aesthetic, however. It was purely functional. He had worked out long ago a system and the necessary equipment to scale glass towers with great speed and sureness. Now, faced with a brand new version of an outmoded architectural schema, he saw that he would have to improvise.
The porous Carrara granite offered unreliable purchase for the quick-release suction cups that he usually relied on.
The laser glasscutters he had used so often to gain entry through the gigantic picture windows would do no good with windows shaped like slits and barred with wrought iron bars.
He sighed. It was hard enough staying up with new technology without having to reinvent ways of scaling ancient buildings.
He could try to get in through one of the entrances, of course. The thought was attractive, but impractical, he decided after giving it a moment’s thought. There was an unusual flurry of activity around the building tonight. The streets were full of police SWAT teams. There were also a lot of men lurking around in simple seersucker suits and rep ties with bulges in their jackets. These, Batman knew from previous experience, were apt to be Secret Service men.
Had Murphy talked to the people who had such a hold over him? Had he given Batman away?
Batman thought not. But they might have become curious about Murphy’s unusual actions of the night before, firing off his .44 Magnum and then, in the morning, driving out in his pickup. They would have to be extremely obtuse not to relate these discrepancies. Would they have time to do anything about them? He would have to wait and see.
Batman had had a chance to study ARDC’s plans on the trip to Washington, concealing them within a newspaper so that the pilot, a cheerful Tennesssean named Cohen, would not get curious.
Bruce Wayne had a fair technical background. He augmented it with a great deal of mathematical and scientific reading.
He was able to
supplement his insights now by using his laptop computer, built to his own specifications at high cost, but with the power of a third generation mainframe.
The insights he had gained into the blueprints had been eye-opening, to say the least.
If that contract were signed into law . . .
He studied the building again. Getting into it was never going to get much easier than it was right now.
He finished his meal at the chop house, paid his bill, went to the rest room, and slipped out the back way.
He was in a noisome alley. Yowling cats slunk around overflowing garbage cans. The zebralike combination of strong lights and impenetrable shadows made the perfect milieu for a man on the run—or a bat in flight.
Within the Gaudi building, on the fortieth floor, in a special amphitheater with recessed lighting, the Joint Chiefs were meeting to consider the ARDC contract proposals. Admiral William Fenton was chairman for tonight’s session. He was a squarefaced old seadog with iron gray hair and a bulldog mouth. General “Flying Phil” Kowalski, Commandant of the Air Force, sat at his right hand. Kowalski was tall and slim; his baby face, tousled blond hair, and easy laughter belied the fact that he had been an ace during the recent incident in the south Caribbean, piloting his own Thunderclap-class all-weather interceptor and shooting down four Trinidadian jets before it was discovered that the U.S. was not at war with Trinidad. Beside him was General Chuck Rohort of the army, his short, heavily built body displaying the concentrated attentiveness that a really good tank commander needs.
“Well,” Admiral Fenton said, “we might as well call this meeting to order. I propose that we waive the reading of the minutes of the last meeting. There are entirely too many important decisions to make tonight without having to rehash any old ones. No objections? Good, let’s go on. I believe that General Kowalski has a somewhat unusual request to make.”
Flying Phil stood up, grinning pleasantly, twirling his goldleaf encrusted hat in his hands in an awkward motion that he had studied with some care.
The Further Adventures of Batman Page 5