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The rum thing about Pennyworth is, he always tries to get his way. Take my costume. Here I was, happily loafing about the Batcave, testing out my new crime-solving program on the old computer, when what do I hear but a soft yet very distinct, “Ahem.” Pennyworth is the master of ahems. I turned and gave him one of my most dignified looks, but I suspect he’s been building up an immunity to them, like those chaps who eat spiced foods.
“Yes, Pennyworth?” I said at last.
“Oh nothing, sir. I just noticed that you’re wearing the new, ahem, pinstriped Batsuit.”
Now, I’ve somewhat sharp detective skills, and they most certainly detected a rhetorical trap. “That’s right,” I replied casually. “Latest fashion, don’t you know, and bally good camouflage against banister railings and the like.”
“But of course, sir. And how often are you silhouetted against such scenery?”
“Well, deucedly common, I should think! Gotham is right full of railings–why, take for instance all the fire escapes one finds oneself on during a crime-fighting evening about town.”
Here the sly old fox sprung his trap, as I’d detected he might. “I took the liberty, sir, of running the numbers in your computer–when you weren’t playing with it, of course–and in matters of fashion and of camouflage, you would be far better off with this item.” He held up a tailored charcoal gray Batsuit. Fine for your average crimefighter, I suppose, but hardly a la mode.
Whenever Pennyworth gets one of these sartorial notions in the old gray matter, I find it best to approach directly, like Welly marching up to Boney at Waterloo. “Pennyworth,” I said with a dash of growl in my voice to show my fixity in the matter, “I am known around the clubs of Gotham as something of a detective, you know, and I have deduced all that needs deduction in the matters of fashion.”
“Very good, sir. And if I may say so, the Bat-signal has been illuminated.”
Clever of Pennyworth, I do say, dodging like that. Naturally, I should have spotted the glimmering signal of do-goodery in a moment, but he’s always getting a step ahead of me like that. Must be all the fish Pennyworth eats–good for the brain. “You’ll find the Batmobile fueled and ready for you, sir.” He prides himself on being a Batman’s personal batman, and it’s moments like this when he proves it to be no idle claim.
After a quick dash across town, I find myself atop headquarters of the gendarmerie, which always makes me feel like one of those flagpole-sitting blokes. With me is Jimmo Gordon, a good egg if ever there was one on the public constabulary. As solid a friend as a Batman can find, Jimmo even turns the blind eye when I pinch the occasional bobby’s helmet. In the old days when I was still something of an amateur sleuth, Jimmo had to ring me up on the Batphone whenever he had a new case. Then Pennyworth, with his fine mind, struck on the brilliant stratagem of a spotlight specially fashioned after my signet. Boundless efficiency he comes up with, that Pennyworth.
So I found myself having a jaw-jaw with Jimmo, who told me a rum bit of news. “The tricky bit,” he told me, “is that we received two telegrams to the effect that on the second of the month–”
“That’s tomorrow!” I observed.
“Quite right, Battie. Your deductive powers never cease to amaze,” Jimmo said. “They say that on the second, someone’s going to nick the Janus vase from the Grecian section of the Gotham Art Museum, and that there’s nothing we can do to stop them.”
“That seems a trifle ungentlemanly.”
“That’s what I said. I’d reprove them via return telegram, but wouldn’t you know, there was no name on the telegrams.”
I pondered. “Dashedly difficult, Jimmo. I’d best run this through my Batcomputer.”
Back at the Batcave, the Batcomputer seemed rather indisposed vis-a-vis crime-solving. “Pennyworth,” I called out, “take dictation, won’t you, while the computer gets its cogs and gears in order.” He assented. “Write this down: lots of number twos. Two, two, and something about a Janus.”
“Ah yes, the figure of Greek myth.”
“What’s that, Pennyworth? Greek myth? Aha, he’s the chappie with the double-face, now isn’t he?”
“The very same, sir.”
“I knew those hours of classics at the alma mater would help someday with the deductions,” I announced with some nostalgia for the old schoolyard scrapes. I was removed from my reverie by another of Pennyworth’s ahems.
“Might I suggest, sir, that these clues point towards a particular Mr. Dent as the malefactor?”
Of course! Old Harvey Tuppence-Face. He and I were down at the ‘varsity together, but wouldn’t you know it, Tuppy-Face went in for criminality since then. A shame, but I always say, honi soit and all that.
“Simple matter, then, Pennyworth. I’ll go to the museum when Tuppy-Face is due to pinch the crockery, and appeal to the old ‘varsity sense of honor.”
“Very good, sir.”
The next night I made good on my plan, having rung up Jimmo to assure him the situation was all quite in hand. The museum johnnies were kind enough to let me stay in the Grecian room after-hours, and I waited there for quite a while. Deucedly inconsiderate of Tuppy-Face to take so long. By the time he’d arrived, I’d about had my fill of statuary and potsherds for one evening, no slight on the ancient clay-mongers who’d made them.
“Hulloa, Tuppers,” I called out. Now, the thing about Harvey Tuppence-Face is you never know which side of him you’re going to get. He can be polite as the maitre d’ at the Crillon, or surly as a binman after a bank holiday, depending how you catch him.
“Out of the way, Battie,” he replied, clearly giving way to his not-entirely-couth side. “I’ll be taking that Janus vase to spruce up my drawing room.”
Not about to have any of that, I planted my feet with the firmity of that colossal stone bloke at Rhodes and told Tuppers with all my hauteur that he could not have it.
“Tell you what, old chap,” my worthy opponent said, “I’ll flip my lucky tuppence. Heads, I turn right around and leave, and tails, the vase is mine.”
I started to voice an objection, as I’d lately had a terrible run of poor luck in games of chance–so much so that Aunt Harriet threatened to cut me off from her chef Anatole–but Tuppers had already flipped his deuced little coin. While it made its pirouettes through the air, I raised a hand to catch it, with a mind to impressing my seriousness upon old Harvey. But to my amazement and his, what should fly out of my kid-skin gauntlet than a hail of tuppences? Quite the mess it made, everything clattering about like an upended drawer of cutlery. Which of the tuppences belonged to Tuppers was beyond either of us. With understandable, but quite welcome frustration, Harvey Tuppence-Face turned on his heel and strode out of the museum, all grumbles and sighs.
“One of the rummest circumstances I’ve seen yet in my crime-fightery, Pennyworth,” I observed back at the Batcave. My new Batcomputer program continued beeping insolently.
“That I believe I can illuminate sir,” he replied. “Knowing that you were to face Mr. Harvey, and knowing that he has the most peculiar habit of flipping a tuppence, I filled your gauntlet with coinage in order to confuse your numismatic counterpart.”
“Pennyworth, you’ve done it again! Take the night off.”
“Thank you, sir. Is there anything further I can do for you?”
I looked down at my pinstripes and sighed. “Be a sport and fetch my gray Batsuit, will you?”
“Very good, Master Wayne. Very good indeed.”
The End