The Further Adventures of Batman

by Martin H. Greenberg

  His cape rustled like dry leaves as he brushed past Wayne and walked out of the library.

  Slowly, the grandfather clock in the entry hall struck, twelve dolorous notes.

  On the twelfth tone, the lights went out.

  At first, the conversations and music continued. But as the darkness extended its hold on the party, the convivial noise began to ebb into silence. What had seemed like a gag was starting to feel odd. Disquieting. Aside from an occasional nervous giggle from a guest, an unbroken hush prevailed.

  Alarmed, Wayne groped along the wall toward what he hoped was the door. Where were the auxiliary lights? The generator below the house should be working . . .

  “My pearls!!” a woman shrieked.

  In the dark, other cries joined hers.

  “My watch!!”

  “Thief!! Stop him!!”

  “Lights!! We need lights!”

  Wayne found the library door and began working his way toward the basement stairs. He’d have to throw the circuit breakers himself. If that didn’t work, the next step was to find some hand lamps. Where was Alfred when he needed him?

  Then he heard the hum of the auxiliary generator, and the lights came on, flickered uncertainly a moment, grew brighter again, and this time held. Wayne breathed easier. Better head off a major panic, he thought.

  “Relax, everyone,” he said, “Nothing to worry about. That was a little prank I thought you’d enjoy.”

  Laughter and applause met his words. With a bow, he moved toward the front door.

  A small knot of people gathered there, Ellen Harring and Aiice Chilton among them. Wayne’s aunt was close to tears.

  “Bruce, it’s ghastly,” she said. “Do you know what’s happened? Someone’s stolen Ellen’s pearls. And Harry’s watch. And even the brooch from Jim’s turban.”

  Wayne pursed his lips. “You mean all of that stuff was real?”

  “Of course,” Ellen said sharply. “How could you think otherwise?”

  “And you wore them to a costume party?”

  He wanted to shake her.

  Commissioner Gordon shouldered brusquely into the group, his mask pushed up off his face, its yellow owl eyes goggling the ceiling weirdly.

  “Anybody get a sense of who the thief was?” he demanded.

  “None.”

  “Nope.”

  “I heard something,” Harry said. “Like a woman walking by in a satin dress. Then a yank at my sleeve, and my watch was gone.”

  “Somebody must see very well in the dark,” Wayne said.

  “Yes, with eyes like a cat,” Gordon added.

  Or the sonar of a bat, Wayne thought. Quickly, he glanced around the room, but saw no sign of a blue halfmask, ribbed cape, or golden utility belt. The bogus Batman had vanished. Of course.

  A cold breeze drifted into the room, lifting the edges of Wayne’s tuxedo jacket, setting Gordon’s brown corduroy feathers dancing.

  Wayne swung around. In the dining room, a leaded window yawned open, permitting a narrow rectangle of night sky to break the symmetry of the beveled glass wall.

  Escape route, he thought. And precious minutes had already been devoured by chitchat. He had to get out of here.

  He clutched his brow dramatically.

  “Damn! The quotes are coming in from Tokyo.” He turned to the group. “Auntie, I’ve got to run upstairs for a while and check the ticker. Would you see to the guests and close down the party?”

  “Of course, Bruce. But what about the robbery?”

  Wayne shrugged.

  “That’s Commissioner Gordon’s department. I’m sure he’ll handle it well.”

  He hurried up the stairs, ignoring the shocked looks on their faces.

  Hurry, damn it. Through the door by the guest rooms, down the staircase to the back door, and out into wintry November darkness.

  A car motor rumbled to life. Wayne recognized the sound and scowled. It was his car. Where was the alarm? That damned ‘Batman’ was not only good at robbery, he was skilled at hot wiring as well. And the front gate was open. Even if Wayne reached the remote controls, he’d never close it in time.

  The cave, he thought. Get the new motorcycle. Change into costume. No. No time. Go as I am.

  He took the stairs in twos, grabbed the keys to the cycle, and leaped onto the powerful Harley.

  The cycle roared to life, its headlight a white beacon spilling light on the path to the front drive. Wayne switched on the tracer. A small red light pulsed on the schematic map set next to the odometer. His quarry was heading out of Wayne’s imposing suburb through the newer, cheaper neighborhoods toward the freeway.

  Wayne frowned. If he’d had more time he could have radioed the police and told Gordon to put some cars in pursuit. Now he’d have to go it alone, chasing his own car into nighttime Gotham.

  The wind cut through his red silk suit like sharpened icicles. The chill glow of streetlights flickered through the bare branches of the oak trees that lined the boulevard. Wayne reached behind, pulled goggles out of the cycle’s side box, and strapped them on.

  He began to feel more confident.

  Cutting across Elm Street, he detoured through the parking lot of the First Episcopal Church and jumped its hedge, shearing seconds off his ride. The schematic showed his quarry entering the freeway. Wayne pressed harder on the accelerator.

  Dark streets whizzed past, punctuated by patches of frozen water reflecting light onto the slick pavement. Houses went by in a blur—large, dark shapes looming behind carefully manicured hedges.

  Motor screaming, the Harley hit a wet patch of leaves and fishtailed. Desperately, Wayne fought for control as the cycle skidded around and began to go off the road.

  “Brake. No, don’t brake, stupid. Steer into it,” he muttered.

  The cycle kept sliding. A massive oak, its limbs knotted with age, loomed on the right. Wayne braced for bone-crunching impact. Break collarbone at least, he thought. Hospital casts. Eight weeks to heal . . .

  A patch of dry pavement caught the front wheel. With a whine, the bike pulled out of the skid at the last moment and righted itself.

  Wayne sighed with relief. He glanced down, checked the map. His car was still on the freeway. In a moment, so was he, the wind screaming past his ears, trying to rip the back off his red tuxedo.

  Exits flashed by: Hawken Street, Euclid, Morton. Ahead, the lights of downtown twinkled in their concrete and steel firmament.

  The tracer showed his quarry at the Main Street ramp.

  More lights, red and blue, caught his attention—a police car behind him. The mournful howl of the siren chased its way up his vertebrae. Belatedly, Wayne remembered that motorcycles were illegal on the freeway.

  “Damn!”

  No time now for playing tag with a squad car. And no utility belt, no bag of tricks to aid him. Have to tell Alfred to pack a spare in the cave.

  He checked the gas tank. Three-quarters full. Good. The Harley could easily outpace any V-6 engine on open road. Once they were in the city, well, Wayne would worry about that later. They had to catch him first.

  At the exit, he downshifted nimbly and squeaked through a yellow light turning red. The squad car was right behind him, tires squealing. He cut around a stalled car, sped between a double-parked delivery truck and a sedan, and made a hard right down an alley.

  The police siren faded into a faint whine. Wayne glanced over his shoulder. The alley was empty, save for shadows. His pursuers must have gotten stuck behind the truck, trapped by the slow reactions of the driver. Good. Better speak to Gordon about upgrading driver training for his rookies, Wayne thought, grinning.

  The red dot on his map turned onto Market. Came to a halt.

  Wayne dialed up the address.

  225 Market, just past the corner of Hayes.

  Odd neighborhood. Just a few bars, grocery stores, and car-parts places. Wayne pulled the Harley out onto Market, searching his memory. No record of any fences in this neighborhood, as far as he kn
ew. They were all in the East End.

  He parked the cycle at the corner of Hayes and walked the two blocks, past locked, barred storefronts and shuttered windows.

  There was his car: a low, dark shadow by the curb. Silent—the motor had been cut off. No sign of movement within, although the smoked-glass windows were difficult to see through. Wayne yanked the driver’s door open. The gray Spencer was empty.

  A trickle of music, bluesy and lonesome, pulled his attention from the car. Where was it coming from? He turned toward the dilapidated brownstone behind him.

  Up two stone steps and he was in the hallway of an old flophouse. A row of tin mailboxes set into the wall bore tattered nameplates, all of them sad faded ribbons save for the third box from the end. A new label had been glued to box 405 with red tape.

  Club Astarte, it said.

  In this dump? Must be an after-hours bar, Wayne thought. Moves its location regularly to avoid the cops. Probably operates without a liquor license and cleans up, charging five bucks a drink. Wouldn’t Gordon enjoy being along for this one?

  I’m beginning to miss him, he thought.

  He climbed the stairs, each step squeaking, four flights up toward the growing sound of a bass guitar pulsing rhythm, women laughing a bit too shrilly, a horn player worrying a note.

  Fourth floor. Dark as hell, he thought. Where’s that music coming from?

  He rounded a corner and saw light spilling through the cracked transom above the door to room 405. Club Astarte. Wayne pulled his devil mask down over his face and leaned against the door. It gave.

  The room was filled with smoke and the cloying aroma of stale beer. Pink spotlights cut weakly through the murk. There was no band. No live music of any kind. Men and women sat slumped at tables, or moved slowly to taped music or their own internal drumbeat, leaning against each other on the tiny dance floor. They ignored him.

  Maybe a man in red silk and a devil’s mask comes in at this time every night, Wayne thought.

  He shouldered through the crowd, searching for a sign of his quarry.

  A long hallway, garishly painted green and orange, led back toward the bathrooms. One of them was in use. He leaned against the wall, waiting.

  A woman in a short blue dress ran by, giggling tipsily. She disappeared into the empty bathroom.

  The other bathroom door flew open. Wayne tensed.

  A second woman, short, with a cloud of red hair, strode out of the john. She was wearing a tight, black, low-cut dress that showed a little too much. She stopped in her tracks when she saw him.

  “Hey, devil,” she said. Her smile was an unambiguous invitation. She lit a cigarette and inhaled, green eyes taking shrewd measure of him. When he failed to respond to the invitation, her eyes narrowed. She gestured, indicating his costume.

  “What is this,” she asked. “Mardi Gras?”

  “I thought it was a bar,” he said.

  The redhead leaned back against the wall and crossed her arms. Smoke tendrils snaked around her head like a halo.

  “First the guy in the cape,” she said. “Now you with the red tux.” She gave him a look of blunt approval. “Not bad. How about a peek behind the mask?”

  “I’m shy.”

  “Want a drink?”

  “Maybe later.”

  He started to move past her.

  Mockingly, she rubbed her shoulders, shivering.

  “Brrr. I thought you devils were supposed to be hot stuff. Guess you’re just interested in buying souls. And Ricky is probably selling.”

  Her words stopped Wayne in mid-step. He turned to face her. “Ricky?” he asked.

  She laughed, a high jagged sound. Her pupils were huge.

  “Suddenly you’re interested,” she said. “Yeah, Beelzebub. It’s Ricky you want, is it? Then keep going down that hall until you can’t go any farther. That’s my personal philosophy, too. See ya later, Satan.”

  She winked at him broadly and headed back to the other room.

  Wayne followed the hallway. It came to an end in a flat, purple wall.

  No exit? What did she mean, then?

  He frowned and pushed against the wall. It swung back smoothly, spinning on recessed hinges.

  Hidden doors were always useful for quick exits during police raids, he thought. I should have known.

  He walked through into a dim corridor. The wall closed behind him.

  Halfway down the hall, light glimmered under the crack of a door. He pressed his palm against the door and felt it move. Pushed harder. Hinges grating, the door opened.

  Inside, a man with three days’ growth of beard and a sour expression looked up from a desk littered with small plastic bags and a pile of ledgers. So there was a fence on Market Street. Wayne bit back a smile.

  The fence sighed. “Not another one.”

  “Are you Ricky?” Wayne pitched his voice low.

  “Who’s asking?”

  “The redhead sent me.”

  “Donna?”

  “Who else?”

  The fence’s face relaxed into something midway between a scowl and a grin.

  “Okay then,” he said. “That last comedian made me jumpy. Comes in here with that goofy cape and wants to sell big jewels. Jerk. I only work in computer parts.”

  Wayne nodded. “So he left?”

  “A minute ago. Weird son of a bitch. Wouldn’t take off that bat mask.”

  “Which way?”

  “Huh?”

  Wayne grabbed a handful of the fence’s shirt and pulled him halfway over the desk toward him. Between tightly clenched teeth, he asked again.

  “I said, which way did he go?”

  “T-that way.” The fence pointed to a dark staircase across the hall. Shoving hard, Wayne released the man and dashed out the door. The stairs led down into blackness.

  Grappling in his pocket, Wayne pulled out the infrared goggles from the cycle and slapped them on. Gray shadows were transmuted into hellish red and black geometry. He bolted down the stairs. One flight. Two flights.

  Below him, he could hear the sound of footsteps running. He quickened his pace, using the handrail for balance. He missed a stair, started to fall, recovered, and kept going.

  Three flights.

  But he was still too far behind. Wayne bent one knee, grabbed the banister with both hands, vaulted up, over, and down to the final row of stairs, landing on the balls of his feet.

  Thank God for that acrobatic training in France, he thought.

  Wayne could see the front door swinging wildly. In three strides he was through it and on the street.

  The Spencer had come to life again, motor rumbling. Wayne reached for his belt. A shame to have to slash my own tires, he thought. His hands closed on his red silk cummerbund.

  He looked down.

  And remembered that the only person wearing a utility belt was the man he’d been chasing.

  Before he had time to curse, the Spencer moved. Tires squealed as the sleek, dark sedan pulled away from the curb, accelerating from zero to ninety in thirty seconds.

  Wayne pounded down the sidewalk to the alley, kicked the cycle into overdrive. He was beginning to get annoyed.

  It took fifteen minutes to trail his car back onto the highway, heading out of town.

  Giddy with fatigue, Wayne watched the red blip move across the screen of the schematic monitor. He’s going back to my house, he thought. Probably wants to drop off the car and have a drink. When I get there and ring the front doorbell, ‘Batman’ will invite me in for a nightcap. Offer me a bed. Show me the gun collection.

  The map shifted to a new quadrant as the Spencer took the exit back to Oakhurst. Wayne pressed the accelerator harder, and roared down the exit ramp and onto Oakdale Avenue. Trees flew by, street lamps, empty intersections. He was five minutes from Wayne Manor. Then the blip turned east on Vanderheel and continued on toward Huntington.

  Where in hell was this clown going?

  The red blip turned down Radison Drive. Pulled into num
ber 211. Stopped.

  Alice Chilton’s house.

  Was she in on this? Sweet, gray-haired Mrs. Chilton setting him up in his own home? Wayne was ready to believe anything.

  He gunned the motor and made it to his aunt’s driveway in two minutes.

  The Spencer sat abandoned in the cul-de-sac near the front door. It was empty and the driver’s door hung open. Out of habit, Wayne paused to shut and lock the door. Not that it would do him any good.

  His aunt’s taste in architecture ran to mock-Tudor. Wayne had always thought her house was attractive and inviting. But not tonight. Now each window was shuttered against him. The front door was dark. Odd. Alice usually left her light on all night.

  He tried the front entrance. Locked. Well, no surprise there. But precious minutes would be wasted if he jimmied it open. Besides, what if it was armed? He imagined the look on his aunt’s face as she came down the stairs to discover the host of the costume ball breaking into her house at a quarter to two in the morning?

  Maybe he should ring the doorbell.

  Surely she was home, in bed, the party an hour or so behind her. And if she wasn’t in bed, if she was in league with this fraudulent Batman, it might shake her up to receive a visitor while she was busy counting the loot.

  But the doorbell could also act as a warning.

  Wayne sighed. Better try the windows.

  He worked his way two-thirds around the house before a pantry window creaked open. He struggled through it, landing lightly, with practiced grace.

  Tight fit, he thought. Better spend a few more minutes in the weight room.

  The kitchen was dark. Wayne held his breath, listening. Footsteps, along the squeaking floorboards of the second story. Was it his aunt? The intruder menacing her? No time to guess. Move.

  Lunging out of his hiding space, he made for the front stairs. Even in gloom, the house was familiar. The smell of freshly cleaned carpet and cedarwood summoned memories.

  Christmas. New Years. Laughter.

  Grimly, Wayne shoved the thoughts away.

  On the second floor, he paused by an open doorway. This had to be his aunt’s bedroom. Pink curtains and bedcovers. How she loved that color. The scent of her cologne hung in the air. The Indonesian dance costume was neatly folded over a chair. The room was empty.