Batman 2 - Batman Returns Read online

  The once angry reporter smiled. He sensed a story.

  “What’s the deal, Mr. Shreck?” He thrust his handheld tape recorder straight at Max. “Is The Penguin a personal friend?”

  “Yes,” Max replied soberly, “he’s a personal friend—of this whole city. So have a heart, buddy.” He reached forward and hit the stop button on the reporter’s recorder. “And give the Constitution a rest, okay? It’s Christmas.”

  There were so many records, so much to do.

  The Penguin sat at a great table in the cavernous main hall of the records building, surrounded by hundreds of thousands of birth certificates. And The Penguin had to look at every one.

  Occasionally, he would find what he wanted, and jot it down on a legal pad. He was only vaguely aware of the noises outside, of a crowd of reporters shouting questions and calling his name. This work was far too important to be distracted by such common concerns.

  But day ended, and as the night descended, the reporters left at last. Still, The Penguin worked by the light of a single lamp, flipping through the certificates, and jotting down names, boys’ names, on his legal pads. He had already filled a tall stack of these pads with names, but his work was not yet done.

  After all, this was only the beginning of The Penguin’s revenge.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  It was far too quiet.

  He guided the Batmobile down the deserted streets of Gotham City. Over the past couple of days, there had been almost a complete halt in heavy-duty crime; not a single bank heist, only one bungled attempt to hold up a convenience store, hardly even any murders. It was as if the criminals of Gotham City were staying off the streets, waiting for something really big.

  A light flashed on the console in front of him. Alfred was calling. Batman pressed a button, and the butler’s face lit up a small video screen by the wheel.

  “The city’s been noticeably quiet since the thwarted baby-napping, yet still you patrol,” Alfred announced in that disapproving way he had. “What about eating? Sleeping? You won’t be much good to anyone else if you don’t look after yourself.”

  “The Red Triangle Circus Gang” was Batman’s terse reply. “They’re jackals, Alfred. They hunt in packs, at night—”

  He glanced out the windshield. He had almost reached his destination.

  “Are you concerned about that strange heroic Penguin person?” Alfred asked in his dry British manner.

  Batman laughed. He pulled the Batmobile up in front of the Gotham Hall of Records. Two men, a policeman and a Shreck security guard, stood to either side of the entryway, or, to be more accurate, they slumped, since both appeared to be dozing.

  Batman looked up at the single lit window within the hall. Why was The Penguin still inside?

  “Funny you should ask, Alfred,” he said to the butler. “Maybe I am a bit concerned.”

  Well, now, this was quite a turnout. Not only was the press out in force—but then, these days, they followed The Penguin everywhere—but there was a huge crowd of the general public as well, including a small number of young women dressed in black. Who were they? Penguin groupies? If he had known this sort of thing was going to happen, he would have come out of the sewers sooner. Now, if he could only determine some way that he could show his appreciation for these fine, nubile young women without the press nosing around. Ah well. All things in their time. At this moment, he had other fish to swallow.

  The police once again formed a living chain to keep the curious away as The Penguin strode forward onto the tiny, private cemetery plot tucked in a forgotten corner of Gotham. The well-manicured headstone he sought was immediately ahead, with separate inscriptions for Tucker and Esther Cobblepot, his very dearly departed father and mother. It was a shame that they both had to die so young. And so mysteriously.

  The Penguin fell to his knees in front of the markers, and reached within one frayed sleeve to pull out a pair of roses that, frankly, were a little the worse for wear. Oh, well, no matter. It was the sentiment that counted. And, by The Penguin’s count, there were at least a dozen TV and film cameras recording this sentiment at this very moment. And there was no way anyone could ever count all the news cameras.

  The Penguin stood, and thought he saw a couple of his groupies swoon at the great emotion of his actions. Ah, yes, he would like to get one or two of those little chicks alone. But not here. Not now.

  Instead, he walked back toward the crowd of reporters. One obnoxious example of the profession pushed forward from his fellows.

  “So,” the reporter began, “Mr. Penguin—”

  The Penguin held up his umbrella in protest. “A ‘penguin’ is a bird that cannot fly,” he remarked sternly yet sadly. “I am a man. I have a name. It’s Oswald Cobblepot.” Or at least it was now his name whenever it suited him.

  “Mr. Cobblepot!” the reporter continued, unfazed. He waved toward the grave of The Penguin’s parents. “You’ll never get a chance to settle with them, huh?”

  The crowd gasped at the effrontery of the reporter. My, The Penguin thought, it was certainly good to have the masses on his side. He twirled his umbrella pensively for a moment before he replied.

  “True, I was their number one son”—he glanced back pensively at the twin headstones—“and they treated me like number two. But it’s human nature to fear the unusual—even with all their education and privilege. My dad, a district attorney, mother active in the DAR; perhaps, when I held my Tiffany baby rattle with a shiny flipper, they freaked.”

  He paused and turned to the crowd before he continued.

  “But I forgive them.”

  The crowd cheered one more time. He had them in the palm of his hand.

  Or should that be the palm of his flipper?

  All of Gotham City was talking about The Penguin.

  “Penguin forgives parents!” the paperboy called. “Read all about it! ‘I’m fully at peace with myself and the world!’ Get your paper!”

  And Gotham City responded, grabbing the newsprint as soon as the papers could be dropped from the trucks. Everybody stopped whatever they were doing to read the charming news.

  “ ‘You don’t need hands as long as you’ve got heart,’ ” quoted one from the paper before him.

  “ ‘My heart is filled with love,’ ” a second read aloud. “ ‘I feel five feet tall.’ ”

  “He’s like a frog,” another exclaimed, “that became a prince!”

  “No, actually he’s more like a penguin,” another, calmer head replied.

  A couple passed nearby, talking as animatedly as everyone else. “Abandoned penguins from the old Arctic World raised him!”

  “Makes you remember the true meaning of the holiday,” the woman chimed in. “The love, the giving—”

  Max chuckled. He’d been in that Arctic World, that old leftover pavilion from some world’s fair or wonders-of-tomorrow technology exhibition. Max should probably read a paper to find out which one. There used to be a lot of that sort of thing around Gotham City, back when ordinary people had money.

  But that same pavilion was The Penguin’s hideout now, and the place where he hid the Red Triangle Circus Gang. The main thing Max remembered about the place was the smell.

  Still, the way the Gothamites were grabbing papers, his plan had worked, and then some. He just hoped that The Penguin would be sufficiently grateful when the time came. After all, Max might be rich—but he could always get richer.

  Bruce Wayne had some reading to do.

  He studied the front page of the newspaper projected on the video screen before him; the page was old and yellowed but still very readable. He had installed this special computerized microfiche reader in the Batcave for just this sort of instant access to history.

  He pressed a button on the console before him. The reader jumped to the next page.

  “ ‘Red Triangle Circus put on a swell show last night, with fierce lions . . .’ ” he read aloud from the screen before him. No, there was nothing of value in
this article. He quickly hit the correct combination of keys, and the command appeared at the top of the screen: CONTINUE SEARCH FOR: RED TRIANGLE.

  He waited a few seconds as back issues blurred by before another paper came into focus.

  “ ‘Triangle Circus has returned for a two-week . . .’ ” Bruce read, “ ‘kids will love . . .’ ”

  It was still too early in the circus’s career, before they had turned to a life of crime, or, more likely, before the police had discovered it.

  He hit the search key again as Alfred entered the room. The butler had brought him his supper on a tray.

  “Thanks, Alfred,” Bruce murmured as the butler placed the tray upon a table by his side. Alfred smiled and nodded his reply.

  Bruce picked up a spoon and took a sip of the soup. He blinked in surprise.

  “It’s cold,” he told Alfred.

  The butler nodded again, as if this news was no surprise to him. “It’s vichyssoise, sir.”

  Bruce looked at the soup before him. “Vichyssoise.” Oh. “Supposed to be cold, right?” Foolish of him to think Alfred might have made a mistake. But he had to get back to his search.

  “Mr. Wayne,” Alfred remarked gently. “Does the phrase ‘Christmas holiday’ hold any resonance for you?”

  Bruce laughed. He grabbed one of the data-coded CDs from his desk and lobbed it to the other man, letting it sail through the air like a Frisbee.

  “Listen to yourself, Alfred,” he told the butler. “Hassling me yesterday, in my car.”

  Alfred dutifully placed the CD in a nearby player. An instant later, he could hear his own voice:

  “What about eating? Sleeping? You won’t be much good to anyone else if—”

  Bruce picked up the remote and turned the player off.

  “I learned to live without a mother a long time ago, thanks,” he added. Alfred raised an eyebrow, but did not otherwise respond.

  Very well, Bruce thought. If he couldn’t get the old fellow to listen to reason, he would simply ignore him. He turned back to his reading.

  “ ‘Triangle Circus is back,’ ” he read aloud, “ ‘With a freak show that may not be suitable for your kids, featuring a bearded lady, the world’s fattest man, and an aquatic bird boy.’ ”

  He turned to Alfred in triumph. There it was. Exactly the sort of thing he was looking for.

  Alfred still did not appear impressed. “Why are you now determined to prove that this Penguin—er, Mr. Cobblepot—is not what he seems? Must you be the only lonely ‘man-beast’ in town?”

  Bruce’s only answer was to read a choice part of the next article aloud:

  “ ‘Circus folded its tents yesterday, perhaps for ever. After numerous reports of missing children in several towns, police have closed down the Red Triangle’s fairgrounds. However, at least one freak-show performer vanished before he could be questioned.’ ”

  There! Alfred had to see the connection now. Bruce turned to his servant with a triumphant grin.

  “I suppose you feel better now, sir,” Alfred remarked dryly.

  Did he? Bruce thought about it. What satisfaction would he get from information that The Penguin was probably a vicious criminal plotting something against Gotham City? It certainly wasn’t reassuring.

  “No,” Bruce admitted, “actually I feel worse.”

  The two men regarded each other for a long moment in silence. After all, what else could be said?

  Alfred frowned at his employer.

  “Eat your vichyssoise,” he instructed.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  One way or another, Selina would finish this. Unless it finished her first. Her pen sped across the page of the pad in front of her. She already had twelve other pages of notes that she had made from the computer files, and all those pages were in shorthand. She was almost done, though. One more file to browse through, and then she could go back over her notes to see if they made any sense.

  Her pen stopped, and so did her heart, when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She looked up to see Max grinning down at her. This late at night? Something must be wrong. Max Slavemaster never worked after six.

  “Working late?” Max asked solicitously. “I’m touched.”

  “No,” Selina replied under her breath, “I am.” She quickly added in her official executive assistant voice, “Well, I’m boning up for your Bruce Wayne meeting in the morning.”

  Max still didn’t look convinced. He never realized how hard she worked. Well, this time she would tell him, in every gory detail.

  “I pulled all the files on the proposed power plant,” she continued, “and Mr. Wayne’s hoped-for investment.” She pointed to the pages of shorthand in front of her. “I’ve studied up on all of it. I even opened the protected files and—”

  For the first time since she had begun her description, Max looked impressed.

  “Why, how industrious,” he remarked with a smile. “And how did you open protected files, may I ask?”

  “Well,” Selina replied, glad to be on her boss’s good side for a change, “I figured that your password was ‘Finster.’ Your Chihuahua. And it was.” People always used the names of kids and pets as passwords; it was one of the first things you learned as an administrative assistant.

  She glanced back at her notes again. “And it’s all very interesting, though a bit on the technical side, I mean how the power plant is a power plant in name only since in fact it’s going to be one giant—”

  What was the word? She glanced up at Max, but he only gave her a nod of encouragement.

  “A big giant capacitor,” she continued as soon as she found the reference. “And that, instead of generating power, it’ll sort of be”—this is where her notes, or the concepts behind them, started to get confusing—“sucking power from Gotham City and storing it—stockpiling it, sort of? Which is a very novel approach, I’d say.”

  She looked back up to her boss.

  “And who,” he replied smoothly, “would you say this to?”

  With that, he calmly lit a match and set fire to her notes.

  Selina swallowed. Perhaps she had overstepped her authority.

  “Well,” she replied, hoping for the right answer, “—um—nobody?”

  Max dropped the burning notepad into the trash. Selina did not like his current smile one bit.

  “What did curiosity do to the cat?” Max asked much too gently. He took a step toward her.

  “I’m no cat,” Selina replied quickly, although at the moment she wished she could be as small, and as swift, as one. “I’m just an assistant,” she added. Totally unimportant. Pay no attention to little old me. “A secretary—”

  “And a very, very good one,” Max agreed as he continued his approach.

  “Too good?” Selina guessed.

  Max nodded all too readily. Why was this the time, after all those screwups, that she had to be right?

  Selina took a step away. “It’s our secret,” she said brightly. “Honest. How can you be so mean to someone so meaningless?”

  “The power plant is to be my pyramid,” Max replied with a chilling conviction. “My cathedral, my legacy to Chip. Nothing must prevent that.”

  Selina’s back hit the plate-glass window. There was nowhere else for her to go. But Max kept on coming.

  This was all too much, Selina thought. She was about to get frightened half out of her skull. Who did this Shreck guy think he was, after all?

  “Okay,” she said, trying to sound firm, “go ahead. Intimidate me. Bully me, if it makes you feel big. I mean, it’s not like you can just kill me!”

  Max shook his head sadly. “Actually, it’s a lot like that.”

  Selina stared at him. What did he mean by that?

  Max smiled.

  Selina wiped a tear of fright from her cheek. What a relief.

  “For a second,” she said to Max, “you really frightened—”

  Max grabbed her and savagely pushed her through the plate glass.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN


  She was falling. Down through the darkness and the swirling snow. It was so beautiful. If you had to die, maybe this was the way to do it.

  She heard canvas rip as she fell through an awning. She couldn’t feel anything anymore. Then she hit a second awning, and a third, all the fronts of the fancy multistoried Gotham Plaza. They had slowed her fall, but—

  She was surrounded by cold, and white. She must have fallen into snow. She had no breath left in her.

  “Help me—” she managed. “Somebody—” Someone warm and loving, someone above all this.

  “Miss Kitty—” she called.

  Her world went from white to black.

  What had he done?

  The power plant was important to him and his future plans, certainly. Free electric power would be indispensable in his plans to undercut his competitors, especially as foreign investment drove this country to its collective knees. No matter who won that battle, the Shrecks would survive.

  But perhaps he felt too strongly about that survival, to do something like this. Max shivered as he looked out the remains of the window. He would have to concoct a story. And they would certainly have to do something about the broken glass.

  He turned and saw Chip standing in the doorway. Max would have to come up with a story even sooner than he had thought.

  “It—it was terrible,” he stumbled. “I leaned over—and accidentally knocked her—out—”

  Chip nodded sympathetically. “She jumped,” he corrected his father. “She’d been depressed.”

  Max stared at his son for an instant before he realized what was going on. “Yes. Yes,” he agreed heartily. That was it exactly. “Boyfriend trouble?” he suggested.

  Chip shook his head. “P.M.S.,” he stated decisively. He turned and walked from the room.

  Max could only stare after him in admiration. Now there was a son!

  There are certain things that go beyond rational explanation. One of them is the connection felt sometimes between two spirits, lovers, perhaps, who can sense each other’s thoughts when they are apart; or a parent who knows something has happened to a child half a world away. But these connections are not limited to humans alone.