IX: curio

The private sale was in a modest house near Gotham's center. A self-titled Batman scholar named Henry Peters had put out notices of the event and now the Biographer had arrived. He knocked on the door. Perhaps amid the piles of Batman artifacts, he would find a decisive clue, untangling the riddle of the Dark Knight's identity at last, and paying the ransom to free his family.

An odd looking man opened the door, wearing thick gloves. "Come in, come in," he said, looking positively gleeful.

He was thin, even wiry, but the Biographer could tell from his face that once he'd been heavy-set. His jowls drooped, no longer having the same surface area of skin to cover. His nose looked wrong for his face, the nostrils so thin as to be nearly permeable.

"I'm Vincent Vertas — " the Biographer started to say.

"I know who you are, of course. I am a student not only of the Batman but of high society as well. I would be remiss if I couldn't identify our fair city's highest powered lawyer. Or once upon a time at least. I understand you're no longer practicing?"

The Biographer nodded, his eyes caught on the unusual array of umbrellas exhibited throughout the home on just about every wall.

"Let's get to it," he said. "This isn't a social call."

A variety of Batman's possessions were laid out on tables. But who could say what was real and what was a replica? He was just supposed to take the word of this strange peddler?

The first thing that caught his eye was a cowl, partially torn, and with no face behind it, especially ghoulish, like it was a soulless thing. Apparently torn off Batman in a skirmish with Two-Face, it was merely a trophy and of no use to the Biographer. Batman was far too professional to ever leave fingerprints. Even the fact that the mask was here was a small miracle, if it was real at all.

As he studied an array of Baterangs, nicked up with use, the Biographer saw that this Peters fellow was watching him intently. He was growing impatient. Nothing so far was feeding his knowledge, furthering his investigation. He craved insight. The Biographer pointed at a playbill of an opera named Mefistofele, now believing the offerings to be a ridiculous scam.

"This is junk."

"My dear Vincent, believe it or not, our friend the Bat is a fan of the painted ladies!"

The Biographer began to wonder if this man belonged in Arkham, referring to Batman as though he were personally acquainted with him.

"The Joker himself, I was told, snatched it during an otherwise unpleasant stay in the Batcave before the old wretch tossed him to Gordon and the cops. I hear he is now convinced that the Caped Crusader is just a man playing dress-up, a Phantom of the Opera superfan."

The Biographer began to tune out the grotesque little fogey as he babbled about the opera, Mefistofele, being a take on Faust and featuring a swarm of bat-looking devil men. Perhaps he would've left already if not for a certain unpleasant truth: he had nowhere else to be.

"I understand you've been supposedly hunting the Batman," Peters said, abruptly switching gears.

"And how do you know that?"

"As a dabbler in rare artifacts, I deal with some, shall we say, rough clients looking to unburden themselves of treasures they've found or acquired in one way or another. I hear things."

Peters picked up a Baterang, tracing its curved edge.

"So, as a Batman hunter, what do you make of this playbill?"

"Actually, I've learned he's likely a wealthy man, so maybe the opera connection is not as farfetched as I thought."

"You do seem to know a lot. You do. Obsessed with Batman from what I've heard. All a cover, likely. Perhaps you're worried your secret will finally come out."

The Biographer frowned. Did this creep know about his incident with Tetch, his work as Poison Ivy's silent lawyer?

"Why did this opera specifically interest Batman, do you think?" Peters continued. "What is behind our masks? We all wear them, don't we, very much like that cowl over there. Let us dance, let the masquerade continue."

He was almost giggling.

"I have a question of my own," the Biographer said. "I'm not sure how a private citizen would be able to acquire any of these items. Who are you?"

"That is just the question, just the question," Peters said, growing ever more manic. "Who are you?"

In a flash, he grabbed an umbrella off the wall and a blade emerged from its tip. Peters put it to the Biographer's throat.

"Confess that you're Batman," he demanded.

The Biographer let out a low laugh. He realized several things at once. In his search for Gotham's famous supervillains, he'd come across intel that one member of the Rogues Gallery had been undergoing extensive facial reconstructions, liposuction, had freed his birds, and changed his name more than once. He was seeking a second chance, and had sworn off crime for good, according to the rumors. Now this man was standing in front of him. The umbrella-sword was a dead giveaway.

The Penguin seemed to have gone quite mad behind his iconic monocle.

"I'm not Batman, you fool. But I know who you are."

The man ignored this.

"I have heard something unfortunate, I'm afraid. Your family is dead. They have been for a while now. My condolences."

The Biographer froze.

"It's a blessing," Peters said. "A family is just dead weight. Leave them behind. Become a new man, like I did."

"You're lying. You just want everyone to feel as alone as you. I know the story," The Biographer said, feeling vicious. "How your parents discarded you as a freaky bird-child, dumped you into an orphanage. Locked their pearly gates to you forever."

He paused, imagining the grinding down of the creature's beak-like nose, the horrific cutting of flippers into fingers, and who knows what else. The Biographer felt himself softening into sympathy, realizing that there was little chance this tormented man was telling the truth.

"I see now how you've gotten your hands on these items, Penguin. You know, I suppose it's true you are a Batman scholar, in a way."

The Penguin drew back the umbrella at this mild show of respect. He spoke even faster now, describing his torment by the Batman, who he believed was the one putting up flyers with his post-op pictures, his new names. Scarlet mug shots all over the city. The wretched Bat didn't believe he could change, must be, and so he thought it was his duty to warn Gotham. It just had to be Batman. Who else?

"He's treating me like a sex offender. Humiliating me at every turn. It's you, isn't it? I was right, must be right. Everyone who comes to this sale is a suspect. Why I orchestrated it, of course. End his pursuit once and for all."

He moved the umbrella-knife back toward the Biographer.

"Come with me."

The Penguin led him to a back room, where a number of other men were blindfolded and bound — other unlucky attendees of this supposed once-in-a-lifetime Batman sale. They were well-dressed, the Biographer noticed. Gotham's upper crust nosing around for a talk-piece for their latest glitzy cocktail party. He wondered if this imprisonment wasn't also a belated revenge for having been so scorned by the class of society The Penguin had come from, and wished to return to. Before the surgeries, he had announced a desire to reform, the Biographer remembered, and been invited into the homes of the city's elite, but it turned out to be a grim offering. He was paraded around as an Elephant Man-like horror show for sport, and a hundred laughs.

"It's one of you," the Penguin muttered.

He dug up his old monocle from his pocket and placed it crooked over his eye.

"You're persecuting me. It's all of you!"

The Biographer had pocked one of the Baterangs and flung it against the Penguin's hand, causing him to drop the umbrella. He fled, snatching up the opera playbill on the way out, believing there to be a useful kernel somewhere within it. He almost felt bad for the Penguin, who, according to rumor, had become increasingly addicted to surgery. New start grafted on new start. An attempt to leave behind his old torments and exclusions, to no longer see a monster in every mirror, to be accepted somehow. And yet, there were vestiges of his past that he couldn't let go of, the Biographer thought, like the umbrellas. He looked at Batman's playbill and wondered just what he had in his hands.

GOTHAM HERALD: "Henry Peters" outed again.

There is seemingly no limit to how much a man can change his name. Henry Peters, otherwise known as Oscar Cobblepot AKA The Penguin, and longtime member of Gotham's criminal set, has changed his name yet again. Now going by Sinclair Townsend, the Herald has learned that some plastic surgery clinics around the city have begun turning him away, fearing a deep psychological disturbance. Once a force that terrorized a city, Townsend is now no more than a laughingstock. Many thanks to Harvey Bullock, who again alerted us to the Penguin's latest hijinks.