Four years later, Saladin soundly defeated the Crusaders and recaptured the city of Jerusalem. A few of the highest-ranking Christian officers were brought before Saladin for questioning. One of them, as it turned out, was the treacherous Reynald de Châtillon himself.
Saladin took the opportunity to chastise Reynald for breaking the negotiated peace in the first place. Reynald, in an act of supreme stupidity, could come up with nothing better to say in his defense than a vile, coarse insult. Saladin, reaching the end of his patience, drew his own sword and separated Reynald from his thoughtless head on the spot.
The city of Jerusalem had been liberated from the marauding Christians, and the robbery of Saladin’s sister had been avenged, but what hadn’t turned up was her personal copy of the Qur’an. That wasn’t located again until much later. In the centuries that followed, the book was celebrated as a symbol of Muslim moral superiority over the Crusaders.
Under heavy guard, this copy of the Qur’an was carried out of the ALIA 747 and loaded into an armored car, which sped toward the Seaside Coliseum with a police motorcycle escort. When the armored car arrived at its destination, it was discovered that the guard in the back of the vehicle had somehow been murdered, his face contorted in the hideous death-grin of the Joker. The Qur’an, bound in gold and jewels, was missing.
When King Hussein loaned the holy book to the exhibition of Renaissance-era relics in Gotham City, it was the first time it had left the Hashemite Kingdom in more than five hundred years. Now it had fallen into the hands of Gotham City’s most nefarious criminal. Reading the account of the theft the following day, knowledgeable experts on the Middle East wondered if this incident might cause a deeper rift between America and the Muslim world. There was no way to know if the Joker had even considered that possibility.
A large figure of a condor made of gold and jewels. A stage prop made of painted wood. A centuries-old book bound in gold and jewels. All three were connected to exhibitions in Gotham City’s Seaside Coliseum. Did they have anything more in common?
The Batman began to see a connection. As he studied the schedule of the Gotham City Knights’ next few home games, he told himself that it was time to test his theory. He would bet his own life—and possibly the lives of many others—during the Knights’ Monday night game against the Houston Rockets.
The next evening at eight o’clock, Exhibit Hall J of the Seaside Coliseum was filled with more than two hundred members of the Three Eyes. They had all come to see Diane Cristall perform her feats of mind reading and hypnotism. Diane Cristall was one of the world’s most successful mental telepathists, and although she attributed her abilities to years of arcane studies, there were many skeptical observers in the audience who were glad of the chance to see how she actually executed her tricks.
The lights in the room slowly went down until there was only a single, tight spotlight on the tall, raven-haired woman. “Ladies and gentlemen,” said Diane Cristall, “thank you for coming here tonight, despite the unpleasant events that have occurred in this building recently. I can assure you that the management of the Coliseum has added extra security guards, and that we’re all perfectly safe. At least, we’re safe from human villains. I can’t guarantee the behavior of the spirit world!” She flashed a dazzling smile, and her audience laughed appreciatively.
“First of all, as a kind of warm-up, I require the services of a volunteer from the audience. Anyone at all. Do I have a volunteer?”
There was a brief pause, as the professional magicians and illusionists glanced around to see who would offer himself up as Diane Cristall’s experimental subject. Finally, a shrill voice spoke up. It came from the far side of the raised platform that served the room as a stage. “Well now, Miss Cristall,” said the Joker, suddenly illuminated by a second spotlight, “as much as I’ve enjoyed your act over the years, I think it’s time that you took a seat in the audience and let me show you how a real hypnotist works!” He rubbed his gloved hands together and filled the room with his unnerving laughter.
There was immediate consternation in the room. The Joker raised his hands for quiet. “Please, please, ladies and gentlemen! You above all should know that this sort of thing requires the utmost concentration! I’m going to try something never before attempted on such a scale. I’m not going to hypnotize a member of the audience. No, that’s for beginners and mediocre mind readers such as Miss Cristall. No, I’m going to put you all to sleep! Isn’t that a fascinating gimmick? Don’t you wish you’d thought of it first?” The Joker’s whole body seemed to rock spasmodically with his laughter.
Before the audience could react, the Joker’s five henchmen stood up in the darkness. Each man had a rebreathing device fitted tightly between his teeth, and each held a green cylinder of some kind of gas. At a signal from the Joker, they opened the valves. The hissing sound of the escaping gas was drowned out by cries of panic, as the audience members began to fight their way through the gloom toward the two rear exits.
The Batman entered the exhibit hall with a squad of uniformed Gotham City police. “All right, Joker,” he said in a cold voice, “your show’s over.” The police officers pushed their way through the crowd and took the Joker’s henchmen into custody. They shut off the poison gas cylinders before enough of the unknown vapor was released to do anyone harm.
“Ah, very good, Batman!” said the Joker, clapping his hands. “I see you finally deciphered the clues! It certainly took you long enough! The three dead guards will probably want to discuss that with you, when I send you to join them in the afterlife! You’ve ruined my wonderful finale this time, Batfool, but let me ask you one final question.”
The Batman pushed his way toward the stage. “No more questions, Joker,” he said. “It’s time for me to put you back in your box.” As he stepped up on the platform, someone turned up the lights in the exhibit hall. Where the Joker had been, there was now only a gossamer screen. His presence in the room had been only an illusion, a projection.
“You are a Batfool, you know!” crowed the Joker’s voice from beyond the folding partition that separated Exhibit Hall J from its neighbor. “Now, here’s something for you to ponder: How well can you hit a screwball?” And then there was only the raucous, crazy sound of his laughter, fading away as the Joker made his escape.
Commissioner Gordon joined the Batman at the front of the hall. “He won’t get away,” he said. “My men have completely surrounded the Coliseum. They’re watching every exit.”
The Caped Crusader took a deep breath and let it out. “Do you really believe they’ll catch him. Jim?” he asked.
Gordon started to say something, then thought better of it. “No,” he replied. “The Joker’s beaten us again. At least, this time we stopped him from achieving his ultimate goal, murdering this entire crowd of two hundred innocent people. If you hadn’t realized that his crimes were linked to the names of the visiting basketball players, we would have had a horrible, senseless massacre on our hands tonight.”
“First, Larry Bird and a ‘bird’ crime,” said the Batman. “Then Earvin Johnson and a ‘magic’ crime. Next. Michael Jordan and an ‘Air Jordan’ crime. And tonight the Knights played the Houston Rockets.”
“With Akeem ‘The Dream’ Olajuwon and Eric ‘Sleepy’ Floyd,” said the police commissioner. “If all the crimes hadn’t centered around the two exhibits here at the Coliseum, we might never have been able to stop that madman. We’ve spent so much time here in the last few days, though, that we both knew about Diane Cristairs hypnotism demonstration tonight.”
The Batman watched as the shaken Three Eyes convention members filed out of the hall. “Have you taken the other Joker into custody?” he asked.
“The young man who was playing for the Knights? Yes, although we’ll probably have nothing to charge him with. I personally think he was an innocent dupe. His name is Bo Staefler, and he was a promising college player who’d been overlooked in the NBA draft. Joculator, Inc. offered him a lucrative contrac
t to play for the Knights under the conditions that he wear that grotesque Joker outfit, and that he neither ask any questions nor answer them.”
“Staefler played so well for the Knights,” said the Batman, “I wouldn’t be surprised if they signed him to a valid contract under his own name.”
“Incidentally, now I see how the Joker disappeared so quickly after each game. Staefler went into the locker room, removed the makeup where no one could see him, and then slipped out again.”
“Well, Jim,” said the Batman, “what matters is that we stopped the Joker again. I’m sure we’ll even recover the stolen times from the offices of Joculator, Inc.”
“The Joker couldn’t have kept this string of crimes up much longer,” Gordon said. “He knew that tomorrow the NBA commissioner was going to ban him from the game. The league will no doubt void the sale of the team, as well.”
“The crimes themselves weren’t important to him. I think our own sense of morality tends to blind us to just how insane the Joker is. He was willing to murder two hundred innocent people just to make me look bad. We have a hard time believing that such a monster can exist in our society.”
“Well, old friend, it’s true,” said Gordon. “And he’s out there still, somewhere. What do you think he meant by those last words to you?”
“He wanted to know if I could hit a screwball. Well, he’s certainly screwball enough. I just hope . . .” The Batman’s voice trailed off.
“What is it? What do you think he meant?”
The troubled man in the midnight-blue costume turned away and gazed into space. “I just hope he doesn’t start this whole thing all over again at the beginning of baseball season!”
—Thanks to Martin Harry Greenberg,
who gave me the idea.
The Joker’s War
Robert Sheckley
There was a flash of white light, brief, brilliant, blinding. The man sitting at the writing table blinked and looked up irritably. “What was that?” But there was no one in the room to answer him. He frowned, the lines on his long white face turning down. Whatever it was, it had passed. Outside his cabin, he could hear the ship’s horns and sirens hooting. He was aboard the German ship Deutschland. It was March 13, 1940. The steamship had just finished docking at Hamburg.
There was a discreet tap at the door. The man turned. “Who is it?”
“Ship’s steward, Mr. Simmons. We are ready to disembark. Please have your passport ready.”
“Thanks. I’ll be there soon. Oh, Steward. Did anything go wrong with the lighting?”
“No, sir. Is something the matter?”
“No, everything’s fine. Send some porters to take my bags.”
“Yes, sir!”
The man stood up and took off his dressing gown. He dressed in his usual outfit—purple formal jacket, trousers with black pinstripes, green shirt with purple string tie. He added an orange vest. Black shoes with white spats came next. Finally, since it was a chilly day outside, he put on his lavender overcoat. Pausing, he looked at himself critically in the mirror.
Although he traveled under the name of Alfred Simmons, his clothing and appearance proclaimed him none other than the Joker. He studied his green hair, red lips, and long face. His face split into an impossibly wide smile. The Joker was happy. He had waited a long time for this. Now one of his old dreams was going to come true. He was going to get extremely rich, and he was going to have a lot of fun doing it.
The Joker was the focus of all eyes as he sauntered down the gangplank. Hamburg was gray and cold that March morning, and recent raindrops glistened on the old gray walls of the big old buildings. There was a platoon of S.S. troops just behind the immigration booth. Police in their distinctive red-collared uniforms and small peaked slate-blue caps stood around looking sullen and violent. Enormous signs in gothic black letters proclaimed many things Verboten. The sky was gray and storm-tossed. Vehicles were crowded into the landing area, and there were tanks and armored cars there, too.
The Joker breathed it all in, expanding his chest as he stood on the soil of Nazi Germany. Yes, it was just as he had thought it would be.
He walked up to the immigration booth. The official examined his passport and peered at him suspiciously. “Herr Simmons? You come to Germany at a strange time. We are at war, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” the Joker said. “Against France and England. Nothing to do with us Americans. Anyhow, there’s not much happening yet, though, is there?”
“We conquered Poland last month!” the official said.
“Big deal.” The Joker smirked.
The official stiffened. His eyes narrowed. “I could have you arrested for a remark like that. I have a good mind not to let you into Germany.”
“Read the note in back,” the Joker said, flicking his finger toward his passport.
The official opened the passport and took out a piece of paper. He unfolded it and read it, once, then twice. He looked at the Joker and his jaw fell open.
“But that signature—”
“Yes,” the Joker said. “Are you satisfied? I’ll be off then.” The Joker retrieved his passport with a quick movement of his purple-gloved hand, and walked through the barrier to the waiting cars outside.
One of those cars was an enormous Mercedes-Benz, gunmetal gray, imposing. The chauffeur came over, clicked his heels, bowed. “Herr Simmons? I will attend to your luggage. Please get in.”
The Joker settled down in back. His trip was starting well.
Soon the limousine had left the gray city of Hamburg under its haze of smoke, mist, and rain. They were on the Autobahn now, moving at high speed to the south. There were thin dead woods on either side. Nothing was in bloom yet. The trees looked unreal in the thin shimmering mists that clung to them.
After a while they were in the Black Forest. Here the limo turned off onto a side road, and then another side road. At last it went through an open gate onto the wooded estate of the Bad Fleishstein Spa.
The proprietor, Herr Gerstner, a small, balding, worried-looking man in a tuxedo, hurried out to open the limo door and greet the Joker personally. “Herr Simmons! So very happy am I to greet you and welcome you to our spa. We had received Herr Obermeier’s phone call alerting us to the imminence of your arrival. We have prepared our finest chalet for your occupancy. It is called ‘The Kaiser’ and your driver can proceed to it and unload your luggage.”
“Great,” the Joker said. He turned to the chauffeur. “Go do that, Hans, and I’ll accompany Herr Gertie here to the spa.”
“You must have a glass of cherry liqueur with me,” Herr Gerstner said. “It is the finest in all Germany. Heil Hitler!”
The Joker smirked but did not reply. The two men strolled up the curving path that led to the main building. There was only a scattering of people around, since it was still early for the spa season. But those the Joker saw were well-dressed and had a prosperous, self-contented look. The Joker decided at once that this was one of the nice things about dealing with cultured and wealthy people. They looked good and they had money.
After drinking a glass of cherry brandy with Herr Gerstner, the Joker strolled through the woods to his chalet. Hans had hung up his clothing, but, following orders, hadn’t touched several suitcases with special locks on them.
“OK,” the Joker said, “you go find yourself a place to stay in the village we passed. Telephone your number to Gertie when you’re settled. Be prepared to move at any time.”
Hans saluted and left. The Joker made several telephone calls from the chalet, one of them long-distance to Rome. Then he went outside and strolled around the chalet, knocking off the heads of early spring flowers with his walking stick. Going back inside, he unlocked a small pigskin case and took out several sheets of paper. He studied them carefully, then locked them away again. By then it was time for dinner. He checked his appearance critically in a tall mirror, and substituted a floppy silver and mauve cravat for his black shoestring tie, and strolled bac
k to the main building.
Herr Gerstner had given him a table to himself beside one of the long French windows. The Joker ate the soup and salad without comment. But when the waiter brought him a plate of greenish brown things curled into circles and swimming in a suspicious-looking sauce, he bent over it apprehensively, smelled it, and tapped with his knife on a wineglass to get the waiter’s attention.
“What is this?” he asked.
The waiter, a tall blond boy with a bad foot, which had kept him out of the military service so far, blushed and said, “Rollmops, sir.”
“And what exactly,” the Joker asked, “is rollmops?”
“It is herring, Meinherr,” the waiter said. “It is a special delicacy here in our great country. The sauce is light and contains vinegar—”
“You eat it,” the Joker said. “What else have you got?”
“The main course is roast pork with prunes, sir.”
“I don’t eat prunes. Haven’t you got any real food?”
By then Herr Gerstner had seen that something was wrong and came hurrying oyer.
“What is the trouble, Herr Simmons? How may I serve you?”
“That’s easy,” the Joker said. “Have somebody clear away this slop and bring me some real food. I was assured when I made my booking in this joint that you could cook food of any nation.”
“I assure you, we can. Our chefs are world-famous! What would you like?”
“A hamburger steak, medium-well done with plenty of fried onions, french fries, coleslaw, and the trimmings.”
“Trimmings?” Gerstner asked, struggling with the idiom.
“Excuse me, gentlemen, perhaps I could help.” A woman dining alone at a nearby table had overheard the conversation with considerable amusement. Now she swiftly told Gerstner what to bring, breaking off to enquire of the Joker, “Would you like to finish with apple pie and vanilla ice cream?” The Joker nodded, staring at her. The woman completed the order. Herr Gerstner bowed and went away.
The Further Adventures of The Joker Page 23
