Batman Versus the Fearsome Foursome

by Winston Lyon

  “Now, Miss Kitka,” he said, in an attempt to be brisk and businesslike, “you mentioned that you want to see me in connection with some sort of a riddle.”

  “That is correct, Comrade Wayne,” Miss Kitka replied. She reached into her handbag and produced a sheet of familiar-looking stationery. “This was slipped under the door of my penthouse apartment.”

  Bruce Wayne glanced at the sheet of notepaper. “But this note is written on Wayne Foundation stationery!” Miss Kitka nodded, and tucked a small lock of dark hair behind one perfectly shaped ear. Everything she did, Bruce Wayne decided, was marked with a special sort of elegance.

  “That is why I came to you, Comrade Wayne,” she said. “At first I thought the note was some sort of foolishness. Then I remembered”—her soft voice acquired a harder undertone—“that there is some sort of bourgeois criminal who calls himself the Riddler and preys on the workers of America. Is there not such a person?”

  Bruce Wayne smiled. “Your jargon is a bit quaint, Miss Kitka, but…the answer is yes. There is such a creature. And he is quite dangerous.”

  “I came to you because I thought the signature on the note might be genuine. You will see it is signed by the Riddler.”

  “I noticed that,” Bruce Wayne said.

  “I cannot make any sense of the riddles written there.” Miss Kitka shrugged her shoulders. Bruce Wayne thought it was among the most ravishing feminine gestures he had ever seen.

  “Well…uh…the Riddler always is very cryptic. At least, so I’m told.” Bruce Wayne frowned. “I wonder why he chose the Wayne Foundation stationery to write the riddles.”

  “I thought perhaps it was meant as a threat against your so-good Wayne Foundation. That is why I came to you before the police.”

  “I appreciate that, Miss Kitka. I really do.”

  Miss Kitka’s eyes flashed. “The fame of the Wayne Foundation is known from Leningrad to Kamchatka, Comrade Wayne. It works for peace and understanding between peoples. We must not allow any harm to come to it.”

  “I quite agree with you on that point, Miss Kitka.”

  “You yourself are well known in my country, Comrade Wayne. Your photograph has appeared countless times in newspapers and magazines.”

  “That’s most gratifying. I wasn’t aware that…”

  “I must add, Comrade Wayne,” Miss Kitka said, “that your photographs do not do you justice. You are much better-looking in person.”

  Bruce Wayne felt a flush mounting into his cheeks. He tugged slightly at his collar.

  “Why—er—thank you, Miss Kitka.”

  “What do we do now, comrade? Report these riddles to the police?”

  “I hardly think there’s need for that, Miss Kitka.” Bruce Wayne fingered the sheet of stationery thoughtfully.

  “Then perhaps we should send for someone I met recently…your masked cossack…Batman.”

  Bruce Wayne chuckled. The combination of Miss Kitka’s serious demeanor and the quaintly outlandish things she said was irresistible. He had never been so captivated by any woman.

  “Miss Kitka,” he said firmly, “I have no doubt at all that this note is the work of some harmless crank.”

  Was he mistaken—or did Miss Kitka appear a shade disappointed?

  “On the other hand,” he said, “I may be dismissing this note too casually. It may have much more serious implications. Shall we give the matter more thought…over dinner tonight?”

  Miss Kitka blinked. Her brown eyes were the warmest, most vibrant, most inviting he had ever seen. Eyes of such a lustrous, kindly, gentle hue that Bruce Wayne felt an almost hypnotic attraction.

  She was speaking now. What was she saying?

  “What a purrfectly lovely idea, Comrade Wayne.”

  How exciting her voice was. There was a furry sensuous quality that seemed to hold out all sorts of beguiling promises.

  Bruce Wayne had to make a distinct effort to overcome the strange pounding sensation in his chest.

  He hoped his voice was steady: “Now, if you’ll pardon me, Miss Kitka, I must phone to cancel a previous business engagement. I’ll have Alfred see you to the door.”

  In answer to Bruce Wayne’s ring, Alfred’s tall lean figure appeared.

  “Did you want something, sir?”

  “Will you escort Miss Kitka and see that she’s put safely into a taxicab?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Miss Kitka held out her hand. A dimple appeared mischievously in a corner of an alabaster cheek. “I’m so glad I came, Comrade Wayne,” she said.

  “Until tonight,” he answered.

  As soon as Alfred was out of sight with Miss Kitka, Bruce Wayne raced into the library. A quick turn of the switch inside Shakespeare’s dome, and the sliding panel in the wall moved away. He raced into the opening, and slid down the Batpole into the Batcave.

  Robin was charting final measurements on the lucite map when Batman rejoined him.

  “I think I’ve got it figured out, Batman. The likeliest cove for the submarine is—”

  “Never mind that now,” Batman said in a curt tone.

  Robin looked up in surprise.

  “We have more important work to do.”

  “More important, Batman? But I thought…”

  “As a matter of fact, get Alfred down here too. Tell him to take the service elevator and meet us as fast as he can. This is an emergency!”

  Only a few times in his life had Robin heard this particular urgency in Batman’s voice. This was certainly not a time for debate—it was a time for action. He hurried to the Batphone and placed the call to Alfred.

  “He’ll be right down,” he said when he returned to the table where Batman had opened the sheet of stationery from the Wayne Foundation. “What’s that?”

  “A note from the Riddler. It was delivered to Miss Kitka. Robin—listen to this and tell me if you interpret these riddles the same way I do. The first one is, ‘What has yellow skin and writes?’ “

  Robin said, “That’s easy. A ball-point banana.”

  “Good. We agree about that. Now, the second: ‘How can you tell when there’s an elephant in the refrigerator?’”

  “The door won’t close,” Robin answered promptly.

  “Right again!” Batman put down the sheet of paper. “And what would you say these riddles mean, Robin?”

  Robin’s eyes narrowed as he thought. Then be seemed to give a slight start. He snapped his fingers.

  “I’ve got it! Someone rushin’—that could mean Russian, of course—will slip on a banana peel and break his neck if he reveals the strange big thing that’s on ice.”

  “Good thinking, Robin. That’s exactly the conclusion I came to.”

  “But why was the note delivered to Miss Kitka?”

  “It’s a threat to Miss Kitka’s life. As he always does, the Riddler delivered his threat in the form of a riddle.”

  “But why would he threaten her?”

  “In some baffling way, she must have unwittingly stumbled across the plot of the four Supercriminals “

  “How?”

  Batman brought one gloved fist down into the palm of his other hand. “That’s what I have to find out!”

  The service elevator creaked slowly to a halt and Alfred stepped out of the niche in the rock wall. He had overheard the last exchange between Batman and Robin.

  “What is the scheme, sir?” he inquired.

  “I’ve already put it in motion,” Batman answered. “The moment I decoded the Riddler’s message—which was while Miss Kitka was showing it to me—I decided that I must act as her guardian.”

  “Won’t she think it rather odd, sir, if Batman accompanies her whenever she goes out?”

  “It won’t be Batman who will accompany her,” replied the Caped Crusader. “Bruce Wayne will go out on the town with Miss Kitka. In fact, he will become her almost constant companion.”

  Alfred’s eyes twinkled. “A not displeasing chore, sir. I’ve seen the young lady
.”

  Batman smiled. “Indeed, Alfred, I’ve rarely met a girl who is such a potent argument in favor of international…relations. In fact…” He paused, losing the thread of what he was saying as reverie overtook him. He remembered Miss Kitka’s melting brown eyes, the sinuous lines of her gorgeous body, the dimple in her alabaster cheek.

  “You were saying, sir?”

  “What?”

  Robin said, “Batman! What’s the matter?”

  “Oh, yes.” With an effort Batman recovered. “This isn’t going to be all fun and games. We mustn’t forget that the life of a very lovely woman is in danger. If anything should happen to her…” The deep voice of the Caped Crusader shook with thinly repressed fury. “If the Riddler should touch a hair of her head, if he tries to carry out his filthy threat—I’ll make him wish he never was born!”

  Robin had never seen Batman so emotional. He tried to keep his own voice matter-of-fact: “Shall we be nearby while you’re—er—acting as a guardian to Miss Kitka?”

  “Of course, Robin. You and Alfred will both be in the Batmobile a short distance away. You’re to keep constant watch via the Microwave TV Batscanner.” Robin said,

  “Golly, Batman, I’d rather not do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “It would make me feel like a Peeping Tom.”

  “Robin!” Batman was shocked. When he glanced at Alfred he saw that the cadaverous butler was amused.

  “I see,” he said finally. “So that’s what you both think, eh? Well, you’re wrong. Miss Kitka is an extraordinarily attractive woman. But I have never put pleasure before duty—and our duty is to save her life. Our duty is to foil the nefarious plot of the Riddler. That’s what comes first. So I order you to keep constant watch with the Microwave TV Batscanner, and at the first sign of trouble—”

  “We’ll close in!” Robin said.

  “Precisely,” Batman said coolly. His usual composure and self-control had returned. Do you have your driver’s license, Alfred?”

  “In my billfold, sir.”

  “Good man,” Batman said. “You will take the wheel of the Batmobile. That will leave Robin free to activate the Batscanner.” Batman put one hand on Alfred’s shoulder. “Good luck. Good hunting! This may prove to be a most memorable night.”

  Alfred’s tall lean frame stiffened to the challenge.

  “You may depend on me, sir.”

  Remembering Batman’s curious behavior of a few minutes earlier, Robin thought that the night might indeed be memorable for Batman, perhaps in ways that he himself did not entirely expect.

  There was no doubt that Batman was showing recognizable—and very human—signs of having been badly smitten by the glamorous Miss Kitka!

  CHAPTER 6

  A gypsy played a violin.

  The tremulous lush sounds of violin music carried through the smoke-laden air to a table at which Bruce Wayne sat with Miss Kitka.

  Never in the history of the world, Bruce Wayne was thinking, had any girl looked less like a Russian news correspondent. Miss Kitka had let her hair down; it hung long and lustrous and dark down her neck and tumbled in wanton disarray over incomparable shoulders. Her hair contrasted with the warm rich whiteness of her skin. She sat gracefully, with a sure sense of her body, in a kind of regally enticing pose. Although her lips were full and perhaps too boldly outlined, and her décolletage would have satisfied a show girl, there was something delicate about her and very proud, even haughty. Her flawless face was not exactly soft; there were signs of a distinct will and personality in the slightly stubborn tilt of jaw, and the high-boned character of her cheeks. Her eyes were wide yet slanting, wide-spaced and steady, with a hint of mystery behind their soft brownness.

  On the table before Bruce Wayne a pheasant was cooling under glass. Bruce was utterly oblivious to it. His attention was fixed on Kitka, who was only toying with her portion of Russian caviar.

  “May I have another glass of lemonade?” Miss Kitka inquired.

  Bruce Wayne summoned one of two stewards who were hovering nearby.

  “More lemonade,” he said.

  The wine steward looked pained. “Our wine cellar is the most famous in this part of the world, sir. We can offer you the very finest of vintage wines. May I suggest a Dom Perignon 1951 champagne for the lady?”

  “Lemonade,” Bruce Wayne said firmly.

  Miss Kitka smiled at him gratefully.

  Bruce Wayne decided at that moment that she was definitely the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.

  Inside the hansom cab, Miss Kitka leaned back and closed her eyes.

  “Are you too hot?” Bruce Wayne inquired solicitously. “Are you too cold?”

  “I’ve never felt better,” Miss Kitka replied.

  The park was dim and there was a pale radiance about the globes of the lamps that lined the drive at intervals. The dark foliage around them seemed to be whispering in murmurs, and moonlight glimmered peacefully above the trees. The warbling cry of a bird echoed in a mass of thickets.

  The clip-clopping of the horse’s hooves on the pavement was the only other sound. The driver in the high seat of the hansom cab was facing forward.

  The hansom cab turned a corner of the park drive and moved on at a leisurely pace.

  Hardly was the hansom cab out of sight than another vehicle appeared, moving at a pace no faster than that of the hansom cab. Its only lights were dimly glowing from bat-shaped headlights in the front.

  In the cockpit seats of the Batmobile—for the Batmobile it was—were Alfred, the butler, and Robin the Boy Wonder. Alfred was wearing a frock coat and a bowler hat. His only concession to his newly acquired status as chauffeur of the Batmobile was a domino eye mask which discreetly covered his eyes. He held the wheel firmly in both hands, watching the roadway ahead.

  Beside him Robin watched a small screen set below the dashboard. On the screen appeared Bruce Wayne and Miss Kitka, in the rear seat of the hansom cab, and Bruce Wayne reached tentatively across and took Miss Kitka’s hand.

  “Where do you think they’ll go next from here, Master Robin?” Alfred inquired.

  Robin sighed. “Who knows? I’m afraid it will be a long night.”

  At two o’clock in the morning, a sultry girl singer in a sequin gown was crooning “Parlez Moi d’Amour.” On the dance floor of the Twinkle Nightclub, Bruce Wayne and Miss Kitka were among several couples moving to the slow rhythms of the dance band.

  “You dance beautifully,” Bruce Wayne said.

  “So do you, comrade,” said Miss Kitka.

  “Could you learn to call me Bruce?”

  “In my country, comrade, it is more fitting to call another person ‘comrade.’”

  “We’re in my country, now, dear Miss Kitka.”

  Miss Kitka leaned her dark head slightly against Bruce Wayne’s shoulder. “That is true, dear comrade.”

  The faint and subtle scent of perfume reached Bruce Wayne’s nostrils. This entire evening had been almost like a dream. If it is a dream, he thought, I would much prefer never to wake up.

  “If there were just some way…” he said.

  “Yes, dear comrade?”

  “If there were just some way we could…narrow the gulf between our cultures, Miss Kitka…”

  She pressed against him as they made a turn about the dance floor.

  “Da,” she said, elongating the word in a way that lent a special significance to the Russian version of yes. “Da,” she repeated.

  Bruce Wayne said forcefully, “This curtain which divides our countries is so foolish. If we could just contrive some fashion of…some method of…”

  “Yes, dear comrade?”

  “Some method of getting more deeply involved with each other,” Bruce Wayne blurted.

  “Da, da,” Kitka purred. “We must search for such a method.”

  Half a mile distant, in the Batmobile, Robin watched the dance floor scene on the Micro TV Batscanner. As Bruce Wayne touched Miss Kitka’s raven-dark hair
, holding her head closer to his shoulder, Robin reached across and snapped off the switch.

  “Isn’t that against Batman’s orders?” Alfred asked mildly.

  “I can’t help it, Alfred. It isn’t right for us to watch and listen anymore. I mean, some things have to be private—even for a crime fighter.”

  Alfred coughed discreetly. “Your manners are admirable, Master Robin. In any event, I do believe the police expect us to check in about now.”

  “Roger!” Robin picked up the mobile Batphone, and pushed the button that connected him with Commissioner Gordon’s office.

  Commissioner Gordon answered. “Yes, Boy Wonder?”

  “Batmobile position: Gotham Central Park, south of West Drive. We are traveling less than five miles an hour, and are about to pass the Benedict Arnold monument.”

  “Great Scott! Are you driving around in circles, Boy Wonder?”

  “There isn’t much else to do, Commissioner. Bruce Wayne and Miss Kitka are still in the Twinkle Nightclub.”

  “It’s been almost two hours. What the devil are they doing?”

  “No comment, Mr. Commissioner. Let’s just say…the Batscanner reveals absolutely no sign of criminal activity.”

  “Ah, yes.” Commissioner Gordon’s voice held a tinge of amusement. “I understand. Well, we’re waiting word from you. My office is set up as an operations center. I have police working on a huge map of Gotham City and its environs. They’ve put pins in to indicate your position, and that of Bruce Wayne and Miss Kitka. We have additional pins ready for whenever the Riddler and his criminal cohorts decide to strike.”

  “I’m glad to hear that, Commissioner. But perhaps we can pin matters down somewhat better.”

  “How do you mean, Boy Wonder?”

  “I’ve thought of a ruse that may flush the Fearsome Foursome out of cover. Send Chief O’Hara up to the roof and have him flash the Batsignal!”

  “If you say so, Boy Wonder, certainly. But may I ask why?”

  “When the crooks see it, they’ll figure that Batman and I are racing to police headquarters to answer the signal. Thinking that we’re out of the way will encourage them to strike at Miss Kitka.”