The Further Adventures of Batman (41 page)

“Sure. But how did you get in here?” Dick repeated. “And where are we anyway?”

“Don’t you know? We’re in the basement. I just arrived. Did you find out anything about Kurtz?”

“The guy’s batty. He tried to hypnotize me. I escaped through a secret panel—straight into a Chamber of Horrors.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“Chilling fun.”

“Is he The Man Carol spoke of?”

“I don’t think so. His mind is too scattered to run an operation like that. How do we get out of here?”

“The same way I came in. Through the crawlspace. Didn’t you make a surveillance of the place? It leads into the basement.”

“I overlooked it,” Dick said, embarrassed.

The crawlspace was a tight squeeze, but they managed to crawl through, emerging directly below Kurtz’s bedroom.

“It’s good to breathe fresh air again,” Dick said, standing erect.

He looked up at the window. Kurtz stood gazing down at them. He pulled open the window. “Why did you come here?” he cried, shaking a fist. “What do you want from me?”

“Take his picture,” Batman suggested. “You’re probably right about him. But it won’t hurt to get Carol’s reactions.”

Dick snapped a picture. As the flash went off, Kurtz sprang back as if shot. “How dare you!” he bellowed. “I didn’t give you permission to take my picture.”

“That’s a right included under freedom of the press, Mr. Kurtz,” Dick answered.

“You had no right to invade my house,” Kurtz shot back, “on the pretext of writing a story about me. I’ll press charges against you, Dick Grayson.”

“I don’t think you’ll call the police, Mr. Kurtz. Unless you’re willing to face a charge of reckless endangerment. And the police might be interested in seeing your Chamber of Horrors.”

Kurtz coughed and sputtered. “I never invited you to come here. Can’t you see, I’m a has-been, a washed-up showman. Just leave me in peace.”

Dick felt sorry for the shell of a man that once was Alexander Kurtz.

“Why are you standing there?” Kurtz shouted. “Get out and stay out!”

“He seems far around the bend,” Batman said. “But all showmen are good actors. Take another picture for insurance.”

“He’s not The Man, Bruce.”

“You’re not absolutely certain. He may have hypnotized you more than you think.”

“He didn’t!”

“Then take his picture.”

“All right.” Dick snapped another shot.

Kurtz raised an arm in front of his face. “Get out, I told you!”

“Mr. Kurtz,” Dick called, “I’m really sorry to have intruded on your privacy. You must have been an ingenious artist in your day. I’d like to keep these pictures to remind me of our meeting.”

Kurtz’s face took on a radiant glow. He squared his shoulders, gathering himself into a dignified pose. Raising his eyes to the horizon, he gazed out loftly, like an actor giving a command performance. “Keep them if you like. You may take your leave now, young man. Both of you.”

“Thank you,” Dick called.

“Come on, Dick. Let’s go,” Batman said. “It’s getting late.”

Dick got into his car behind the Batmobile. As Batman started the motor, Dick reached outside impulsively and waved. If Kurtz noticed, he gave no indication.

As Dick’s car pulled away, he glanced back again. Kurtz stood framed in the window, stiff and regal, gazing into space, as if reliving the glories of his past performances.

V

Dick radioed Batman from his car. “I’m just going to stop off at the
Clarion
office.”

“Now? What for?”

“I want to write that piece on the Circle for tomorrow’s paper.”

“You won’t mention Carol’s name or her arrest, will you?”

“No.”

“It could endanger her if you did.”

“I know. I’ll be careful not to refer to her.”

Batman rode off, and Dick parked in front of the
Clarion
office. After he typed his column, he left it at the printer’s. Then he went home, ate, and developed the two photographs of Kurtz. It was soon time to turn in for the night.

The following day, the
Clarion
featured Dick’s column. It created a sensation around Gotham High, where school authorities were waging a campaign against drug peddlers. The column was picked up by a city newspaper and reprinted in the afternoon edition. Dick found himself a campus celebrity.

After school, he went over to see Carol. Lieutenant Ross pulled in the welcome mat. “I told you I don’t want to see you here until you’re ready to cooperate.”

Dick explained that he had photographs of a man he wanted to check out with Carol.

“So who is it?” Ross asked impatiently. “Don’t pull that Sphinx routine again.”

“Alexander Kurtz,” Dick answered, handing Ross the photos.

“Kurtz the hypnotist? He’s aged considerably since I last saw him. It’s worth a shot. But I’ll be standing outside the cell. This time you won’t hold out on me.”

Ross conducted Dick to Carol’s cell. “There’s a visitor to see you.”

“I’m glad you came back,” Carol said to Dick.

“I can only stay a few minutes.”

Carol’s face fell.

“I have something I want to show you.” He held out the two photographs.

Carol glanced at them, expressionless.

“Does he look familiar to you?”

“Why, should he?” Carol studied the photographs intently. “I don’t recognize him. Am I supposed to? As far as I know. I’ve never seen him before.”

“Forget it then,” Dick said.

“But who is he? Aren’t you going to tell me?”

“His name is Alexander Kurtz. He used to be a professional hypnotist.”

“A hypnotist!” Carol’s eyes filled with sudden understanding. “And you thought he was The Man?”

“It was just an idea.”

Carol looked upset. “He’s not the one. Dick. I told you, I’m not free to identify him. You played a cheap trick on me.”

“It wasn’t, Carol. I’m just trying to get you out of this mess. I’m on your side.”

“It was underhanded and sneaky. You’re trying to trick me into telling you his name.” She moved to the end of the cot, her back to Dick.

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Carol.” Dick turned to leave.

As Ross opened the door, Carol sobbed softly to herself. Dick made a move toward her, then shrugged, turned, and left the cell.

“You made a good try,” Ross said. “You did all you could. I’ll take the photographs now.”

“You can have them, for all they’re worth,” Dick said.

He left the station feeling he had let Carol down.

VI

Alan Spencer stood in front of the Curtis jewelry store, working up the courage to enter. The gold-plated bracelet The Man had given him seemed alive and hot to the touch. He fingered it gingerly in his pocket. Then he withdrew his hand and ran it nervously through his sandy hair. Glancing at the door, a chill swept over him, though the weather was balmy.

As he hesitated, he realized he might look suspicious loitering in front of the shop. Pretending interest, he inclined his head toward the window display. He wanted to turn and run, but how could he ever face the Circle again? The Man would be furious and boot him out, at least for the night. Where would he sleep? He had no income, no family to shelter him.
By sundown I’ll need a fix real bad,
he thought.
It’s too late to find another connection.

Unable to postpone the moment any longer, he approached the door and pushed it open. Now there was no turning back. A bell tinkled over the entrance.

Mr. Curtis shot a sharp, appraising look in his direction. He was a tall, stylishly dressed man with close-cropped hair and a cool expression. Alan swallowed and advanced toward him. His feet sank into the plush velour carpet. It was like walking through an Arabian bazaar, with precious trinkets glittering on every side. Alan buttoned his sport jacket and straightened his tie.

“May I help you?”

“I’d like to see some bracelets. I’m looking for a birthday present for my aunt.” He assumed a wealthy, upper crust accent.

“This way, please.”

Curtis crossed to the other side of the store, with Alan at his elbow.

“What price range are you interested in?”

Alan replied exactly as The Man had instructed. “I’d like to see that bracelet: second row, third from the left.”

Curtis looked surprised. “That’s two thousand dollars,” he said, with an edge of doubt.

“I expected as much,” Alan replied evenly. “May I examine it?”

“Certainly.” Curtis brought out the bracelet. “This is from our Regal collection, a fourteen-carat classic gold Cleopatra bracelet.”

Alan raised it to the light, studying it.

“It’s a beautifully crafted piece,” Curtis went on. “Your aunt will treasure it forever.”

Alan placed it on the counter. “May I see that bracelet also? In the case behind you?”

Curtis turned around. “You mean this one?”

“Yes.”

As Curtis unlocked the case, Alan snatched the bracelet and swiftly substituted the cheap imitation. The entire operation took a split second, just as he had rehearsed it.

Unsuspecting, Curtis turned and placed the second bracelet on the counter. “This is a fourteen-carat gold tubular slip-on with twisted wire. It sells for one hundred dollars. Obviously there’s no comparison between the two.”

“I see what you mean,” Alan said. “I’d like time to think it over.”

“Of course. This slip-on is really suitable for a younger person. Your girlfriend, for example?”

“I’ll drop by again tomorrow.”

I knew he couldn’t afford the Cleopatra,
Curtis thought.
Trying to impress me with his phony Ivy League accent.

Curtis was about to put away the bracelets when his eyes snapped wide open. He scooped up the Cleopatra imitation, his jaw gaping. “Hey, wait a minute!” he cried. “Come back here!”

Alan was almost at the door. He grabbed the doorknob, threw the door open, and plunged outside, his heart pounding.

“Stop, thief!”

Dick was driving home when he heard Curtis shouting outside the store. He spotted Alan charging into the midst of traffic.

Tires squealing, a Datsun ground to a stop, its driver screaming, “Watch where you’re going! Are you crazy?”

Alan raced on without a backward look. The shrill clangor of Curtis’s alarm pursued him up the street.

Dick got out of his car and asked Curtis what happened.

“He switched bracelets on me, ran off with the genuine one.”

It sounded like The Man was behind this job, too. Dick ran after the thief, who was bounding up the steps of a library. Alan barreled into a line of borrowers and dashed out the back entrance. Puffing and gasping, he made for a bus that was just pulling out. Over his shoulder, he saw Dick pursuing him.

Alan pounded desperately on the side of the bus as it drew away from the curb. To his surprise, the driver brought it to a wheezing stop, and Alan ran for the entrance. Breathless, he leaped on board.

At that moment, Dick caught up with him and dragged him off the bus. Alan put up a fight, but Dick clamped a hammer lock on him, forcing him to his knees.

“Let go!” Alan cried in pain. “You’re breaking my arm!”

“Not until you talk. Who put you up to this? Was it The Man?”

The color left Alan’s cheeks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Ow!” he screamed as Dick tightened his hold.

“Spill it or you’ll talk to the police.”

“Ow! I can’t. He’ll kill me if he finds out.”

“Who? What’s his name?”

“All right! All right! Let go of my arm!”

Dick released him.

Alan rubbed his sore shoulder. “I didn’t want to steal the damn bracelet. He made me.”

“Who?”

A shot rang out from a car speeding by. Alan slumped to the ground, blood flowing from his scalp. The car zoomed off before Dick could get its license number. It turned a corner and disappeared.

Dick knelt down beside Alan, who was still conscious. He rolled out a handkerchief and pressed it firmly against Alan’s wound. Then he looked inside Alan’s wallet for his ID.

A man pushed his way through a gathering crowd. “I’m a doctor. Let me through.” he examined the wound. “He’s lucky. The bullet just grazed his skull. There could be a light concussion. He may be dizzy for a while.”

Alan motioned to Dick to move closer. He spoke with difficulty. Dick bent over him, his ear close to Alan’s mouth.

“Six—teen,” Alan stammered.

“Sixteen?”

“Cr-Crescent.”

“Sixteen Crescent? What about it, Alan?”

Alan struggled to speak. His eyes suddenly glazed and his head pitched forward. He was unconscious.

An ambulance soon arrived and took him to the hospital.

“Sixteen Crescent,” Dick repeated to himself. “Was it The Man’s address?”

Burning with curiosity, Dick got into his car and drove downtown.

VII

Crescent Street was in the heart of the business district. Sixteen Crescent turned out to be a restaurant. The Regency hardly looked like the headquarters for a dope ring. Maybe he’d misunderstood Alan’s words. But having come this far, he was not about to leave without further investigation. He parked the car up the street and doubled back to the restaurant. Entering the lobby, he found himself in a well-appointed, though hardly plush establishment. The dining room was paneled in pale cypress and illuminated by apricot lights. Dick followed the head-waiter to a corner booth. Selecting the least expensive dish, he ordered a hot roast beef sandwich and a Coke.

As the waiter left, Dick glanced about the place. The patrons were mostly middle-aged, with a smattering of young couples in conventional dress. No one remotely resembling a drug addict. Snatches of conversation drifted over to his table. It consisted of the usual topics: family, friends, the mortgage, rising prices. Hardly a den of iniquity, Dick thought. Unless the operation was a front.

At the far end of the room, two swinging doors, IN and OUT led to the kitchen. To his left was the lounge and rest rooms; to his right, a short flight of stairs rising to a door marked PRIVATE. At the back of the room an ornamented doorway marked CLOSED led down a flight of steps to a lower level. Dick supposed it was the cellar. Everything seemed on the up-and-up. All very innocent-looking. Yet Dick wished he could look behind the closed doors, if only to put his mind at ease.