Rubin looked at it, then turned to look at the guest. He said, “You’re leaving out the lines, Mario.”
“Caricature,” said Gonzalo, “is the art of truthful exaggeration, Mannie. When a guy looks that good at his age, you don’t spoil the effect by sticking in lines.”
“What’s his name?”
“I don’t know. Tom didn’t give it. He says we ought to wait for the grilling to ask.”
Roger Halsted ambled over, drink in his hand, and said in a low voice, “Tom was looking for you all week, Manny.”
“He told me. And he found me right here.”
“Did he explain what he wanted?”
“He didn’t explain it. He just asked me to be nice.”
“Are you going to?”
“I will, until I get the idea that this is a joke at my expense. After which—”
“No, he’s apparently serious.”
Henry, that quiet bit of waiter-perfection, said in his soft, carrying voice, “Gentlemen, dinner served.”
And they all sat down to their crab-leg cocktails.
James Drake had stubbed out his cigarette since, by general vote, there was to be no smoking during the actual meal, and handed the ashtray to Henry.
He said, “Henry’s announcement just now interrupted our guest in some comments he was making about Superman, which I’d like him to repeat, if he doesn’t mind.”
The guest nodded his head in a stately gesture of gratitude, and having finished an appreciative mouthful of veal marengo, said, “What I was saying was that Superman was a travesty of an ancient and honorable tradition. There has always been a branch of literature concerning itself with heroes; human beings of superior strength and courage. Heroes, however, should be supernormal but not supernatural.”
“As a matter of fact,” said Avalon, in his startling baritone. “I agree. There have always been characters like Hercules, Achilles, Gilgamesh, Rustam—”
“We get the idea, Jeff,” said Rubin, balefully.
Avalon went on, smoothly, “Even half a century ago, we had the development of Conan by Robert Howard, as a modern legend. These were all far stronger than we puny fellows are, but they were not godlike. They could be hurt, wounded, even killed. They usually were, in the end.”
“In the Iliad,” said Rubin, perfectly willing, as always, to start an argument, “the gods could be wounded. Ares and Aphrodite were each wounded by Diomedes.”
“Homer can be allowed liberties,” put in the guest. “But compare, say, Hercules, with Superman. Superman has x-ray eyes, he can fly through space without protection, he can move faster that light. None of this would be true of Hercules. But with Superman’s abilities, where is the excitement, where’s the suspense? Then, too, where’s the fairness? He fights off human crooks who are less to him than a ladybug would be to me. How much pride can I take in flipping a ladybug off my wrist.”
Drake said, “One trouble with these heroes, though, is that they’re musclebound at the temples. Take Siegfried. If he had an atom of intelligence, he took care never to show it. For that matter, Hercules was not remarkable for the ability to think, either.”
“On the other hand,” said Halsted, “Prince Valiant has brains and so, especially, did Odysseus.”
“Rare exceptions,” said Drake.
Rubin turned to the guest and said, “You seem very interested in storybook heroes.”
“Yes, I am,” said the guest, quietly. “It’s almost an idée fixe with me.” He smiled with obvious self-deprecation. “I keep talking about them all the time, it seems.”
It was soon after that that Henry brought on the baked Alaska.
Trumbull tapped his water glass with his spoon at about the time that Henry was carefully supplying the brandy. Trumbull had waited well past the coffee, as though reluctant to start the grilling, and, even now, the tinkle of metal against glass seemed less authoritative than customary.
Trumbull said, “It is time that we begin the grilling of our guest, and I would like to suggest that Manny Rubin do the honors this evening.”
Rubin favored Trumbull with a hard stare, then said to the guest, “Sir, it is usual to ask our guest to begin by justifying his existence, but, against all custom, Tom has not introduced you by name. May I, therefore, ask you what your name is?”
“Certainly,” said the guest. “My name is Bruce Wayne.”
Rubin turned immediately toward Trumbull, who made an unobtrusive, but clear, quieting gesture with his hands.
Rubin took a deep breath and managed a smile. “Well, Mr. Wayne, since we were speaking of heroes, I can’t resist asking you if you are ever kidded about being the comic-strip hero, Batman. Bruce Wayne is Batman’s real name, as you probably know.”
“I do know,” said Wayne, “because I am Batman.”
There was a general stir at the table at this, and even the ordinarily imperturbable Henry raised his eyebrows. Wayne was apparently accustomed to this reaction, for he sipped at his brandy without reacting.
Rubin cast another quick glance at Trumbull, then said, carefully, “I suppose that, in saying this, you imply that you are, in one way or another, to be identified with the comic-strip character, and not with something else named Batman, as, for instance, an officer’s orderly in the British army.”
“You’re right,” said Wayne. “I’m referring to the comic-strip character. Of course,” and he smiled gently, “I’m not trying to convince you I am literally the comic-strip Batman, cape, bat symbol, and all. As you see, I am a three-dimensional living human being, and I assure you I am aware of that. However, I have inspired the existence of the comic-strip character, Batman.”
“And how did that come about?” asked Rubin.
“In the past, when I was considerably younger than I am now—”
“How old are you now?” asked Halsted, suddenly.
Wayne smiled. “Tom has told me I must answer all questions truthfully, so I will tell you, though I’d prefer not to. I am seventy-three years old.”
Halsted said, “You don’t look it, Mr. Wayne. You could pass for fifty.”
“Thank you. I try to keep fit.”
Rubin said, with a trace of impatience, “Would you get back to my question, Mr. Wayne? Do you want it repeated?”
“No, my memory manages to limp along satisfactorily. When I was considerably younger than I am now, I was of some help to various law-enforcement agencies. At that time, there was money to be had in these comic strips about heroes, and a friend of mine suggested that I serve as a model for one. Batman was invented with a great many of my characteristics and of my history.
“It was, of course, distinctly romanticized. I do not, and never have, gone about with a cape, or had a helicopter of my own, but I did insist that Batman be given no supernatural powers but be restricted to entirely human abilities. I admit they do stretch it a bit sometimes. Even the villains Batman faces, although they are invariably grotesque, are exaggerations of people with whom I had problems in the past and whom I helped put out of circulation.”
Avalon said, “I see why Superman annoys you, then . . . There was a television Batman for two seasons. What about that?”
“I remember it well. Especially Julie Newmar playing Catwoman. I would have liked to have met her as an opponent in real life. The program was played for laughs, you know, and good-natured fun.”
“Well,” said Drake, looking about the table and carefully lighting a cigarette now that the meal was over (and cupping it in his hand in the obvious belief that that would trap the smoke), “you seem to have had an amusing life. Are you the multimillionaire that the comic-strip Batman is?”
“As a matter of fact,” said Wayne, “I’m very well off. My house in the suburbs is elaborate, and I even have an adjoining museum, but you know, we’re all human. I have my problems.”
“Married? Children?” asked Avalon.
“No, there I also resemble my alter ego—or he resembles me. I have never been married
and have no children. Those are not my problems. I have a butler who tends to my household needs, along with some other servants who are of comparatively trivial importance.”
“In the comic strip,” said Gonzalo, “your butler is your friend and confidant. Is that right?”
“Well—yes.” And he sighed.
Rubin looked thoughtful, and said, “Tell us about the museum, Mr. Wayne. What kind of museum is it? A headquarters for science and criminology?”
“Oh, no. The comic strip continues successfully, but my own day as an active upholder of the law is over. My museum consists of curios. There have been a great many objects made that have been based on the Batman cartoon and his paraphernalia. I have, I believe, at least one of every single piece ever made in that fashion: Batman note-paper, large-scale models of the Batmobile, figurines of every important character in the strip, copies of every magazine issue featuring the character, cassettes of all the television shows, and so on.
“It pleases me to have all this. After all, I am sure the strip will survive me and it will be the part of me that will be best remembered after my death. I don’t have children to revere my memory, and I have done nothing very much in my real life to make me be part of history. These evidences of my fictional life are the best I can do to bring myself a little nearer immortality.”
Rubin said, “I see. Now I’m going to ask a question that may cause you to feel a little uncomfortable, but you must answer. You had said—oh, for God’s sake, Tom, this is a legitimate question. Why don’t you let me ask it, before you start jumping.”
Trumbull, looking both abashed and troubled, sank back in his chair.
Rubin said, “A little while ago, Mr. Wayne, you said that you, too, have your problems and, almost immediately afterward, when you mentioned your butler, you looked distinctly uncomfortable. Are you having trouble with your butler?—What are you laughing at, Tom?”
“Nothing,” said Trumbull, chuckling.
Wayne said, “He’s laughing because he bet me five dollars that if I just answered any questions asked me, and did so naturally and truthfully, the Black Widowers would have this out of me within twenty minutes, and he’s won.”
“I take it, then, that Tom Trumbull knows about this.”
“Yes, I do,” said Trumbull, “but I’m dealing myself out of this one for that reason. The rest of you handle it.”
“I would suggest,” interposed Avalon, “that Tom and Manny both quiet down and that we ask Mr. Wayne to tell us of his troubles with his butler.”
“My butler’s name,” began Wayne, “is Cecil Pennyworth—”
“Don’t you mean Alfred Pennyworth,” put in Halsted.
“No interruption,” said Trumbull, clinking his water glass.
Wayne said, “That’s all right, Tom, I don’t mind being interrupted. Alfred Pennyworth was indeed my butler originally and, with his permission, his name was used in the strip. However, he was older than I and, in the course of time, he died. Characters do not necessarily age and die in comic strips, but real life is rather different, you know. My present butler is Alfred’s nephew.”
“Is he a worthy substitute?” asked Drake, softly.
“No one could ever replace Alfred, of course, but Cecil has given satisfaction”—here Wayne frowned—“in all but one respect, and there my problem rests.
“You must understand that I sometimes attend conventions that are devoted to comic-strip heroes. I don’t make a big issue of my being Batman, and I don’t put on a cape or anything like that, although the publishers sometimes hire actors to do so.
“What I do is set up an exhibition of my Batman memorabilia. Sometimes, my publishers set up the more conventional items for sale, not so much for the money that is taken in, as for the publicity, since it keeps the thought of Batman alive in the minds of people. I have nothing to do with the commercial aspect. What I do is to exhibit a selection of some of the more unusual curios that are not for sale. I allow them to be seen and studied, while I give a little lecture on the subject. That has its publicity value, too.
“Needless to say, it is necessary to keep a sharp eye on all the exhibits. Most of them have no intrinsic value to speak of, but they are enormously valuable to me and sometimes, I’m afraid, to the fans. While the vast majority of them wouldn’t think of appropriating any of the items, there are bound to be occasional individuals who, out of a natural dishonesty or, more likely, an irresistable desire, would try to make off with one or more items. We have to watch for that.
“I am even the target for more desperate felons. On two different occasions, there have been attempts to break into my museum; attempts that, I am glad to say, were foiled by our rather sophisticated security system. I see you are smiling, Mr. Avalon, but actually my memorabilia, however trivial they might seem, could be disposed of quietly for a considerable sum of money.
“One item I have does, in fact, have a sizable intrinsic value. It is a Batman ring in which the bat-symbol is cut out of an emerald. I was given it under circumstances that, if I may say so, reflected well on the real Batman—myself—and it has always been much dearer to me for that reason than because of the value of the emerald itself. It is the pièce de resistance of my collection, and I put it on display only very occasionally.
“A year or so ago, though, I had promised to appear at a convention in Minneapolis, and I did not quite feel up to going. As you see, I am getting on in age, and for all my fitness program, my health and my sense of well-being is not what it once was. After all, I may be the real Batman in a manner of speaking, but I am also human.
“I therefore asked Cecil Pennyworth to attend the convention as my substitute. On occasion, I have asked him to fill in for me, though, till then, not at a major convention. I had promised an interesting display, but I had to cut that to Cecil’s measure. I chose small items that could all be packed systematically—so they could be quickly checked to make sure the display was intact—in a single good-size suitcase. I sent Cecil off with the usual unnecessary admonition to keep a close eye on everything.
“He called me from Minneapolis to assure me of his safe arrival and, again, a few hours later, to apprise me of the fact that an attempt had been made to switch suitcases.”
“ ‘And failed, I hope,’ I said.
“He assured me that he had the right suitcase and that the display was safe and intact, but asked me if I really felt he should display the ring. You see, since I was sending only small items, I felt that I was, in a way, cheating my public, and I therefore included my ring so that at least they could see this rarest and most valuable of all my curios. I told Cecil, therefore, that he should certainly display the ring but keep the sharpest eyes upon it.
“I heard from him again two mornings later, when the convention was drawing to a close. He was breathless and sounded strained.
“ ‘Everything is safe, Mr. Wayne,’ he said, ‘but I think I am being followed. I can duck them, though. I’m going northwest, and I’ll see you soon.’
“I said, rather alarmed, ‘Are you in danger?’
“He only said, ‘I must go now.’ and hung up.
“I was galvanized into activity—it’s the Batman in me, I suppose. I threw off all trace of my indisposition and made ready for action. It seemed to me that I knew what was happening. Cecil was being tracked by someone intent on that suitcase, and he was not, himself, a strong person of the heroic mold. It seemed to him, therefore, that he ought to do the unexpected. Instead of returning to New York, he would try to elude those who were after him, and quietly head off in another direction altogether. Once he had gotten away from his pursuers, he could then return to New York in safety.
“What’s more, I knew where he was going. I have several homes all over the United States, which is the privilege of one who, like myself, is quite well off. One of my homes is a small and unobtrusive place in North Dakota, where I sometimes go when I feel the need to isolate myself from the too-unbearable insinuations of
the world into my private life.
“It made good sense to go there. No one but Cecil and I and some legal representatives know that the house in question belongs to me. If he got there safely, he could feel secure. He knew that to indicate to me that he was going northwestward would have complete meaning to me, and would mean nothing to anyone who might be overhearing him. That was clever. He had to hang up quickly because, I presume, he was aware of enemies in the vicinity. He had said, ‘I’ll see you soon’ by which, it seemed to me, he was begging me to come to my North Dakota home to join him. Clearly, he wanted me to take over the responsibility of defense. As I said, he was not the heroic type.
“He had called me in the morning and, before night fell, I was at my North Dakota home. I remember being grateful that it was early fall. I would have hated to have to come there with two feet of snow on the ground and the temperature forty below.”
Rubin, who was listening intently, said, “I suppose that your butler, in weather like that, would have chosen some other place as a hideout. He would have told you he was going southeastward and you would have gone to your home in Florida, if you have one.”
“I have a home in Georgia,” said Wayne, “but you are correct otherwise. I suppose that is what he would have done. In any case, when I arrived in North Dakota, I found that Cecil was not yet there. I got in touch with the people who care for the place in my absence (and who knew me only as a ‘Mr. Smith’), and they assured me that nobody, to their knowledge, had arrived. There were no signs of any very recent occupancy, so he could not have arrived and been waylaid in the house. Of course, he might have been interrupted en route.
“I spent the night in the house, a very wakeful night, as you can imagine, and an uncomfortable one. In the morning, when he still had not arrived, I called the police. There were no reports of any accidents to planes, trains, buses, or cars that could have possibly be applied to Cecil.
“I decided to wait another day or so. It was possible, after all, that he might have taken a circuitous route or paused on the way, ‘holed up,’ one might say, to mislead his pursuers, and would soon take up the trip again. In short, he might arrive a day late, or even two days late.
The Further Adventures of Batman Page 22
