Riddler paced. Not since the day of the great revelation, the day he stumbled
upon the last piece of the puzzle and saw clearly the answer to the ultimate
riddle (WHO IS BATMAN UNDER THAT MASK?) had he paced so feverishly. For not
since that day was he confronted with such a confounding conundrum.
The tabloids might be good for a laugh now and then, but there wasn’t a word of
truth in their pages and anyone with an ounce of intelligence knew it. To
keep up with what was really happening in Gotham, you had to read a real
newspaper, and Edward Nigma, like most men of intelligence, started each day
with the Gotham Times. His early morning wake-up calls from Poison
Ivy had one benefit in that he was starting the day much earlier than usual.
At 7:12 he hung up from Queen Chlorophyll’s daily update on her much improved
press and he opened his Times to the crossword. At 7:26 he finished the
crossword and noted his time: a dismal 14 minutes and 12 seconds, more
than three minutes over his average of 10 minutes 41 seconds and almost TWICE
his fastest time, 7 minutes 28 seconds.
So much for the so-called benefits of early rising.
He turned to the headlines, read through the
national news, then turned to the local… business… technology… travel…
entertainment… and finally before perusing the classifieds and opinion
pages, he found the Style section and checked Hermoine’s Society Chit-Chat.
He set down the paper, stunned, and stared
into space for ten full seconds. Then he looked at the page
again to see if the perplexing puzzle made any more sense the second time
around.
The Wayne Foundation asks us to open our checkbooks more often than any
other philanthropic institution, and it might become tiresome if they didn’t
always make it worth our while. The newest addition to the social calendar, a
masked ball called GOTHAM AFTER DARK, promises to out-do them all.
Hm. The WAYNE foundation throwing a party based on the colorful “rogues
gallery” associated with Gotham’s Dark Knight? Surely, one cannot doubt the
hand of the lovely Miss Kyle in this unique and daring theme. Readers will
remember, I’m sure, that Selina Kyle starred in the infamous Cat-Tales stage
show a few years back, and there are those who still argue if she might be the
real Catwoman. But whatever her connection to the rogues of Gotham, there is no
doubt of her connection to Bruce Wayne. For years now she has been escort
presumptive of the once-notorious playboy, and more than one socialite has her
hat all picked out for when that engraved invitation finally arrives bidding
them to another stunning Wayne Manor wedding.
A picture from the Grayson-Gordon wedding appeared beneath that appalling
paragraph, and that’s when Nigma set down the newspaper and began pacing.
The first wave of nervous tension shuddered through his system as he recalled
how Harley Quinn dragged him to that wedding, dragged him all the way out to
Wayne Manor in a cheap suit and false moustache because she had to crash that
reception (for reasons never explained, and considering Harley, Eddie figured
that was probably for the best) and she thought she would look less conspicuous
arriving with a date. He’d gone along, it went as well as anything goes when
Harley Quinn is involved, and he’d done his best to forget it ever happened.
He’d succeeded just fine until this Hermoine lunatic had to go reminding him.
If he knew then what he knew now… Bruce Wayne was Batman. Batman was
Bruce Wayne. Harley had taken him out to BATMAN’S HOUSE to CRASH A
PARTY. If he had an inkling what that demented tassel twit was getting him
into…
He hadn’t begun to recover from that realization when the next shockwave
reverberated through his still-reeling brain. A ROGUE PARTY???? Was he
insane? Was he flat out paging-Doctor-Arkham-pickup-in-aisle-six insane? Was
he SEA INN, AS NINE, SIENNA—off his bat-noodle? Wayne wasn’t stupid, he
wasn’t suicidal, that seemed to leave only crazy. Didn’t he realize how
insanely dangerous it was for him to be throwing a freaking costume party
peppered with Batmen, Jokers, Riddlers and who knew what all might turn up???
What was he thinking? What was he going to do, Bruce Wayne at a costume party
where everyone has to dress as crimefighters and rogues? Not that Nigma
especially cared about Bruce Wayne’s welfare. Apart from losing the only
opponent with a mind fit to match wits with his own, he wouldn’t particularly
mind living in a world without Batman. But Selina was another matter. And
Selina’s fate was now, for better or worse, tied to Wayne’s and…
…and even if Riddler wasn’t above using her that one time, he did consider
Selina a friend and…
…he would hate to see her Smilex’d or dismembered…
…fed to Joker’s hyenas or…
He went back to the newspaper, that one phrase
echoing through his mind—Selina’s fate was tied to Wayne’s now, for better
or worse.He reread Hermoine’s coy
prose. More than one socialite has picked out a hat…
…
…
…
She wouldn’t.
…
Would she?
And if she did, what did Eddie care? It’s not like he ever had a chance
with her. They were friends all those years when they were both available.
If
there was any spark, it would have happened. There wasn’t. It didn’t. So it
wasn’t jealousy.But something bothered him about that niggling little paragraph hinting
so pointedly about a wedding.
So what was it?
Alfred was well aware that the movie room behind the armory, while not
officially in use since Master Dick had moved out of the manor, was still an
occasional “hangout” for both young gentlemen. They kept it equipped with the
latest X-box and Playstation gear, while Alfred gave it a regular dusting,
airing, and generally augmented Dick and Tim’s superficial efforts to
keep the place tidy. Neither he nor they ever alluded to the arrangement—until today. While Alfred was used to finding an occasional candy wrapper or an
errant kernel of popcorn when he checked the movie room, this was the first time
he found an actual occupant. Tim was asleep, curled around some kind of a video
game console and using a box labeled Phoenix Ninja as a pillow.
Alfred coughed.
“Double or nothing,
SilentShogee,” Tim blurted, bolting upright.
“Ahem, good morning,
Master Timothy,” Alfred said blandly. “As it is a somewhat unusual hour to
be paying us a visit, perhaps you would care to come around to the kitchen
for some breakfast when you are ready.”
“Hi, Alfred,” Tim said
meekly. “Breakfast?”
“Yes, sir. I have a
pitcher of juice and a basket of muffins always on hand. For something more
substantial, you would have to wait and join Master Bruce and Miss Selina
when they come down.”
“Uhh, no, that’s alright,”
Tim blanched. “I don’t think Bruce would understand.”
“It is indeed most
unlikely that he would if you decline to offer an explanation, young sir.”
“It’s Cassie, Alfred. We
had a bet and I lost and, well, you probably know, about the ice cream
sundaes and all. Thing is, I think she’s hooked on that mid-patrol sugar
rush, ‘cause now she keeps trying to get me to bet again. And I’m not sure
how long I can put her off. So I have to get like ten times better at
Phoenix Ninja and fast.”
“I see, sir. Might one
suggest that you simply decline further contests of this sort with the young
lady.”
“She calls me a chicken,
Alfred. She has a vocabulary of maybe eight-hundred words tops, and half of them
amount to ShadowBird, that’s my avatar in the game, being a puny,
chicken-necked wimp that she’s gonna break like a twig. Can’t let something
like that pass, Alfred. I’ll lose my guy-card.”
Alfred suppressed a
smile. He looked disapprovingly at a soda can and a smudge of tacky, sugary
cola on the game console, then cleared his throat.
“Breakfast in the kitchen
when you are ready, young sir,” he said severely.
Tim nodded, and Alfred
turned and left.
Selina growled sleepily and buried her face deeper in the pillow.
“It’s for you,” she
murmured, shoving Bruce’s hip.
Alfred merely stood at
the side of the bed, holding the telephone on a silver tray.
“Give me a minute,” Bruce
managed, opening bleary eyelids. He knew the butler would never disturb his
sleep for anything trivial, so he didn’t ask if it was important. He didn’t
ask anything, not even who was calling, until he’d poured a glass of water,
took a sip, then closed his eyes, focused his thoughts on his center of
gravity and inhaled through his nose, slowly, steadily, feeling the air fill
his lungs…
The meditative focus was wrecked by a beeping trill. Bruce’s eyes shot open and
he looked savagely at the phone on Alfred’s tray. The beeping trill sounded
again, and Bruce realized it was not this phone making the noise. He shoved
Selina’s hip just as she had done his, then graveled “It’s for you.”
She moaned, pawed around the bedside table, and finally found her cell phone
resting in its charger.
“Hello?” she mumbled into the closed cover as it rang again. Bruce took the
phone from her hand, opened it, and held it to her ear.
“Hello?” she repeated.
After that effort, Bruce felt sufficiently alert to answer his own call. “Bruce
Wayne,” he began.
..::‘Lina? Is Wayne out of his
mind?::.. sounded on Selina’s phone.
..:::HAHAHAHAA It’s genius, Brucie,
pure genius!::.. was heard on Bruce’s.
“Good morning, Eddie,”
Selina sighed.
“Joker?” Bruce asked
cautiously.
Selina looked at Bruce
and raised an eyebrow. He looked at her and scowled.
..:::This party, what’s he thinking? What are you
thinking? You trying to get yourself killed?::..
..:::This party, it’s brilliant, Brucie. The so-called villains in this town
have gotten so boring. HAHAHA! Leave it to you to show
‘em how it’s done, eh, Brucie old boy, HAHAHAHAAAAA!::..
“Oh right, the party,” Selina murmured.
“Oh right, the party,” Bruce growled.
..:::Gotham After
Dark,::.. both callers said in unison.
“Yeah, Gotham After
Dark,” Bruce and Selina answered in sync.
“Eddie thinks the party
is a bad idea,” Selina said, covering the receiver.
“Joker thinks it’s
genius,” Bruce replied.
..::Unless you’re trying to kill him,::.. Eddie suggested. ..::‘Lina, if you’ve finally come around on the whole idea of killing him, I’ve got
to say this gets top marks for style and creativity, but there are better ways
to go about it, you know what I’m sayin?::..
..::Brucie, Brucie, I’ve got it. You know what you should do? HAHAHAHA! Oh,
it’s too funny! You should, you should, HAHAHAHA, it’s too good! You should go
as Batman! HAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAA!::..
“He thinks I’m trying to kill you,” Selina reported flatly.
“He thinks I should go as Batman,” Bruce countered, drawing several inches of
the bedsheet into a coiled fist.
..::Best! Joke! Ever!::.. Joker sang out.
Alfred went about his
usual routine on entering the Wayne bedroom in the morning. He opened the
curtains and arranged slippers and dressing gowns at the foot of the bed, as
if unaware there were any conversations going on.
..::And what’s this bit about having a hat all picked out for the wedding?::.. Selina’s earpiece quacked audibly.
“What?” she hissed in reply.
“What?” Bruce barked into
his.
“Alfred, where’s today’s
Times?” they said in unison.
..::As long as I get
to give the bride away and kill a Robin at the reception,::.. Joker was
saying.
..::‘Cause I thought we were still friends,
‘Lina, and I don’t appreciate
getting news like this from some newspaper gossip column.::..
Alfred held out the paper, and Bruce and Selina both snatched at it, ripping the
page in two.
..::If anyone here knows of any reason why these two should not be wed, speak
now—and forever rest in peace! HAHAHAHAAAA.::..
“Shut up, Jack,” Selina snarled at the phone in
Bruce’s hand, as she held up her half of the article, and tried to read over the
tear...::I mean, all right, he’s not exactly who I would pick out for you, ‘Lina, and
Lord knows you can do better, but still, a phone call. A guy wants to be kept
in the loop!::..
“Shut up, Nigma,” Bruce spat.
..::Oh, she’s right there, HAHAHA! Whipcrack! Eh, Brucie boy, HAHAHAHAHAAAAA!::....::He’s there! What we can’t have a simple PHONECALL NOW?::..
“Of course he’s here,” Selina hissed, still
trying to read the torn paper, “It’s morning, Eddie, it’s damn early in the
morning, we’re in bed.”
..::AHH, too much information, TOO MUCH INFORMATION!::.. Nigma wailed.
Selina simply
closed her phone, handed it to Alfred, and asked him to throw it out the
window.
“Yes, I’ll tell her,” Bruce said before
hanging up his and replacing it on the tray.
“Throw that one out the window too,” Selina
suggested.
Bruce gave her that rooftop glare when he
didn’t appreciate her sense of humor, but rather than wink playfully as she
usually did, she looked deathly serious.
“You don’t imagine those calls were the
last, do you?” she asked.
Before he could consider the question, the
phone rang again, and Bruce looked at Alfred.
“Throw it out the window,” he said flatly.
Four times since hanging
up the phone, Eddie reminded himself that he took 14 minutes and 12 seconds
to complete the Times crossword. Clearly his mind was not at its best
today. Clearly he should consider the question carefully—any question he
should consider carefully—before acting.
Calling Selina that way
was rash. He needed more information, certainly, you couldn’t solve a
jigsaw puzzle with only one piece. But calling her first thing in the
morning and artlessly asking was not the way to go about it.
Information, Information,
Information. How best to gather information…
Bruce was surprised, but
hardly displeased, to find Tim sitting in the dining room. The boy murmured
something Bruce didn’t really listen to, something about going a few rounds
with Zogger after patrol and then crashing on the couch, Alfred offering him
breakfast… Bruce didn’t care. Tim’s presence in the house was a
convenience. He would brief Dick, Barbara and Cassie tonight, but Tim
could be told now, immediately, and Robin would get a few hours head start.
He could help sort through the At Large lists to start with and possibly—
“What are you doing here
this early?” Selina asked coldly. She had bypassed her place at the table
and went straight to the sideboard, poured herself a cup of coffee, and
glared suspiciously at Tim. Despite the lack of costume, she looked (and
sounded) remarkably like Catwoman accosting a crimefighter who surprised her
mid-break-in.
Tim repeated his story
about Zogger, the couch, and wanting some breakfast. Selina poured milk
into her cup with a markedly feline expression.
“You haven’t seen a
newspaper?” she hissed suspiciously.
“No,” Tim said frankly.
“Okay then,” she sighed,
seeming satisfied. She resumed her usual manner, took her place at the
table, and took a sip of coffee. Then the hostile felinity spiked again and
she looked up at him as a new thought struck her. “Don’t,” she ordered.
“Yes, ma’am,” Tim said
sarcastically.
Over breakfast, Bruce
outlined the plan. They had just over three weeks. They would
get every rogue they could off the streets before the night of this party.
Joker was the top priority, then Riddler and Hugo Strange, then everyone
else—everyone—from Cobblepot down to Catman, every rogue they could lay
their hands on had to be removed from the equation before that party.
After a nap, a brisk jog
and a shower, Nigma felt at last he could think clearly. He began to see a
more likely explanation for the theme party, a more likely and far more
troubling explanation.
No, Bruce Wayne was not
insane and neither was Selina. He wasn’t stupid and neither was Selina.
Ergo, they were not the ones responsible for this insanely stupid idea for a
party. Someone else was behind that, and for some reason they were unable
to stop it. The reason might be tied to Wayne protecting his secret, or it
might be connected to that week or so that Selina was out of town. It
didn’t matter. Whatever the reason, the pertinent piece of the puzzle was
that they were stuck with it.
And Wayne wouldn’t like
that.
Batman wouldn’t like
that.
And he wouldn’t take it
lying down.
It would be Hell Month
without the venom. He’d be on a crusade to get as many criminals off the
street as humanly possible, particularly the theme villains and most
especially—Nigma blanched—most especially he himself, who knew the special
tie between Bruce Wayne and “Gotham After Dark.”
The realization sank into
his insides like a sack of wet sand: he was about to be hunted as never
before. He was public enemy number one on Batman’s personal hit list—and
glorious as that distinction might be if he had contrived it, having it
THRUST upon him by some high society partygiver was not his idea of amusing
irony. It was-AAAARRGGHH! He screamed as a loud pounding at
the door interrupted his fevered thoughts.
He stared in wide-eyed
terror at the door and the fierce pounding still going on behind it. Was
this it? Was Batman here already? Was it- Wait. No. Batman didn’t knock.
“Who is it?” he called
with an exaggerated casualness that sounded almost like a drag queen’s
falsetto.
“Alice opened the door
and found that it led into a small passage,” a familiar voice answered from
behind the door, “She knelt down and looked along the passage into the
loveliest garden you ever saw. How do you expect to know who’s behind the
door unless you open it, Edward?”
Nigma sighed.
“Go away, Jervis,” he
called. “I am not receiving visitors.”
Harvey removed the last
sheet from his printer and read over the letter one last time while the ink
dried. Satisfied at his eloquence, he folded it once, twice, and slid it
into its envelope. He reached for a stamp—and froze, noting a strange
shadow on the wall. He spun around savagely, and then sucked in his
breath. He saw exactly what he expected to see, given the shadow, but it
was still quite a surprise, given that it had no business being there.
“Batman,” he said
sharply.
“Harvey,” Batman answered
with a curt nod. He entered the room almost casually, and looked at the
letter still displayed on the computer screen.
“Law Review?” he noted.
“Letter to the editor,”
Harvey replied. “Maybe I can’t practice law anymore, but I can still
subscribe to any publication I want.”
“And write to the
editor,” Batman graveled. “And expect it will be published given your…
notoriety.”
Harvey’s lips curled into
a contemptuous smile.
“Law Review is pretty
conservative. I don’t know that they’d be that impressed by Two-Face’s
legacy.”
“Not impressed, but
they’ll print it anyway,” Batman sneered. “It’s a unique perspective.”
“It’s also none of your
business,” Harvey sniffed.
Batman turned back to the
screen. “The tainted evidence and illegal search issues raised by the modern
vigilante,” he read aloud, “it certainly sounds like ‘my business,’ Harvey.”
“I don’t recall inviting
you to call me by my first name,” Harvey said flatly, “or to come into my
house and read my mail.”
Rather than pointing out
that Harvey was sending the letter in question to be published, Batman
merely grunted, then abruptly extended his hand.
“Bury the hatchet?” he
offered.
Harvey glanced down at
the gloved hand, then lifted his eyes again to bore into Batman’s.
“Two-Face would have said
‘Sure, in your skull.’”
“I wouldn’t make the
offer to Two-Face,” Batman pointed out.
Harvey considered this,
chuckled at the obviousness of the statement, and nodded.
“I suppose not,” he
agreed, the antagonism receding as the two men shook hands.
Batman held the grip a
moment longer than necessary and again met Harvey’s eyes.
“If you want to make a
difference again, there’s a better way than writing OpEds for some dry,
academic—”
“If you’re suggesting
what I think you are, no thanks,” Harvey interrupted. “Don’t believe what
you see in the Post, I’m not a masked do-gooder kind of guy.”
“Wrong paper,” Batman
said gruffly. “It’s not the Gotham Post that concerns me. It’s an item in
the Times.”
He explained briefly
about the fundraiser, the theme, and the prominence with which Selina’s name
was mentioned.
“You think there’ll be
trouble?” he asked, already knowing the answer. Batman didn’t bother
stating the obvious.
“You stood up to Ra’s al
Ghul,” Batman reminded him. “Why, if not out of friendship for Selina and
Wayne?”
“You heard about that,
eh,” Harvey grimaced, embarrassed.
“I hear everything that
has to do with Ra’s al Ghul,” Batman declared.
Harvey slid his hands
into his pockets, walked to the window, and stared out at the city.
“What bothers you more,”
he asked suddenly, “Her name being linked to this whole party theme or her
name linked to Wayne?”
“Don’t believe what you
see in the Post,” Batman graveled, echoing Harvey’s earlier statement.
Harvey continued to face
the window, but tilted his head until a green glow from a neon sign overhead
fell over half his face.
“Don’t forget who you’re
talking to,” he murmured in a distinctly Two-Face voice. Batman tensed,
but Harvey turned slowly, a frank but non-menacing expression despite the
glow from the window. “’We’ were there, Sport, certainly saw enough
to know the Post doesn’t know the half of it.”
Batman said nothing. And
Harvey continued.
“In my opinion, the
better man won. Bruce makes her happy. Wouldn’t want to see anyone mess
that up.”
“Then help keep them both
alive,” Batman said with finality. “Help me remove as many threats as we
can before that party.”
Harvey’s fingers twitched
as if wishing for a coin. Then he nodded, once, and looked back out at the
city.
“Alright. We’ll help,”
he murmured.
But Batman had already
left.
Eddie figured he had four
or five more hours to come up with a workable plan. He’d had to admit
Jervis Tetch to his lair. He couldn’t let the man just stand out there in
broad daylight—in that oversized hat, with his bow tie and his stopwatch—as if to say HELL-O! BATMAN! YOOHOO, ROGUES DOWN HERE!
So he’d let Jervis in and
let him prattle. Something about Scarecrow and needing a master plan. He
needed Riddler to devise a plan for him. Gratifying, he supposed, to have
his genius recognized—if that’s what was really going on. But the timing
was suspicious. Very suspicious.
No sooner did he become
Batman’s most wanted, and Jervis shows up intent on drawing a bullseye
around his head. Absently, a corner of Eddie’s brain not occupied with the
immediate strategy wondered if that line about the socialites’ hats might
have some deeper meaning. Probably not, but he left an asterisk next to the
thought. For the moment, he had to get rid of Jervis, keep the demented
little toadstool occupied in some way.
Jervis wanted a master plan, something as ingenious as it was subtle. Eddie
pretended to think, and rummaged through his mail. He found a thick, narrow
booklet. ZAGATSURVEY Gotham City Shopping, the red and
gold cover proclaimed, Covering over 2,000 stores in 50+ categories including
Accessories, Clothing, Electronics, Sporting Goods, etc. ranked by over 7,500
avid Gotham shoppers.
Nigma opened the book eagerly and thumbed
through its pages. He’d send Jervis on a positive scavenger hunt that would
keep him running around town for hours—to a place called The Fountain Pen
Hospital to get pen nibs, Habu Textiles for Japanese yarn, Fat Beat for
vinyl records, Bicycle Habitat for racing goggles (may Selina forgive him),
FAO Schwartz for gourmet jelly beans and a tote bag (he would need one by
this point), and a shop called the Green Onion (although he had no idea what
they sold, who could pass up a shop called the Green Onion?) And finally,
feeling a little guilty that Jervis would be running around Gotham for a day
or more for absolutely no reason, Nigma added the J.J. Hat Center to the
list as a sop to his conscience. The book said it was “perhaps the only
place in Gotham for a man to buy a real hat,” and that would make Jervis
happy.
More importantly, it
would keep Jervis out of the hair for a while. The Mad Hatter believed the
wild list of items he was sent to collect from such intriguingly-named
stores must be clues. They must add up to a criminal scheme of the highest
magnitude. The intricacy, the nuance, the subtlety, ONLY THE RIDDLER COULD
CRAFT SUCH A SCHEME!
In fact, Nigma had no
thought beyond keeping himself out of Arkham until the party. Gotham After
Dark: a fundraiser for the Wayne Foundation—that he had to
see.
More to the point, Batman
was determined he wouldn’t see it, and that made it all the more vital that
Nigma remain free.
He had wracked his brains
ever since he sent Jervis on that fool’s errand. He had wracked his brain,
but he could see no solution but to hide. He would leave the lair, run to
ground, and lay lower than low. Let Batman waste his energies searching for
the others, there would be no Edward Nigma to find until he showed up at
that party, took a glass of champagne… which he now mimed taking from the
tray of an imaginary passing waiter… and raised it in a toast… to Gotham
After Dark!
To be continued…
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