BATMAN: CRIME, CRIME EVERYWHERE
By Bruce Wayne
DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters portrayed in this story are copyright by DC Comics, an AOL/Time/Warner company. They are used without permission for entertainment without profit by the author.
CHAPTER 13 - MOVES AT DUSK
The attempted robbery at the Riddler's produced one important result, it made Gotham City diamond-conscious. Clendon had agreed that he and his associates would spend large sums of money for publicity, and their campaign was started before they realized it.
Newspapers ran photographs of the uncut diamonds, and the public was intrigued to learn that a handful of such "pebbles" could be worth a quarter million in cash. Clendon's associates immediately began to emphasize that cut and finished stones were valued even higher.
Such rare gems, they announced, would soon be on public display, on a scale so lavish that it would rival the fanciful stories of the "Arabian Nights." The Gotham City jewelers were going right ahead with their promised diamond shows, to be held at the very fashionable Hotel Gotham.
After the shock of learning that Edward Nigma was in fact the infamous master-criminal known as the Riddler, the diamond sellers turned to a new man who came on the scene, seemingly out of nowhere. His name was Mushy Nebuchadnezzer, the burnoose wearing former boxing champion of southwest Asia. Nebuchadnezzer was said to be very rich.
The new investor met with Clendon and Daley and agreed to organize the original idea that was put forth by Nigma for a chain-store system, which was to bear the distinctive title "House of Nebuchadnezzer." Both a financier and a promoter, Nebuchadnezzer was putting up the quarter million represented by his uncut diamonds and encouraging other investors to buy stock to a total of a million dollars, as an initial issue.
Since this meant that Nebuchadnezzer would no longer hold the controlling interest in the chain system, he was very careful in his choice of investors. He concentrated upon men who were both wealthy and reliable, among them Bruce Wayne. As a result, Batman was present at important conferences which concerned the coming diamond shows.
So far, no money was involved. The House of Nebuchadnezzer was ready for incorporation, but waiting until the Gotham City jewelers showed their stuff. Thus the conferences were dominated by Clendon, who boasted that the first show would have six million dollars' worth of the finest diamonds on exhibit.
The fact interested Batman. It meant something which the others did not seem to foresee -- namely that crime would have an opportunity far greater than the thwarted robbery of the Riddler's uncut stones. The reason why crime's chance was overlooked was because strict measures were being taken to protect the diamonds.
But Batman was working on the definite assumption that crime had not ended with the flight of Curly Regal.
It was certain that Curly was in the game. But Batman was confident that there were other hands, and clever ones. The clue was the death of White. The henchman wasn't the sort of spy that Curly would have planted at the Riddler's, though the police chose to think so. White's death had been necessary to cover up someone else.
Whatever his suspicions, Batman, so far, had no proof of certain facts he needed. Batman had Oracle conduct a background check on White. Some interesting facts came to light as a result of Barbara Gordon's computer probe. White had worked for several wealthy persons. None had prompted him to seek the job with Nigma. The question was: who had given White that idea?
It might have been Curly Regal, but Batman did not think so. With only two days to go before the first diamond show, Batman was still following the same course as the law -- trying to locate Curly Regal, on the chance that the fugitive big-shot might at least provide some facts.
At the final conference, late that afternoon, Bruce Wayne chatted briefly with Jon Daley. The South African had very little to say. He expressed worry over other problems. One of his jobs was that of organizing the diamond cutters, getting them working on an efficient basis. It was giving Daley some trouble, and he preferred that others should bother about the diamond shows.
***
There was one man that Batman should had known about: The Penguin.
On the same afternoon that Bruce Wayne chatted with Daley, the Penguin had business elsewhere. Riding in a very swanky car, the society criminal parked near Ninety-sixth Street and took a stroll on foot. He came to a small but well-kept apartment house and rang a bell that bore no name.
Announcing himself to the cautious voice that answered, the Penguin went upstairs and was admitted into an apartment by Curly Regal.
Though small, Curly's hideout was lavish -- much like his former apartment -- but on a miniature scale. He was living in the place alone, trusting none of his usual pals.
Curly was in a snarly mood. He admitted that his present plight was his own fault and that he owed the Penguin much for having tipped him off to trouble, the other night. But Curly didn't like hiding out. He wanted results in a hurry, and said so.
"You can't hurry this thing," argued the Penguin. "Here, read the evening newspaper, my fine, fellow, fink, and you'll see why. It tells all about the diamond show, day after tomorrow."
Curly read a few paragraphs, then chucked the newspaper aside.
"It's tied up tight," he growled. "With Bullock and a bunch of coppers on the job, how are you going to grab any of the rocks? Those sparklers will be worn by society dames, and the bulls will be watching the place from every angle."
"I'm taking a couple of picked men," reminded the Penguin. "Chaps from the list you gave me. None of them is wanted. They look like real society men. With my coaching --"
"They'll get nowhere," interjected Curly. "The best way is to get a mob and hijack the sparklers on their way into the hotel."
The Penguin shook his head. "I'll get the diamonds," he promised suavely, "but there's a little job that will have to be done first. Let me take another look at the newspaper, Curly."
Curly reclaimed the newspaper and handed it over. The Penguin studied the photographs of the super models who were to appear at the diamond show wearing special gowns designed to go along with the gems. He was particularly interested in certain faces, which he classed as types. Most of the females were girls that the Penguin knew, but it didn't impress Curly.
"Forget those dolls," snarled the big-shot. "Tell me about the job you mentioned."
"I'll give you the details later," promised the Man of a Thousand Umbrellas. "For the present, what I need is a chap who can stage a good bluff. Some fellow who is neither a hoodlum nor a smoothie. One who would look like a police detective. You probably know a lot who would do, Curly. But, remember, you're wanted, and the police are probably checking on most of your associates. So name me one who isn't likely to be connected with you, but who will do whatever you say."
The assignment wasn't easy, but Curly finally fulfilled it. Referring to a little address book, he said: "Get Bob Holbert. You won't have to see him. Call him up at this number and ask him if he's heard from Artie. It's a password we used at the gambling joint in Miami, to tell right guys from phonies. When Bob says yes, tell him what you want and that I say it's okay."
The Penguin was jotting down the number. Finished, he glanced at his watch and turned toward the door. Curly gripped him by the arm and demanded: "What is it that you want with Bob?"
"He'll never know," chuckled the Penguin, "but that's the best part of it. Of course, he'll know what he's to do, because I'll tell him that much. But the rest of it -- well, I'll give you the whole story when I get back. Keep that newspaper handy, so we can check something with it. I'll have to work quickly, Curly."
***
A quarter hour after The Penguin's departure from Curly's hideout, Bob Holbert received the telephone call. Bob was a chunky, wise-faced man. He spent most of his time in a side-street poolroom, which happened to be the place where he received the Black Bird of Prey's call.
After recognizing the countersign, Bob had a chat with The Penguin over the phone. Bob corroborated Curly's belief. He assured the master criminal that no police were watching him.
From then on, arrangements were rapid. Bob paid his share of the pool game, put his cue in the rack, and left the place.
On a nearby rooftop, Bob didn't notice a figure that was watching the front door of the poolroom. The wind caught the observer's black cape with yellow on the inside. The figure took up Holbert's trail. Dusk had settled. Bob didn't observe the silent trailer.
Bob's first stop was a corner pawnshop, which he entered after looking over items displayed in the window. From there, he went to a cigar store and made a call from a pay phone.
The mysterious figure resumed the trail, on each occasion. When Bob reached a subway station and paused to look about, the trailer made a rapid duck beyond the kiosk and again escaped detection.
As soon as Bob had gone down the steps, the other figure followed him. Bob went through a turnstile. The trailer merely jumped the turnstile silent and unseen. Holbert entered a subway train. The young trailer took a seat on the outside top of the car.
Holding on to the top of the subway car, the follower of Holbert quickly peered through a window to see where his quarry was.
There was a grin on Bob's choppy face. He had proven to his own satisfaction that the police were not watching him. They hadn't an idea that Holbert was a friend of Curly Regal. But Bob unwisely took it for granted that what the police did not know no one else could. Holbert should have remembered the Dark Knight of Gotham City.
The World's Greatest Detective had computer files that the law would have envied. He had gone over them thoroughly, in the case of Curly Regal. The known friends of the ex-gambler were numerous. Batman had left it to the law to check up on them. He had taken on the surveillance of Curly's additional friends, the few that the law had never linked with the big- shot.
One of those chosen few was Bob Holbert. In a way, he was the most select of the lot. Batman had assigned his most capable trailer to observe Holbert. The figure riding on top of the subway car was Robin, the Boy Wonder.
When it came to following a trail unnoticed, Robin had only one superior, Batman himself. From the moment that Bob Holbert set out to keep his rendezvous with The Penguin, it was a certainty that Robin would arrive at the same destination.
Moves had come at dusk. Whatever their purpose, they had a bearing on coming crime, as Batman soon would know!
Holbert's destination was a shabby, dumpy office building on a little-traveled street. Pausing in front of the place, Bob studied it with practiced eye, then brought out a cigar that he had bought in the tobacco store, broke it in half and threw one end away.
He lighted what remained of the cigar, much to the puzzlement of Robin, who had sidled in between two parked cars. Seeing Holbert enter the building puffing at a half cigar, the Boy Wonder crossed the street and found a dark gangway between an old barber shop and an insurance office.
The youthful hero seemed to speak into the air. "Oracle," he whispered.
"Go R," the female voice replied into his earphone.
Robin gave brief details concerning Bob Holbert, and was told to continue his surveillance.
Trying to get closer to his target, Robin found that one of the parked cars had pulled away from in front of the building. So he decided it was best to stay where he was in the gangway between the two buildings. Though not as close as he would had liked to be, the hiding place enabled him to see the building entrance across the street perfectly.
In guessing that Holbert intended to meet someone, Robin was correct. The trouble was that Bob had already met the expected persons. They had arrived in the building ahead of him.
Three men were waiting on a stairway, one was The Penguin, the others were well-dressed individuals who looked quite as smooth as the society criminal. They happened to be a pair of confidence men that the Black Bird of Prey had chosen from Curly's list.
The three smiled when they saw Holbert, particularly because of the cigar, which was nearly out and had an end that looked like a mushroom.
Holbert gave a return grin, and rolled the cigar toward the side of his face. From his pocket he brought a detective's badge, that he had bought in the pawnshop, and pinned it to his belt. Pushing back one side of his sport coat and resting a hand on his hip, Bob displayed the badge and gruffed: "How about it? Do I make a good cop?"
"Perfect!" returned The Penguin. "Come on, Mr Holbert. We've got our job waiting, on the third floor."
The group reached an office that bore no name. The Penguin rapped on the door with the handle of his umbrella. It was opened by a baldish man in shirt sleeves, whose face was long, droopy-lipped and squinty-eyed.
The bald man might have accepted The Penguin as a visitor, but he happened to spot Holbert in the rear of the group. He tried to slam the door and duck back into the office, but The Penguin inserted a quick foot. The door didn't slam. it merely damaged one of The Penguin's patent-leather shoes.
"Quack, squak, quack! You're Stephen Helk," accused The Penguin, waddling into the dilapidated office. "We're from the Better Business Bureau, and we've come to look into the movie-star racket that you've been running."
Helk had flopped into a rickety swivel chair in front of a desk. The desk was piled with letters. Behind it was an old filing cabinet, a drawer half open. The Penguin could see a stack of photographs in the cabinet drawer.
"You can't do this!" snarled Helk, suddenly. "This is a legitimate business, not a racket!"
"Tell that to the judge," growled Holbert, as he pushed past The Penguin and the others. "I'm from headquarters, and that's where I'm taking you! Let's go."
Helk began to mouth something about a warrant, but it made no dent on Holbert. He pulled Helk's coat from a rack, tossed it to the fellow and told him to put it on. All the while, Bob was flashing his badge, and he added another glitter, in the form of handcuffs that he had also bought in the pawnshop.
By then, Helk's tune had completely changed. He was trying to argue that the racket wasn't his and that he was merely hired by Ajax Producers, as he called the business, to conduct a legitimate contest.
"Maybe the outfit is phony," pleaded Helk, "but I'm not. I've only been here a few weeks --"
"Because you've been on the lam, dear man," interrupted The Penguin. "We know all about you, Helk. How you use a post office box as an address and change offices so fast that you can't even catch up with yourself. We know your name isn't on your letterhead" -- The Penguin was picking up a sheet of Helk's stationery -- "but that's because you can't afford to risk it. You've kept a few jumps ahead of the postal inspectors, but you stayed too long in Gotham City. Our bureau is equipped to deal with fine, finny, finks like you."
Holbert gave The Penguin's words cold emphasis by slapping one bracelet of the handcuffs on Helk's wrist and locking the other to his own. Chewing on his stumpy cigar, he hauled the fake movie producer out into the hall. The Penguin closed the door, and turned to find his two slick companions laughing.
"Snap out of it," ordered The Penguin. "We've got to get busy. Use those clippings that I gave you, while we go through the files. Lay your cameras over on that table in the corner. We probably won't need them. But lay them carefully."
The Penguin's minions complied. Both were carrying boxes that looked like cameras, a fact which had impressed Helk, along with Holbert's impersonation of a police detective. With The Penguin at the desk, the others dug into the filing cabinet, handing their leader stacks of photographs.
Outside, Robin experienced new amazement when he saw Holbert and Helk come from the building, handcuffed together. He knew Bob to be a crook, and surmised that the fellow had walked into trouble. By rights, Helk should have been the detective and Holbert the prisoner.
Robin expected Batman at any minute. He knew that the Masked Manhunter was coming with the Batmobile.
It would be easy for Robin to trail this odd pair and contact Batman while he was cruising the vicinity, which it would be, if the Caped Crusader did not find the Boy Wonder at the building. But before Robin could emerge from the gangway, he received another surprise.
Instead of passing a dilapidated automobile that Robin had hidden between only a short while earlier, Holbert entered it, dragging Helk with him. Unlocking his half of the handcuffs, Bob attached the loose link to the steering wheel.
Poking his head from the gangway, Robin peered through the car window and saw the two men. He could hear Holbert's growls interspersed with Helk's whines. Unfortunately, Helk's name wasn't mentioned. The youthful observer learned simply that Bob, posing as a detective, was taking a droopy-faced man to police headquarters.
At least, so Holbert said. But Robin knew well enough that the trip would wind up somewhere else. As the car started, the Boy Wonder moved closer.
To his elation, he saw the Batmobile swinging in from the corner. Coming up like a jack-in-the-box, Robin gave a quick beckon, then dropped out of sight back into the gangway.
On his comm-link, Robin said, "Target is in the car I pointed out."
Batman had caught Robin's signal and acknowledged on the secure radio channel. The Caped Crusader decided to take up the trail that the Boy Wonder had found for him.
As Holbert and his prisoner drove away, the Batmobile made a quick stop and Robin jumped into the front passenger seat next to his mentor.
On the Batmobile's command panel, Batman pressed a button and Robin heard a pneumatic "WHOOSH" emanate from the rolling arsenal. From a concealed barrel on the front of the Batmobile, the Dark Knight had fired a homing transmitter equipped with a tiny microphone at Holbert's automobile. The tiny device struck and affixed itself at the top of the car's rear window.
Things were happening in the car ahead of them that even Robin did not know about. His tone less growly, Holbert was talking to Helk. The fake detective had an offer for his prisoner, which he put in confidential style.
"I'm no stooge," began Holbert, "but you'd think I was, the way headquarters sent me up here. Helping a bunch of stuffed shirts put a guy like you out of business isn't my line, Helk."
Helk licked his lips. He was getting some comfort out of Holbert's statement. Maybe things weren't going to go as badly as Helk had thought.
"Kind of tough, driving with a guy hooked to the wheel," continued Holbert, as he swung the corner. "Maybe we'd do better without these bracelets."
Slackening the car, he released the handcuffs. Then, as he drove toward an avenue, Holbert added: "You know, Helk, if I had something important to do, like counting fifty bucks, I'd be too busy to watch where you went, if you hopped out of this car."
There was a sharp change in Helk's expression. He caught the inference -- that Holbert would give him freedom for fifty dollars. But Helk understood more. He recognized that Bob was as much a con man as he was. This was a fake arrest and Holbert wanted to be rid of him.
Then and there, Helk made the same mistake as Holbert. Like the fake detective, the droopy man overplayed his game. Knowing that Bob was anxious to get rid of him, Helk queried: "Would you settle for twenty-five?"
There was an immediate change in Holbert's expression. The car was swinging into the avenue, Bob didn't see the trailing Batmobile, for it was around the corner. What he did see was a truck, parked on the avenue.
It belonged to the set-up, just like the dilapidated car that had been planted in front of Helk's building to await Holbert's use.
"Twenty-five?" queried Holbert. He let his hand ease from the door and give a beckoning motion. "Sure. Slip me the dough."
Helk slipped it.
Holbert was peering in the mirror. He saw the truck in motion, overtaking the car. The Batmobile came around the corner.
"There's a traffic cop at the corner," Holbert said. "I don't want him to spot this. Get started, Helk. Beat it!"
Holbert had reached across to yank the handle of the door on Helk's side of the car. As he finished his statement, he gave Helk a quick shove. Thinking that Bob was just putting up a final part of the bluff, Helk decided to let him get away with it. Under Holbert's shove, Helk jumped to the street.
Robin looked on in horror. Helk was a goner. He didn't travel far when he jumped from the car. Robin heard a shriek, the roar of the truck. The scream was from Helk's throat, not from the truck's brakes.
Slashing close to the side of the automobile, the truck found Helk squarely in its path and mowed him down before he could dart for the curb or return to the car that he had left.
Robin saw the figure go flying, like a thing of straw. Hurled twenty feet, Helk struck and rolled over in the street. While his battered body was still spinning, the truck went after him like a hungry monster and crushed him to a human mash beneath its heavy wheels.
The traffic officer saw the murder, but had no chance to stop it. The truck was out for double death, the policeman to be its next victim. With the officer dead, there would be no witness to the tragedy. The cover-up crooks who were in the truck would be on their way, unidentified.
Nothing, it seemed, could have saved the officer from death. Even if a car had tried to block the massive truck, it would have simply been hurled ahead upon the helpless officer. But where a direct block would have been futile, an angle attack succeeded. Another vehicle was on the scene: the Batmobile.
It had whizzed past the other side of Holbert's car. It was cutting in to meet the truck, at the point of a V. Nosing in at high speed, the nearly invulnerable Batmobile's fender bumped the truck in the vicinity of the big front wheels.
The truck veered, partly from the driver's instinctive reaction, partly from the blow that the Batmobile imparted. The incredible car bounced away like a skittish toy, and Batman deliberately threw it into a wild skid in the opposite direction. The truck was skimming the curb on one side of the avenue. The Batmobile was playing hopscotch on the opposite sidewalk.
But between the two, as safe as if he had been on a traffic island, was the astonished policeman who, moments before, had been faced by immediate doom.
Already, guns were at work. Bullets were bouncing off the Batmobile. The lead pellets richocheted harmlessly from the heavily armored black vehicle.
Because there were innocent pedestrians around, Batman held off from firing a Bat-rocket at the truck.
Crooks were leaping to the street, firing revolvers as they went, anxious to battle the occupants in the mysterious vehicle that seemed to be impervious to harm.
However, deep in their dark souls, the evildoers, who moments before had run down a defenseless man in cold blood, knew that they could expect no mercy from the champion of justice who opposed them.
Only one man drove an incredible black car like that in Gotham City. They knew they were up against ... Batman!
To be continued ...
By Bruce Wayne
DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters portrayed in this story are copyright by DC Comics, an AOL/Time/Warner company. They are used without permission for entertainment without profit by the author.
CHAPTER 13 - MOVES AT DUSK
The attempted robbery at the Riddler's produced one important result, it made Gotham City diamond-conscious. Clendon had agreed that he and his associates would spend large sums of money for publicity, and their campaign was started before they realized it.
Newspapers ran photographs of the uncut diamonds, and the public was intrigued to learn that a handful of such "pebbles" could be worth a quarter million in cash. Clendon's associates immediately began to emphasize that cut and finished stones were valued even higher.
Such rare gems, they announced, would soon be on public display, on a scale so lavish that it would rival the fanciful stories of the "Arabian Nights." The Gotham City jewelers were going right ahead with their promised diamond shows, to be held at the very fashionable Hotel Gotham.
After the shock of learning that Edward Nigma was in fact the infamous master-criminal known as the Riddler, the diamond sellers turned to a new man who came on the scene, seemingly out of nowhere. His name was Mushy Nebuchadnezzer, the burnoose wearing former boxing champion of southwest Asia. Nebuchadnezzer was said to be very rich.
The new investor met with Clendon and Daley and agreed to organize the original idea that was put forth by Nigma for a chain-store system, which was to bear the distinctive title "House of Nebuchadnezzer." Both a financier and a promoter, Nebuchadnezzer was putting up the quarter million represented by his uncut diamonds and encouraging other investors to buy stock to a total of a million dollars, as an initial issue.
Since this meant that Nebuchadnezzer would no longer hold the controlling interest in the chain system, he was very careful in his choice of investors. He concentrated upon men who were both wealthy and reliable, among them Bruce Wayne. As a result, Batman was present at important conferences which concerned the coming diamond shows.
So far, no money was involved. The House of Nebuchadnezzer was ready for incorporation, but waiting until the Gotham City jewelers showed their stuff. Thus the conferences were dominated by Clendon, who boasted that the first show would have six million dollars' worth of the finest diamonds on exhibit.
The fact interested Batman. It meant something which the others did not seem to foresee -- namely that crime would have an opportunity far greater than the thwarted robbery of the Riddler's uncut stones. The reason why crime's chance was overlooked was because strict measures were being taken to protect the diamonds.
But Batman was working on the definite assumption that crime had not ended with the flight of Curly Regal.
It was certain that Curly was in the game. But Batman was confident that there were other hands, and clever ones. The clue was the death of White. The henchman wasn't the sort of spy that Curly would have planted at the Riddler's, though the police chose to think so. White's death had been necessary to cover up someone else.
Whatever his suspicions, Batman, so far, had no proof of certain facts he needed. Batman had Oracle conduct a background check on White. Some interesting facts came to light as a result of Barbara Gordon's computer probe. White had worked for several wealthy persons. None had prompted him to seek the job with Nigma. The question was: who had given White that idea?
It might have been Curly Regal, but Batman did not think so. With only two days to go before the first diamond show, Batman was still following the same course as the law -- trying to locate Curly Regal, on the chance that the fugitive big-shot might at least provide some facts.
At the final conference, late that afternoon, Bruce Wayne chatted briefly with Jon Daley. The South African had very little to say. He expressed worry over other problems. One of his jobs was that of organizing the diamond cutters, getting them working on an efficient basis. It was giving Daley some trouble, and he preferred that others should bother about the diamond shows.
***
There was one man that Batman should had known about: The Penguin.
On the same afternoon that Bruce Wayne chatted with Daley, the Penguin had business elsewhere. Riding in a very swanky car, the society criminal parked near Ninety-sixth Street and took a stroll on foot. He came to a small but well-kept apartment house and rang a bell that bore no name.
Announcing himself to the cautious voice that answered, the Penguin went upstairs and was admitted into an apartment by Curly Regal.
Though small, Curly's hideout was lavish -- much like his former apartment -- but on a miniature scale. He was living in the place alone, trusting none of his usual pals.
Curly was in a snarly mood. He admitted that his present plight was his own fault and that he owed the Penguin much for having tipped him off to trouble, the other night. But Curly didn't like hiding out. He wanted results in a hurry, and said so.
"You can't hurry this thing," argued the Penguin. "Here, read the evening newspaper, my fine, fellow, fink, and you'll see why. It tells all about the diamond show, day after tomorrow."
Curly read a few paragraphs, then chucked the newspaper aside.
"It's tied up tight," he growled. "With Bullock and a bunch of coppers on the job, how are you going to grab any of the rocks? Those sparklers will be worn by society dames, and the bulls will be watching the place from every angle."
"I'm taking a couple of picked men," reminded the Penguin. "Chaps from the list you gave me. None of them is wanted. They look like real society men. With my coaching --"
"They'll get nowhere," interjected Curly. "The best way is to get a mob and hijack the sparklers on their way into the hotel."
The Penguin shook his head. "I'll get the diamonds," he promised suavely, "but there's a little job that will have to be done first. Let me take another look at the newspaper, Curly."
Curly reclaimed the newspaper and handed it over. The Penguin studied the photographs of the super models who were to appear at the diamond show wearing special gowns designed to go along with the gems. He was particularly interested in certain faces, which he classed as types. Most of the females were girls that the Penguin knew, but it didn't impress Curly.
"Forget those dolls," snarled the big-shot. "Tell me about the job you mentioned."
"I'll give you the details later," promised the Man of a Thousand Umbrellas. "For the present, what I need is a chap who can stage a good bluff. Some fellow who is neither a hoodlum nor a smoothie. One who would look like a police detective. You probably know a lot who would do, Curly. But, remember, you're wanted, and the police are probably checking on most of your associates. So name me one who isn't likely to be connected with you, but who will do whatever you say."
The assignment wasn't easy, but Curly finally fulfilled it. Referring to a little address book, he said: "Get Bob Holbert. You won't have to see him. Call him up at this number and ask him if he's heard from Artie. It's a password we used at the gambling joint in Miami, to tell right guys from phonies. When Bob says yes, tell him what you want and that I say it's okay."
The Penguin was jotting down the number. Finished, he glanced at his watch and turned toward the door. Curly gripped him by the arm and demanded: "What is it that you want with Bob?"
"He'll never know," chuckled the Penguin, "but that's the best part of it. Of course, he'll know what he's to do, because I'll tell him that much. But the rest of it -- well, I'll give you the whole story when I get back. Keep that newspaper handy, so we can check something with it. I'll have to work quickly, Curly."
***
A quarter hour after The Penguin's departure from Curly's hideout, Bob Holbert received the telephone call. Bob was a chunky, wise-faced man. He spent most of his time in a side-street poolroom, which happened to be the place where he received the Black Bird of Prey's call.
After recognizing the countersign, Bob had a chat with The Penguin over the phone. Bob corroborated Curly's belief. He assured the master criminal that no police were watching him.
From then on, arrangements were rapid. Bob paid his share of the pool game, put his cue in the rack, and left the place.
On a nearby rooftop, Bob didn't notice a figure that was watching the front door of the poolroom. The wind caught the observer's black cape with yellow on the inside. The figure took up Holbert's trail. Dusk had settled. Bob didn't observe the silent trailer.
Bob's first stop was a corner pawnshop, which he entered after looking over items displayed in the window. From there, he went to a cigar store and made a call from a pay phone.
The mysterious figure resumed the trail, on each occasion. When Bob reached a subway station and paused to look about, the trailer made a rapid duck beyond the kiosk and again escaped detection.
As soon as Bob had gone down the steps, the other figure followed him. Bob went through a turnstile. The trailer merely jumped the turnstile silent and unseen. Holbert entered a subway train. The young trailer took a seat on the outside top of the car.
Holding on to the top of the subway car, the follower of Holbert quickly peered through a window to see where his quarry was.
There was a grin on Bob's choppy face. He had proven to his own satisfaction that the police were not watching him. They hadn't an idea that Holbert was a friend of Curly Regal. But Bob unwisely took it for granted that what the police did not know no one else could. Holbert should have remembered the Dark Knight of Gotham City.
The World's Greatest Detective had computer files that the law would have envied. He had gone over them thoroughly, in the case of Curly Regal. The known friends of the ex-gambler were numerous. Batman had left it to the law to check up on them. He had taken on the surveillance of Curly's additional friends, the few that the law had never linked with the big- shot.
One of those chosen few was Bob Holbert. In a way, he was the most select of the lot. Batman had assigned his most capable trailer to observe Holbert. The figure riding on top of the subway car was Robin, the Boy Wonder.
When it came to following a trail unnoticed, Robin had only one superior, Batman himself. From the moment that Bob Holbert set out to keep his rendezvous with The Penguin, it was a certainty that Robin would arrive at the same destination.
Moves had come at dusk. Whatever their purpose, they had a bearing on coming crime, as Batman soon would know!
Holbert's destination was a shabby, dumpy office building on a little-traveled street. Pausing in front of the place, Bob studied it with practiced eye, then brought out a cigar that he had bought in the tobacco store, broke it in half and threw one end away.
He lighted what remained of the cigar, much to the puzzlement of Robin, who had sidled in between two parked cars. Seeing Holbert enter the building puffing at a half cigar, the Boy Wonder crossed the street and found a dark gangway between an old barber shop and an insurance office.
The youthful hero seemed to speak into the air. "Oracle," he whispered.
"Go R," the female voice replied into his earphone.
Robin gave brief details concerning Bob Holbert, and was told to continue his surveillance.
Trying to get closer to his target, Robin found that one of the parked cars had pulled away from in front of the building. So he decided it was best to stay where he was in the gangway between the two buildings. Though not as close as he would had liked to be, the hiding place enabled him to see the building entrance across the street perfectly.
In guessing that Holbert intended to meet someone, Robin was correct. The trouble was that Bob had already met the expected persons. They had arrived in the building ahead of him.
Three men were waiting on a stairway, one was The Penguin, the others were well-dressed individuals who looked quite as smooth as the society criminal. They happened to be a pair of confidence men that the Black Bird of Prey had chosen from Curly's list.
The three smiled when they saw Holbert, particularly because of the cigar, which was nearly out and had an end that looked like a mushroom.
Holbert gave a return grin, and rolled the cigar toward the side of his face. From his pocket he brought a detective's badge, that he had bought in the pawnshop, and pinned it to his belt. Pushing back one side of his sport coat and resting a hand on his hip, Bob displayed the badge and gruffed: "How about it? Do I make a good cop?"
"Perfect!" returned The Penguin. "Come on, Mr Holbert. We've got our job waiting, on the third floor."
The group reached an office that bore no name. The Penguin rapped on the door with the handle of his umbrella. It was opened by a baldish man in shirt sleeves, whose face was long, droopy-lipped and squinty-eyed.
The bald man might have accepted The Penguin as a visitor, but he happened to spot Holbert in the rear of the group. He tried to slam the door and duck back into the office, but The Penguin inserted a quick foot. The door didn't slam. it merely damaged one of The Penguin's patent-leather shoes.
"Quack, squak, quack! You're Stephen Helk," accused The Penguin, waddling into the dilapidated office. "We're from the Better Business Bureau, and we've come to look into the movie-star racket that you've been running."
Helk had flopped into a rickety swivel chair in front of a desk. The desk was piled with letters. Behind it was an old filing cabinet, a drawer half open. The Penguin could see a stack of photographs in the cabinet drawer.
"You can't do this!" snarled Helk, suddenly. "This is a legitimate business, not a racket!"
"Tell that to the judge," growled Holbert, as he pushed past The Penguin and the others. "I'm from headquarters, and that's where I'm taking you! Let's go."
Helk began to mouth something about a warrant, but it made no dent on Holbert. He pulled Helk's coat from a rack, tossed it to the fellow and told him to put it on. All the while, Bob was flashing his badge, and he added another glitter, in the form of handcuffs that he had also bought in the pawnshop.
By then, Helk's tune had completely changed. He was trying to argue that the racket wasn't his and that he was merely hired by Ajax Producers, as he called the business, to conduct a legitimate contest.
"Maybe the outfit is phony," pleaded Helk, "but I'm not. I've only been here a few weeks --"
"Because you've been on the lam, dear man," interrupted The Penguin. "We know all about you, Helk. How you use a post office box as an address and change offices so fast that you can't even catch up with yourself. We know your name isn't on your letterhead" -- The Penguin was picking up a sheet of Helk's stationery -- "but that's because you can't afford to risk it. You've kept a few jumps ahead of the postal inspectors, but you stayed too long in Gotham City. Our bureau is equipped to deal with fine, finny, finks like you."
Holbert gave The Penguin's words cold emphasis by slapping one bracelet of the handcuffs on Helk's wrist and locking the other to his own. Chewing on his stumpy cigar, he hauled the fake movie producer out into the hall. The Penguin closed the door, and turned to find his two slick companions laughing.
"Snap out of it," ordered The Penguin. "We've got to get busy. Use those clippings that I gave you, while we go through the files. Lay your cameras over on that table in the corner. We probably won't need them. But lay them carefully."
The Penguin's minions complied. Both were carrying boxes that looked like cameras, a fact which had impressed Helk, along with Holbert's impersonation of a police detective. With The Penguin at the desk, the others dug into the filing cabinet, handing their leader stacks of photographs.
Outside, Robin experienced new amazement when he saw Holbert and Helk come from the building, handcuffed together. He knew Bob to be a crook, and surmised that the fellow had walked into trouble. By rights, Helk should have been the detective and Holbert the prisoner.
Robin expected Batman at any minute. He knew that the Masked Manhunter was coming with the Batmobile.
It would be easy for Robin to trail this odd pair and contact Batman while he was cruising the vicinity, which it would be, if the Caped Crusader did not find the Boy Wonder at the building. But before Robin could emerge from the gangway, he received another surprise.
Instead of passing a dilapidated automobile that Robin had hidden between only a short while earlier, Holbert entered it, dragging Helk with him. Unlocking his half of the handcuffs, Bob attached the loose link to the steering wheel.
Poking his head from the gangway, Robin peered through the car window and saw the two men. He could hear Holbert's growls interspersed with Helk's whines. Unfortunately, Helk's name wasn't mentioned. The youthful observer learned simply that Bob, posing as a detective, was taking a droopy-faced man to police headquarters.
At least, so Holbert said. But Robin knew well enough that the trip would wind up somewhere else. As the car started, the Boy Wonder moved closer.
To his elation, he saw the Batmobile swinging in from the corner. Coming up like a jack-in-the-box, Robin gave a quick beckon, then dropped out of sight back into the gangway.
On his comm-link, Robin said, "Target is in the car I pointed out."
Batman had caught Robin's signal and acknowledged on the secure radio channel. The Caped Crusader decided to take up the trail that the Boy Wonder had found for him.
As Holbert and his prisoner drove away, the Batmobile made a quick stop and Robin jumped into the front passenger seat next to his mentor.
On the Batmobile's command panel, Batman pressed a button and Robin heard a pneumatic "WHOOSH" emanate from the rolling arsenal. From a concealed barrel on the front of the Batmobile, the Dark Knight had fired a homing transmitter equipped with a tiny microphone at Holbert's automobile. The tiny device struck and affixed itself at the top of the car's rear window.
Things were happening in the car ahead of them that even Robin did not know about. His tone less growly, Holbert was talking to Helk. The fake detective had an offer for his prisoner, which he put in confidential style.
"I'm no stooge," began Holbert, "but you'd think I was, the way headquarters sent me up here. Helping a bunch of stuffed shirts put a guy like you out of business isn't my line, Helk."
Helk licked his lips. He was getting some comfort out of Holbert's statement. Maybe things weren't going to go as badly as Helk had thought.
"Kind of tough, driving with a guy hooked to the wheel," continued Holbert, as he swung the corner. "Maybe we'd do better without these bracelets."
Slackening the car, he released the handcuffs. Then, as he drove toward an avenue, Holbert added: "You know, Helk, if I had something important to do, like counting fifty bucks, I'd be too busy to watch where you went, if you hopped out of this car."
There was a sharp change in Helk's expression. He caught the inference -- that Holbert would give him freedom for fifty dollars. But Helk understood more. He recognized that Bob was as much a con man as he was. This was a fake arrest and Holbert wanted to be rid of him.
Then and there, Helk made the same mistake as Holbert. Like the fake detective, the droopy man overplayed his game. Knowing that Bob was anxious to get rid of him, Helk queried: "Would you settle for twenty-five?"
There was an immediate change in Holbert's expression. The car was swinging into the avenue, Bob didn't see the trailing Batmobile, for it was around the corner. What he did see was a truck, parked on the avenue.
It belonged to the set-up, just like the dilapidated car that had been planted in front of Helk's building to await Holbert's use.
"Twenty-five?" queried Holbert. He let his hand ease from the door and give a beckoning motion. "Sure. Slip me the dough."
Helk slipped it.
Holbert was peering in the mirror. He saw the truck in motion, overtaking the car. The Batmobile came around the corner.
"There's a traffic cop at the corner," Holbert said. "I don't want him to spot this. Get started, Helk. Beat it!"
Holbert had reached across to yank the handle of the door on Helk's side of the car. As he finished his statement, he gave Helk a quick shove. Thinking that Bob was just putting up a final part of the bluff, Helk decided to let him get away with it. Under Holbert's shove, Helk jumped to the street.
Robin looked on in horror. Helk was a goner. He didn't travel far when he jumped from the car. Robin heard a shriek, the roar of the truck. The scream was from Helk's throat, not from the truck's brakes.
Slashing close to the side of the automobile, the truck found Helk squarely in its path and mowed him down before he could dart for the curb or return to the car that he had left.
Robin saw the figure go flying, like a thing of straw. Hurled twenty feet, Helk struck and rolled over in the street. While his battered body was still spinning, the truck went after him like a hungry monster and crushed him to a human mash beneath its heavy wheels.
The traffic officer saw the murder, but had no chance to stop it. The truck was out for double death, the policeman to be its next victim. With the officer dead, there would be no witness to the tragedy. The cover-up crooks who were in the truck would be on their way, unidentified.
Nothing, it seemed, could have saved the officer from death. Even if a car had tried to block the massive truck, it would have simply been hurled ahead upon the helpless officer. But where a direct block would have been futile, an angle attack succeeded. Another vehicle was on the scene: the Batmobile.
It had whizzed past the other side of Holbert's car. It was cutting in to meet the truck, at the point of a V. Nosing in at high speed, the nearly invulnerable Batmobile's fender bumped the truck in the vicinity of the big front wheels.
The truck veered, partly from the driver's instinctive reaction, partly from the blow that the Batmobile imparted. The incredible car bounced away like a skittish toy, and Batman deliberately threw it into a wild skid in the opposite direction. The truck was skimming the curb on one side of the avenue. The Batmobile was playing hopscotch on the opposite sidewalk.
But between the two, as safe as if he had been on a traffic island, was the astonished policeman who, moments before, had been faced by immediate doom.
Already, guns were at work. Bullets were bouncing off the Batmobile. The lead pellets richocheted harmlessly from the heavily armored black vehicle.
Because there were innocent pedestrians around, Batman held off from firing a Bat-rocket at the truck.
Crooks were leaping to the street, firing revolvers as they went, anxious to battle the occupants in the mysterious vehicle that seemed to be impervious to harm.
However, deep in their dark souls, the evildoers, who moments before had run down a defenseless man in cold blood, knew that they could expect no mercy from the champion of justice who opposed them.
Only one man drove an incredible black car like that in Gotham City. They knew they were up against ... Batman!
To be continued ...