Author’s note: The idea of a crossover story with Batgirl and Mrs. Peel was suggested by HONK! Thank you and I hope you like it.
“I rather wish you two were coming,” Max Chessman said as the limousine driver began to transfer his luggage from the trunk of the car to his private plane.
“We’ll miss you, too, Max,” Sarah said, pulling a brush through her hair.
“Definitely. Where can we call you when we have the information you need?” Camilla asked as she repaired the damage the trip and its festivities had done to her makeup.
“I’ll be vulnerable to electronic surveillance in flight. Use a secure line and call the Londinium property.”
He was on his way to England to find a market for the illicit satellite photos he had acquired while in Gotham City. The legitimate hotel executive had used the opening of his casino in Gotham to personally supervise the photos’ acquisition and recruit the personnel to manipulate orbiting satellites. His organization had not yet begun to exploit the profit-making potential of such technology.
The chauffeur indicated the plane was ready to board. “Good bye, my dears. We had a splendid time, didn’t we?”
“We always do,” Camilla said.
“Hurry back,” Sarah encouraged. “We’ll be here. Waiting.”
“I will,” the information broker promised. All three of them smiled wickedly at one another.
Chessman boarded and was airborne minutes later, as his amorous assistants waved goodbye. They turned on the limousine’s television and settled into their seats for the trip back to Gotham City.
“We interrupt this program to report Gotham City Police Chief O’Hara has just personally arrested one of America’s most wanted criminals. I’m Walter Klondike. Details will follow after these commercial messages.”
“Wonders never cease,” Camilla said with a cynical laugh.
“Who do you suppose he caught?” Sarah asked aloud.
“Good question. Personally, I can’t imagine Gotham’s police being able to function without Batman, Robin, and Batgirl.”
“I guess there are two other heroines, Batwoman and Flamebird, who might fill the void.”
Camilla laughed and Sarah joined in after a moment. “I guess they’ll have to.”
“Yes. Considering the rest of them are quite dead by now.”
When Walter Klondike returned, Max Chessman’s beautiful British bootlicks abruptly stopped laughing.
“Playgirl, the Gangster Gal of Games, was taken into custody at the Chessman Hotel and Casino at the Chessmen Building in Gotham City earlier today,” the newsman began. Chessman’s endowed escorts watched, horrified, as footage of O’Hara helping the handcuffed villainess step from between two gigantic gears they had intended to grind her to pieces played on their tiny screen.
“That’s impossible!” Sarah cried, dismayed.
“You realize if she is alive, Batman; Robin; and Batgirl will also probably have survived somehow,” Camilla said.
“Max is not going to be happy about this.”
“I know. He hates it when his plans don’t come together.”
Sarah leaned forward and spoke to the driver. “Get us to the nearest safe house as quickly as you can – without getting arrested.”
“Do you think Batman, Robin, and Batgirl will come after Max?” Camilla asked.
“I don’t know. They have worked internationally before.”
“That’s right. I remember reading somewhere Batman and Robin went after some diamond smugglers a few years back and followed them all the way to Japan.”
“Other times, they’ve operated separately.”
“That is also true. They were after the Penguin in connection with those blackouts before Playgirl started trying to kill them all. Apparently, Penguin gave them a tricky clue that sent Batgirl to Churchill, Manitoba, in Canada while Batman and Robin jetted off to the South Pole.”
“How do you know all this?”
“It was all over the news after the Penguin was captured. You’re so busy sucking up to Max sometimes I’m not surprised you don’t know about Batman’s exploits.”
Sarah ignored the slight. “Speaking of Max, we’d better make sure there’s a reception committee waiting for him when he lands. He might need help.”
“Good idea,” Camilla agreed. “You never know who else will be after him.”
Exhausted, Max Chessman settled into his comfortable seat having seen to all the logistics of his hasty departure. His plane flew eastward across the Atlantic as he exhaled and rang for a drink. His contentment turned to fear as he recognized the smiling man with the bowler hat and umbrella who wheeled the drinks trolley toward him in response to his summons.
“Steed, how did you get here?” Chessman demanded, pointing at him and feeling his jaw go slack while his eyes widened.
“Hello, Mr. Chessman,” England’s top professional spy said cheerfully. “I’ve been aware of your movements for some time. You and I need to have a talk. Would you like a drink?” Chessman pushed a button concealed under one arm of his chair. Steed sat down and seemed to include him in an even more cheerful smile. “Oh, I’m afraid buzzing your bodyguards won’t help.”
Just then the door opened and a large, uniformed man raced in, pursued by an athletic brunette clad from the neck down in leather. She tripped the guard, leaped on top of him, and banged his head into the floor with the heel of her hand. She smiled as she got to her feet. The guard did not rise. "Your associates won’t be of any assistance to you at all, Mr. Chessman,” she said, continuing to smile pleasantly.
“You remember my partner, Mrs. Emma Peel.”
“Of course, Mr. Steed. She is as lovely as ever.”
“Thank you.”
“What about the pilots?” Chessman asked.
“We’ll deal with them after we land,” Steed said. “Our people are expecting us.”
Chessman stood up and darted past Mrs. Peel, moving in the direction from which she had come. She calmly walked to her partner and accepted a glass of champagne before sitting down. After a moment, Chessman reappeared. “You decimated my men!” Chessman exclaimed. “Half a dozen hand-picked bodyguards rendered unconscious! Incredible!”
"One just can't get good help these days," Steed said, shaking his head and sipping his drink while looking out the window.
From behind, Mrs. Peel darted a glance at him. Then she brightened. “Fortunately, Mr. Chessman, there are exceptions. Steed, for example, has recruited me into his organization twice.” Without missing a proverbial beat, she went on, “Your bodyguards will recover. You look like you really could use a drink.”
“Yes. I need a strong one. Thank you. Why didn’t you come after me just now?” Chessman asked. He sipped the drink Steed had mixed expertly for him and nodded with approval.
“It’s a long way down and we’re flying over the ocean,” Mrs. Peel remarked. “Where would you have run?”
Chessman sank more deeply into his chair and finished his drink before handing the empty glass to Steed for a refill. “I imagine you have questions,” the criminal said.
“Naturally,” Steed said engagingly and went on smiling.
Mrs. Peel began, "First, I’d like to know something.”
“What is that?”
"How did you get out of your hotel and avoid us way back when in Londinium?"
“Ah, a fair question. Given that it’s all ancient history, anyway, I’ll tell you. As you'll recall, I had offered my services to Comrade Pushkin. Well, once Steed and your other colleague burst in on us, Steed ascertained your whereabouts while the other gentleman attended to Comrade Pushkin."
"I remember."
"Unfortunately, your colleague lacked the required field expertise at the time, and Pushkin was able to subdue him after a little while. By then I had pulled myself together and realized the operation was lost. I put myself in Pushkin's hands and he and his people got me out of the country."
"You went East?" Steed asked.
“How did you guess, Steed?”
“You said you left England and our people would have known where you were if you’d stayed in the West.”
"Capital, Steed. To be precise, I went to the Far East. After the fiasco you brought about, the Russians wanted nothing to do with me. They turned me over to the Chinese and that proved to be the luckiest thing that ever happened to me."
"Oh?" Mrs. Peel inquired.
"The marked improvement in his physical condition," Steed surmised.
"Quite right, Mr. Steed. When Mrs. Peel infiltrated my operation, I was a fat man with thin blood who had allowed his diet to be micro-managed by Western doctors." Chessman's audience nodded. "The holistic approach of my doctors’ Eastern counterparts did wonders for me. Now, I can eat whatever I want, I can operate in a cool environment, and I can enjoy drinks again. My new doctors gave back my vigor and permitted me to throw myself into personally running my hotels once again."
"Naturally, you couldn't return to Londinium," Mrs. Peel observed.
"Exactly. That would have been impossible. Fortunately, the Londinium property had been booked solid for three years when I left. I operated from Hong Kong until the world changed."
"The fall of Communism," the Avengers said simultaneously.
"Precisely. I had freedom to move around the world. Personally managing my hotels was good for the business, I was able to impose and enforce all of my standards and particularly my policy for superfluous service. The only exception was tipping. I was unable to repeal that practice."
"Disgraceful," Mrs. Peel remarked.
"I quite agree. Well, with the hotels' reputation for superfluous service restored and the ability to be at any of the properties except the one in Londinium personally, I was able to build my reputation in the other circles in which I move. Of course, my attention to detail was invaluable in all of those enterprises as well."
"Chessman overlooks nothing," Steed quoted, raising his glass.
"Quite. My operations ran quite smoothly until I visited my new property in Gotham City and pitted Playgirl against Batgirl and the Dynamic Duo," Chessman concluded his explanation.
“Thank you for that exposition. Now, we’ll want to know about your current organization,” Mrs. Peel began.
They landed at a private airfield outside Londinium. Mrs. Peel stepped into the front of the plane and hit the pilot on the back of the head with the hardened side of her hand. The pilot slumped unconscious. The co-pilot was more prepared for her, having seen her dispatch his partner. He began to rise and turn toward her.
“Nice,” he said, leering lasciviously.
“No,” Mrs. Peel replied. “I’m not.” She proved it by slamming her foot into his groin and raising her knee into his face as he doubled over in pain. Once he had straightened, she snapped the ball of her foot into his chin and bounced his head off the fuselage. His unconscious body collapsed, seemingly in slow motion.
Steed waited until a military-style truck had pulled to a stop beside the plane and the rolling stairs had been positioned. His contact waited as he descended them.
Chessman stood and began to follow, but felt a restraining hand on his shoulder. “Not until we know it’s clear,” Mrs. Peel said.
“In St. Petersburg, April is a winter month,” the truck driver said.
“Here in Londinium, spring blooms in the rain,” Steed replied.
“Did you get him?”
“My partner will bring him down.”
Not far away, the reception committee Sarah had dispatched for Chessman lay in wait, hidden high in the trees surrounding the field, camouflaged in fatigues and assessing their master’s captors through the scopes of double barreled Purdey rifles.
“They don’t look like much, Christie.”
“No. They’re not prepared for us at all, Tiffany. Here comes Max.”
“I’ll take the targets on the right,” Christie decided.
“Let’s do it,” Tiffany enthused. Both women took time to aim at their targets and gently squeezed the triggers.
The rifles triggered a series of rapid actions executed with practiced, professional efficiency. Mrs. Peel shoved Chessman hard down the stairs and stepped back into the plane seconds before bullets tore the fuselage. Steed caught Chessman and spun him in the direction from which the bullets were coming. Steed’s contact began racing to the truck.
Chessman, meanwhile, tried to gain his footing and grip Steed simultaneously. He needed to separate himself from the gentleman spy, thus giving the snipers a clear shot at his enemy.
Steed, however, took the precaution of tapping Chessman’s head with the metal brim of his bowler hat. The prisoner slumped into unconsciousness a split second after Steed had maneuvered him into the snipers’ line of fire.
Unfortunately, the man who had met Steed did not have the benefit of a human shield. He had chosen the truck’s drivers-side door as his destination, and fell against it just as a red stain began spreading slowly between his shoulder blades. He collapsed to the ground.
Mrs. Peel knew she had to get out of the plane if she wanted to go on living. She also surmised using the stairs would prove fatal. The snipers had so far targeted people rather than the plane and truck. She stepped across the door, drawing enemy fire. With a satisfied nod, she dove to the floor, sliding toward the open door as bullets passed harmlessly over her head. Once outside, she gripped the stairs’ lower handrail and wrenched her body into space. Hanging in midair, she imagined she offered her enemies the most beautiful kill shot imaginable. She dropped to the ground, crouching in the sanctuary the stairs provided as the bullets intended to perforate her body ricocheted harmlessly away.
Steed, meanwhile, continued using Chessman’s body for a shield as he began to approach the truck’s passenger side door.
“Hold your fire. We might hit Max!“ Christie said. Her eyes were trained on the targets as her hands reloaded her rifle once again.
“Do you know what’s going to happen to us if they keep him?” Tiffany asked. She was also reloading her weapon. “It’s bad enough I just missed the woman.”
“It will be worse if we kill Max. Let’s change our field of fire,” Christie suggested, swinging to the ground, pressing several fallen shells into the earth.
Tiffany dropped beside her and followed through the trees. Christie raised the rifle to her shoulder and aimed at Steed, as Tiffany reached her. The gentleman spy was hoisting his unconscious prisoner into the back of the truck.
Mrs. Peel watched Christie take aim at her partner. “Steed, look out!” she shouted.
“Kill them both!” Christie ordered.
Steed hoisted the prisoner and pitched him to the side, as the gunwoman fired. Chessman’s body landed in the truck a split second before Steed stepped aside to put the truck between himself and the snipers. Christie’s new vantage point, however, let her bullet pass diagonally through the open back of the truck and tear at the opposite side. Steed felt a hot shard of metal rip into his shoulder before a warm wetness began to spill from his wound. He moved toward the passenger side door and reached for the handle. Pain shot along his arm.
Tiffany kept Mrs. Peel pinned behind the metal stairs. “They would return fire, if they were armed,” she reasoned.
“Good point,” Christie agreed. “That makes the rest of the job easy. Let’s go.”
The gunwomen began to cross the clearing, alternating firing and reloading their rifles as they approached, keeping Mrs. Peel pinned in her position with a relentless fusillade of firepower. They were dismayed when the engine of the truck turned over. The vehicle began backing toward Mrs. Peel’s refuge. Tiffany pivoted toward the truck. “Don’t!” Christie said.
“They’ll get away!” Tiffany protested.
“Shooting Max won’t solve that problem.”
The truck screened Mrs. Peel from enemy fire as she scrambled to the passenger side door. The talented amateur agent slammed it shut behind her.
Blood had smeared across the back of the seats and stained the makeshift bandage with which Steed had bound his wounded shoulder.
“You’ll have to do something about that,” Mrs. Peel said.
“Yes, as soon as we turn Chessman over to the Ministry,” he said as he set his jaw and gazed ahead impassively as the truck sped forward. They were already out of rifle range, but continued accelerating as they fled from the landing field.
Tiffany and Christie stared at each other, horrified at their failure. “Well, we killed one and wounded another,” Tiffany said.
“Right. We also let one get away intact and didn’t come close to getting Max away from them,” Christie said.
“They’ll see it that way, won’t they?”
“Probably.”
“If they hadn’t taken Max in America, we wouldn’t be in this position,” Tiffany complained.
Christie froze as she considered the complaint. “You’re right.”
“Great! How does that help us?” Tiffany demanded.
“We’ll blame the crew of the plane.”
“Do you think their story could influence the decision?” Tiffany asked without sounding encouraged.
“Only if we let them tell it,” Christie replied.
A smile spread slowly across Tiffany’s face as she began to understand. “Someone has to pay the price for Max getting caught. Better them than us.”
“I agree,” Christie said. Together the gunwomen exchanged their Purdey rifles for Webley pistols. Both checked their backup weapons as they approached the plane and its hapless occupants.
District Attorney Harvey Dent and Commissioner James Gordon had endured numerous interminable meetings with Sir Sterling Habits of Gotham City’s British Consulate before Max Chessman’s return to Gotham City for trial could be arranged. The British Government officially considered the American authorities’ planned trial for the international criminal superfluous.
“Extraordinary crimes,” Sir Sterling had argued, “against the people and the State, must be avenged by agents extraordinary. Such shadowy people do their work behind the misty veils of government secrecy. Inquiries are routinely bogged down in bureaucracy and their answers are tied up tightly in red tape, never to be released. Please, leave Mr. Chessman to us. I assure you, we’ll see to everything. Believe me.”
“The crimes we are concerned about were committed here,” Harvey Dent responded. He sat so as to keep the “good” side of his face turned toward Sir Sterling and the Commissioner. “Give us the chance to put him on trial and see that he is punished. The people deserve the chance to know justice is done.”
“How frequently is justice really done over here, sir? Your face was scorched at one of your trials. As I recall, the defendant was the woman called Playgirl with whom our Mr. Chessman worked. To this day, you still don’t know her real name and your injury facilitated her first escape.”
Dent was taken aback by this unusual breach of British etiquette. People rarely discussed his disfigurement in his presence. Commissioner Gordon stepped in and asserted, “Playgirl is in jail for her crimes as we speak, Sir Sterling. The system works.”
“Right,” the diplomat conceded. “I also understand the notorious Joker will be up for parole soon.”
“It won’t be granted. Batman has sent a letter opposing Joker’s release and Batgirl has agreed to personally appear and testify. She has had a number of very unpleasant experiences for which she holds Joker responsible. Also, Batwoman and Flamebird will describe how he tried to kill them in the Christmas display at Lacey’s Department Store. I’m not worried about the Joker being released and Gotham City’s good citizens needn’t be either,” Commissioner Gordon responded.
“I understand your Batgirl only recently arrested him again. I fail to understand how he can be considered for parole so quickly.”
Harvey Dent sighed. “I’m afraid the Joker was scheduled for a parole hearing over a year ago. When Joker escaped, Warden Crichton kept his hearing date in place to keep anyone else from getting his spot. You see, Sir Sterling, we have a beloved bureaucracy, too. When Joker was captured again, his lawyer, Lucky Pierre, told the press he would be up for parole before the schedule could be changed.”
“Ah. Are you saying your Colonial idea of press freedom has gotten the better of you?” Sir Sterling asked.
“No, Sir. I’d call it more of an administrative oversight which pitted our bureaucracy against us, perhaps ironically.”
“Quite. You, of course, realized if you rescheduled the hearing, the press would have had a field day.”
“They’ll have a field day, regardless. It doesn’t matter. The Joker isn’t going anywhere. Besides, if we dispense with the formalities now, they can be deferred again for a very long time.”
“A cunning plan,” Sir Sterling Habits said, nodding. Half of Harvey Dent’s face smiled pleasantly, basking in the diplomat’s approval.
“Returning to the topic at hand, gentlemen,” Commissioner Gordon interjected, “what charges have the British government brought against Max Chessman?”
“I cannot say. That information is privileged.”
“We all know he had you kidnaped, interrogated, and almost killed,” Harvey Dent reminded him.
“All of what you say is true,” Sir Sterling Habits conceded. “My presence, however, was shielded from your ravenous press when Chessman’s accomplice, Playgirl, was arrested. My government would prefer to keep that secret.”
“I take it there are no outstanding charges against Mr. Chessman being brought by your people?” Commissioner Gordon continued.
“Permit me to explain, gentlemen. At the time of Mr. Chessman and Playgirl’s capture, I was under the influence of truth serum. I am incalculably grateful to Batman and Robin for keeping me out of the story. If I had faced the press in my condition at the time, the damage I could have done to my government may have been more harmful than if I had told Chessman everything he wanted to know.”
"We appreciate the seriousness of the situation, Sir.” Commissioner Gordon said, matching the diplomat’s candor. “However, my question still stands.”
“Blast! I am aware of none at present. I’d be remise, however, not to double check”
“Good,” Harvey Dent said. “While you’re doing that, we’ll take custody of Mr. Chessman. I’ll get cracking, so to speak.”
“I really wish you’d wait until after I’ve made the inquiry.”
“I wish we could, Sir Sterling,” Commissioner Gordon said, “but, the Joker’s hearing has generated a good deal of press attention and this would be the ideal time to quietly bring Mr. Chessman into the country. Otherwise, investigative journalists like Alexander Knox or photojournalists like Vicki Vale might get an idea of what we’re doing. Ordinarily, we can manage the press and we do. Unusual goings on, however, attract unwanted attention.”
“I should remind you gentlemen, we still have Chessman.”
“I’m afraid I called in a favor from your cousin, Superintendent Watson, of venerable Ireland Yard,” Commissioner Gordon said. “Naturally, you’ll be able to undo what I have done in the event British charges superceding ours come to light.”
Sir Sterling’s diplomatic mask dissolved for a brief moment, letting a pained expression flash across his face. Then he smiled, bowing and said, “I’ll speak to my government immediately.”
Sir Sterling Habits’ conversations led to Max Chessman being brought to Gotham City and placed in Warden Crichton’s care. Once processed, the prison population took an inevitable interest in the new arrival.
Chessman found their greeting, “Fresh meat!” unsettling, to say the least.
He realized someone had taken a special interest in him when a large man saved him from being beaten up in the crowded shower.
“Hey! Leave him alone.”
“Why do you care what we do to him, Parker?” Chessman’s attacker said.
“I don’t. Someone wants him – intact.”
“Who?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Come on, Parker, tell us. Is it your pretty sister?” another prisoner asked.
“Leave her out of this. I’m telling all of you to leave Mr. Chessman alone.”
“Just you, Pretty Boy?” the second convict asked.
A large hand wrapped around the questioner’s mouth and shoved his head into the brick wall. “No!” Machine Gun Parker answered, as his victim slid to the floor.
“Maybe we’ll save the fresh meat until after we’ve taken care of the two of you,” a third convict suggested.
“That’s up to you,” Pretty Boy said, shrugging. “You know the rules. Mess with one Parker, and you mess with the whole family.”
“Leave this alone, guys. Their sister isn’t involved in this. If you push it, though, she could be. Believe me. You really don’t want to mess with her.”
“Come on, Mad Dog. Let’s take care of them. I’ve seen their sister. She’s worth the trouble.”
“You’re forgetting two things.”
“Yeah? Like, what, Mad Dog?”
“First, the Parkers said Legs was off-limits the second she got here,” Mad Dog replied.
“So what? After we’re finished with them, they won’t have much to say about it, will they?”
“Hey, what’s the other thing?” a fourth prisoner asked.
“I’m a Parker, too!” Mad Dog answered, knocking the fourth speaker down on his way to hitting the third hard in the mouth.
“Pretty Boy and Fresh Meat are leaving,” Machine Gun said. “Now, is that going to be a problem?”
The prisoners’ original spokesman walked over to Machine Gun and leaned close to him. "I have to wonder who you're working for. If it's really your sister, I would understand. I'd bet she would want Fresh Meat for herself. Everybody knows she’s good on her back."
This slur on his sister's reputation, while true, enraged Mad Dog. “Fresh Meat goes with Pretty Boy, so back off!” Mad Dog reiterated. He emphasized his pronouncement by bouncing the spokesman off the nearest wall and hitting him on the chin.
Pretty Boy Parker led Chessman from the shower. “Get dressed,” he instructed.
Back in the shower, the spell the Parker Brothers had cast on the other inmates was beginning to fade. “Hey! Are we going to let these three gorillas push all of us around?”
None of the prisoners moved immediately. Then, the spell quite suddenly shattered. “He’s right! Let’s get them!”
Someone took a swing at Machine Gun, starting a brutal fight. Mad Dog immediately rose to his brother’s defense, hitting the nearest convict and knocking him to the floor.
“Stay here,” Pretty Boy Parker told Chessman. Then he, too, waded into the fray and helped his brothers subdue the other men. It didn’t take long. Chessman’s morbid curiosity got the better of him and he moved to a spot from which he could better watch the fight.
When it was over, only Max Chessman and the Parker Brothers were standing.
“Thank you,” Max Chessman began. He stood over the wreckage wearing only a pair of shorts. “I must say-”
“Shut up and follow me,” Pretty Boy said, leading him from the shower. The Parker Brothers toweled off and dressed, but Pretty Boy stopped when he was dressed as Chessman was. “Come on,” the gangster said.
Chessman tried again. “I say, do I have a choice?”
“No.”
Though Chessman was prouder of his current body shape than his previous rotund form, he was still uncomfortable being paraded before hoodlums he would never hire as Security Pawns, or anything else for that matter, wearing practically nothing.
“Who wants me? Was that chap right about it being your sister?” The possibility intrigued Chessman.
“You’ll see.”
“Your sister seems to wield enormous power. I understand that is unusual for female American gangsters.”
“Are you calling my sister a gangster?” Pretty Boy didn’t really pay attention to Chessman’s search for an appropriately safe response. He nodded to the guards on the showers who moved to clean up the mess he and his brothers had made. “There’s no hurry, boys,” he told them.
“You!” Machine Gun said, picking up the spokesman by the throat. “What did you say about our sister being good on her back?”
“No. Nothing. I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. It was a mistake,” the spokesman said fearfully.
“Sure it was,” Machine Gun said quietly. The second round of the fight promptly started.
“Shouldn’t they have stopped us?” Chessman asked, referring to the guards.
“No,” Pretty Boy said.
“Do you think they’ll stop the fight?”
“If they try, everyone in that showier will start beating on them,” the Parker Brother explained.
“Tell me, Pretty Boy. Why didn’t those guards try to stop us?”
“I told them not to.”
“Why do they listen to you?”
“Why do you think?”
“If you can intimidate them, why are you still here?”
“I’m paying my debt to society.” They passed through an unmanned guard station and a series of open doors. “Confidentially, Chessman, I’m collecting certain dividends as well.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll find out.”
“Shouldn’t there have been guards at that station back there?” the Englishman asked nervously.
“No.” Pretty Boy continued to lead Chessman down the corridors. “You sure ask a lot of questions.”
“Information is my business.” Chessman looked around. “This doesn’t make sense. Someone must know those doors are propped.”
“Probably. Knowing and caring enough to do something about it are two different things. We’re here.”
They made their way down the passage to a cell in the solitary confinement area. Pretty Boy opened the door. Inside, a blonde vision awaited them. “Here he is.”
“Oh, God, no!” Max Chessman said.
“Oh yes, Max. It’s me. The best American doll you’ve ever had.”
“P-Pl- Playgirl?” he said.
She slid from the bunk she had been decorating. Her striped prison shirt had been completely cut away below the top of her breasts, showcasing everything below. She wore nothing else, except a black and white striped thong and a pair of sunglasses. “Precisely,” she said with a wicked laugh. “Come in.” Pretty Boy shoved Max Chessman inside. “I’ll be with you shortly, Pretty Boy. You know you’re this player’s favorite Parker Brother.”
“I’ll be waiting,” the big man said and left the cell.
“Good. While you wait, do a girl a favor and get this bunk out of here. We won’t be needing it.” Once her request had been carried out she turned to Pretty Boy again. “Thanks. I won’t be long.” Playgirl moved between Max Chessman and the open cell door.
“What do you want, Playgirl?”
“Aren’t you pleased to see me, Max?”
“Of course I am. You look good. You always do,” Max’s voice dropped in volume as he regarded the beauty before him, “although I can’t believe that’s standard prison issue.”
“Like it? I modified the design to my taste.”
“How did you get here and why aren’t you in the Arch Criminal Wing about which I’ve heard so much?”
“I’ll answer your first question. All I want right now is you.”
Max Chessman smiled. “I understand.”
Playgirl laughed. “You always did have a very high opinion of yourself. I‘ll answer your second question now. They arrested me after you left me do die with the Terrific Trio in the workings of your life-sized chess game.”
“I gathered that. What I meant was, how did you arrange for me to be brought to this cell?”
“I can be very persuasive. Remember?”
“I remember. I would have thought you’d have a hard time operating behind bars.”
“You have just arrived and are being shown how tight security can be. It becomes more relaxed, eventually. They have to guard dangerous criminals like the Joker. To answer your next question, I got here today by putting myself in one of the guard’s personal custody. When he finished frisking me, I left him in another cell, sleeping like a baby.” She paused to favor him with a smile. Her voice developed an edge when she continued. “Now listen! Instead of asking about how I operate here, you should be worried about why I sent for you. It all has to do with your having tried to kill me. I’ve been very upset with you since then, Max.”
“I’m sure you have,” he said darkly. Then he brightened. “Look. The trap failed. So why don’t we start over as friends. We could let bygones be bygones. We had some good times. I’m sure you remember.”
“It won’t work anymore, Max. You really shouldn’t have tried to kill me.”
“Don't I even get a goodbye kiss?”
“I can’t afford that. You really are very good. I’d even say you were incredible. But you tried to kill me and now that I have you, you are so totally dead.”
“How will you give it to me, then?”
“I’ll give you a little toy to play with,” she said, picking up a clear, sealed, plastic tube from a crude table. Lovingly she turned it in her hands, showing Chessman the superball sealed inside. “Pretty Boy!”
“Yes, Playgirl,” the big man responded.
“Get rid of this table for me.”
As the brawny thug obeyed, Chessman asked, “What is this?”
“The inside of the tube is coated with a potent contact poison. By now, the very bouncy ball has developed a thin, but lethal, coating.”
“Contact poison, you say?” Chessman looked at his bar chest, arms, and legs and frowned.
“That’s right,” Playgirl said, grinning wickedly. “One touch, however slight, will prove totally deadly, very very quickly.”
“So, I’ll be playing dodge ball.”
“Yes, against one tiny, fast moving ball in a very small space. Eventually, you’ll tire. Your little ball, however, won’t. It has a miniature power source built inside that will last far longer than you will. It will get faster and faster with every bounce. Remember . . . one touch and it’s game over – forever,” Playgirl said, laughing. She removed one end of her tube and stepped back, hanging on the door.
“I don’t understand how you could have managed to obtain that poison. We’re in prison, after all. Where did you get it?”
“Inquisitive to the last, eh, Max? Oh, it was like, totally simple. I bought the ball from a vending machine and jimmied it up in the prison shop. The poison was donated courtesy of a young lady who calls herself Poison Ivy. Since she’s been inside, she has developed an obsessive interest in plants. Honestly, I don’t know why, but she got really enthused about helping me when I told her I needed the poison to kill a man. I think she hates most of her guards or maybe she had a bad experience with a man in college. Who knows?” Playgirl grinned wickedly and laughed. “I don’t really care!”
“You won’t get away with this. The cameras–”
“Are quite irrelevant. You, Pretty Boy and I are the only prisoners in this part of the jail. The guards won’t be paying attention. Even if they do look, I’ve looped in an image of the corridor before I arrived.”
“Once I’m dead, you’ll be immediately suspected.”
“With Joker and the others in here as well, I doubt it. Besides, I’ll have Pretty Boy as an alibi. You didn’t think they called him Pretty Boy for nothing, did you? I can make lying worth his while, as you’ll no doubt recall. The last time I broke out of here, the guards practically escorted me to freedom, and it wasn’t that long ago that a girl guard let Nora Clavicle out. I guess similar things have happened in the past. So, you see, the prisoners aren’t the only suspects.”
Playgirl touched the fingertips of her right hand to her lips and blew her intended victim a farewell kiss. “Bye, lover.”
“Oh God!”
Then she flicked the superball from the tube, handed the tube to Pretty Boy, who had reappeared, and pulled the door closed on Max Chessman. The door locked. She laughed and watched him through the cell’s only window as he dodged to one side, barely avoiding the bouncing, deadly superball.
Chessman saw Playgirl’s silhouette merge with the large thug’s for a very long moment before the big man picked Playgirl up and carried her away. Suddenly, Chessman was alone in the empty room, focusing on the deadly, bouncing ball and trying to stay alive.
Meanwhile, as Warden Crichton’s security team reviewed their final preparations for the Joker’s parole hearing, their leader greeted his succulent star witness. “Thank you for coming, Batgirl. You’re just in time for the final security checks before we move Joker to the hearing room. Would you like to watch?”
“I’d be happy to, Warden Crichton,” she responded.
“Good. Right this way.” They proceeded to a security center where guards were monitoring the entire prison on multiple screens in front of them. “Our eyes are everywhere, Batgirl. This is where they tell us what they see. Here. Let me show you.” One of the guards moved aside to enable the boss to select the camera views he wanted. “This is my office,” he announced, bringing up an image of his empty office. Other pictures came up on his monitor as he went on talking. “Here is Joker. This is the hearing room and we should have a sequence of views to show all the corridors between those locations.” The guard moved to activate the sequence. “Excellent. Run through the rest once this is finished.”
“Very impressive,” Batgirl remarked as the guard nodded.
“I’m glad you like it,” Warden Crichton said. “Some of our other equipment is really state of the art.”
As Batgirl looked at the other technology the Warden was showing, she kept an eye on the pictures of the rest of the prison. She listened and commented on the security devices as the progression of pictures moved to its inevitable conclusion.
“Thank you for the demonstration,” Batgirl said.
“You’re quite welcome. Let me show you to the hearing room and we’ll make sure Joker remains our guest for awhile longer.” As they moved to leave, Batgirl glanced at a camera view of the corridor outside the solitary confinement cells and froze. Something was wrong.
“Just a moment, Warden. Where is that?” Batgirl asked, pointing at the screen.
“Directly outside the solitary confinement cells. Is something wrong?”
“I’m not sure. In what direction does that corridor run?”
Warden Crichton thought for a moment. “North and south, I think. The camera is at the south end.”
“I thought so. I’m not sure that shadow should be where it is at this time of day.” Batgirl pointed out the shadow of a barred window on the floor.
“What does the shadow prove?”
“Well, the sunlight enabling the shadow to be cast is coming from the east. Thus, that shadow would be cast in the morning.”
“It’s early afternoon!”
“Right. That’s what was bothering me. Now, to be certain. Are there any parallel corridors with windows at the same level?”
“Of course. Bring one up on the screen beside that image.” Seconds later, a similar corridor appeared on the monitor beside the screen in question. No shadow appeared on the floor of the second corridor! “I want the entire prison locked down immediately,” Warden Crichton ordered. “Batgirl, please come with me.”
They dashed to the corridor in question, which had no shadow on its floor, and could hear a soft, rapid, and irregular thump interrupted by labored breathing from inside one cell. Warden Crichton tapped a code into a keypad beside the cell. As the door opened, Batgirl instinctively stepped aside as the superball bounced through the opening.
“Thank God!” Max Chessman said, collapsing. He was soaked with sweat and lay motionless for a moment, recovering his breath. Batgirl knelt beside him and looked down as he lifted his head. “Ball,” he gasped breathlessly. “Poisoned.” Warden Crichton had moved to retrieve the curious bouncing toy!
Batgirl turned from the fallen prisoner and stepped back into the corridor. Warden Crichton was reaching to grab the bouncing superball and missed just as Batgirl spotted him. “Warden, don’t touch that!” she ordered. Warden Crichton froze. A moment later, Batgirl was beside him, cape in hand. She snapped the garment outward and released it to smother the deadly toy. Before Warden Crichton could move, she had retrieved a pair of tongs and a plastic bag from her belt and was lifting the cape. Once the superball was safely contained, she handed it to Warden Crichton.
“You’ll want to have that analyzed.”
“Right. Shall we talk to Mr. Chessman?”