Batman 5 - Batman Begins (12 page)

The will is everything
. . .

He was traveling light today, with nothing but the clothes on his back and a wallet full of currency. He stood in line for twenty minutes before he could get a taxicab, another indication that he had not yet fully readjusted to being the wealthy scion of a wealthy family: a wealthy scion would have had a limousine waiting. He gave the driver the Madison Avenue address and watched the scenery go by. The cab merged with an army of automobiles, all inching toward the distant Manhattan skyline.

Once the cab had actually crossed the East River into Manhattan, Bruce amused himself by looking at New York City and comparing it to Gotham: the buildings were, on the whole, taller, yet here there was none of the oppressive cavernous quality that characterized downtown Gotham. Sunlight actually reached the sidewalk in Manhattan.

Ninety minutes after it had left La Guardia, the cab stopped in front of a brownstone house that Bruce estimated to be at least 150 years old and was obviously built by someone who was wealthy—a friend of his grandfather’s, maybe? He paid the fare and climbed the steps to the front door. A tasteful brass plate above the doorbell was etched with the words
OLYMPUS GALLERY.

The door opened and a pretty young brunette in a pantsuit gave Bruce a catalog printed on vellum and escorted him to a long, wide chamber obviously converted from several smaller rooms. The woman did not recognize him, which relieved Bruce, but did not surprise him. Thomas Wayne had discouraged journalists from publishing photos of his family; the last picture of Bruce to grace the public prints was taken when he was barely fourteen, before he had even attained his full growth, much less been hardened by his travels. He no longer looked much like that cherubic adolescent.

The room was crowded with rows of chairs occupied by a diverse array of men and women, all well dressed, most of them speaking in murmurs to companions. At the far end was a raised platform and a lectern, flanked by paintings on easels and a few statues. The young brunette offered Bruce coffee, tea, chocolate, scones, and pastries. Bruce asked for coffee. A minute later she returned with some in a dainty china cup. She told him that the rooms around them had an interesting variety of works of art and suggested that he might want to examine them after the auction. Bruce thanked her, both for the coffee and the suggestion, and received a carefully crafted smile in return.

A tall, cadaverous man with thick glasses and a few wisps of brown hair combed over his dome moved behind the lectern and welcomed everyone.

He tapped a microphone and winced when a shriek of feedback filled the room, and said, “Before we begin today’s proceedings, I have a regrettable announcement to make. On page eleven of your catalogs—” There was a rustling as the gallery patrons turned pages. The tall man continued. “You see listed there an item offered by James Cavally, a parchment accompanied by his uncle’s translation of its contents. Unfortunately, we are not able to offer this to you today.”

“Why not?” someone asked.

“I regret to say that Mr. Cavally perished in an airplane crash last night and the items described in the catalog were destroyed with him. We, of course, convey our deepest sympathy to his family and friends on their loss. Now, if there are no further questions . . . we begin the auction with lot seven . . .”

Bruce was pretty sure he was not interested in the oil paintings of sunsets or the marble statues of nymphs or anything else the Olympus Gallery would sell that day. He got up and made his way to the door, aware that the brunette was frowning at him, and left the house. He had a return ticket to Gotham in his pocket and he knew of no reason not to use it as soon as possible. He waved down a passing cab—

And stopped, gesturing to the cabbie to keep going. He turned and remounted the steps. By the time he reached the door, he knew why he had not gotten into the cab, what was nagging at him.

Too much of a coincidence . . . the guy with the Rā’s al Ghūl information dying the night before it went on sale. That might mean that there’s something in the old manuscript actually worth knowing, and that means I shouldn’t give up so easily . . .

With an exasperated look on her face, the brunette again showed him to a seat. She did not offer him coffee, and her smile this time was glacial.

Bruce sat through an hour’s tedium; he had not been so bored since that day in the classroom when the professor had droned on and on about Jungian archetypes. Toward the end of the auction, Bruce outbid everyone else and found himself the owner of a marble nymph. He thought that maybe taking the monstrosity off the auctioneer’s hands would incline him to be friendly.

He had no idea what he would do with it. It was too big to be a paperweight . . .

When the sale was finally over, and the art lovers had left, still murmuring to each other, Bruce paid for the nymph, approached the auctioneer, and introduced himself.

“I’m Wesley Carter,” the auctioneer said, shaking Bruce’s hand. “I must congratulate you on your acquisition. A truly fine piece. What do you plan to do with it, if I may ask?”

“It will occupy a place of honor,” Bruce said and added to himself:
In a swamp somewhere.
“I wonder if I might have a word with you in private.”

Wesley Carter scrutinized Bruce and clearly approved of what he was seeing. He almost certainly recognized that the casual clothing his visitor wore had cost several thousand dollars and told himself that a person who could afford such plumage was a person who could also afford expensive art. “If you’ll come with me, Mr. . . .”

“Valley. Gene Valley.”

Bruce followed Wesley Carter up a steep flight of winding stairs to a small office on the second floor, probably a maid’s room originally. Bruce settled into a leather chair and told Carter what he wanted.

When Bruce had finished, Carter said, “Let me be certain I understand you. You’re asking if there is any way to learn the contents of Mr. Cavally’s uncle’s translation.”

As Carter spoke, his eyes shifted down and to the left, briefly but unmistakably.

“That’s it exactly.”

“Well . . . Mr. Cavally was an extremely cautious person. That’s why he insisted on bringing the items himself. But I couldn’t offer them to our clients without some knowledge of them—our patrons are
most
discerning. So Mr. Cavally photocopied both the original parchment and his uncle’s work on it and forwarded the photographs to us last week.”

Again, the darting glance down and to the left.

“I can’t tell you how happy I am to hear that,” Bruce said. “I’d like to buy those copies.”

“I’m afraid that’s out of the question.”

“I’d be willing to let you name your own price.”

“Mr. Valley, I would love to be able to accommodate you, I truly would. But until I hear from Mr. Cavally’s lawyers . . .”

“When will that be?”

“Well, these matters seldom proceed rapidly. I would guess two to three months, at the earliest.”

“Did I mention you can set your own price?”

“Yes you did,” Carter said, his tone now frosty. “And did
I
mention that it’s out of the question?”

Bruce rose and extended his hand. “Sorry to have taken up your time.”

“No trouble, Mr. Valley.”

They shook, and Bruce said he could find his own way out. He descended the winding staircase and, in the short hall leading to the exit, noticed another door. He glanced around. Nobody was near. He opened the door and was looking at another short flight of steps leading to a cellar.

Oh-kayyy . . .

He left and walked around the block, mentally noting everything about it, from the kinds of awnings the shops had to the placement of fire hydrants. When he was satisfied with his reconnaissance, he strolled downtown on Madison Avenue, allowing himself to be a tourist and merely enjoy the sights. At Sixtieth, he cut across a corner of Central Park to the Plaza Hotel. He registered and before going up to his room, asked the concierge for some store suggestions.

He got the photo supplies he needed on Forty-seventh Street and the clothing on Sixth Avenue. He briefly visited a luggage shop on Broadway, and at a large drugstore near Rockefeller Center, he bought a pair of rubber gloves and a penlight. He made his final purchase at a hardware store in Greenwich Village.

He returned to the Olympus Gallery at four that afternoon, now dressed in a black silk shirt, a black silk tie, dark blue trousers, and very expensive black sneakers, carrying an alligator attaché case with gold fittings.

He nodded pleasantly to the brunette. “Saw some things this morning I might like to have. Going to have another peek at them, if that’s all right.”

The brunette replied with an excessively wide smile and said certainly, he could take his time, but they
did
close at five.

Bruce browsed through several of the galleries, trying to look like a really avid art lover, but really checking the security arrangements. There was one video camera in the lobby and nothing else that he could see. He waited until he was momentarily alone, then dashed to the cellar door and scrambled down the steps.

The cellar was almost totally dark, but light from a place where paint had chipped from a window that had been painted over was enough for him to see by. He was in a low-ceilinged basement filled with crates and what must have been paintings wrapped in brown paper. At the rear, behind all the clutter, he could see an old-fashioned coal bin, which was also full of crates. He went into it and crouched in a dark corner and waited.

Waiting was no problem. It was something Ducard had insisted he learn and Ducard had taught him well.

He heard footsteps on the floor above him, and muffled voices calling good-byes. Then silence.

He waited, aware of all the noises in the old house and the darkness around him, alert but still.

When the faintly luminous dial on his Rolex said 8:25, he put on the rubber gloves, crept from his hiding place, ascended the steps, and slowly, carefully opened the door, just a crack.

There must be guards. I’d rather not run into them . . .

He listened: the creakings and groanings of any old house, and somewhere, the whine of an electric engine. He crept into the carpeted hall. The only light was from a red
EXIT
sign. Careful to stay out of the scanning area of the single video camera, which was really no problem, he went up the winding staircase until he reached the upper landing and heard someone coughing. A flashlight beam struck the wall just ahead of him; someone was in an adjoining hall, coming his way. Whoever it was would be facing him in two or three seconds.

With neither hesitation nor conscious thought, he swung over the railing and hung from the floor of the landing, his legs dangling down into a gallery below, the handle of the attaché in his teeth. A uniformed man, with a belly that drooped over a belt festooned with a small radio and a can of Mace, lumbered past, sweeping a flashlight beam ahead of him. His right shoe sole came within an inch of Bruce’s fingers.

By the time the man had reached the top of the stairs, Bruce had vaulted over the railing. He moved as he had been taught to move, swiftly and in absolute silence, to the door of Wesley Carter’s office. He tried the knob and found it unlocked. Wesley was a trusting soul, bless him. Bruce entered and crossed to the desk. He opened his attaché and removed the small crowbar he had purchased in the Greenwich Village hardware store. Carter had twice glanced at the top left-hand drawer of his desk while discussing the photocopies, so that was where Bruce would start his search. He was prepared to hate himself for using a crowbar on such a fine piece of furniture, but he did not have to; like the door, the drawer was open. Carter was a
very
trusting soul. Or he did not think the contents of the drawer were worth stealing, and maybe he was right.

Bruce removed a small camera from his attaché and lay the photocopies flat on the desktop. For the next ten minutes, he photographed the photocopies, hoping that the tiny flash from his camera would be visible neither under the door nor to anyone outside the room’s single window.

He replaced the original copies in the drawer, stepped to the door, and pressed his ear against it: no lumbering footsteps.

Now to figure out an exit strategy . . .

The sidewalk in front of the house would still be busy at this time of night; like Gotham, New York was a city that never slept, and he did not want to chance being seen leaving and be arrested for burglary. The rear faced the backyards of private homes and a few tony businesses, some of which would certainly have dogs and security cameras.

That left the roof.

He glided down the hallway to a window and took the penlight from his pants pocket. He quickly ran the light beam over the edges of the window: no tape. So no security alarm. He lifted the window, slowly, to make as little noise as possible, and stood on the sill, the back of his body facing the yard below, the handle of the attaché again gripped in his teeth.

Okay, now the hard part
. . .

He bent his knees and jumped straight up. His gloved fingers curled around the edge of the roof and he flexed his arms and lifted himself until he could roll over onto the rooftop.

From here on, it would be easy. During his earlier reconnaissance, Bruce had noted the location of a tall tree, three doors south of the gallery. So: over the roofs, a short jump to the tree, a brief wait until no one was near, then down to the sidewalk and back to the hotel. Piece of cake.

Twelve hours later, Bruce was in the sunny kitchen of Wayne Manor finishing his breakfast.

“I trust your meal was satisfactory,” Alfred said from the sink, where he was rinsing out some cups.

“Absolutely,” Bruce said. “What could be better than the blood sausage and eggs Benedict you’ve been giving me?”

Alfred finished with the cups and sat across the table from Bruce. “You seem pensive this morning, Master Bruce. Anything you’d like to share?”

“I’m rehashing yesterday. Trying to make sense of it, I guess.”