Batman 5 - Batman Begins

by Dennis O'Neil

  Bruce was pretty sure he was not interested in the oil paintings of sunsets or the marble statues of nymphs or anything else the Olympus Gallery would sell that day. He got up and made his way to the door, aware that the brunette was frowning at him, and left the house. He had a return ticket to Gotham in his pocket and he knew of no reason not to use it as soon as possible. He waved down a passing cab—

  And stopped, gesturing to the cabbie to keep going. He turned and remounted the steps. By the time he reached the door, he knew why he had not gotten into the cab, what was nagging at him.

  Too much of a coincidence . . . the guy with the Rā’s al Ghūl information dying the night before it went on sale. That might mean that there’s something in the old manuscript actually worth knowing, and that means I shouldn’t give up so easily . . .

  With an exasperated look on her face, the brunette again showed him to a seat. She did not offer him coffee, and her smile this time was glacial.

  Bruce sat through an hour’s tedium; he had not been so bored since that day in the classroom when the professor had droned on and on about Jungian archetypes. Toward the end of the auction, Bruce outbid everyone else and found himself the owner of a marble nymph. He thought that maybe taking the monstrosity off the auctioneer’s hands would incline him to be friendly.

  He had no idea what he would do with it. It was too big to be a paperweight . . .

  When the sale was finally over, and the art lovers had left, still murmuring to each other, Bruce paid for the nymph, approached the auctioneer, and introduced himself.

  “I’m Wesley Carter,” the auctioneer said, shaking Bruce’s hand. “I must congratulate you on your acquisition. A truly fine piece. What do you plan to do with it, if I may ask?”

  “It will occupy a place of honor,” Bruce said and added to himself: In a swamp somewhere. “I wonder if I might have a word with you in private.”

  Wesley Carter scrutinized Bruce and clearly approved of what he was seeing. He almost certainly recognized that the casual clothing his visitor wore had cost several thousand dollars and told himself that a person who could afford such plumage was a person who could also afford expensive art. “If you’ll come with me, Mr. . . .”

  “Valley. Gene Valley.”

  Bruce followed Wesley Carter up a steep flight of winding stairs to a small office on the second floor, probably a maid’s room originally. Bruce settled into a leather chair and told Carter what he wanted.

  When Bruce had finished, Carter said, “Let me be certain I understand you. You’re asking if there is any way to learn the contents of Mr. Cavally’s uncle’s translation.”

  As Carter spoke, his eyes shifted down and to the left, briefly but unmistakably.

  “That’s it exactly.”

  “Well . . . Mr. Cavally was an extremely cautious person. That’s why he insisted on bringing the items himself. But I couldn’t offer them to our clients without some knowledge of them—our patrons are most discerning. So Mr. Cavally photocopied both the original parchment and his uncle’s work on it and forwarded the photographs to us last week.”

  Again, the darting glance down and to the left.

  “I can’t tell you how happy I am to hear that,” Bruce said. “I’d like to buy those copies.”

  “I’m afraid that’s out of the question.”

  “I’d be willing to let you name your own price.”

  “Mr. Valley, I would love to be able to accommodate you, I truly would. But until I hear from Mr. Cavally’s lawyers . . .”

  “When will that be?”

  “Well, these matters seldom proceed rapidly. I would guess two to three months, at the earliest.”

  “Did I mention you can set your own price?”

  “Yes you did,” Carter said, his tone now frosty. “And did I mention that it’s out of the question?”

  Bruce rose and extended his hand. “Sorry to have taken up your time.”

  “No trouble, Mr. Valley.”

  They shook, and Bruce said he could find his own way out. He descended the winding staircase and, in the short hall leading to the exit, noticed another door. He glanced around. Nobody was near. He opened the door and was looking at another short flight of steps leading to a cellar.

  Oh-kayyy . . .

  He left and walked around the block, mentally noting everything about it, from the kinds of awnings the shops had to the placement of fire hydrants. When he was satisfied with his reconnaissance, he strolled downtown on Madison Avenue, allowing himself to be a tourist and merely enjoy the sights. At Sixtieth, he cut across a corner of Central Park to the Plaza Hotel. He registered and before going up to his room, asked the concierge for some store suggestions.

  He got the photo supplies he needed on Forty-seventh Street and the clothing on Sixth Avenue. He briefly visited a luggage shop on Broadway, and at a large drugstore near Rockefeller Center, he bought a pair of rubber gloves and a penlight. He made his final purchase at a hardware store in Greenwich Village.

  He returned to the Olympus Gallery at four that afternoon, now dressed in a black silk shirt, a black silk tie, dark blue trousers, and very expensive black sneakers, carrying an alligator attaché case with gold fittings.

  He nodded pleasantly to the brunette. “Saw some things this morning I might like to have. Going to have another peek at them, if that’s all right.”

  The brunette replied with an excessively wide smile and said certainly, he could take his time, but they did close at five.

  Bruce browsed through several of the galleries, trying to look like a really avid art lover, but really checking the security arrangements. There was one video camera in the lobby and nothing else that he could see. He waited until he was momentarily alone, then dashed to the cellar door and scrambled down the steps.

  The cellar was almost totally dark, but light from a place where paint had chipped from a window that had been painted over was enough for him to see by. He was in a low-ceilinged basement filled with crates and what must have been paintings wrapped in brown paper. At the rear, behind all the clutter, he could see an old-fashioned coal bin, which was also full of crates. He went into it and crouched in a dark corner and waited.

  Waiting was no problem. It was something Ducard had insisted he learn and Ducard had taught him well.

  He heard footsteps on the floor above him, and muffled voices calling good-byes. Then silence.

  He waited, aware of all the noises in the old house and the darkness around him, alert but still.

  When the faintly luminous dial on his Rolex said 8:25, he put on the rubber gloves, crept from his hiding place, ascended the steps, and slowly, carefully opened the door, just a crack.

  There must be guards. I’d rather not run into them . . .

  He listened: the creakings and groanings of any old house, and somewhere, the whine of an electric engine. He crept into the carpeted hall. The only light was from a red EXIT sign. Careful to stay out of the scanning area of the single video camera, which was really no problem, he went up the winding staircase until he reached the upper landing and heard someone coughing. A flashlight beam struck the wall just ahead of him; someone was in an adjoining hall, coming his way. Whoever it was would be facing him in two or three seconds.

  With neither hesitation nor conscious thought, he swung over the railing and hung from the floor of the landing, his legs dangling down into a gallery below, the handle of the attaché in his teeth. A uniformed man, with a belly that drooped over a belt festooned with a small radio and a can of Mace, lumbered past, sweeping a flashlight beam ahead of him. His right shoe sole came within an inch of Bruce’s fingers.

  By the time the man had reached the top of the stairs, Bruce had vaulted over the railing. He moved as he had been taught to move, swiftly and in absolute silence, to the door of Wesley Carter’s office. He tried the knob and found it unlocked. Wesley was a trusting soul, bless him. Bruce entered and crossed to the desk. He opened his attaché and removed the small crowbar
he had purchased in the Greenwich Village hardware store. Carter had twice glanced at the top left-hand drawer of his desk while discussing the photocopies, so that was where Bruce would start his search. He was prepared to hate himself for using a crowbar on such a fine piece of furniture, but he did not have to; like the door, the drawer was open. Carter was a very trusting soul. Or he did not think the contents of the drawer were worth stealing, and maybe he was right.

  Bruce removed a small camera from his attaché and lay the photocopies flat on the desktop. For the next ten minutes, he photographed the photocopies, hoping that the tiny flash from his camera would be visible neither under the door nor to anyone outside the room’s single window.

  He replaced the original copies in the drawer, stepped to the door, and pressed his ear against it: no lumbering footsteps.

  Now to figure out an exit strategy . . .

  The sidewalk in front of the house would still be busy at this time of night; like Gotham, New York was a city that never slept, and he did not want to chance being seen leaving and be arrested for burglary. The rear faced the backyards of private homes and a few tony businesses, some of which would certainly have dogs and security cameras.

  That left the roof.

  He glided down the hallway to a window and took the penlight from his pants pocket. He quickly ran the light beam over the edges of the window: no tape. So no security alarm. He lifted the window, slowly, to make as little noise as possible, and stood on the sill, the back of his body facing the yard below, the handle of the attaché again gripped in his teeth.

  Okay, now the hard part . . .

  He bent his knees and jumped straight up. His gloved fingers curled around the edge of the roof and he flexed his arms and lifted himself until he could roll over onto the rooftop.

  From here on, it would be easy. During his earlier reconnaissance, Bruce had noted the location of a tall tree, three doors south of the gallery. So: over the roofs, a short jump to the tree, a brief wait until no one was near, then down to the sidewalk and back to the hotel. Piece of cake.

  Twelve hours later, Bruce was in the sunny kitchen of Wayne Manor finishing his breakfast.

  “I trust your meal was satisfactory,” Alfred said from the sink, where he was rinsing out some cups.

  “Absolutely,” Bruce said. “What could be better than the blood sausage and eggs Benedict you’ve been giving me?”

  Alfred finished with the cups and sat across the table from Bruce. “You seem pensive this morning, Master Bruce. Anything you’d like to share?”

  “I’m rehashing yesterday. Trying to make sense of it, I guess.”

  “What about it puzzles you?”

  “For one thing, I liked it. Almost all of it. Dangling like a Christmas tree ornament, running across those rooftops . . . it felt right, somehow.”

  “The thrill of danger, perhaps?”

  “I know that thrill, and this wasn’t it. This was . . . more. Like I was finally doing something I should be doing.”

  “Really? Are you aware that the career opportunities for cat burglars are severely limited? And the benefits are disgraceful. No health insurance, no parking space . . .”

  “Okay, Alfred, point taken. May I change the subject?”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “I’ve got some pictures to be developed and I’d rather not trust the drugstore. Any ideas?”

  “My friend in Gotham has photographic equipment.”

  “Is your friend discreet?”

  “Completely.”

  Bruce went into the library and returned with the alligator attaché case.

  “They’re in here. Your friend can keep the attaché case.”

  “I’m sure she’ll put it to good use. By the way . . . what use was it to you?”

  “It carried my tools and it was a pain in . . . the teeth. I’m not sure a shoulder bag would have been much better when I was rooftop hopping. Something like a tool belt . . . I could have used night-vision lenses, too, and an infrared flashlight might have been useful.”

  “The next time you commit a felony, we will equip you properly.”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  Ten minutes later, Alfred drove his Bentley away and Bruce was left to wonder what to do with himself. Well, what do people do when they don’t have to run across glaciers, repulse armed ninjas, or commit burglary?

  Watch television, of course.

  Except for occasional moments aboard ship, when the vessel he happened to be on was in position to receive commercial broadcasts, Bruce had not watched TV in over seven years. He went into the den and switched on a large flatscreen monitor.

  He watched. Had there always been this many commercials? He grew bored until he made the watching an exercise in patient awareness. He was still and he waited and was aware of the sight and sound of the television set, which was tuned to an all-news channel.

  On the screen: several fire trucks outside a burning brownstone.

  From the speaker: . . . officials say the fire was apparently started when a boiler in the basement of the 150-year-old building exploded. A night watchman, Henry Billeret, is believed to have died in the conflagration, although his body has not yet been recovered. Mr. Billeret was a retired New York City police officer . . .

  The brownstone housed—had housed—the Olympus Gallery. So the owner of the Rā’s al Ghūl documents and the documents themselves were destroyed in a plane crash and two days later the place for which they were bound burns to the ground. Could it possibly be a coincidence?

  Alfred returned late in the afternoon bearing a large bound album. In the center of each heavy brown page was a photograph of writing, about half of which was in English, the other half in a calligraphy Bruce did not recognize.

  “Do we owe your friend anything?” Bruce asked Alfred.

  “She has her favorite charities. Perhaps a donation?”

  “You decide the amount, I’ll sign the check. After I’m declared legally alive, that is.”

  Bruce took the album into the library and settled into the leather easy chair. He began reading, first the translator’s notes and then the English translation of the mysterious calligraphy. The story seemed like a fairy tale, real “once upon a time” stuff.

  . . . a man-child was born during a terrible storm. It was a time of madness. It was a time of the mingling of things that should remain forever apart. For at noon the light died and darkness claimed the oasis and the sky above roiled and split and jagged blades of lightning slashed the earth below, and the very desert itself lifted and rode the screaming wind to strike anything in its path. Thus day assumed the guise of night. Water and sand allied.

  Then from the whirling insanity of a world in torment came a man. A hermit was he who for the past forty years had lived alone in a place without mercy. Some said he was a prophet. Some said he was a demon. All agreed that he had long ago abandoned that which makes a creature human.

  He entered the birthing room and suddenly the storm quieted. And in the stillness could be heard the wail of a newborn infant. The gaze of the new mother and her two sisters fastened on him in fascination and they trembled as he spoke in a voice that rasped and rumbled: Give him to me.

  The man from the storm lifted the newborn and he spoke: His will be a life lit by lightning. His years will be many stretching beyond the farthest dreams of age and it is his destiny to be either mankind’s savior or to destroy all that lives upon the earth.

  The man from the storm returned the infant to his mother and spoke: My task is finished.

  And as the mother looked upon her son only minutes from the womb she was afraid.

  Bruce looked up from the manuscript. The sky outside had darkened and a bat fluttered past the library window. Bruce saluted it, switched on a lamp, and started to read again.

  There was a gap in the story. Obviously, many pages, perhaps a hundred or more, had been lost. As the narrative resumed, the infant had grown to manhood, had married, had mastered
such healing arts as existed, and had somehow become a favorite of the local ruler, known as the Salimbok, and his son, Runce. Bruce skimmed several pages that seemed to concern things like trade routes and the size of dwellings, until he came to an account of the Physician’s falling-out with the bigwigs, the Salimbok and Runce.

  It began with a race. The Physician and Runce were tearing through the town, mounted on a couple of stallions, when an old woman got in their way. The story resumed in the middle of a sentence.

  ancient was she and blind and her soul was locked within itself no longer touching the world around her. She heard but did not heed the pounding of hooves as they approached her. She fell and was trampled into the dust.

  The contestants crossed the finish line and were joyously greeted by the Salimbok who declared the race truly excellent.

  The Salimbok spoke: The Physician is a superb horseman. He rides as well as he heals. But my son rode as swiftly as the wind. I declare my son and heir the victor.

  The Physician’s wife called Sora approached him. He spoke to her out of wounded pride: It seems that once again your husband bows to his better.

  She spoke: It is the will of the Salimbok that it be so. But I am still proud of my husband. Later when we are alone I will demonstrate the extent of my pride.

  Runce approached them. He spoke: What of me, fair Sora. Do not I merit any of your demonstration?

  Runce embraced Sora while her husband stood by in helpless rage.

  The Salimbok approached and spoke to his son: The victor’s feast awaits you. Such food as will delight your tongue and women too. Lovely girls in the first blush of maturity.

  Runce spoke: There are none so lovely as the wife of the Physician.

  The Salimbok spoke to the Physician: He is young and impetuous. You must forgive him.

  The Physician quelled the rage and pride within him and spoke: Yes, Excellency.

  The Physician and his wife retired to their quarters and conversed regarding the son of the Salimbok. The Physician spoke: He is young. Years and responsibilities will teach him decorum.