The Further Adventures of Batman (39 page)

“The man I have in mind has a slight foreign accent.”

“Kurtz is from Austria. Came here after World War II.”

“It sounds like him.” Dick gave Carol’s description of The Man.

“That fits Kurtz to a T.” The agent offered to contact Kurtz but Dick said he’d rather talk to him first himself. “If he’s the one I’m looking for, I’ll get back to you.”

“All right.” The agent looked up Kurtz’s phone number and address. “I hope he still lives there.”

Dick thanked him and hung up. He dialed Information. The operator informed him that Kurtz’s number was unlisted. So he still lived in Gotham City. If he performed, he would surely list his number, Dick reasoned. Someone might want to call him for an engagement.

Before driving to the address Kurtz’s agent gave him, Dick left a note for Batman.

The address was at the other end of town. Dick wore his regular clothes, in his role as investigative reporter. He took along a miniature camera to snap Kurtz’s picture. If he was The Man, Carol wouldn’t be able to hide her reaction to it. He hoped she would break down and identify him.

The house was located in a residential neighborhood. Dick parked near a phone booth and dialed the number the agent had given him. He waited expectantly as the phone rang . . . and rang. Finally he hung up. Chances are that it was still Kurtz’s number, and he wasn’t at home.

Dick walked up to the building. The name on the mailbox was faded, but Dick detected a faint K. While neighboring houses were almost indistinguishable, this one had an eccentric, forbidding character, with old-fashioned gables and turrets. Vines ran along the weathered siding like sinuous snakes. An enclosed porch creaked and swayed as winds twisted through its aged supports.

Dick grimaced.
A real eyesore.
It’s a good thing I’m not here to do a story for House Beautiful.
He pulled out his camera and snapped a picture. Could it be the Circle’s hideout? Not likely. In a residential neighborhood, their comings and goings would be too conspicuous.

Dick knocked on the door. As he expected, there was no response. He tried the doorbell, but it was broken.

Walking briskly around the house, as if on official business, he came to the back door. Several hard raps brought no reply. Stiff and rusty, the doorknob refused to turn. Dick pressed it hard and, to his surprise, a hinge broke off and the door fell open. He took a tentative step inside, pushing the door back in place. The interior was dark and musty, with a stale, airless smell. The floorboards groaned and creaked at the least pressure. With the shades drawn there was barely enough light to see by. He made out the outline of a lumpy old sofa, then stubbed his toe against something hard. Bending over to inspect it, he recoiled with a stifled cry. A head stared up at him—the head of a ferocious tiger forming the front end of a tiger’s rug.

This place must have been decorated by Jungle Jim
, Dick thought.

He examined one of the walls. It was entirely covered with scimitars, sabers, broadswords, and rapiers. The opposite wall boasted a huge elk’s head with wide, flowing antlers. Kurtz was undoubtedly a hunter who liked to flaunt his marksmanship.

Finding no evidence of dope downstairs, Dick mounted the staircase. The banister swayed and lurched under his hand. There were four rooms upstairs. The first he entered was entirely bare.

As he entered the next room, he rocked back on his heels in surprise. A pair of eyes bore through him with a look of such intensity that he felt transfixed and defenseless. For a moment he was unable to move. Then he realized he was staring at the two-dimensional face of a man on a life-size poster. Switching on a lamp, he read the legend underneath.

ALEXANDER KURTZ
MASTER HYPNOTIST
His Magnetic Presence Will
Stupefy and Mesmerize You

The poster showed a man with jet-black hair, thick eyebrows, a straight nose, and ample lips. His jaw was square, and it thrust out defiantly. This was a younger Alexander Kurtz, in his prime. Allowing for age, the picture was consistent with Carol’s description.

The walls were studded with photographs of Kurtz’s stage performances. In one photo he stood gazing at a young woman in a deep trance. For a moment, Dick saw Carol’s face in the picture, and his stomach twisted.

Various mementos of Kurtz’s stage career covered the dresser, in addition to artifacts collected from around the world. Kurtz had traveled extensively. While the house was rundown, the room itself was neat, with everything in its proper place.

He looked in the closet. There were two tuxedos, both shiny from too many dry cleanings. Kurtz must have worn them for his performances. Two safari jackets and a tropical pith helmet gave further evidence of his interest in hunting. An automatic rifle stood upright in a corner of the closet. Then Dick came across an unexpected find: a black-and-red cape, like the one worn by Bela Lugosi in
Dracula.
It probably indicated nothing more than Kurtz’s flair for the theatrical, Dick thought. Or perhaps his interest in the bizarre and the violent? Rummaging at the bottom of the closet, Dick uncovered a werewolf mask with long canines and wiry tufts of hair. There were some drops of dried blood around the mouth.

Dick suddenly heard a noise on the pavement below. Dashing to the window, he pulled the shade aside. A man was approaching the house. He kept his head down, and Dick couldn’t see his face. But he had little doubt that it was Kurtz. He carried a walking stick, tapping it along the street.

Dick bolted down the stairs and ran to the back of the house. As he reached for the knob, the door suddenly heaved inward. Dick had assumed that Kurtz would use the front entrance. Now Kurtz would notice that someone had tampered with the back door. Dick didn’t want to confront him as a housebreaker. He raced into the living room, ducking behind the sofa. The light was too dim for Kurtz to have seen Dick’s sprint up the corridor, but he probably heard his steps.

“Who’s there?” The words rang out in a deep baritone—a voice accustomed to command. “Who is in my house?”

Dick remained crouched behind the sofa.

Kurtz stomped heavily through the hallway, tapping with his stick. “You might as well come out. It’s only a matter of time before I catch you.” Dick noticed a slight European accent.

Kurtz snatched up a heavy board leaning against the stairwell, balancing it with one hand as if it were a pool cue. For a man of medium build, he possessed unusual strength. Dick watched him take a few steps down into the basement and return with a hammer and nails. What was he up to? He proceeded to the back of the house. Turning the board diagonally, he began pounding nails into it.

He’s boarding up the back entrance!
Dick realized.
Trapping me inside.

“I said it was only a matter of time.” Kurtz called, with a robust laugh that echoed down the hall.

Pound, pound, pound.

“Come out and let me take a look at you.”

A drop of perspiration rolled down Dick’s back.

Pound, pound, pound.

“No one will ever break in here again. I’m making certain of that.”

The job completed, Kurtz lay down the hammer and walked into the living room. He lit an old-fashioned hurricane lamp. Shadows leaped across the walls as he crossed the room and placed it on a table.

“Of course I could phone the police,” he said, “but I prefer dealing with problems directly. You, Sir, whoever you are, are a problem. My problem.”

He pulled a rapier off the wall and tested its point. Kurtz parried with an invisible opponent. “En garde! Hup-hup-hup.” The blade whistled through the air with razor-sharp menace.

“Or do you prefer the broadsword?” He pulled it down from the wall and swung it back and forth with both hands. “Choose your weapon, Sir. Speak up!”

Dick swallowed hard, perspiration beading his forehead. He was no expert with blades, and certainly didn’t want to stab Kurtz.

“You have violated the privacy of my home. You are a trespasser, an interloper. Yet I offer you a contest, a choice of weapons. I treat you like a gentleman, a worthy adversary. You spurn my invitation. Don’t you have a tongue? Can’t you speak?”

Dick remained silent, huddled into a tight ball.

“Are you dumb? Or dumbstruck? Ha, ha, ha. I am not an American by birth, but I savor the paronomastic possibilities of the English language. Have you ever reflected upon the ambiguities of the English phonic structure?”

He’s toying with me,
Dick thought.
The cat and the mouse. Does he know I’m behind the sofa?

Kurtz took down a halberd, a long-handled weapon with a sharp point. “A marvelous medieval weapon. One of the prize possessions of my collection. The Middle Ages was an era when men settled differences privately in hand-to-hand combat. Simpler and more primitive than our complicated system of jurisprudence. But lethally effective in resolving conflicts.” He balanced the halberd on the palm of his hand, then suddenly drew it back, and let it fly. The point drove through the center of the sofa, emerging an inch at the back.

Dick leaped up involuntarily, recoiling at the sight of Kurtz leering at him.

“So there you are,” Kurtz said, his eyes dancing with excitement. He picked up a rifle and pointed it at Dick.

“I never miss,” he said with deadly coolness. “At this distance I can peg you right between the eyes.”

He’s loony,
Dick thought.
I’m the game and he’s the hunter.

With lightning reflexes, Dick shouldered past Kurtz into the hall and up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time. A shot whistled past his right ear, making it ring. Dick searched for stairs leading to the roof, but found none. He heard Kurtz’s footsteps mounting the staircase. Dick fled into Kurtz’s bedroom. That would be the last place Kurtz would expect him to hide. Under the bed? No, in the closet. Dick ducked inside, wedging himself into a corner behind the clothes. He felt something cold against his face. The muzzle of Kurtz’s rifle. Dick wondered if it was loaded. He couldn’t check without giving his position away.

A ridiculous predicament,
he thought.
I’m right where Kurtz wants me. In his own room!

Kurtz’s heavy tread sounded in the hallway.

“Come out, young man. It will do you no good to hide. I know this house like the back of my hand. You are in my territory. On my turf. Ha, ha, ha.”

Dick heard him open the empty room. His shoes shuffled along the bare wood floor. Then he heard the door click shut.

“One room eliminated, that leaves three,” Kurtz called. “Before there was a twenty-five percent probability of guessing correctly. One out of four. Now the odds have increased to one out of three.”

Dick heard his shoes clumping past the bedroom. He wondered if he had time to dash down the stairs to the front door. Dick had observed that the door was chained and bolted. Kurtz could get off a shot before he managed to open all the locks.

“We’re down to two rooms, young scholar. The guessing odds are fifty-fifty. Now which room is it? If I were a sportsman I would release you if I guess incorrectly. But I am not a sportsman. I’m a hunter. Now what were your thought processes when you selected your hiding place? You may have considered my bedroom the least likely place for me to look. So you ran straight into the lion’s den. An audacious move on your part. I had better check the other room first, though, to make sure.”

Dick heard him close the door and turn the key in the lock. He sprinted out of the closet and across the room. He tried to loosen the window lock. It was so old and rusty, he couldn’t budge it.

Dick heard Kurtz unlock the door. He dove back into the closet, feeling like a trapped animal.

“So now we are down to one room,” Kurtz said, entering the bedroom. “I must thank you for affording me this unexpected sport. Now where are you? Under the bed or in the closet? I hope it’s not the bed. That would reduce the entire exercise to slapstick. No, I won’t even consider the possibility.” He crossed to the closet. “Come out, come out wherever you are.” He pushed aside the clothing, exposing the center of the closet. “Not there. You must be in one of the corners.” He began poking into the closet with the barrel of his rifle.

“All right,” Dick called. “I’ll come out.”

Kurtz slid the clothing to the other side. Dick sat curled up, eyes staring up at him.

“Now you want to come out,” Kurtz taunted, poking his rifle at Dick. “Not so fast.”

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough fun?” Dick asked. “You have every right to be angry at finding me in your house. But I’m sure you did some dumb things when you were my age, too.”

“You’ve found your tongue, have you?” Kurtz aimed his rifle at Dick’s head. “Don’t move a hair.”

Dick flinched back. “Wait a minute! There’s no need for a weapon.”

“No need? For all I know, you may be a dangerous criminal. Breaking and entering is a crime, you know. I would be well within my rights to use this weapon against a burglar. I have to protect myself and my home. No jury would convict me.”

“Mr. Kurtz, may I stand up and explain to you why I’m here? If you’ll let me get my wallet, I’ll show you my identification.” He reached inside his pocket.

“Keep your hands out front where I can see them!”

Dick withdrew his hand from his pocket. “I’m an investigative reporter, Mr. Kurtz. Reporters often have to work outside official channels to get a story. You understand.”

“A reporter! At your age? You can do better than that.”

“I write for the Gotham High
Clarion.
My card’s in my wallet. I’ll show you if you don’t believe me.”

“All right, slowly reach into your pocket and remove the wallet. But remember, this rifle has a hair trigger. O.K., hand it to me. No, don’t stand up!”

Dick gave him the wallet and fell back into his cramped position, knees pulled up to his chin. His muscles ached.

Kurtz flipped through Dick’s ID cards. “Dick Grayson, eh? So you are on the
Clarion
staff. Why are you hounding me?”

“I’m not hounding you, Sir.”

“Why do you want to invistigate me?”

“I wanted to do a close-up story about a hypnotist. It’s a fascinating occupation. When I didn’t find you home, I began poking around the back of the house, and the door fell open. I could see some of the things on the wall, and I was curious. So I went inside.”