This place stank. The Joker might have been paying him more money than he'd ever seen before, but Samson still didn't like the smell of fish.

  Where was this Bruce Wayne guy, anyway?

  It was night when he finally woke up.

  Dick took a deep breath and sat up. He was a little dizzy, but besides that, he felt like himself again. A weaker self, like he'd just gotten over a high fever, but it was definitely Dick Grayson under these old PJs Alfred had so thoughtfully provided.

  "Ah, Mr. Grayson." Alfred had appeared at the door. Sometimes the way the butler showed up, Dick thought he must have extrasensory perception. "I trust you slept well."

  "Like the child I used to be when I lived here," Dick assured him. "Is Bruce around?"

  "Unfortunately, no," Alfred replied. "He had an appointment. He asked that you wait for him."

  Dick nodded. Was Bruce still avoiding him? Maybe it wouldn't be as easy to talk to him as Dick had hoped.

  "Would you care for some supper?" Alfred asked.

  That sounded great. One thing he had missed about this drafty old mansion was Alfred's excellent cooking.

  "That would be great, Alfred," Dick replied. He swung his legs out and almost fell from the bed. "And then," he added with certainty, "I think I'll go back to bed."

  He heard the crash of breaking glass and realized it was the skylight overhead. The Joker stopped, mid-laugh.

  Batman let go of his line and landed twenty feet away.

  The Joker didn't seem to know what to say. "So soon?" he managed after a moment.

  Batman nodded. "You knew, after you left your calling card, that I'd find you. You're surprised that it happened this easily? Come on now. We know each other better than that."

  The Joker giggled. "Oh, we do, we do. Why don't you come over and sniff my flower?"

  Batman circled him warily. "I'd rather you came over here and took a look at my fist."

  The Joker began to circle as well. "A joke? Did Batman make a joke? I thought only The Joker made jokes."

  Batman stopped dead. "No more jokes, Joker. I remember what you did to Robin. And for that, I'm going to kill you."

  "Have to catch me first!" The Joker bolted for the door. "Nyah, nyah!"

  The Joker was fast, but Batman was even faster. They met on the catwalk outside the door, and struggled fifty feet above the ground. The Joker tried to twist around, to spray Batman with acid. But Batman was ready. He ducked out of the way, and The Joker plummeted forward, straight off the catwalk.

  Batman started as the drugged dart entered his neck. He slumped backward. One of the boys leaned out of the window to catch him and make sure he didn't follow that Joker down.

  What a travesty! What a terrible performance. This would never do! No panache! No soul! No machismo! No sensitivity! No nothing!

  The real Joker could only think of one word to sum up his criticism.

  "Bleahhh," he remarked.

  "Well," the doctor ventured, "when you consider the material we had to work with---"

  "True," The Joker admitted. "It was our first attempt. Remember the trouble we had with the first batman? Like the one who strangled himself trying to squeeze out of his cell?" He chuckled. Thinking of a dead "Batman" could always cheer him up. He poked his head out the window. There, some fifty feet down, lay the Joker that had once been Big Mike, lying very still. The Joker whistled. With the way this act ended, it was tough to do an encore.

  He turned back to Andrews. "Doctor, you are right as usual. As soon as Samson is done with his present collection, I will give him a very special job."

  "Special?" the doctor asked.

  But The Joker wasn't telling.

  "Let's say I have someone in mind."

  Part III

  Send in The Clones

  22

  Bruce Wayne pulled his sportscar up in front of the main office of the Gotham Fish Company. It was out by the docks, a quarter of the city that was deserted at this time of night. The Joker still knew how to pick his locations.

  Bruce checked his watch: 7:45. He was fashionably late. The sort of thing one would expect from a millionaire playboy.

  A big, burly fellow in a business suit rushed out from the front door.

  "Ah, Mr. Wayne. So good of you to come."

  Bruce set the alarm system in his Porsche, then locked the door.

  "No trouble."

  "I realize this is all a bit unorthodox," the burly fellow said. "You didn't have any trouble finding the place?"

  "No trouble," Bruce replied. He noticed the other man made no move to introduce himself.

  "Good, good," the other man said. "I think you'll be quite surprised by what we have in store."

  "I don't know about that," Bruce answered as he followed the other man inside. "I don't surprise easily."

  Finally Wayne had arrived. Samson just wanted to get this over with.

  The whole setup was a bit more elaborate than the kind he usually liked. For some reason it had taken The Joker more effort than usual to get this place cleared out. And Samson decided he needed help. Samson hated to cut anybody in on the action, but sometimes, especially in a place as big as this, assistants were necessary. Besides, his information told him that Wayne was athletically built and fast on his feet. Usually, Samson could take these guys just with the element of surprise, but it didn't hurt to have an extra pair of fists around.

  So all he had to do now as wait for George to bring the mark around.

  "You!" somebody yelled behind him.

  What the hell was this? Samson spun around. It was some guy in a guard's uniform. The Joker's information hadn't told him about any watchmen.

  "What are you doing here?" the watchmen demanded. "Don't you know this is holy property?"

  Uh-oh. Even worse. This wasn't any ordinary watchman. This was one of Droll's crazies.

  "Hey," Samson said in a low voice. "Reverend Droll sent me to take a look around. I'm sort of a safety inspector."

  But the crazy was having none of it. "Liar! You are an enemy of the Joke! The Reverend Droll must be---"

  There was a soft thunk as Samson shot him. The crazy fell over, quiet at last. Jeez. Didn't these religious guys have any sense of humor?

  But now Samson had no time to get rid of the body. He would have to jump Wayne the minute George brought him into the room, before their latest victim had any chance to get suspicious.

  Maybe, Samson thought, he should retire from this sort of thing. And maybe he would, after he got to do Gordon.

  Bruce's guide led him into the interior of the plant. He kept up a constant line of patter.

  "My superiors are waiting for you up in the office. They've put out quite a spread for you." He chuckled appreciatively. "You'd never believe how many kinds of fish they've got! Since I've got to take you through the plant to get there anyway, they suggested I give you a little bit of a tour."

  Bruce wondered where this guy came from. His spiel was almost good enough to be believable. He probably spent most of his time talking little old ladies out of their social security checks.

  "Now, if you'll just follow me," the guide said as he turned left, "I'll show you the processing plant."

  There was another noise up ahead that had nothing to do with processing. Someone was screaming about a joke, and the Reverend Droll. The noise cut off abruptly after a sharp sound that might have been a muffled gunshot.

  His guide smiled apologetically. "A little trouble with the help," the burly man explained. "It's so difficult to get people to clean fish these days."

  Bruce thought they'd be more professional than this. Apparently they had found it so easy to abduct Gotham City's leading citizens, they were getting sloppy. He decided it was time to get his guide to work for his pay.

  "I'm sorry," he said as he stopped abruptly. "I don't think I have the time for a tour of your plant. The invitation said your superiors were willing to make me a very substantial offer. I'm not the sort of person to be kept waiting. If I do not hear the offer within the next two minutes, I'm leaving."

  "Of course, of course, we certainly don't want to waste your time." The guide bustled over and grabbed Bruce's arm. That was perfect. Bruce had him just where he wanted him. "It's really not that far. Just through that door up ahead."

  The door up ahead? That's where the others would be waiting. It was nice of his guide to tell him. Bruce took a deep breath, readying himself for action.

  "Right through here," the guide instructed as he slowed his step. They wanted Bruce to go in here first.

  It was a shame he wouldn't oblige. He grabbed on to the guide's arm and fell away from him, using his weight to pull the startled man around and in front of him.

  A man came out of the shadows ahead. The man held a gun. Bruce threw the two men together. The man with the gun yelled and tried to regain his balance, while Bruce's guide fell to the floor.

  They'd expect Bruce to run now. So Bruce did the unexpected---he ran straight toward them.

  He hit the gunman's wrists with the flat of his hand, and the gun went flying across the room. The guide, though, was trying to get up underneath them. Bruce stepped back as arms tried to tackle him from down below.

  The former gunman tried to circle behind him and grab for his neck. He gave the gunman an elbow in the stomach, then kicked out forward to catch the guide's chin. He turned just in time to avoid a roundhouse right from the gunman, and landed a right and left of his own. The gunman staggered back, banging a gleaming metal machine.

  But the guide had managed to get back up on his feet. He roared as he came for Bruce, as if his voice were somehow going to give him strength. Bruce tried to sidestep his charge, but the guide shifted his direction, too, while both his fists flailed wildly in Bruce's direction, too, while both his fists flailed wildly in Bruce's direction, too, while both his fists flailed wildly in Bruce's direction. This kind of attack couldn't do Bruce much harm, but it certainly kept him busy. Where was the other man?

  Bruce decided he didn't have time to wonder. He felled the guide with a single well-placed punch to the jaw, then spun around, ready for the attack. It didn't come. The other man was already on the far side of the room, running the other way.

  The second one was going to get away. Bruce wished he had access to Batman's utility belt; he would have had half a dozen ways to stop the other man without any problem. Sometimes leading this double life could be nothing but problems.

  He ran across the room, but he knew by the time he reached the doorway, and saw the long white hall full of windows and doors, that he had lost his quarry. Well, he had one for a keepsake. That would have to do. It was so quiet down here by the docks at this time of night, no one should see him load a limp body into the passenger seat of his Porsche.

  The Reverend Droll knew he had pushed The Joker too far. But what else could he have done?

  First off, The Joker was crazy. Brilliantly crazy, but crazy nonetheless. Why else would he build up such a fantastic criminal organization, and then spend the rest of his time trying to find ways to jeopardize it?

  He had to take steps to protect himself. Droll would no longer cooperate with all of The Joker's schemes. He'd already told his followers that they should no longer automatically obey the orders of The Joker's men.

  Still, he could not force out the man who had created the church in the first place. And The Joker was a powerful man. It would not do to anger him unnecessarily.

  Unless he decided to take measures even crazier than those of The Joker. Perhaps it was time to remove The Joker first, before The Joker had any thoughts of removing Droll. And by setting him up as the head of the church, The Joker had unwittingly given Droll the perfect weapon to destroy his employer.

  But he had to protect himself first. It was time to go to the authorities and give them just enough information to implicate The Joker, and guarantee the Reverend Droll an honored spot in this community for years to come.

  Now that was a joke worth laughing about.

  23

  The Joker smashed a chair through the window. He felt like smashing things. Small things, big things, maybe even living things.

  "You didn't get him? A perfectly good multimillionaire, and he slips through your fingers? And I wasn't even going to make him the Batman." Dr. Andrews ducked as The Joker grabbed a second chair. "No, I considered Bruce Wayne good enough to be---a Joker!" The second chair followed the first. "There were two of you, up against a member of the effete upper class! Is everyone around here incompetent?"

  "Man," said Samson from where The Joker had backed him into a corner, "you don't understand. He was everywhere! He beat George to a bloody pulp!"

  The Joker stopped throwing things. The others in the room grew very quiet. My, that reaction was gratifying; gratifying enough that he didn't need to kill anybody just now.

  "But The Joker can turn aside his wrath," he said charitably. "The Joker can know forgiveness. Samson, I will give you one more chance." He smiled graciously. "And, yes, you get to do Gordon!"

  "Gordon?" The look of fear in Samson's eyes turned to one of wonder. "Gee, boss, that's great! I won't let you down this time."

  "No, of course you won't." The Joker agreed amiably. "No one ever lets The Joker down twice. And I have big plans for Commissioner Gordon. The sooner he is in my hands, the better I will like it."

  "Yessir!" Samson agreed. The Joker stepped back, and Samson scurried from the room.

  The Joker made a soft tsking sound deep in his acid-scarred throat. It was such a shame about Samson. He had seemed so competent when all he was snatching was overweight businessmen and aging public officials. At the first challenge, though, he completely fell apart.

  Oh, well. The Joker had been planning to eliminate Samson anyway. And The Joker knew he always made the right decisions.

  Batman pulled his car over to the curb. He shook the other man's shoulder.

  "Good morning."

  The burly man blinked and focused his eyes. There was a gratifying look of fear in his eyes. "Batman?"

  "Pleased to meet you."

  The burly man tried to struggle, but his bonds were too tight.

  "Oh, shit," he muttered. "I've got to get out of here. How'd I end up with Batman?"

  Batman smiled over at his captive passenger. "I gave Bruce Wayne some pointers."

  "You were helping Wayne?" The burly man flexed his jaw. "No wonder he won."

  "Oh, Bruce Wayne can take care of himself," Batman reassured the crook. "And in return, Mr. Wayne gave you to me."

  "Gave me?" The fear was back in the other man's eyes.

  "It was the least he could do. You see, I have a certain interest in your employer."

  "M-Mr. Samson?" the burly man stuttered. "All I know is that he collects people---"

  Batman slammed the flat of his hand against the dashboard. "I don't care about the small fry like Samson. I want to know who both of you were working for."

  The burly man leaned as far away as his bonds would let him. "But I can't tell you about that! He'd kill me!"

  Batman regarded his prisoner for a moment. "And I won't?"

  "Oh, Jesus," the burly man whispered. He made small animal noises, like a squirrel with his tail caught in a trap, as Batman reached for him. The noises increased as Batman dragged the man toward him, becoming more shrill and hysterical. The man jerked back and forth, but he really had no place to go in the confines of the car.

  "You will tell me what I need to know, now," Batman said quietly, "or I will stop being nice of you."

  The burly man gave one final, guttural scream, and then was quiet. He had stopped struggling, too. Batman realized that he had passed out.

  Well, Batman thought, at least he hadn't done any permanent physical damage to him. He pushed the limp body back into the passenger seat. He really was afraid, with the anger he still held inside him; afraid that, for maybe the first time in his whole career, he might go too far. It was better that he let Gordon and the department handle this one.

  He got out of the Batmobile, then walked over to the other side of the car and removed the unconscious felon, throwing the criminal over his shoulder like the sack of refuse that he was.

  No one spoke to him as he strode across the lobby and rode the elevator up to Gordon's office. Ms. Davis raised her eyebrows appreciatively as Batman passed her desk. He knocked on Gordon's door with his free hand.

  "Come," Gordon's voice replied.

  He opened the door and walked in with his burden.

  "Batman?"

  "I brought you a present." Batman set the limp form down in a nearby chair.

  "I see." Gordon waved at the new but still unconscious addition. "I assume this has a story to go along with the body?"

  "This is one of the kidnappers. I caught him in the act." Batman briefly outlined how he had set up his trap with the aid of Bruce Wayne.

  Gordon shook his head. "I'm getting nothing but surprises." He held out a piece of paper. "Look at this fax that was just delivered to me."

  Batman took the paper and read the hastily typed paragraph on the page before him.

  "Commissioner Gordn: We must speak. I have information about criminal acttivities and people who are trying to discredit my chucrh. The fate of Gotham City is at stake! But we must meet alone! I will be at my seventh street church at 4 p.m. today. Please. I will only talk to you if you are alone. We cannot trust anybody. J. Droll"

  "What do you make of it?" Gordon asked. "Besides the fact that the man can't type?"

  Batman looked back at the fax in his hands. Actually, the typing errors gave the page a certain authenticity.

  "It could be genuine," he said at last.

  "Is it a trap?" Gordon asked.

  Batman considered the question. "Maybe. Or maybe he's trying to double-cross The Joker."

  "Exactly my thoughts on the matter," Gordon agreed. "And if that's the case, I have to go."

  Batman nodded at his old friend. He would do no differently in the same situation. "You may go in there alone. But I won't be very far away."

 

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