The Further Adventures of Batman (17 page)

I got the grave marker cleaned off with some mild acid from my utility belt while Jim held the flashlight for me and cursed. Patience is not one of Jim’s virtues. I worked on the marker until I could make out a name—Rufus Jefferson.

Jim promised to run it through his computer at the station and I came back here and did the same. What we both came up with was that Rufus Jefferson died in 1904 at the hands of a Gotham City policeman after committing the fourth of a series of murders, all of them quite like those being committed now by Subway Jack.

Jim said that when his computer records played out, he went downstairs and checked through the old files, the ones not on the computer. He found out that Jefferson was tracked down by a Sergeant Griffith and was aided by a writer named David Webb who later wrote a book that contained his experience in the matter. The book was titled
Followers of the Razor.

I checked with the public library, as well as some of the smaller libraries in the city, and Gotham City Library said that they had a copy listed in their files, in the reserve section, but that it was missing—stolen perhaps.

Curiouser and curiouser.

I got back on the computer and tied in with libraries across the country and found that Stephen F. Austin University Library in Nacogdoches, Texas, had a copy of the book in their rare book section. I have made arrangements through Jim to have it sent to us by overnight mail.

Maybe there’s something there that can help us, something that might explain our current murderer’s connection with that old grave and Rufus Jefferson.

(Excerpts from later A-4567-C file entries—October)

. . . book is fascinating, and in spite of its incredible subject matter, is convincing. Up to a point. I’m not sure I’m ready to accept a dimensional murderer, but I’ve seen some pretty strange things, and if nothing else, there may be a psychological tie-in with . . .

. . . the librarian said that after I called she started a little investigation of her own. She says that a young man by the name of Jack Barrett checked out a lot of books in that section, and told her he was looking for material on psychopathic killers for a research paper. She said she wasn’t accusing the young man, but I might want to check him out and . . .

. . . discreet inquiries show that Jack Barrett has been an excellent student, until this month. His professor in criminology told me in confidence that he had been acting strangely, and suddenly started cutting classes. He thought it might be problems at home or with a girl . . .

. . . University has provided Jack Barrett’s address, and I plan to notify Jim so we can follow and check out . . .

JAMES W. GORDON (one week later)

I have a feeling we’re both right and wrong about this Barrett guy, but can’t explain it. There’s been something funny about this case, right from the start.

We stationed men outside Barrett’s apartment and we’ve been following him around all week. Batman’s working the rooftops a lot. When Barrett goes out, Batman moves across the tops of the buildings like a shadow, like a spider . . . well, like a bat.

What we got here is a guy that doesn’t do much. He’s quit the University, and about all he does is walk to the subway entrance and ride the subways all day. He goes over to Center Station and stands around and looks at people, especially the bag ladies.

That part is interesting, of course, but there’s a look about this guy like he really doesn’t want to be there, that it’s all against his will. He walks like his knees are being lifted by puppet strings, and until he gets to the subway he doesn’t notice much.

Then he notices plenty about the bag ladies, and he seems to have a thing about the moon. It’s always dark when he comes back, and he often stops to look at it. Or what he can see of it. It’s been cloudy lately and the clouds cover the moon most of the time. It’s little more than a sliver anyway, but he stares at it like he hates it. He keeps one hand in his pocket at all times.

Batman says he thinks he’s waiting for a clear night. The idea of the moon being bright ties in with Webb’s writings in
Followers of the Razor
. He says the weather report says tomorrow will be a little better, especially early morning—some clear moments with a slight threat of rain. He feels things just might break tomorrow.

I don’t know about the moon stuff, but I have a feeling he’s right—just one of those gut things. If Barrett does make his move tomorrow—if he is in fact Subway Jack—I hope we’ll be ready.

GOTHAM CITY STREETS (2 A.M., October 31)

Jack Barrett came out of his apartment and down the steps and onto the street. The tension inside him beat like a drum. He tightened his hand around the razor in his coat pocket and looked at the late night (early morning) moon. It had grown brighter and slightly thicker, and tonight the cloud cover was thin, though the forecast called for rain. The air had a mild tang to it, like the sting of a too-close shave.

He went down the street, walking briskly, not looking at much, except the moon from time to time, and then he heard a horn blare and he turned and looked at the street. There was a taxi rolling along slowly and the window on the passenger side was down. The driver leaned across the seat and called, “Looking for a ride somewhere?”

Barrett shook his head.

“Bad night for walking. Might get wet. You’ll sure get cold.”

“No money,” Barrett said, and walked faster.

The taxi kept coasting, the driver said, “Heck with it, buddy. I hate to see a man walk on night like this, and I’m not getting any action anyway. This one’s on the house if you want to get in. What am I doing anyway, huh?”

Barrett stopped walking and the taxi stopped moving Barrett looked at the moon. It was clear now, and he felt the urge swelling up inside him. The taxi would be better than grabbing the subway at Maynard Street and taking it over to Center. It was still a long walk to Maynard. He looked at the driver and said, “All right.” He got in the back of the taxi and took a sideways look at the driver. He was big, old guy with a touch of gray whisk-white hair, a rubbery mouth, and wrinkles deep enough to hide quarters in. Maybe he reminded the old guy of his grandson or something. “Take me to Center Station, if that’s okay.”

“I invited you,” the driver said, and pulled away from the curb. He glanced in the mirror at his passenger and said, “You look a little under the weather, buddy. You been sick?”

“I been sick all right,” Barrett said. “You wouldn’t believe how I been sick.”

“Another reason not to walk. Nights like this are criminal.”

“Tell me about it,” Barrett said as he leaned back and closed his fevered eyes.

“You know,” the driver said, “You got some problems, there’s guys you can see. If it’s not just physical, there’s people you can talk to.”

Barrett didn’t hear him. He was thinking of the bad things he had to do, and of the ultimate darkness on the other side, a darkness split by the shine of a razor.

“Center Station,” the driver said. “Hey, Center Station.”

Barrett opened his eyes. He didn’t feel rested. His heart was beating faster. He was hot and his head was full of fuzz. He put his hand in his pocket and felt the razor. It was warm. It was starting to sing. He knew the driver couldn’t hear it. It only gave its notes to him.

He wanted to take the razor out of his pocket and throw it away. He wanted to take it and slash someone—the driver maybe. He wanted to do all those things, yet none of them.

He said, “Thanks,” and got out of the taxi. He went down the subway steps and out of sight.

The taxi driver drove around the corner, found a spot with a few shadows, and parked there. He took off his face by grabbing his hair and ripping up. The mask came free with a sound like a grape being sucked. He ran his hand through his dark hair and over his handsome features; the mask had pinched his face some. He slid out of his jacket and pulled at the tear-away pants and kicked off his shoes. He pulled the cowl over his head. He leaned back in the seat and opened the glove compartment and took out a walkie-talkie, switched it on and said, “He’s down there, Jim. He looks rough. I tried to get him to talk. Thought he might spill his guts and I could get him to give up. No soap. You can almost feel the heat coming off this guy, and I got a feeling tonight’s the night. If he’s the one, and I think he is, and if he’s going to do it, I’ve put him right in your lap.”

“We’re waiting,” Gordon said.

Batman clipped the walkie-talkie to his belt, got out of the taxi and stood leaning against it. He wanted to go down there after Barrett, but he had made a promise to Gordon to try not to get involved. If possible, it was a promise he wanted to keep.

JAMES W. GORDON

I was dressed like a bum. I hadn’t shaved in a few days, and my hair was mussed and the overcoat I was wearing had been in police storage so long it smelled mildewy. To add to that, I had poured a little Mad Dog 20/20 over the front of it. The stink of the mildew and the wine gave me motivation for my role. Maybe I could start a new career in the movies. I could play winos. The hours couldn’t be any worse.

I put the walkie-talkie in my coat pocket and got out one of my cigars and lit it. Maybe a bum ought not to have a good, whole cigar, but you got to draw the line somewhere. It was either smoke some of my rope, or start pacing.

I thought of Batman topside, and wished suddenly we hadn’t made a deal for him to try to stay out of things so the department could claim the collar. Now and then I got the heat from the folks upstairs saying we relied on Batman too much. Could be.

Anyway, I had just gotten the cigar lit good when I saw Barrett coming down the steps, into the subway. He was weak and tired and sick-looking. He wore a ring of sweat beads around his forehead like a band of pearls. He staggered a little. He looked mostly at the ground.

I leaned against the subway wall and tried to appear drunk. He went on by me without looking up. I let him go on a ways before I took a gander and saw him walking along the edge of the subway landing. I kept thinking he might fall over onto the rails.

Still, there was something about him, a kind of mood in the air that made me reach inside my coat and touch the butt of my .38 for luck. I make a quick, soft call on the walkie-talkie, warned my people up ahead, then went on behind him at a distance, moving as smoothly and silently as I could.

Finally, I saw the bag lady pushing her shopping cart, coming about even with Barrett, humming to herself. Mertz looked good in the disguise, if a little bulky and broad-shouldered for a washed-out bag lady. He had his head down and the gray wig hung around his face and his his constant five-o’clock shadow.

I went over behind one of the concrete supports, leaned against it, spat my cigar out, and stepped on it. I peeked around the edge of my hiding place and put my hand in my coat and felt the .38, then waited.

Barrett went right on by Mertz.

Well, we had another “bag lady” plant on down a ways, and Crider had the far end cut off with three plainclothes if things got nasty. I have to admit, I was disappointed. I didn’t get out in the field much these days, and when I did, I was there because I expected something to happen. I began to think that mood I had felt in the air was old age.

I was about to step from behind the support and start walking toward Mertz when Barrett turned abruptly and started back.

Mertz pretended not to notice, but I knew he had because he stopped pushing the cart and put his head inside it, burying it under the junk he had there. I assumed he had a hold of his revolver.

I was about to pull my head back out of sight when I saw something that kept me from it; something that froze my eyes to Barrett and his shadow.

His shadow jutted out long and thick to his right, and suddenly Barrett fell to the left, flat as a cardboard cutout, and the shadow rose upright to take his place—only it wasn’t a shadow anymore. It was a huge, top-hatted figure with a face as dark as tailpipe corrosion, eyes that sparked like shorted-out electrical sockets and this mouth overpacked with teeth as thin and sharp as knitting needles.

His loose coat and pants were ragged and the color of water-stained rawhide. He was wearing human heads for shoes; his ankles tapered like those of a goat and slid snuggly into the open mouths. When he walked, the heads came down on the cement with a noise like overripe fruit falling. To his left, floating flat against the cement, was a pale, pink shadow with the general appearance of Jack Barrett; it twitched in mimicry of the dark man’s moves.

The dark man’s right arm went up and I could see a flash of metal in his jug-size fist. The arm came down as Mertz jerked the revolver from the cart, turned, and fired. The dark man soaked the bullet up and kept coming. The razor flashed and I saw Mertz’s hand fly onto the subway tracks. It twitched there momentarily like a spider trying to crawl.

Then the world went hot and kaleidoscopic. There was a sensation of reality collapsing in upon itself, of a malignant universe pushing into our own, like a greased weasel attempting to navigate a tight tunnel.