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Batman 1939: Swimming in the Styx

Chapter 2: Unknown Predators


Batman stood in a brick wall and couldn't stop grinning. He felt alive in a way he hadn't felt in a long time.

Finding Arturo Bertinelli's safe house had been easy. Most big mobsters kept several. In fact, knowing Arturo only had one revealed as much about his finances as his fallback options. It wasn't even a safe house, it was a safe room, and he didn't even bother to put it in a basement like a sensible fugitive. No, it was a fourth floor apartment in a quiet neighborhood downtown. Even more bizarrely, the place was purchased in his name. Mobsters loved real estate and knew a dozen tricks to twist a deed: fake names and proxy owners were child's play. None were a challenge for Batman, but a token effort was expected.

The safe room did have the usual armored entrance. Its wooden door could be barricaded on the inside by a sliding wall of overlapping steel slats which rolled down on tracks like a garage door to lock shut with two latches sunk into the floor. This sliding barrier wasn't the most sophisticated piece of security Batman had seen in a criminal lair, but it was among the most practical. With three seconds and a strong arm, someone could shield the apartment against any force short of heavy construction equipment, and big machinery wouldn't fit in the elevator (perhaps the fourth floor had a perk after all).

The walls were just as important. Arturo had installed three layers of sturdy brick. A determined man with a sledgehammer might break through eventually, but the noise would wake the building, and police patrolled this street at all hours. The walls were so thick the sheer dimensions puzzled Batman. The size of Arturo's room hadn't changed, so if three mortared bricks were a foot across then it had to mean his neighbors' already-tiny apartments were now a foot smaller and asymmetrical. The floor and ceiling were also bricked which implied even odder scenarios above and below. Gotham had some weird apartments, but not in this part of town.

After a brief search, the answer was simple. The neighbors didn't mind because they weren't home. All the adjacent apartments had absentee owners. Batman suspected these were also safe rooms for junior Bertinellis or their allies. Like every other detail of the mission, that served him perfectly. The apartment to the west had a window facing the alley which meant he could casually come and go with as much gear as he could carry. So he brought a gas mask, left the window open, and laid a heavy tarp on the floor. When the site was ventilated, he slowly opened a glass jar of strong muratic acid and brushed it on a man-sized segment of the wall. Once it softened the mortar to a thick putty, he used a sharp chisel to carve around each brick, then he eased them out with the aid of a prybar and his prodigious hand strength. One by one, hour by hour, he quietly carved a hole though two layers of the wall. He did not carve through the third layer. He still applied acid and loosened the bricks with the chisel, but he didn't push the point though. The wall still looked untouched from the other side.

That was last night. Now Batman crouched in the new alcove, waiting in the dark. It occurred to him to simply wait inside the room, but as much as he regretted frightening the man's children, he was hell-bent on using every ugly tactic he had. He had triple-checked every lead. He spent four evenings setting the scene. The plan was more polished and reviewed than any he had ever devised. He was fit, rested, focused, decked out in tools, and armed to the teeth. He had taken every precaution. He would make no mistakes. The only challenge was staying calm. His gut rolled with contempt and a mighty eagerness.


Dr. Lyle Pemberly was a distinguished fellow at the Franklin Institute for International Relations. It was a new position for him, one last relaxing post before he eased into retirement. He already had twenty years in the foreign service and eight in academia under his belt. During his teaching years, he also consulted as an expert on treaty law, but the role was behind him now. These days he enjoyed coming in late, writing papers on whatever struck his fancy, mentoring the younger researchers, ordering lunch on the Institute's dime, and taking Fridays off to hit the links.

Still, when an old congressional friend called in the morning to beg his help on a diplomatic conundrum, Dr. Pemberly had to admit he was intrigued. If he agreed, he would meet a man late that night in complete secrecy, and he wouldn't be paid. The bold inconvenience of the request was beguiling. If his friend had tried an appointment during sensible hours, or if he had explained the issue or offered a fee, Dr. Pemberly would have declined. But requesting a covert consultation on short notice pro bono? Something was afoot. Diplomats rarely saw as much intrigue and skullduggery as many people imagined, but they saw far more than semi-retired professors. He was a rover at heart, and deep down he missed the intrigue.

Dr. Pemberly agreed to meet the man at his home near the Institute and its benefactor, Hudson University. The tree-lined streets around Hudson were the closest one could be to the city center and still find private lawns with white-picket fences. Naturally, the rent for a small home could ransom Wyoming. But money wasn't a concern for Dr. Pemberly. Consulting had been lucrative. If war was the last resort to settle matters between nations, he was the second-to-last resort. Very few conflicts were purely practical - two starving men fighting over one dinner, so to speak. Many were about saving face: any leader who backed down from a conflict looked weak. Sometimes nations had a solution both would tolerate, but neither trusted the other to keep it, and a few disagreements were literal formalities, the title of a dead monarch or the name of a bridge. Whatever the contention, Dr. Pemberly could find a deal which sent everyone home happy. He had friends in every embassy. He had an encyclopedic knowledge of diplomatic loopholes, cultural subtleties, and each nations' own legal precedents maybe five scholars on the planet could match. And no one could guide a negotiation with such adroitness. In the Great Game, he was a ringer.

As the hour turned late and the pot of tea he set out turned cold, Dr. Pemberly paced up and down his den. The wool of his sweater vest was getting itchy; he was normally in his silk smoking jacket by now. As he was about to give up and turn off the porch lights, he heard a quick knock at the door. A young man stood outside, a strapping fellow who introduced himself as Captain Trevor but cheerfully insisted Dr. Pemberly call him Steve. Steve could have stepped out of a recruitment poster with his crisp Army dress uniform and sharply-parted blonde hair. Dr. Pemberly had met enough military men to recognize the pilot wings and bronze star on his coat. Curious.

They shook hands. Steve offered a folded note of introduction from his congressional friend. Dr. Pemberly read it and invited Steve to take a seat inside.

Steve stayed stiffly at the door. "Forgive me, Doctor. But I have to ask a question or two first," then he added, "Orders" like it was a valid apology.

Dr. Pemberly eyed him queerly. "Alright."

"Did you mention this meeting to anyone, sir?"

"No."

"No one at all?"

"No."

"Is there anyone here who might overhear or interrupt us?"

"Do you see a ring on my finger, Captain?"

"Sir, this is important."

"I promise I'm the only one here. But you might get some attention if you keep standing on my porch."

Steve nodded sheepishly. "Then excuse me for a moment. I hope you don't mind that I brought a guest."

"Oh. Alright."

Steve walked towards his car. Dr. Pemberly pondered this news. Who would demand such discretion? Some disgraced ambassador? A deposed head of state? He watched as the young captain led a figure though the dark of his driveway.

They came near and he saw "figure" was the right word indeed. Dr. Pemberly was a lifelong bachelor and well past his prime, but even he did a double take when she came into view. The lady was tall, a head above him and an inch over Captain Trevor, and limb filled most of that height. When she approached, he came to his senses and started to offer a small bow, but she held his hand in both of hers and smiled, "Thank you for seeing us on short notice, Doctor. My name is Diana Prince." She had an accent he couldn't place. Dr. Pemberly nodded a bit too much and replied, "Naturally, yes. A pleasure to meet you, Diana. Do come in." She inclined her head graciously and entered. Steve watched this with the curved lip of someone holding in a smirk. Dr. Pemberly felt a tad annoyed at him.

Inside, Dr. Pemberly finally viewed his new guest under the light. Diana had faint Mediterranean features but blue eyes. Her black hair was pulled into a modest bun, and she wore round-framed glasses - unflattering, in his opinion. Overall, she seemed warm and poised, serene and professional, with an air of absolute confidence he rarely saw in anyone, let alone a woman of no obvious rank or heritage. He couldn't guess her purpose by her outfit, a dark blue jacket and pencil skirt found in any office, but he did find it strange her clothes didn't fit. The details were minor but hard to miss: the shoulders of her jacket pinched, her skirt hung lower than most of that style, and her white blouse was a size too tight. Dr. Pemberly had never met – frankly couldn't imagine – a lady with such obvious class dressing so carelessly.

He realized he was staring and hurried to shut the door. "Yes, both of you please take a seat. I'm afraid the tea is cold, but I'm happy to make another hot beverage if you wish. I also have a collection of spirits if that strikes your fancy."

Steve hung his hat and seemed to consider the second offer, but Diana replied before he could speak. "We're fine, Doctor, thank you." Steve didn't seem to mind her making his decision and took a seat in a plush den chair. Diana took the chair beside him. Dr. Pemberly didn't entertain often, but he had enough furniture for a party of three. He poured himself a glass of port from a nearby decanter and found a spot on the couch across from them.

"Well, well." Dr. Pemberly had the prim and measured diction of an Oxford don. "How can I help you fine young people?"

Steve leaned forward, all business. "You understand, Doctor, that this meeting is completely confidential. Not a word can leave this room."

Dr. Pemberly returned a wry look. "So I've inferred."

"I'm obliged to make completely sure."

"Young man, I was working in the federal service before you were in grade school. I can hold my tongue."

"Of course. Sorry."

"No harm done." Dr. Pemberly waved a hand. "Now, what's the problem that needs my help?"

Steve spoke. "Doctor, imagine the United States discovered a new nation. Do you know any precedents for such a thing?"

"A new nation, eh? Terra incognita. An interesting question." Dr. Pemberly went silent in thought. He steepled his fingers and sunk back into his couch, letting out a deep, slow hum. "Yes and no. Yes, there is precedent, though none recently, of course, and not by America. A Brit named James Cook wrapped up the last of the globe in the 1770s or so. The map is fairly complete."

His guests looked crestfallen. Steve said, "I see."

"Granted, every so often a mining expedition will come across a new tribe deep in the Congo or a similar wilderness. I suppose these communities qualify as nations by one definition of the word. But none of them are matters of diplomacy. These little tribes become de facto subjects of whichever proper state has sovereignty over their territory."

Diana responded with unexpected pep. "What about an island? Have you carved all the seas as well?"

Dr. Pemberly looked taken aback, either by her phrasing or by such a forceful question from a lady. "Well, no. There are unclaimed islands around, and I suspect some must be inhabited. But I confess, this is really outside of my expertise. Perhaps you should try a cartographer or an anthropologist."

Captain Trevor pressed on, more gently than Diana. "That won't be necessary, Doctor. But humor us. Say there was an inhabited island found," he gestured vaguely, "In some sea somewhere. No one else owned it. What would the government do?"

"Not much. Any tribe hidden this long must be quite primitive." Captain Trevor cringed and glanced at Diana, but her expression remained pleasantly neutral. Pemberly didn't seem to notice. "Few of these isolated communities develop writing, let alone finer notions of statecraft. How would we conduct diplomacy? And over what issues? They never have the population or industry to carry weight in world affairs. Not in this century, anyway. I daresay we've met more than enough indigenous groups to prove that. Yes, I imagine we would simply leave them be."

Diana spoke again, eagerly. "Presume our island nation was sophisticated, Doctor, with writing and cultivation and architecture."

"Architecture? Like a city-state?"

She nodded. "Yes, a city-state home to thousands. A culture with scholars in every field of natural study and artists in every medium. And a standing army as brave and well-drilled as any Man could hope to muster."

Dr. Pemberly didn't glean her nuance on the capital M. He rubbed his chin and took a minute to consider this with the help of some port. "Mm. That would be most remarkable. But it is a bit late in the evening for intellectual exercises, my dear. If such a civilization existed, it must be on an island large and temperate enough to produce food for thousands. Yet it remains unknown? In two hundred years of global travel, it is irrational to think that no foreign vessel would see this island. If that weren't enough to refute the proposition, all coastal peoples that size invent boating. Why haven't we found a settlement made by one of its seafarers? After all, the Polynesians crossed the Pacific in Stone Age canoes."

Diana didn't know who or what Polynesians were. She added it to her list of topics to look up. Steve tapped his fingers on the wooden arm of the chair and made a face like he was deciding how to phrase something. "What if ... What if, Doctor, our hypothetical island was ... hidden."

"Hidden?" Dr. Pemberly chortled and had another sip of port, now enjoying the game. "Hidden how? By a wizard?"

Diana opened her mouth, but this time Steve cut her off. "By a unique weather system. Constant storms and mist obscure it for months at a time. Only the most modern vessels could hope to navigate though, and it's far away from any trade route so few captains would bother to try."

Dr. Pemberly picked up the thread. "And if our modern ships struggle to pass through, the islanders surely couldn't hope to leave. I'll admit that's a clever explanation, Captain, well done. Of course, I can't say how likely such a weather system is."

Diana spoke. "Regardless, how would the government proceed?"

"Well, we would send an envoy. If the islanders reacted favorably, we would learn the rudiments of their language and discuss a treaty to formalize relations. Then all sorts of possibilities arise. I imagine they would want to know about the rest of the world and its developments. Once an embassy and a proper port were built, I can think of groups that would quickly send teachers, missionaries, and surveyors. Depending on its location, the Navy might negotiate to set up a fueling station, perhaps even a base. Other great nations would want their own embassies and visitors. Once the locals learned of our systems of commerce, trade would be discussed. That means engineers, prospectors, loggers, farmers, fishermen, factory owners, maybe retailers in time. It would be very exciting, I'm sure."

His two guests sat in inscrutable silence. Steve finally opened his mouth but Diana beat him to it.

"Doctor, is there any way the government could recognize a nation secretly?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"What if it was suspected this island wouldn't react favorably to public attention? Could a formal treaty exist, but knowledge of the nation's existence stay limited to a minimum of authorities? Are officials formally obliged to share their discovery with the world?"

"I ... I ... No one has proposed such a thing. Keeping an entire nation a secret? In this day and age? I'm not sure that's even constitutional. I confess I wouldn't know where to start."

"How many people would need to be told for relations to be established, and who?"

"I would have to consider that." Dr. Pemberly scrutinized her more closely. He still couldn't place her accent, and he had heard most of them. "I'm sorry, Miss Diana, I meant to ask while we were making introductions, but may I inquire in what capacity you work with Captain Trevor?"

"Guide," Diana answered as Steve said, "Friends." They looked at each other awkwardly. She couldn't tell a fib to save her life. Steve faced the Director with a toothy smile. "Diana is a nurse at an Army hospital in DC, but she went to school for political affairs so lately I've recruited her as an assistant in this little research project I've been assigned."

"To study hypothetical diplomatic scenarios."

"Yes."

"Secretly."

"Yes."

"In the middle of the night."

"... Yes."

A diplomat had tact. "Ah."

The phone rang. Dr. Pemberly excused himself and went to his old rotary machine on the wall. "Hello? Yes? Yes?" He looked at Steve. "He is. Yes. Just a moment." Dr. Pemberly lowered the receiver. "Captain Trevor, there's an officer on the line who wishes to speak with you."

Diana looked curiously at Steve who shrugged and stood. Pemberly handed the phone to him returned to the his seat. "Hello? Captain Steven Trevor, USAAF. Yes. Yes. More or less. Just my service pistol. Yes. About twenty minutes from downtown. No, I can't say I'm familiar. Who? From who? What's a batman?"

Dr. Pemberly was busy enjoying his port, but when he heard this he spit the whole mouthful. Diana flinched, and the spray missed her by inches. Steve saw this but was still on the call.

"Okay. Yes. Yes. I see. I'll be careful, sir. Yes. As soon as I'm done. Goodnight." Steve hung up the phone and walked to his host. "Have something to share, Dr. Pemberly?"

"No, no, sorry."

Steve stood over the doctor with his arms akimbo. "Nothing about my call surprised you?"

"I couldn't help but overhear. I nearly imagined you said something about, well, the Batman."

Steve crossed his arms. "That name came up. Does it mean something to you?"

Dr. Pemberly was incredulous. "Mean something to me? How much time have you spent in Gotham City?"

"I've been though a few times. Not long. Why?"

His host's disposition turned gloomy and foreboding. Doctor Pemberly stared at the floor. "Whatever they want you to do, son, don't go."

"Now hold on, Doctor. You're a dutiful man, I'm sure you know how it is. I have important business. If you've heard of this Batman fella, I want the news and I want it now!" Diana had no idea what business Steve was talking about, but they supported each other. She moved to sit on the couch beside Dr. Pemberly and looked at him encouragingly. "Please, I'm sure we'll understand."

Dr. Pemberly held up his hands in defeat, no longer sounding like an Oxford don. "Fine. The Batman is sort of, uh, a legend here."

Steve frowned. "Tick-tock, Doc. I need more than that." Diana looked sharply at him and spoke softly, "What kind of legend?"

Dr. Pemberly turned to her. "He hurts people. Bad people. Maybe other people too. At least that's what they say. I heard he can slip through walls and has skin like a rhinoceros. Everyone with a cudgel and a grudge has been chasing him for years, but he's never been caught."

Steve raised an eyebrow. "You make him sound supernatural."

"Captain, I'm an educated man, we both know it's unbelievable, but yes, he is often styled as some sort of rageful demigod."

Diana's muscles stiffened. "I see." The remark slipped out a degree too coldly. Her family had a bone to pick with demigods.

Steve tugged on his coat and retrieved his hat from the hook. "I'm sure it's a moot point anyway. Let's go Diana, I have an errand to run. We'll be in touch, Doctor." He opened the front door.

Diana stood and shook Doctor Pemberly's hand with an apologetic smile. "Thank you so much for your time."

"My dear, I implore you, make sure he isn't about to do something stupid."


Back in the car, Steve was putting the key in the ignition when Diana grabbed his wrist. "Steven, what's going on?"

His mouth was a serious line. "Got a call from the General. There's an informant here in the city, Bert-something. Bertinolly. Bertinelli. Bertini. Anyway, his family was threatened tonight by a local anarchist who calls himself the Bat Man. I have to go pick Bert up." He turned the ignition. "And the General said to rush."

"Did he say anything else?"

"Not much. He did say this Bat character has had run-ins with the Army before. The meathead's dangerous."

She raised her eyes at him. He grinned with the infinite self-assurance God grants fighter pilots. "It's fine. I'm more dangerous."

"Is there a reason the police can't assist?"

"Don't know. Didn't ask."

"Well, alright. We'll do this quickly then."

"We? Sorry, no can do, Angel. The hotel's almost on the way. I'll detour to drop you off."

She considered this for a long moment. "Hm. That sounds convenient. Where is this informant you need to rescue?"

"He said to find the tallest building on Twelfth Street. In fact, can you reach that map under your seat? I'm not sure the best way there. The roads in this city make no sense."

She did as requested, taking a long look at it first. "Steve, this anarchist sounds like someone you should avoid. Drop me off here and you can arrive sooner."

"And leave you stranded in the middle of Gotham?"

"This is a safe-looking neighborhood. I'll flag a taxi. You know how quickly they stop for me."

"True."

"Come on, Captain Trevor. Go. You have a mission!"

He couldn't help but smile. "Got that right. Okay, Nurse Prince, I'll let you off here." He slowed and edged to the curb. "Take care of yourself."

"You too."

The car pulled away. She waved after him. Then she looked around. There was no one in either direction, only more quiet suburbia. A cluster of pines edged someone's front lawn nearby. She walked briskly and stood in their shadows.

Diana Prince held her arms out to her sides, made a quarter-turn as if winding to throw a discus, then began to spin. She turned like a top, faster and faster. Her hair slipped out of its bun and flapped around with her. On her third turn, there was a flash of groovy technicolor light and in Diana's place stood Wonder Woman.


Arturo Bertinelli stumbled out of his car, coughing and cursing as he tried in vain to wipe the last of the powder wafting off his shirt. He was triple-parked in front of a five-story apartment building called the Twelfth Street Arms.

Arturo burst through the entrance in his night clothes, covered in dust and sweat and carrying a revolver. The receptionist jumped but said nothing. The young man's reaction was completely expected. Arturo Bertinelli knew he could arrive in a bloody prison jumpsuit and none of the building's staff would blink. Not only did the Bertinellis own the Twelfth Street Arms, the Bertinellis owned Twelfth Street. Arturo's eyes darted across the quiet lobby. The minute hand ticked around the dial of the grandfather clock. A fly buzzed near a wall sconce. He continued pulling ragged breaths as he studied the scene.

The receptionist smiled with worried eyes. "Can I help you this evening, Mr. Bertinelli?"

Arturo rubbed his face and blinked like he just remembered why he came. "Yeah, if a, uh, a cop or a sailor or something comes through here talking about me, someone in a uniform or carrying a badge, you show them my room, got it? You point them my way."

"You got it, Mr. Bertinelli. I'll be on the lookout. Here's your key."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Good kid." Arturo slapped him absentmindedly on the cheek and tipped a twenty-dollar bill. The receptionist took the bill and nodded in shock, not wanting to jinx the moment. He was holding a week's wages.

Arturo turned and stared at him intently. Then he bent away and stomped towards the waiting elevator, tracking white dust on the red carpet. He stopped halfway, muttered, then changed course for the staircase. The receptionist leaned forward and peered discreetly after him, then he shared a shrug with the elevator attendant. He had been at the job four years. The boss never took the stairs.

Arturo felt edgy like only a hunted man could. He shuffled up the stairs in the flickering dim, hugging the wall and spinning at every landing to aim up the next flight. He was on a hair-trigger. He decided that if anything moved, he would blow it away. Intruders, neighbors, pets - he didn't even care. Fortunately for the other residents, no one passed him. He made it out of the stairwell into an empty hallway and paced cautiously to the door of his apartment. While keeping as much of his body to the side as possible, Arturo gingerly unlocked it, turned the knob, and pushed. As the oak door swung open, he hopped back and lifted his revolver.

Nothing jumped out at him. He checked the hallway one last time and entered. Arturo flicked the light switch. It was a sparse room: a little bed, two chairs, a rug on the cheap wooden floor, a naked bulb on the ceiling, and an end table with a telephone on top (the phone and power lines made the only holes in the brick wall). He closed the door, then he reached up and let his weight drag the sliding steel barrier down behind him. It was heavy. Most people would need a few tries, but he had practice. The latches clicked into place. He closed his eyes for what felt like the first time in an hour and tried to steady his breathing. He was safe for now.

Arturo collapsed into a chair, dropped the revolver on the end table. After a minute of simply resting, he opened the table's single drawer. There were a few provisions inside, crackers and canned meat and the like. He pulled out a bottle of wine. He needed it. He picked up a corkscrew and, after a moment, a glass. His addled mind had briefly considered drinking straight from the bottle. But no, he wasn't a barbarian.

He sipped the wine. It was liquid mercy. He began to relax, feeling a measure of control again.

Then the light went out.