Batman Versus Three Villains of Doom Read online

  To the motion picture industry it’s an OSCAR. To television it’s an EMMY.

  But to the world of crime it’s a TOMMY…the gold-covered submachine gun that is awarded once every decade to the man or woman who has done the most for CRIME.

  The world’s ten top crime-lords have voted for the criminal of their choice. The time of presentation is at hand.

  BUT EEYOW…IT’S A DEADLOCK.

  There are not one—but three—favorite finalists.

  THE JOKER, that formidable clown of crime, has received three votes. THE PENGUIN, birdman of foul banditry, has received three votes. And THE CATWOMAN, the feline beauty with a purr-fect felon’s mind, has received three votes.

  To one master criminal goes the decision.

  AND YAA-AAA! HE DECLARES THAT THIS DECADE THE TOMMY WILL GO TO THE MAN—OR WOMAN—WHO CAN DEFEAT THE CRIMEWORLD’S GREATEST ENEMIES: BATMAN AND THE BOY WONDER ROBIN.

  POW! KAZAM! IT’S TO BE THE ENCOUNTER OF THE CENTURY. The three villains of doom vs. the caped crusaders against crime. MAY THE BEST MAN, MEN…OR WOMAN WIN!!

  VS. THREE VILLAINS OF DOOM

  by WINSTON LYON

  The character of BATMAN was created

  by BOB KANE

  CHAPTER 1

  A few miles outside Gotham City Harbor, the yacht Ocean Venture rode uneasily at anchor on the deep night swells of the ocean. No lights marked its presence. All the portholes were covered and the deck was bare.

  From the main salon of the yacht came the babble of voices and the pop of champagne corks. At the long horseshoe-curved banquet table a dozen men and one woman were seated.

  Ten of the men wore dinner jackets.

  Two men and the one woman were in costume.

  Seated to the right of the master of ceremonies was a tall, angularly lean man in a maroon formal coat with a bright yellow vest and a startling green shirt whose sharply pointed collar ends projected over his lapels. This bizarre costume was not the most striking feature of the tall, lean man. Indeed one hardly noticed his costume, outlandish as it was, because the face above it was so grotesque that it riveted the viewer’s attention.

  The lean man’s face was chalk-white, unlike any human countenance, and the madly grinning mouth was triangular and incredibly large, displaying perfectly even rows of square white teeth. Thin scarlet-colored lips were drawn back in a nightmarish grin into folds of the cheeks. Coal-black eyes stared out of dead-white eyeballs beneath curving black brows that seemed painted on the forehead in an expression of perpetual mockery. Above this, most startling of all, was a full combed-back head of grass-green hair!

  No one who looked upon this face once would be likely to forget it—or the name of the man. For this was the Joker—the formidable Clown of Crime.

  Beside him was a man who barely reached to the Joker’s shoulder, a dumpy, comical-looking fellow in a rakish top hat who smoked a cigarette in a long holder. The cigarette holder projected at a steep angle from his sardonically twisted lips. He wore a black formal coat, a bow tie, and a shirtfront unmarred by stud or button. In the jowly, rubbery face the most notable feature was a long, sharp, arrogantly tilted nose of spectacular proportions. Taken together with his receding forehead and chin, and his slit-like, almost sleepy eyes, this nose gave him an unmistakable resemblance to a certain Antarctic bird—a resemblance which the man’s mode of dress pointed up all too clearly. The Antarctic bird, of course, is the penguin, and this was indeed the Penguin himself—birdman of banditry, whose wickedly ingenious umbrellas served him well as weapons in his forays for plunder.

  On the left of the master of ceremonies sat a woman as lovely as her compatriots in crime were unprepossessing. Yet her costume was equally striking. The mask over her eyes also encased her head like a helmet that rose in two points at either side to resemble the pointed ears of a cat. The smoothly furred leotard that clung to her lissome, undeniably feminine figure was fastened at the waist by a belt, and from her shoulders a green cloak swirled down across the back of her chair. She wore black gloves, open at the finger-ends, and through the openings her incredibly long fingernails showed silver and gleaming-like claws.

  The claws of—the Catwoman!

  Amid the general hubbub, these three costumed figures sat almost silent, waiting. Occasionally one stole a glance at the others—a glance full of envy and malice. Abruptly the hubbub ceased.

  The master of ceremonies—whose name was John Whiting—rose from the center of the table. He rapped a gavel on the tabletop to silence the few remaining whispers in the room.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, “gentlemen of the underworld…”

  All eyes were turned to him now. Whiting, a tall, commanding figure of a man, waited with burly patience until the silence was complete.

  “We are met here tonight to choose the outstanding criminal of our decade. There are annual awards in other fields of endeavor—the Academy Awards given in motion pictures, the Emmy awards given in television, and the many, many plaques awarded in business, politics, the arts and sciences…But I believe it is fair to say that nothing—I emphasize nothing—equals in value, importance, or prestige the Tommy Award which is made every ten years by the members of our criminal society.”

  “Hear, hear,” someone shouted, and there was prompt and vigorous applause.

  Now Whiting reached beneath the table to produce a submachine gun. The submachine gun—familiarly known as a tommy gun—was coated entirely in gold. He placed it reverently on the center of the table.

  “This award is coveted by every respectable member of the underworld—not only in our country but around the world. In one way we are fortunate that we have three contenders for this prize whose exploits in crime have, beyond dispute, fully entitled each to claim the prize. I refer, of course, to our three guests of honor—the Joker, the Penguin, and the Catwoman.”

  The Joker’s grin seemed to stretch wider as he responded to the chorus of cheers and shouts. The Penguin puffed furiously at his cigarette, sending appreciative wreaths of smoke to the ceiling of the yacht’s salon. The Catwoman stretched languorously, linking her hands on the table before her, as though sheathing her claws.

  John Whiting’s square, rugged countenance looked pained. “However, I’m afraid that I have to report bad news. The award due to be presented to one of these three candidates at this Tommy Award dinner will not be presented.”

  Dismayed silence followed. Then:

  “Why not?” the Joker demanded shrilly. “I insist upon an explanation, Mr. Whiting.”

  “Egad, sir! So do I,” chimed in the Penguin.

  There was silky menace in the Catwoman’s purring voice, “I’m sure Mr. Whiting will offer an explanation.”

  John Whiting ran a finger under his shirt collar.

  “Well, I’m afraid I must take the blame,” he said. “The decision of who gets the award is supposed to be reached by a majority vote of the ten leading crime overlords assembled here tonight—and I, of course, am one. The nine votes so far recorded are evenly split. Three votes each for the Joker, the Catwoman, and the Penguin.”

  As the yacht rocked sullenly on the winter sea, in the main salon a few dishes slid along the length of the white tablecloth.

  No one—and nothing else—stirred.

  “Then,” said the Catwoman in her most feline tone, “the final decision is up to you, Mr. Whiting. You will cast the deciding vote.”

  John Whiting nodded and flushed slightly. He was aware of the Catwoman’s malevolent gaze upon him, the Joker’s black pupils staring at him out of dead-white eyeballs, and the Penguin’s eyes narrowed to focus on him within almost invisible slits.

  Someone called out, �
��Why drag out the suspense? Tell us who you pick, Whiting!”

  “That’s just it,” John Whiting said. “I haven’t made up my mind.”

  “You haven’t—what?” The Joker rose halfway out of his seat in anger.

  John Whiting repeated firmly, “I haven’t made up my mind. There are strong claims presented by all three of the contenders for this fabulous prize. And I’ve come to the conclusion that the final decision must be postponed.”

  “What good will that do?” a voice demanded harshly from the far end of the table.

  John Whiting held up his hand in a silencing gesture. “We will postpone the decision for only one week. And in that time each of the three contenders will undergo a test that will establish his or her rightful claim to the Tommy Award—in a way that no one will be able to dispute. In fact, I am certain that at the end of the week the decision of the committee will be unanimous.”

  “Unanimous?” The inquirer chuckled. “You’ll never get unanimous agreement about anything in the world of crime.”

  “Oh, I think I can,” said John Whiting. “For instance, I will now ask all members present here tonight to name the greatest menace to organized crime that ever existed in the history of the world. Answer when I raise my hand.”

  John Whiting raised his hand to give the signal.

  A thunderous concerted reply came: “BATMAN AND ROBIN!”

  John Whiting smiled. “It seems to me that it won’t be any more difficult to make our choice for the winner of the Tommy Award at the end of a week,” he said. “Because during that week, the Joker, the Penguin, and the Catwoman will compete against each other to outwit or destroy Batman and Robin. Their method will be simple—to commit crimes that bear their own unmistakable trademarks, and thereby to lure Batman and Robin into battle.”

  He glanced round the table. The members of the crime syndicate were obviously excited by the idea. And the three principals—the Joker, the Penguin, and the Catwoman—were already anticipating the contest to come, their eyes glittering at the thought of a life-and-death struggle with their hated enemies Batman and Robin.

  “Agreed?” asked John Whiting. “All those in favor say ‘Aye!’”

  The room exploded with one roar. “AYE!”

  “All right, then,” said John Whiting. “A battle—to the death, if necessary! And may the best man—or woman—win!”

  Even as this strange conference was taking place, a small craft silently approached the yacht Ocean Venture. Low and riding almost level with the water, the strange craft was like a floating pontoon. To the casual eye it might have been merely a floating log.

  Steadily the odd-shaped boat came nearer, moving gently with the current. The water slid under her hull, shining dimly.

  And then the yacht’s starboard side upreared above, outlined in the gleam of pale moonlight.

  Abruptly two caped figures stood up from the prone positions in which they had been riding the pontoon craft.

  “Quiet, Robin,” said the taller figure. “We want to take them by surprise.”

  Robin nodded. “You first, Batman,” he said.

  Batman flung high a rope ladder. A magnet caught against the ship’s side and clung there to fix the rope ladder in place. Then he climbed agilely to the deck. In a moment Robin followed him.

  There seemed to be no one around, but Batman’s hand on Robin’s arm was a warning.

  “Someone’s coming,” Batman said.

  Batman and Robin melted into the shadows near the ship’s railing. The faintest sound, which Batman’s keen hearing had picked up, now became clear. It was the slow, measured tread of footsteps on deck. Around a turn came a tall, muscular sailor, cradling a shotgun in his arms. He moved a few steps forward, then paused to listen.

  Batman sprang from his crouch in a single bound. His hand was clamped over the surprised sailor’s mouth before the man could utter a cry. Batman wrenched the shotgun out of the sailor’s arms with his free hand and tossed it to Robin, who in a quick motion tossed it far out over the ship’s rail into the water.

  The powerful sai1or now bent forward, trying desperately to pull Batman over his shoulder. But he was caught in a viselike grip.

  Batman’s arms closed tighter until the sailor gasped for breath. Then Batman’s fingers touched a nerve in the sailor’s neck. As the sailor slumped unconscious, Batman swung him up to deposit him on the tarpaulin of a lifeboat suspended in its davits.

  The entire struggle, violent as it was, took no more than a few seconds.

  Batman nodded to Robin, and the two caped figures moved swiftly toward a companionway that led below the deck.

  In the main salon, a marksmanship contest was under way.

  At one end of the huge room a large drawing of Batman was tacked up on the wall. The figure was drawn full size, with a circled target in the area of the heart.

  John Whiting said, “This is how we will decide which of our three contenders will get the first chance to prove himself superior to Batman. The Joker, the Penguin, and the Catwoman will fire air pistols with special phosphorescent dye markings—red for the Joker, yellow for the Penguin, blue for the Catwoman. Whoever comes closest to hitting the heart of Batman will get the first opportunity to prove the master—or the mistress—of the real Batman.”

  “Sacre bleu,” said François, the swarthy leader of the French underworld. “I must say you Americans have mos’ amusing ideas.”

  “Will the three contenders move up to the firing line?” John Whiting asked. “I don’t believe anyone will object if the lady goes first.”

  The Catwoman moved slowly, sensuously, over to the chalk mark on the salon floor, about thirty feet distant from the target. John Whiting handed her a long-barreled air pistol. The Catwoman’s arms extended, her claw-like fingers tightened.

  WHOOSH!

  “A nearly perfect shot, Catwoman,” John Whiting said admiringly. “Well within the target area of Batman’s heart.”

  The Joker hunched his shoulders as he stepped forward to the firing line. His grinning face reflected only the smallest sign of tension as he took aim and fired.

  WHOOSH!

  “Well done, Joker! Hardly an inch separates the two,” John Whiting said. “We will have to measure to see which came closest to the center. It’s your turn now, Penguin.”

  With a confident smirk, the Penguin stepped up to the mark, took aim, and fired.

  The shot went straight into the very dead center of the target!

  “You’ve earned the first chance at Batman,” John Whiting immediately announced. “Congratulations, Penguin.”

  Even as John Whiting stretched out his hand to the Penguin, a new voice rang with command through the salon. “May I offer my congratulations, too?”

  Everyone in the room seemed to freeze with terror. Then the Penguin whirled, his cigarette holder tilted at an incredulous angle.

  “BATMAN!”

  As though the name released everyone from a spell, they began to flee toward the rear entrance from the salon, with the Penguin himself in the lead. But before they reached the rear door, it flew open and the doughty figure of Robin, a red and green blur, sped across to crash into the Penguin full tilt, and send him flying back into the banquet table. He lay there like a plump sausage.

  After a dazed moment, the Penguin revealed extraordinary reflexes in his deceptively soft-looking body. He whipped off the tablecloth and swirled it at Robin in a rain of dishes and cutlery. Knives, forks, and spoons flew through the air. Robin was forced to make a high vaulting leap to evade the deadly barrage.

  Meanwhile, Batman exploded in the center of the other crooks, where he became a veritable spinning wheel of violent combat. The spokes were the flying, careening bodies of vanquished lords of the plunderworld.

  “All right, Batman! Now it’s my turn!” a shrill voice cried. Batman spun about and came face-to-face with the Joker. In an instant, the two were locked in terrible, straining combat.

  “Eet ees mos’ un
fortunate zat you do not have zee eyes in back of zee head,” said François, the French leader, as he aimed a karate kick at Batman, who was struggling mightily with the Joker. In an instant, Batman swung the Joker about into the line of fire. The Clown of Crime collapsed with a groan as François’s kick caught him in the groin.

  As François tried another kick, Batman caught his ankle in midair.

  “You’re becoming a nuisance, chum,” said Batman. “Or should I say ‘mon ami’? My French is a little rusty.”

  And Batman swung the hapless Frenchman around like a battering ram, colliding with Oliver Therry and Hardrock Henderson as they tried to get close to him.

  Three surviving criminals tried to clamber out the main doorway. Batman abruptly dropped the senseless François. The coiling rope of his Batarang snaked out and whirled about the escaping crooks in a rapid series of loops that pinioned them helplessly.

  Meanwhile the Catwoman found her progress toward the rear door blocked by the stalwart young figure of Robin.

  “Don’t you dare try to stop me, you beastly boy!” she shrieked.

  She lunged at Robin with her claws.

  Robin kicked a chair into the Catwoman’s path. As the Catwoman went over it, she gave a screech and plunged heavily to the floor.

  The salon now resembled a battlefield full of writhing, figures.

  “Look out,” cried Robin. “Behind you, Batman!”

  One antagonist remained standing—the formidable Penguin. Batman and Robin began to close in on him. The Penguin backed slowly toward the rear exit of the salon.

  “Don’t come any closer, Batman or Robin! I may be compelled to deal severely with you.”

  Batman answered, “If you’ve anything in mind, you’d better try it now, Penguin. Your time is up.”

  “Well, sir, if you insist!…”

  From beneath his coat the Penguin whipped out a small closed umbrella. His timing was absolutely perfect. Just as Batman and Robin were charging upon him, he pointed the ferrule of the umbrella directly at them and pushed a button.

  The salon lit up with a dreadful, blinding glare—the intense, unbearably brilliant whiteness of ignited magnesium.