Detective Comics #27

An endless array of stars glittered in the background. You walk on the moon's silent surface, seeking out your storytelling companion.

"Greetings, mortal!" And there he is. He's humanoid, but definitely not human. His bald head is massively outsized compared to his body. The man wears a white toga fastened with a golden clasp and a purple cape.

He is Uatu the Watcher, and he has been your guide for the past several months through the cosmic mysteries you now see.

"Who are we watching this time, Uatu?" you ask. "And don't bother with announcing the Kryptonian. I know he, whoever he is, has arrived.

"Indeed, he has, mortal!" Uatu booms. "And with him has come the Age of Marvels! But this is not yet his story. Now we must turn to his greatest friend and closest ally! Alone among the mortal races, his equal!"

Interest stirs in you. "Who?" you ask. "Who on Earth can equal the Kryptonian?"

"The Caped Crusader!" Uatu answers. "The World's Greatest Detective! The Dark Knight! The Batman!

Night fell like a heavy mantle on Gotham's skyscrapers. Built in a different age, when human achievement had not been replaced by the soulless working of machines, the skyscrapers of that mighty city kept their Art déco and Gothic hearts. In the penthouse suite of one such tower, two mismatched individuals were discussing the fate of their broken city.

Bruce Wayne, billionaire philanthropist and socialite sat on one side of the coffee table, sipping on non-caffeinated tea. He was tall and slim, with chiseled good features. His black hair was slicked back. Eyes the colour of hot coal peered out over a raptor's beak of a nose. His lips were thin and firm. Bruce wore a checkered smoking jacket over a white collared shirt with a blue tie and navy blue pants.

Beside him was James Gordon, a Gotham City Police Lieutenant. Gordon was broad shouldered and barrel chested, with a jawline that made professional models envious. His hair was red as sunrise. He wore a black business suit over white collared shirt and black tie. A cup of tea sat beside him, cooling.

"Barbara wants to try for a son," Gordon said to Bruce. "I don't know. Can we really raise a kid in this city?"

"Hey, my parents raised me and I turned out all right, didn't I?" Bruce said. He flashed his friend a quick grin. Bruce and Gordon were an odd pair, nobody questioned that. Bruce was not just any socialite, but the Prince of Gotham. On his father's side, Bruce was a Wayne; one of the founding Patrician families of Gotham. Bluer blood was hard to find. Through his mother, Bruce was a Kane; one of the other founding Patrician families. Although Martha Kane had renounced all claims to the Kane fortune when she became Martha Wayne that still left Bruce as the richest man in Gotham.

Jim Gordon was from much humbler origins. His ancestors had been Irish immigrants who fled the Potato Famine in their home country for a better life in America. What they got was hardship and discrimination. The Gordons had eked out a living as cops for generations in Chicago until Jim was forced to leave under questionable circumstances. Now the Gordons made their home in Gotham City.

Why a powerful, foppish billionaire would bother to befriend an outcast cop like Jim Gordon was a question everybody knew the answer to in Gotham. Bruce wanted a friend on the force who could cover up his misdeeds.

They weren't wrong, exactly. But they would be surprised at just what kind of 'misdeeds' Bruce wanted covered up.

"Different times, my friend," Gordon said. "This city's gone to hell in a handbasket in the last twenty years. It was different when I was a kid that's for sure. We even have some nut running around in a bat costume now!"

"I've heard about the Batman," Bruce admitted. "I always thought he was some kind of urban legend."

"He's real enough," Gordon said. "Terrifies criminals, too. Most of the local thugs are afraid to go out at night."

"Maybe that's a good thing," Bruce pointed out. "Reduce the crime in the city a little?"

"Maybe," Gordon said. He didn't sound like he believed it much. "More likely…"

"My apologies, sir," a voice said from behind Gordon. Bruce leaned out from his chair.

"What is it, Alfred?" Bruce asked his butler.

Alfred Pennyworth was one of the few people as tall as his master. He had a lean, weathered face and grey hair he was slowly losing. He wore a pencil mustache and was dressed in a butler's uniform.

"I'm afraid there is a phone call for Lieutenant Gordon, sir," Alfred answered. "Apparently they have been trying to reach his cell phone for some time."

"Damn it," Gordon said. "Tonight was supposed to be my night off." He got off the couch and followed Alfred to the offending telecommunications device.

Bruce surreptitiously pulled out his own cell to listen in to Gordon's conversation.

"What is it?" Gordon demanded.

"I'm sorry to bother you Lieutenant," the officer said. "I know it's your night off and all. But Lambert's dead."

"Lambert who?" Gordon asked.

"Lambert, the chemical king," the officer said.

"Oh, that Lambert," Gordon said. "God damn it. He's one of the commissioner's closest friends."

"I don't know anything about that, sir," the officer said. "All I know is, you're the only experienced detective we can get out here on such short notice!"

"Right," Gordon said. "I'll be there in five."

"Don't rush LT," the officer said. "These god-damn country roads are dangerous. I don't want to have to send a meat wagon after you too!"

"Don't worry about me, just keep anybody from messing with the crime scene until I get there," Gordon ordered. He hung up. Bruce did the same with his phone, switching over to a mindless idle game so as not to arouse suspicion.

Gordon came back. "I'm afraid I've got to go, Bruce," he said. "Old Lambert's dead, and the local cops need a detective."

"No problem Jim," Bruce said. "Do you want Alfred to drive you? These country roads can be treacherous."

"Don't worry about me," Gordon said. "I just wish we could go one night in Gotham without somebody dying!"

"I know what you mean," Bruce said. "Take care!" Gordon left. Bruce got out of his chair, calling: "Alfred!"

"I'm here sir," Alfred said, walking up behind Bruce.

"Alfred, Lambert of Lambert Chemicals is dead," Bruce said making his way through the Wayne Mansion to his study.

"And you suspect foul play, sir?"

"Somebody does," Bruce said. "Or they wouldn't have called in Gordon."

"True," Alfred agreed. "But does this really necessitate an appearance by the Batman? Lambert was ancient when I was young. Intentional murder seems a bit… excessive, don't you think?"

"Maybe," Bruce said as they reached his study. Bruce went to the grandfather clock that hung in the study and changed the hands. The clock swung open, revealing a staircase cut into the very rock. The entrance to the Batcave, for Gordon's friend Bruce Wayne was really…

The Batman!

Gordon arrived at Lambert's estate, a neo-colonial affair with expansive grounds. The patrol officer waved him through.

"What's the story?" Gordon asked as he reached the crime scene.

"Thanks for coming, Detective," the lead officer said. "We haven't got much. The vic is Lambert, president and founder of Lambert Chemicals."

"The guy who supplies every industry in this town with the chemicals they need," Gordon said. "I remember. He has something of a reputation as an honest businessman, too. Rare for Gotham."

"I don't know about that," the officer said. "All I know is he pays his taxes and keeps to himself. Anyway, he was stabbed twice in his parlour and the safe was cracked open. We found the kid, Lambert's son, standing over the body with a bloody knife in his hands, crying like a baby."

"Do you think he did it?" Gordon said.

"Who knows?" the officer answered with a shrug. "He wouldn't be the first kid I saw to stab his father in a rage and regret it later, that's for sure. On the other hand, our search of the house isn't complete yet and we haven't interviewed all the staff yet, either."

"You haven't finished searching the house?" Gordon asked.

"It's a big house, Lieutenant," the officer pointed out. "If we include the grounds, we could be here another couple of hours, easy."

"Good point," Gordon said. "All right, let me talk to the kid."

Gordon walked over to the young man sobbing in an overstuffed chair in the southwest corner of the study.

"Mr. Lambert, I'm Lieutenant James Gordon, GCPD. Can you tell me, in your own words, what happened?" Gordon asked.

Young Lambert gave a great shuddering sigh and said:

"I don't know. I was over in the east wing of the house. I came in to the study to see if Dad was still up. That's when I saw him, just lying there in a puddle of his own blood. I—I don't remember much after that. Not until the cops showed up, anyway."

Gordon nodded. "Did you and your father get alone?" he asked.

"He could be distant," Lambert admitted. "But we never really fought or anything."

"Is there anyone who would want to harm your father?" Gordon asked.

"Not that I can think of," Lambert said. "But here, I'll give you the names of his business partners. Maybe they know more. Um, they're Steven Crane, Paul Rogers and Alfred Stryker."

Gordon wrote the names down. Just then, a uniformed police officer came up to Gordon.

"Lieutenant, there's somebody on the phone for you by the name of Steven Crane. He was calling for old man Lambert originally. I told him I was the police, and he became very excited, demanding to speak to the officer in charge."

"Thanks, Robbins," Gordon said. He picked up the handset from the officer. "Hello, this is Lieutenant Gordon, GCPD."

"Thank goodness!" the voice on the other side of the line said. "I'm in trouble. Just the other day, I received an anonymous death threat. I thought nothing of it until I called up Lambert and got the police! Tell me, is Lambert dead?"

"Don't worry about Lambert," Gordon told Crane. "I'm sending officers to you, I just need an address."

Crane gave it to him. Gordon barked out orders for a squad car to rush over to Crane's place. He turned back to Lambert's lifeless body.

He had a feeling tonight had just begun.

Steven Crane sat in his library, clutching a double-barrelled shotgun to his chest. Crane had never fired the thing in his life. He had no idea if it even worked. All he knew was the sense of impending doom.

Crane heard a noise in the shadows. "Who's there?" he demanded.

Out of the shadows stepped a lone gunman. Crane fumbled with his gun; the gunman did not. One shot was all it took and Crane was dead. The gunman holstered his pistol and ran to the safe. Swiftly he cracked it, taking only a single piece of paper.

The gunman rushed outside to meet by his partner.

"Did you get the paper?" the partner asked.

"I got it," the gunman said.

"Good," the partner said. "We need to get out of here. I heard Crane called for the cops already."

"Then what are still waiting around for?" the gunman said. They raced to their car, only for a menacing figure to step out of the shadows and stop them cold.

The man, if he was that, wore a pair of blue-black shorts over a dark grey bodysuit with a bat emblem in a yellow circle emblazoned on his chest. A blue-black scalloped cape covered his arms. On his head was a cowl the same colour as his cape with pointed ears and a cut-out for the mouth. Blank white eyes glared at the two killers. On his feet were a pair of sleek blue-black boots. A yellow belt cinched his waist.

"Holy shit! It's the Batman!" the gunman screamed.

"Get him!" the partner screamed.

The gunman fumbled for his gun. Batman let loose with a vicious left hook that slammed hard into the gunman's jaw. The gunman teetered for a second or two before falling down.

"Get away from me!" the partner screamed as the Batman reached out for him with gloved hands. The last thing the partner saw before he blacked out was those blue-black gloves with scalloped edges like bat wings reaching for him.

Bruce searched his unconscious victims thoroughly. They had the accoutrements of their profession: two 9mm pistols, equipped with silencers; a knife each; brass knuckles; lock picks; a stethoscope for breaking into safes and some grappling gear to get into high places. Professional, experienced hitmen these two. Gordon would know what to do with them.

Bruce searched the bodies a little more. In an unsealed envelope in the first gunman's pocket was the paper the two gunmen were tasked with acquiring. Bruce took the envelope, then tied up the two gunmen.

A car pulled up. Batman whirled around to see a pair of police officers get out of the car. The cops saw him too.

"It's the Batman! Get him!" they yelled as they drew and fired their pistols. They missed. Batman threw a small scalloped shuriken at the cops. He didn't miss. The cops dropped their pistols, clutching their hands in pain.

Batman leaped forward on to the lead officer, knocking her to the ground. The other officer was on him like lightning, throwing punch after punch. Batman dodged them all, more shadow than human. The officer threw a final jab that left him wide open for an uppercut to the chin from Batman. The officer went down, hard.

Bruce surveyed the scene. There was nothing left for him here. He raced across the grounds to his own car, a 1955 Lincoln Futura painted black with red trimmings. Bruce leapt into the driver's seat and closed the bubble canopy. In seconds, he was off.

James Gordon pulled up to the Crane estate shortly after the Batman left. The search at the Lambert house had turned up a broken window, but not much else. Gordon knew that whatever had been taken from Lambert's safe was the key to the whole mystery, but young Lambert didn't know what was in the safe and so neither did the cops.

Gordon was met by the two officers he had sent on ahead, both nursing bruises.

"What happened to you two?" he asked.

"The Batman," they said.

"Oh," Gordon said. "He was here?" Gordon wasn't really surprised; Batman had a knack for showing up at the oddest places. Still, Gordon would have thought this Lambert thing too small time for the Bat.

"He was here," one officer said, a sour expression on her face. "He wasn't the only one, either. He trussed up two small time hoods before we got here. We interrupted him. Guess he didn't like that, 'cause he attacked us."

"You interrupted him?" Gordon asked, folding his arms. "With your words, officer? Or your pistols?"

"Our pistols," the second officer said, rubbing his hand. "He threw something at us, some kind of boomerang I think. Whatever it was, it disarmed us right quick. At least we got a couple of shots off."

His partner glared at him. "What?" the second officer said. Gordon shook his head, chuckling.

"Word of advice, kid. Don't shoot the Batman," he said. "It just makes him mad."

"Commissioner Grogan says we need to bring the Batman in," the second officer said.

"We probably do," Gordon agreed. "But not by shooting him, clear?"

"Clear," the officers agreed.

"Good," Gordon said. "So the Batman got two hoods, eh? I don't suppose he got them before they got to Crane."

"'Fraid not LT," the first officer said. She jerked her head back. "The butler shook us awake, saying Crane was dead. We're sure the two hoods did it. They had a pair of nines laid out beside them, and one of them had been fired."

"Damn it," Gordon said. He grabbed his radio from his hip and spoke into it, giving orders for the rest of Lambert's business partners to be protected.

"All right," Gordon said, hanging up his radio. "It's not your fault. We'll go in and talk to the butler, see what he can tell us."

"It's horrible," the butler said. She sat on a couch in Crane's study, dressed in her butler uniform and sobbing into a handkerchief. "I can't believe he's dead!"

Gordon handed the woman a cup of tea. "It's all right, ma'am," he said. "We'll catch the monster behind this."

The butler stopped crying to give Gordon an incredulous look. He kept on.

"I'm Police Lieutenant James Gordon," he said. "You can call me Jim. Can you tell us what happened?"

"No, not really," the butler said. "I was finishing up some stuff for the night when I heard what sounded like a gunshot. I ran to the library to find Mr. Crane dead."

"Okay," Gordon said. "Okay. I understand you've been through a lot tonight. If we could, we would like to take a look at the library…"

"NO!" the butler screamed. The cops gathered around her all jumped.

"Ma'am…" Gordon started, but the butler cut him off.

"You're Gotham City cops!" the butler screamed. "You're here to fucking ransack the place! I never should've let you in! Out! OUT!"

Gordon decided that this wasn't the best time to press the issue.

"We will talk later, ma'am," Gordon said, "after you've had time to calm down. Gents, pack it up."

The cops met outside of the Crane house, humiliated and disgusted.

"That went well," Gordon said.

"You big city boys have a messed up definition of 'went well'," one officer, a burly male said.

"He was being sarcastic, genius," another officer replied.

"Enough!" Gordon said. "I want officers surrounding the place, around the clock. Whoever killed Crane might try come back. To tie up those two loose ends if nothing else."

"We don't have the manpower for this, Lieutenant," another officer warned.

"I know," Gordon said, sighing. "I know. Hopefully we can catch this lunatic before it gets worse."

Bruce sped down the gravel road in his car while Alfred talked to him over the headset in his cowl.

"Somebody's targeting Lambert's old business partners," Bruce said.

"That much is obvious," Alfred replied. "The question is, who? Some radical anti-capitalist, perhaps? A jilted lover of one man, killing others to throw us off the scent? The possibilities thus far are endless."

"I don't think so," Bruce said. "I managed to… acquire a document from Crane's library. Tell me, Alfred, do you know what a 'tontine' is?"

"A tontine?" Alfred repeated. "I haven't heard that word in years. It's an investment where everybody pays in an equal share and receives dividends. If one investor dies then that investors shares go to the surviving members."

"Sounds like an invitation to murder," Bruce said.

"Quite," Alfred said. "Which is why tontines are mostly illegal these days."

"Hrm," Bruce said. "According to this paper, a tontine is exactly what the partnership between Lambert, Crane, Rogers and Stryker was. I wonder how they got that through the courts?"

"Not having seen the document in question sir, I cannot say," Alfred said. "My guess is that they used a form of tontine not yet illegal. More importantly, the nature of their investment narrows our suspect pool into the range of the manageable. The only question left is whether our murderer is Rogers or Stryker."

"That's not a question at all, Alfred," Bruce said. "I know exactly which one of them it is." With that, the Batmobile roared off into the distance.

One suspect in question, Rogers, was already at the house of the other suspect. He was dressed in an orange suit and a yellow trilby. He pounded on Stryker's door, tears of fear running down his face.

"Open up damn you!" he said. The butler, a large man with bulging eyes and a rough face in a checkered waistcoat by the name of Jennings, opened the door.

"Jennings, thank God!" Rogers said. "I need to see Stryker immediately!"

"Won't you come in?" Jennings said, shifting to the side to let Rogers in. He had only taken a few steps inside the house when Jennings sapped him with a blackjack. Rogers went down with a thud. When he came to, Jennings had already tied him up and carried him to Stryker's lab. Rogers now sat under a glass dome with a nozzle on top.

"Ah, you're awake," Jennings said from the far side of the room. "Good. This is the gas chamber I use to kill guinea pigs—now, you are my guinea pig! Heh, heh. When the glass lid covers you entirely, the gas will come through the jet and kill you! Heh, heh."

"Hilarious Jennings," Rogers said, shaking in fear. "This has gone far enough. Come on Jennings, let me out!" But Jennings had already left.

There was an almighty crash at the window. Rogers turned to look. There stood the strangest figure Gotham had ever produced: the Batman! The Batman rolled to the gas chamber's control system and shut it off. Rogers breathed a deep sigh of relief.

Just then, Jennings came back into the lab. "What the hell is going on?" he said as he scanned the room. He saw the Batman. "You!" he shouted, reaching for his gun.

Batman was quicker on the draw. The Batman drew and threw a batarang, slashing Jenning's gun arm and disarming him from the pain. Batman followed that up with a shoulder tackle, slamming the butler into the nearby wall. Jennings was out cold.

"What's all this racket?" a fat, balding man in a grey suit said, having just come in from another entrance into the lab. He was Alfred Stryker.

"Stryker! Jennings tried to kill me!" Rogers said.

"He failed, did he? No matter, I'll handle this myself," Stryker said. He drew a knife and charged Rogers. Another batarang came out of the shadows, hitting Stryker in the knife-arm and disarming him. Batman stepped out of the shadows to grab Stryker by the front of his shirt.

"I don't get it," Rogers said. "Why did he try to kill me?"

"Because he was broke," Batman said. His voice was deep, like it came out of the shadows too. "You, Lambert, Crane and Stryker were all partners in the Apex Chemical Corporation."

"That's right," Rogers said. "We each had equal shares, and if any of us died, the others would get their shares."

"But Stryker didn't want to share," Batman said. "He wanted the company all to himself. Only he couldn't afford to pay you off. So he decided to kill you instead."

"Jesus, Alfred," Rogers said. "You could have said something. We could have worked it out!"

"Fuck you Rogers," Stryker spat. He turned to the Batman. "You know they'll never put me away for this," he said. "Justice is too easily bought in Gotham, despite your best efforts."

"Maybe," Batman said. "But now, you're on my radar. I know all about you, Stryker. Like how you got Jennings from Arkham. Or why you don't have the money to pay your partners. And if you step out of line again…"

"I get the picture," Stryker said, admitting defeat.

"Good," Batman said.

Gordon and his men stood on Stryker's lawn, listening to Rogers share his incredible tale.

"You know, we might have been here faster if Bats had shared that piece of information with us," one officer said.

"Maybe," Gordon admitted. "Or maybe we should have been here before he even got on the scene. Oh well. Nothing we can do about it now I suppose. Go round up Stryker and Jennings. At least we can put those two away for a while."

END CHAPTER

Author's Note:

Well, well, well. Here it is, Batman's first action packed adventure! Indeed his very first, as this chapter is based heavily on Detective Comics #27, with a few twists of my own. The batsuit here is from Batman: The Animated Series (still the best representation of the Bat on-screen, bar none), while the Batmobile is the one from the 1960's series. Why? 'Cause it's the only car cool enough to make James Bond weep with envy.

Catch you next time, true believers!

Batman created by Bill Finger.

If you enjoyed this chapter, please support me on ( joshstoodley) or by my original fiction on Amazon.

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