The Further Adventures of The Joker (37 page)

“I’ll get some men on it right away.”

Across town, on the outskirts of Gotham City, there was another interested viewer of the evening news. Bruce Wayne sat in his easy chair staring at the screen, and like the Commissioner he could hardly believe what he had seen. The door behind him opened softly and Alfred the butler entered. “Did you ring, sir?”

“Were you watching television just now, Alfred?”

“Yes, I was, sir. I saw that Joker person.”

“Do you believe what he said, about leaving Gotham City and starting a new life?”

“One never knows, sir, but it seems highly doubtful.”

But in the weeks that followed there was no new message from the Joker. He seemed to have disappeared from the Gotham City scene. There had been periods before this when the Joker had been inactive, generally when he was plotting some new outrage, but this time it seemed different. The city seemed different, as if a great weight had been lifted from it.

Late one night at the Commissioner’s office, a most unusual meeting took place. It was not the first time that Commissioner Gordon and Batman had stood face-to-face in that room, but their previous meetings had always been necessitated by some new crime. Never before had they met because of the absence of crime.

“What do you think, Commissioner? Is the Joker really gone?” Batman asked, his midnight-blue batwinged cape hanging down behind him.

“Our informers tell us the word in underworld circles is that he disbanded his gang and left town after that television announcement. No one knows where he is.”

Batman simply shook his head. “I’m certain we haven’t heard the last of him, Commissioner. Do you remember the things he’s done to the people of this city? To you personally? There’s no reason to believe he’s changed after all these years.”

“All right, suppose he’s simply moved on to another city. We’re rid of him, and I’ve alerted every other major police department in the country to be on guard. Maybe we should be satisfied with that.”

Batman whirled around and walked to the window overlooking Gotham City. He liked to think of it as his city, his to preserve and protect. There were other enemies besides the Joker, and if he was the most heinous of them, he was also the most irrational. Perhaps there was no time to worry about the twistings of an irrational mind. If the Joker was gone, let him be gone. Commissioner Gordon had a point.

“All right,” Batman reluctantly agreed. “But if we’re wrong, if this is all some devious scheme on the Joker’s part, we may both be sorry we didn’t spot it in time.”

“At the first indication of his return, I’ll call on you,” the Commissioner assured him.

“The first indication may be too late,” Batman replied glumly.

As summer blended into fall, the good citizens of Gotham City began to talk of other things. The Joker was truly gone, and the most important event in town proved to be the opening of a traveling exhibition of priceless French paintings at the City Museum of Art. The exhibition would be on display for only four weeks before moving on to the next city on the tour, and from the beginning there were long lines of art lovers and the just plain curious waiting to get in.

Security was tight all during those four weeks, but there was little cause for alarm. One afternoon an obviously unhinged young man tried to slash a Renoir painting, but he was seized by security guards before he got near enough to do any damage. Otherwise all was peaceful.

Still, when time came for the exhibition to be crated and moved to the next city, the job was not entrusted to the staff of the City Museum of Art. Three art experts from different parts of the country had been commissioned to supervise the work and offer their guarantees that the priceless paintings would not be damaged in transit.

Megan Farley had never met any of the three men sent to pass on the arrangements she was making for dismantling the exhibit. As assistant director of the City Museum she’d naturally come upon their photographs and articles in
Art World
and other trade publications, but none had ever visited Gotham City before. Apparently the French owners of the paintings had thought it better to have impartial observers who would not be influenced by past associations with the individual museums.

What surprised Megan was the realization that the three were strangers to each other as well as to Gotham City. The first to arrive that Friday afternoon was Eric Wollcott, a slim middle-aged man with black hair and a pencil-thin moustache. He was very pale and Megan had the impression of someone who spent much of his time indoors.

“So you’ve never met Mr. Clarkson or Professor Melrose,” she said, leading him up to her second-floor office.

“No, indeed, though of course I know their work. Both are highly respected in the art world.”

“They should both be here within the hour. Then I’ll show the exhibition to all of you at once.”

The next arrival proved to be Professor Melrose, a hairy man whose whiskers covered much of his face, and whose bulky body gave the impression of a stuffed Santa Claus. He shook hands briskly with Eric Wollcott. “This won’t take long, will it? I hope to get a plane back to California once the paintings are safely delivered to Washington.”

“How long can it take?” Wollcott turned an inquiring gaze toward Megan. “There are forty-four paintings in all?”

“That is correct.”

“And each has its own wooden crate. I would guess the task could begin this afternoon and be completed tomorrow morning.”

“The truck is due at noon tomorrow,” Megan confirmed. “Believe me, the sooner they’re out of here the happier we’ll be. The security costs of this exhibition have been staggering.”

“Exactly what are we supposed to do?” Professor Melrose asked.

“Didn’t you read your letter?” Eric Wollcott asked in his high-pitched voice. “We have to certify the packing of each piece, and then the unpacking when the shipment reaches Washington, the next stop on the tour. We’re being well paid to make certain no forgeries are substituted for the real paintings.”

The telephone on Megan’s desk buzzed to announce the arrival of the third art expert. Tom Clarkson was the art editor of a popular weekly newsmagazine, a man in his midforties with a ready smile and a pleasant manner. He was the most normal one of the three, Megan decided, taking an instant liking to him.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, greeting the others. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both after all these years of reading about you.”

“The pleasure is mutual,” Professor Melrose declared. “Now let us get down to business.” He turned to Megan. “Is your crew ready to dismantle the exhibition?”

“I have them standing by,” she confirmed.

The paintings, mainly by the French Impressionists of the late nineteenth century, had been removed from their wall hangings and were by their crates, which were unmarked except for an identifying number. The experts inspected each in turn, and when they were satisfied of its authenticity, the painting was sealed into its crate for shipment. The work went fairly fast, and by the end of the afternoon twenty-five of the paintings had been crated.

“We’ll finish the rest in the morning,” Professor Melrose assured the others.

Tom Clarkson, the art editor, wasn’t completely satisfied. “How do we know someone won’t switch these crates during the night?”

“We’ll have a guard on duty,” Megan assured him. “And you can inspect the seals in the morning to be sure they weren’t tampered with.”

That seemed to satisfy everyone, and Wollcott and Professor Melrose decided to go off to dinner together.

Tom Clarkson begged off joining them and hung back until they’d departed. “Do you have any dinner plans?” he asked Megan.

The invitation startled her. He’d noticed her bare left hand, of course, and assumed she was available. For the first time she considered him as a man as well as an art expert. He was at least ten years older than her thirty-two years, but she’d taken a liking to him at once. The smile came readily to his lips, and she imagined he would be a good conversationalist over the dinner table. “Well—” She hesitated and then plunged in. “No, I don’t.”

“Then please join me. I’d love to hear more about Gotham City and your museum.”

He left the choice of the restaurant up to her, and she suggested a little Italian place within walking distance of the museum. Over wine she talked about the museum, and what it meant to her. “I’m lucky the director is in Europe this week. It gives me an opportunity to meet you all and show you around myself.”

“I’m quite impressed from what I’ve seen so far. You certainly have tight security.”

“We need it in Gotham City. We’ve had a high crime rate in the past, especially involving jewelry and art treasures. There used to be a criminal called the Joker—”

“I’ve read about him. Whatever happened to him?”

“He claims to have retired and gone away, but no one is quite certain yet. A mild-mannered Joker doesn’t fit with his usual image.”

“Do you think there’s a possibility he might try to steal the paintings?”

Megan shook her head. “I’ve no idea, but I do know that Police Commissioner Gordon will be at the museum tomorrow to make certain they get out of Gotham City safely.”

“Probably a good precaution,” Clarkson agreed, turning his attention to the menu.

She was at the museum early the following morning, ready to greet the experts and finish up the packing job. Eric Wollcott arrived with the professor and she marveled at what an odd couple they made, walking together down the long marble corridor toward her office. Tom Clarkson arrived a moment later.

As they headed for the gallery she found an opportunity for a private word with Tom. “Thank you again for last night. It was a most pleasant evening.”

“I’m happy you enjoyed it. A night like that can make the entire trip worthwhile.”

“I hope Gotham City has other charms to entice you.”

They made quick work of the remaining nineteen paintings, and by eleven o’clock the last of them was being sealed into its crate. Shortly after that, Commissioner Gordon and two of his men arrived. “Everything under control?” he asked Megan.

“So far.” She introduced him to the three art experts.

It was Wollcott who gave the Commissioner a wide smile and asked, “Haven’t we met before?”

“I doubt it, Mr. Wollcott. Are you an art expert?”

“An appraiser. This is my first trip to Gotham City.”

Commissioner Gordon looked him up and down, a bit distastefully. “I hope you enjoy it. Miss Farley, how’s the timing?”

“We’re right on schedule, Commissioner. The truck is due at noon.”

He glanced over at the stout one, Professor Melrose. “Will you men be accompanying the shipment to its destination?”

The professor nodded, his beard bobbing up and down. “Oh, certainly. We’ll be following behind in a car. One of us might even ride with the truck driver.”

Promptly at noon, a bony man wearing a baseball cap and a Gotham Gorillas T-shirt appeared at the door of Megan’s office. “Interstate Transport. I’m here for the shipment to the Washington Museum.”

“Is your truck at the loading dock?”

“That’s right, ma’am. You have forty-four crates for me?”

“Correct. Do you have a loading crew?”

“Just me and one helper. We could use a few more hands.”

“All right. I’ll have them bring the crates down and help get them in your truck.”

Megan followed the others and watched while the crates were being loaded. The driver seemed to know what he was doing and was careful with the procedure. “Let’s put this big Monet against the left side, and then we can load the medium-sized crates,” he told his helper, a short, stocky man with a bald head.

It took less than an hour to load the crates. Tom Clarkson gave them a final check and nodded his approval. “We’ll follow along in my car.”

Professor Melrose shifted his large frame uncomfortably. “I think I should ride in the cab of the truck, if there’s room for me.”

The driver squinted at him uncertainly, then replied, “Sure, if you want to. We can fit three in there.”

The professor climbed into the cab with them while Clarkson and Wollcott prepared to follow in Clarkson’s rented car. Just before he slid behind the driver’s seat, Tom walked over to where Megan stood watching. “It’s been a pleasure. I hope we’ll meet again.”

She returned his smile. “I hope so, too.”

As the truck pulled away from the dock with the car close behind, one of the Commissioner’s men ran up to him. In his hand he held a piece of foam-rubber padding with an elastic belt attached.

“Commissioner, I just found this in the men’s room upstairs, near Miss Farley’s office.”

“What?” Commissioner Gordon held it up. “This is stomach padding, like you might wear with a Santa Claus suit. One of those people is wearing a disguise.”

“The Joker?” the detective asked.

“Who else? And only one of the three could have been wearing padding. The other two are fairly thin.”

“Professor Melrose!”

The Commissioner was already hurrying toward his car. “And he’s in the cab of that truck. Come on!”

Megan sprinted after them. “I’m going, too! Those paintings are still my responsibility.”

Commissioner Gordon muttered something about it being dangerous for a woman, but he didn’t argue when she slid into the backseat of his car. Gordon rode in front with his driver, and as they drove off in pursuit he unsnapped the riot gun from the brackets beneath the dashboard.

The truck had reached the nearby expressway and was traveling at a good rate of speed. Megan could see Tom Clarkson’s car behind it, keeping up the pace. The Commissioner turned to his driver. “Give ’em the siren.”

But if he thought that would bring the truck to a halt he was mistaken. Its speed seemed to increase, and suddenly a stream of thick black smoke emerged from beneath it. Megan was forced to hang on as the car swerved to avoid the worst of it. She saw that Clarkson’s car had already pulled up just off the road.

“What is it?” Commissioner Gordon asked. “A smoke screen?”

“Looks like it.” They kept driving through it at a reduced speed with the windows rolled up. Most of the other traffic had come to a halt as the dense smoke covered the expressway lanes in both directions.