The Further Adventures of Batman

by Martin H. Greenberg

  The police searched and handcuffed the gang. “All right, take them away,” Lieutenant Ross called out.

  As the police led them out, Richter managed a defiant smile. “You can’t prove a thing against me. I have witnesses who will swear I haven’t left the restaurant all week. You’ll never make the charges stick.”

  “Oh yes they will,” Carol shot back. “With my testimony and Dick’s.”

  Richter glared at her, his eyes full of menace.

  “And I’ll show the police where the junk is stashed,” Carol added.

  Richter’s mouth fell open.

  “For once he’s speechless,” Dick said, as a policeman led Richter outside.

  “But how did you find this place?” Dick asked Batman.

  “I did a little investigating on my own,” Batman answered. “One of our first hunches was that The Man might be a professor adept at hypnosis. A teaching post would be the perfect cover. I looked up an instructor at Gotham U. who remembered a man fitting Carol’s description. He was kicked off the faculty for illicit manufacture of psychedelic drugs. Afterward, Richter changed careers and bought an interest in the Regency, where he performed as hypnotist.”

  After the police put the gang in a van, they began a thorough search of the premises. Carol knew of glassine packets of heroin concealed in ceiling pipes. They found other packets in cans buried behind the brick and mortar walls of the cellar.

  “This evidence will help put Richter away for life,” Ross said.

  “What about the rest of the gang?” Dick asked.

  “The ones who abducted Carol will be held for kidnapping and attempted murder. We’ll try to rehabilitate the others, beginning with medical treatment for their addictions. It won’t be easy, but they’re young, and there’s always hope.”

  “What about me?” Carol asked.

  “I haven’t forgotten you, Carol. You’ll be glad to learn that the department store has dropped its charges against you.”

  “That’s great!” Dick said, hugging Carol.

  “Your parents are waiting for you at the police station,” Ross added.

  “How can I ever thank you?” Carol said, clasping his hands. “And you too, of course, Dick and Batman. I’ll never forget what you did for me.”

  “All in a day’s police work,” Ross said.

  “All in a day’s investigative reporting,” Dick echoed.

  Batman started for the door. “I have to leave now. Anyone want a lift?”

  “Going my way?” Dick said, with a wink. “It’s not every day a reporter gets chauffeured by Batman.”

  The Pirate of

  Millionaires’ Cove

  Edward D. Hoch

  There was a full moon that night, only lightly obscured by mist, as Anton Bartizan strolled on the deck of his converted fishing schooner, the Dragonfly. The Fourth of July weekend was always a busy one at Milliton Cove, called Millionaires’ Cove in the society pages of Gotham City’s newspapers because of the large number of fabulous yachts that could usually be found at anchor there. Most had sailed out of the Cove earlier, positioning themselves for the following morning’s big race, but Bartizan had been late, awaiting the arrival of his weekend traveling companion.

  Now the sails were full, catching the breeze that drifted across the Cove like gentle fingers. Below deck, an auxiliary engine helped speed them along. Standing there at the railing, he saw the first of the night’s fireworks going off along the opposite shore. He felt in his pocket for the flat box containing the diamond bracelet that was to be the weekend’s surprise, then stepped to the hatchway and called down, “Come up on deck, darling. I have something to show you.”

  At almost the same instant there was a blast like a giant firecracker from a nearby vessel. Anton Bartizan looked up, startled, and saw the sky alive with fireflies streaking toward his schooner. He watched, unbelieving, as they punctured his sails, each one producing a tiny tongue of flame. Then he shouted for his two-man crew. “Fire! Fire on the sails!”

  Jesse was at the wheel and had already seen the flames breaking out. He ran from the pilothouse as the other crewman, Luis, appeared from below deck carrying a fire extinguisher. But Bartizan was suddenly aware of another vessel moving closer without lights, until its side was almost touching the schooner. Bartizan tried to identify it, but not until the spreading flame from the sails had lit the scene did he make out the skull and crossbones flag fluttering from the mast.

  Even when the first of the brawny men had leaped on board, Bartizan thought it must be some sort of tasteless practical joke. He saw their leader, with a bearded chin and a patch over one eye, brandishing a cutlass and looking like someone’s costume-party version of a pirate, and he would have laughed had the flames at his back not felt quite so real.

  Then Luis stepped in front of the pirate chief and took the cutlass through his midsection, and Anton Bartizan knew it was far from make-believe. Someone else fired a sort of flintlock pistol and Jesse went down too. The sails were burning out of control now, with bright red fire reflected off the water. To Bartizan it was like the worst of his nightmares.

  As other boarders came over the side he remembered his passenger, the lovely young woman below deck who was to have been his companion for the long holiday weekend. He turned and ran for the hatchway with the eye-patched pirate in close pursuit.

  She was waiting there for him, seemingly oblivious to the slaughter above deck. “Quick!” he shouted. “Over the side or we’ll all be killed!”

  She stood up calmly and smiled at him. “It’s too late for that, dear Anton.”

  He turned and saw the pirate behind him, raising his cutlass one more time.

  Two days later Gotham City’s police commissioner, tough ex-patrolman James Gordon, sat alone in his office at headquarters, staring distastefully at the headlines in the local papers. Pirate Ship Strikes Second Yacht at Millionaires’ Cove, screamed one, while the other—a bit more restrained—announced, Police Believe Yacht Fire May Be Tied To Recent Sinking.

  Anton Bartizan had lived just long enough to babble out a lurid story of attack by a pirate ship, and now the whole thing was in the papers. They’d even managed to connect it with the unexplained sinking of a luxury yacht in the same cove two weeks earlier. The mayor was demanding action, and both their offices had been flooded with phone calls from frightened yachtsmen.

  Commissioner Gordon needed help badly.

  It was at this moment that the rear door of his office, leading to the private elevator, opened and closed. He heard the whisper of sound and whirled around in his chair.

  “Batman!”

  “At your service, Commissioner.”

  The tall hooded man in blue and gray tights and a blue batcape was a familiar figure to Commissioner Gordon. Batman had come to his aid many times in the past when unspeakable crime menaced Gotham City. The Commissioner immediately felt as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. “You’ve read the papers, of course.”

  “Is it true,” the Caped Crusader asked, “that a pirate ship has been attacking yachts in Milliton Cove?”

  “All too true, Batman. We had a report of it two weeks ago when a young boy reported seeing a pirate ship alongside a yacht named the Trenchon. The yacht burned and sank in Milliton Cove that night. No one believed the boy, of course, and we had no other evidence of foul play. But now things are different.”

  “Exactly what did Anton Bartizan tell you before he died?” Batman asked.

  Commissioner Gordon leaned forward on his desk, peering up at the mysterious caped figure who stood before him. “He said there were fireflies coming at him through the darkness, and then his sails caught fire.”

  “Fireflies!”

  “Then they were boarded by men dressed as pirates. They slaughtered his two-man crew and he ran below decks to protect a young lady who was there.”

  “Was she killed too?” Batman asked.

  “We found no trace of her. The crewmen, Jesse and Lui
s, were both dead and Bartizan was dying when police and firefighters reached the scene. The vessel’s seacock had been opened and it would have sunk like the Trenchon if we hadn’t gotten there in time to close it.”

  “Any idea of the motive behind these crimes, Commissioner?”

  “The same as any pirate’s—money and jewelry. Bartizan, for instance, purchased a diamond bracelet for twenty thousand dollars last week, possibly to give to the lady on the boat. It wasn’t found anywhere. The jeweler supplied this photograph of it.”

  “Do you believe she’s involved?” Batman asked, studying the photo.

  “It would explain why she wasn’t killed with the others.”

  “Pirates sometimes took captives, especially young women.”

  “There’s been no missing person report of anyone who could possibly qualify. I think we’ll find she’s one of the gang.”

  But Batman wasn’t willing to accept that. “Why would she help steal a diamond bracelet that was going to be hers anyhow?”

  “We don’t know that. Bartizan was divorced, but he may have had more than one lady friend. Or perhaps she didn’t know she was getting the gift.”

  “What about the first sinking?” Batman asked. “Was there anyone on board?”

  “The owner, a local banker named Brewster Hemmings, was alone on board. The seacock was opened in that case too, and until now it was classified as a suicide.”

  “Did he have money and jewels on board?”

  “It’s very possible. That place isn’t called Millionaires’ Cove for nothing.”

  “What line of investigation are you following at this point, Commissioner?”

  “We’re stumped, Batman,” he admitted frankly. “Naturally I’m assigning more men to the Cove area, especially around the Yacht Club and marina. All we can hope for is to catch him in the act if he tries again.”

  “That might be too late to prevent the loss of more lives,” Batman pointed out.

  “Do you have any ideas?”

  “Perhaps. I’ll be in touch, Commissioner.”

  Without another word Batman wrapped the midnight blue cape around himself and stepped through the door by which he’d entered.

  In a suburb within sight of Gotham City, the family mansion of multimillionaire Bruce Wayne stood alone and somewhat mysterious, not unlike its owner. Although lights shone through several of the leaded windows, the only activity in the mansion this evening was in the huge cavern beneath it, where Bruce Wayne was slipping the bat-eared mask and hood from his head. One man stood by watching—Bruce’s friend and confidante Alfred Pennyworth, an aging British gentleman who ostensibly served as the butler in the Wayne mansion.

  “You saw the police commissioner, sir?” Alfred asked.

  “I saw him.” Bruce hung up his bat cape and began removing the costume that had become the terror of Gotham City’s underworld. “It was most unsatisfactory. The police know virtually nothing about the crimes. Even the commissioner seems content to wait until the next one in hopes this pirate gang can be caught in the act.”

  “What plan would you suggest, sir?”

  “Almost anything but waiting. These crimes are audacious and well-planned. If this so-called pirate ship can appear and disappear at will, the gang won’t wait long before they strike again.” Bruce Wayne finished tying the sash of a silk dressing gown around his muscular body. “Alfred, I’ve decided to lease a yacht—something large and impressive. See about it first thing in the morning.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  The following morning Bruce drove out to the Gotham City Yacht Club, located not far from Milliton Cove. He’d been there only a few times before, in the company of various members, but he knew no one except Rusty the bartender, a man whose weathered face hinted that he’d be more at home on some tropical island than serving drinks at an exclusive club.

  “What can I get you, Mr. Wayne?” he asked, displaying his legendary memory for faces.

  “Nothing right now, Rusty. Is the membership secretary around?”

  “That would be Mr. Ritter. He usually lunches here. You might look out on the terrace.”

  Bruce found Herb Ritter eating alone at a table overlooking the water. Middle-aged, graying, but with a perfect tan and infectious smile, he was the logical choice for a position that required the skills of a social director as well as a yachtsman.

  “Bruce Wayne! What brings you out here? Sit down, sit down!”

  Bruce slipped into the chair opposite him. “I’m leasing a yacht, Herb. Thought it was time I joined your club.”

  “Giving up the lonely life at last? We’re happy to have you, of course. I’m sure approval by our Board of Governors will be only a formality. I’ll sponsor your application personally.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.” He glanced casually down along the pier, where several large yachts were anchored. “What happened to that big schooner? Looks like a fire.”

  “You must have read about it in the papers,” Herb Ritter said. “That so-called pirate business over in Milliton Cove.”

  “Oh, yes! So that’s the yacht? Could we go down and have a look?”

  Ritter led the way along the pier to the gangplank. “Careful, now! I don’t know how sturdy this deck is.”

  “I’ll watch my step,” Bruce assured him.

  “It belonged to Anton Bartizan, the man who was killed. The police just finished their investigation and took away the guard this morning.”

  “What is this—a schooner?”

  “A fishing schooner that Bartizan converted to a pleasure yacht, I understand it cost him a small fortune. He enjoyed entertaining young women on it, so I suppose it was worth it to him.”

  “Oh?” Bruce showed the expected interest of an eligible man-about-town. “Who was his latest conquest?”

  “Well, there were rumors he was seeing Amanda Royce.”

  “The man had good taste.”

  “The entire affair is a tragedy, and not just for Bartizan. Coupled with that earlier sinking at the Cove, it’s making people very uneasy. When they’re uneasy it’s bad for business, bad for property values.”

  Bruce Wayne’s gaze was attracted to something on the scarred deck. He bent to pick up a small nail that looked as if it had never been used. There were others on the deck too. He saw at least a dozen near their feet. “Looks as if the conversion work wasn’t quite finished,” he commented.

  “Oh, Bartizan was always adding on something. He was never quite satisfied, with his yachts or his women.”

  They strolled back to the club and the membership secretary promised there’d be quick action on Bruce’s application.

  His next visit to the Gotham City Yacht Club came about ten days later. By this time he’d taken possession of a 54-foot cabin cruiser with sleek lines and an engine to match. It was outfitted for fishing but Bruce was thinking of using it more as bait. Alfred was drafted as a one-man crew, with a firm promise that such a degradation would be only temporary.

  “I feel out of my element here, sir,” the Englishman complained. “I’m much more at ease acting as your butler.”

  They’d taken a morning cruise around Millionaires’ Cove, getting the feel of the place, and then docked at the Yacht Club marina. While Alfred busied himself with an intense inspection of the fuel line, Bruce strolled up to the main club building. A few people were beginning to arrive for lunch, and he asked for a table by the window, taking a stool at the bar until it was ready.

  “Good to see you again, Mr. Wayne,” Rusty said, putting down the book he was reading. “Guess it’s time for me to be on the job.”

  “What are you reading?”

  “Book on the American Revolution. I like history. You read much of it?”

  Bruce lit his pipe and drew on it. “When I have time, Rusty. Right now I’m learning all about yachts.”

  “Mr. Ritter told me you had a new 54-footer. Looks like a dandy.”

  “I’m pleased with it,” Bruce told him.
“Only leasing it, of course, with an option to buy.”

  The bartender fussed with his bottles, arranging them for the noonday trade. “You want a drink with lunch, Mr. Wayne?”

  “A glass of white wine will do nicely.” He drew on his pipe again, staring out the big picture window at the hulk of the burned yacht. “Did you know Anton Bartizan very well, Rusty?”

  “I served him a few times. He didn’t usually come to the bar, though. He’d sit over at that little corner table by the windows with his favorite drink, Courvoisier in a brandy snifter. He seemed like a nice man. Too bad what happened to him.”

  “Is the yacht going to stay out there?”

  “Only till the insurance company finishes with it.”

  Bruce’s table was ready and he carried the wine over to it. His waitress was Millie, a buxom young woman in her mid-twenties. He’d noticed her once before but never spoken to her. It was obvious she was popular with the other male diners, several of whom spoke to her as they came in. There were more waiters than waitresses working the dining room, but Bruce could see the waitresses’ tables were much in demand.

  After Millie brought his lunch he asked casually, “Has Amanda Royce been around lately?”

  “Mrs. Royce.” Bruce knew she was divorced but still used her married name. “I had her one night last week”

  “She was probably pretty broken up about Bartizan’s death, wasn’t she?”

  Millie didn’t change expression. “I wouldn’t know about that.”

  Bruce returned to the yacht to find Alfred munching on a sandwich he’d brought from home. “You should have come in with me. The food was quite good.”

  “That wouldn’t have looked good, sir.”

  “Well, let’s head for home. We’ve done enough sailing for the first day.”

  “What’s your next move?”

  “To find a way to meet Amanda Royce.”

  That weekend an opportunity presented itself. There was a midsummer dance at the Yacht Club to which a number of Gotham City’s leading citizens had been invited. Even Commissioner Gordon and his wife were attending, and Gordon answered a late-night call from Batman with the news that Amanda Royce would be at the dance in the company of Simon Butterfield, the local real estate developer. It had not taken her long after Bartizan’s death to move on to other game.