The Further Adventures of Batman

by Martin H. Greenberg

  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.

  The waiter returned with his order. “The floor show will start soon,” he remarked.

  “Floor show?”

  “Didn’t you know? We have a show four times a week: Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday.”

  As the waiter was conversational, Dick tried a long shot, “A friend of mine recommended this place.”

  “Oh yeah? What’s his name? Maybe I know him.”

  “Alan.”

  The man’s eyebrows rose. I may have hit pay dirt, Dick thought.

  “Alan who?”

  “Spencer.”

  “Never heard of him,” the waiter answered too quickly. He left abruptly.

  He was lying. Dick was sure of it. He suppressed his excitement as the man walked up the short flight of steps and knocked on the door marked PRIVATE. Out of the corner of his eye, Dick saw the waiter turn in his direction. He felt the man’s eyes on him.

  He did know Alan. Though Alan didn’t fit in with the surroundings, he somehow belonged. As unlikely as it seemed, Dick had found the correct address. The Regency. On the face of it, it made no sense. This was no sleazy dive off the main strip. It was a neat, respectable establishment.

  If he’d really located The Man, Carol would finally be free of him. So would all the other kids under his thumb.

  If only he could take a peek behind the doors marked PRIVATE and CLOSED. One of them might contain the answer. If the CLOSED door led to a cellar, it might be large enough to house a number of people. Dick looked down at the floor. He might be sitting right above them. There must be a cellar entrance at the back of the restaurant, Dick reasoned. He was about to leave, with the idea of returning to investigate the rear of the building, when a spotlight flashed on. It illuminated a slightly elevated stage in the center of the floor.

  A dapper man dressed in dark evening clothes emerged from the PRIVATE room and crossed to the stage. Dick stiffened in his chair.

  He was gray at the temples, of medium height, with an erect, self-confident bearing. He fitted Carol’s description of The Man. But then so did a lot of men.

  His speech was crisp and aggressive, his voice resonant. It easily penetrated the farthest reaches of the restaurant without a microphone. “How do you do, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Julian Richter. Regular patrons are familiar with my work. But to the uninitiated, let me introduce myself. I am co-owner of this restaurant and a sometime hypnotist. ‘Sometime’ meaning whenever people let me perform.”

  There were a few chuckles in the audience.

  Dick sat riveted, his eyes following riveted, his eyes following Richter like a cobra.

  “One of the advantages of being a co-owner is that I can hire myself at low wages. I don’t have an ‘act,’ in popular parlance—but find that people are amused and instructed by my hypnotic demonstrations. Now—do we have a hardy soul among you who will volunteer as a subject?”

  His invitation was met with nervous titters.

  “Come, come, don’t be afraid. I’m not going to eat you. How about you, young man? You there in the corner booth.”

  Everyone turned toward Dick, who was caught off guard. “No thanks,” he answered.

  “No? You disappoint me. You look strong and brave for someone your age. How old are you?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “May I ask your name?”

  He hesitated, “Dick Grayson.”

  “Dick Grayson,” Richter repeated. “It seems to me I’ve heard that name just recently. Are you the same Dick Grayson who wrote the article about drug abuse?”

  “Yes.” If this is The Man, I’ve fallen right into his lap, Dick thought.

  “For those of you who haven’t seen the article, Dick is a reporter for the Gotham High Clarion. The paper is featuring a series of articles about drug traffic in Gotham City. Don’t you think that’s commendable? Give the boy a hand.”

  They all clapped good-humoredly.

  “Your reticence is unbecoming in a fearless reformer. Let’s see if we can coax Dick up to the stage.” He gestured to the audience.

  They obliged with more applause. When Dick shook his head, some people shouted:

  “Come on, Dick.”

  “Don’t be shy.”

  “Be a sport.”

  Richter stepped down from the platform and approached Dick’s booth. Gripping Dick firmly by the arm, he said, “Come with me. I will escort you personally. Don’t let us down, Dick.”

  Yielding, Dick stood up and accompanied Richter to the stage. The patrons laughed and cheered.

  You’re not going to hypnotize me, Dick silently vowed.

  “Stand over here, Dick. I’d like to test your suggestibility.” Richter stood behind Dick, his hands on both shoulders. “Now I’m going to blindfold you. Don’t be alarmed. Just relax.” Richter took a black handkerchief and wound it around Dick’s eyes. “Can you see anything, Dick?”

  Dick shook his head.

  “I thought not.” He gently pressed his fingertips to the center of Dick’s back. “You’re beginning to feel off-balance. Your body is swaying.”

  Dick stood ramrod-straight, refusing to yield to Richter’s suggestion.

  “At the count of five, you will fall forward. Have no fear, I will catch you. You won’t be hurt. One . . . two. You’re feeling slightly dizzy. You can’t control your body’s motion. Three. You’re falling forward.”

  Lurching, Dick caught himself and snapped back on his heels. Perspiration broke out on his forehead.

  “Four. You’re about to fall, Dick. Don’t be afraid. I’ll catch you. You’re teetering now, on the edge of a precipice.”

  Dick’s entire body vibrated like a taut spring. Don’t listen to him. Block out his voice.

  “You’re tipping over, Dick. Five. You’re falling. Let go. Don’t fight it. I’ll catch you.”

  Dick began to tumble; at the last second, he pulled himself erect, standing at rigid attention. How do you like that, Richter?

  “Obviously, Dick doesn’t relish the prospect of falling off a precipice.”

  The audience laughed.

  He removed the blindfold. “But the point is made, I think. In response to my verbal suggestions, Dick pitched forward, on the verge of falling. But he refused to yield to my final command, perhaps afraid I wouldn’t catch him. You don’t trust me, do you, Dick?” He grinned wolfishly.

  Dick didn’t answer.

  “Well, we’ll see if we can do something about that,” Richter said. “You can trust me, Dick. Sit in this chair and make yourself comfortable. Relax and let your mind float. Your tension is dissolving.”

  Dick felt more tense than ever. An experienced hypnotist, Richter noted the rigidity of Dick’s arms and decided to make use of it. “Extend your arms straight before you, with your hands tightly clasped.”

  Dick kept his arms at his sides.

  “Come, come, Dick. Follow my directions. There’s no need to convince me that you are still not hypnotized. I haven’t attempted to put you under. Extend your arms, please.”

  Dick complied.

  “I am going to recite the alphabet. When I reach the letter D—for Dick—you will be able to unclasp your hands, A . . . B. Tight, ti
ght, tight. C. Tighter, tighter . . .”

  Dick’s hands were rigidly locked. He tried with all his might to separate them.

  “D. Tighter still. You cannot unlock them. Try.”

  Flushed and perspiring, Dick struggled to open his hands, without success. They were welded together.

  Triumphant, Richter chopped down on Dick’s wrists. “Open.”

  Dick’s hands slipped apart, as if greased with melted butter.

  “I hope you learned a lesson, Dick. It’s pointless to resist my commands.”

  Dick decided to play along with him, doubtful that he could stand up to Richter’s repeated suggestions. But if he could simulate a trance, his mind would still be in control of his actions. When he hypnotizes you, don’t fight him. Make him think you’ve gone under very rapidly.

  Richter flashed a coin under Dick’s eyes. “Concentrate on this golden coin. It’s a talisman from the mystic Orient.” Richter twirled the coin. “You see nothing but this coin. It occupies your entire field of vision. It is growing larger and larger. Keep staring at it. Its brilliance is dazzling. You cannot keep your eyes open. Your eyelids are growing heavy. A warm, drowsy sensation is creeping over your entire body.” Dick’s head nodded.

  “When I snap my fingers, you will be asleep.”

  Snap. Dick’s head fell forward against his chest.

  “The subject is fully asleep now,” Richter gloated.

  Dick’s body felt torpid, but his mind was still clear.

  Richter held up a hatpin. “I’m going to stick a pin into your finger, Dick. Don’t be afraid. You will feel no pain. You are armored against pain.” He raised Dick’s right hand—Dick steeled himself—and jabbed the pin into his thumb until it drew blood.

  The pain was sharper than Dick expected—but his dreamy expression never wavered.

  “This is an example of hypnotically induced analgesia,” Richter told the audience. “Loss of pain sensitivity. Now, it has been demonstrated that a subject cannot lie under hypnosis. He becomes compulsively truthful. Let us test this. Dick, how old are you?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “Do you like school, Dick?”

  “Most of it.”

  “Do you like me?”

  Dick hesitated. “No.”

  Everyone laughed.

  Richter smiled thinly. “I guess I asked for that. This is your first visit here, isn’t it, Dick? I don’t remember seeing you here before.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did you discover us on your own, or did someone recommend you here before.”

  “Someone recommended it.”

  “Would you care to tell us who? Perhaps some of us know him. Or is it a secret?”

  “No. It was Alan Spencer.”

  “A friend of yours?”

  “An acquaintance. I hardly know him.”

  “Did he tell you anything about me?”

  “No.”

  “He just mentioned the restaurant. Nothing else?”

  “Nothing else.”

  “I see. Alan comes here often. I assure you he likes me.”

  The audience laughed.

  “In time you’ll come to like me, perhaps—once you become a part of my circle.”

  Circle! Keeping a tight lid on his emotions, Dick forced his features to remain impassive.

  “Now we’ll try some definitions,” Richter said. “This is always fascinating to me, for it tells something about how the mind works. We may stumble upon some interesting subconscious associations. Dick, what is a circle?”

  “A round shape. The area of a circle equals pi times the square of the radius.”

  “Very good. Does the word ‘circle’ mean anything else to you?”

  “A social group.”

  “Any particular group?”

  Dick hesitated. “Any social group could be called a circle.”

  At that moment a young man entered the restaurant and signaled to Richter. Richter nodded. “Ladies and gentlemen, I must end this demonstration now. Business calls. I trust you enjoyed yourselves.”

  They gave him a round of applause.

  “I’ll bring Dick out of it now. Dick, when I clap my hands, you’ll be wide awake. You’ll feel rested and perfectly relaxed, remembering nothing of our conversation.” He clapped his hands.

  Opening his eyes, Dick gazed about the restaurant, yawned, and stretched.

  “How do you feel, Dick?”

  “Just fine. Is it all over?’

  “Yes.”

  “Was I hypnotized?”

  Everyone laughed.

  “I assure you, you were. You proved a good subject. Now return to your seat and order anything you like. It’s on the house.”

  “Thank you,” Dick said, stepping off the stage.

  As Dick returned to his booth, Richter marched to the back of the restaurant, walked down a short flight, and entered the room marked CLOSED. He shut the door behind him, locked it, and entered a larger room, which was the headquarters for the Circle.

  VIII

  Soon afterward, Richter heard raised voices at the rear of the restaurant. As he moved toward the back door, it sprang open.

  Two young men entered, prodding someone with their guns. “Come on, you!” they ordered, pushing their captive into the cellar.

  “We found this guy poking around outside, boss,” one of them said.

  Richter’s lips twisted into a predatory smile. His arms opened in a gesture of welcome. “How nice of you to join us, Dick Grayson.”

  Dick’s eyes swept the cellar. “Carol!” he cried. She sat with her hands tied to the back of a chair.

  Lashing out, Dick knocked the guns from both teenagers’ hands. As he dove for a gun, a bullet exploded an inch from his outstretched hand. Dick straightened up to see a puff of smoke rising from a pistol in Richter’s hand.

  “Tsk, tsk. I had hoped you would become one of us, Dick. But you deceived me. You weren’t hypnotized at all, were you?”

  “Almost,” Dick conceded.

  “I give you credit—you had me completely fooled. It took poise to carry that off, plus unusual powers of resistance. It’s a pity you didn’t join our side. I could have used you.”

  “The way you’ve used the others.”

  Richter smiled. “Your fierce independence makes it impossible for me to release you. You see that, don’t you? You know too much for your own good. Ergo, you must die, together with Carol.”

  “No!” Carol cried. “Please don’t do it. I swear I didn’t tell the police a thing!”

  Richter looked at her contemptuously. “I realize that, or the police would have swooped down on us. We’ll make sure your silence is permanent, my dear.”

  Carol cringed in her chair, her eyes wild with fear.

  “How did you capture her?” Dick asked, with a flash of anger.

  “As she was being escorted to the police psychologist’s office a block from the jail. It was simply a matter of careful planning and waiting for the right opportunity. Unfortunately, a police officer was shot in the fray.”

  Richter reached for a hypodermic needle. “I hadn’t bargained on a twin execution.”

  “Please!” Carol cried. She burst out sobbing.

  “You will go first, you pathetic sheep. I’m sick of your whining. But I assure you, your deaths will be quite painless. The police will think you overdosed on morphine. Naturally, your bodies will be found far from this place.”

  “The police will connect us,” Dick said. “I participated in your little demonstration, remember? There were witnesses. You gave my name to your audience.”

  “Quite right. But Julian Richter is a respectable restauranteur. Customers saw you leave this place in good health and good humor. So far as the police are concerned, The Man is still Mr. Anonymous. There’s nothing to connect me with your rapidly approaching demise.”

  “Devil!” Carol cried.

  “Shut up!” Richter exploded. “Let’s get this over with.” He turned to o
ne of the gang members. “Fred, roll up their sleeves.”

  Fred cautiously unbuttoned Dick’s sleeve, remembering how easily Dick had disarmed him before. His friend, Brad, pressed a gun to Dick’s temple. Then Fred bent over Carol, huddled limply in her chair, and untied her hands. Carol collapsed weakly into Fred’s arms.

  There was a knock at the door leading to the restaurant.

  “Who is it?” Richter demanded.

  “It’s Joe, the waiter.”

  “What do you want?” Richter growled. “I’m busy.”

  “There’s a package for you. Registered mail. They need your signature.”

  “Sign it for me, idiot!”

  They heard the waiter conferring with someone. “The guy says the sender requested your personal signature, boss. Or he has to take it back.”

  “Very well. One minute.” Turning to Fred, he whispered, “Gag them. Brad, keep them covered.”

  Fred tied handkerchiefs around their mouths. Then Richter unlocked the door.

  Dick cried out in a muffled voice. Brad jabbed a gun to his back. “Shut up,” he whispered, “or I’ll plug you.”

  “Hand it over,” Richter said, reaching for the parcel. The waiter fell forward unexpectedly, and Richter reeled backward. Batman loomed up behind the waiter. A clubbing blow sent Richter crashing into Brad, who dropped his automatic. Dick swooped down, picked it up, and leveled it at Fred.

  “All right, drop your gun!” Dick ordered Fred. Before he finished the sentence, Batman had already twisted the gun out of Fred’s hand.

  “Raise your hands and face the wall! All of you,” Batman ordered. “You too, Richter.”

  Richter meekly obeyed.

  They heard footsteps charging down the stairs to the cellar. Policemen appeared in the doorway, their guns drawn.

  “I notified the police before barging in,” Batman whispered to Dick.