Read Online Batman 6 - The Dark Knight by Dennis O'Neil - Free Book Online
Authors: Dennis O'Neil
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empty air. Gordon shrugged, then went to rejoin his detectives.
Alfred Pennyworth, whistling an old music hall ditty, moved through the Wayne penthouse, opening blinds, raising shades, stopping occasionally to admire the truly spectacular view from any of the windows. He went into the kitchen, placed a bowl of oatmeal and a cup of coffee on a tray and carried it to the bedroom. He stopped in the open room and frowned at the still-made bed.
Then he returned to the kitchen, filled a silver thermos with coffee, and took the elevator down to the building’s garage.
Seven minutes later, he parked the Wayne limo in a corner of a railroad yard, got out, carried the thermos to a rusty freight container that sat, lopsided, on concrete blocks. He got a key from his vest pocket and opened a padlock on the container’s hatch, then stepped inside.
A hiss. The floor lowered, taking Alfred down to the long, low-ceilinged concrete chamber he usually entered through a tunnel that led to Wayne’s apartment building. But today, he thought it wise to assure himself that the elevator entrance was in working order, and was pleased to learn that it was. A hundred years ago, Hiram Wayne had this room built because he wanted to experiment with a steam-driven subway train. The train proved to be a bad idea, but the Wayne family had retained ownership of the ground Hiram had used for his experiments. This chamber had been forgotten by everyone, and although Bruce had heard it mentioned by an uncle, he doubted its existence until recent excavation had uncovered part of it. Bruce sensed that it might some day be useful and, again with the invaluable help of Alfred and Lucius Fox, had pumped out water, reinforced walls, done everything necessary to make it habitable.
Batman’s massive vehicle sat in the center of the room, near a cluster of computers, printers, workbenches, power tools, and microwaves. Bruce sat amid the clutter, watching a television tuned to GCTV, the local all-news station.
“It will be nice when Wayne Manor is rebuilt, and you can swap not sleeping in a penthouse for not sleeping in a mansion,” Alfred said, pouring coffee into the thermos cap.
Alfred handed the cap to Bruce and sat in a nearby chair to join his master. When the news report ended, Bruce returned to what he had obviously been doing when the broadcast had come on, stitching a gash on his arm from where one of the Chechen’s dogs had bitten him.
Alfred took the needle from him, and said, “When you stitch yourself up you make a bloody mess.”
“But I learn about my mistakes.”
“You ought to be pretty knowledgeable by now, then.” Alfred busied himself with doctoring.
“The problem this time was my armor,” Bruce said. “I’m carrying too much weight. I need to be faster.”
“I’m sure Mr. Fox can oblige.” Alfred peered more closely at the wound. “Did you get mauled by a tiger?”
“A dog. A big dog.”
For a while, neither man spoke. Finally, Bruce said, “There were more copycats last night, Alfred. With guns.”
“Perhaps you could hire some of them and take weekends off.”
“This wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when I said I wanted to inspire people. I would never resort to guns or to killing anyone. These gang members are making it dangerous, Alfred. Innocents could be killed by their antics, and I don’t want to shoulder the blame!”
“I know, Master Bruce. But things are improving. Look at the new district attorney.”
“I am. Closely. I need to know if he can be trusted.”
“Are you interested in his character . . . or his social circle?”
“Who Rachel spends her time with is her business.”
“Well, I trust you’re not following me on my day off.” Alfred held up a stack of surveillance photos he saw on a side table. They were of Rachel Dawes with Harvey Dent, and they had obviously been taken over the past several weeks, perhaps even months. “Are you sure about that?”
“If you ever took one,
Alfred Pennyworth, whistling an old music hall ditty, moved through the Wayne penthouse, opening blinds, raising shades, stopping occasionally to admire the truly spectacular view from any of the windows. He went into the kitchen, placed a bowl of oatmeal and a cup of coffee on a tray and carried it to the bedroom. He stopped in the open room and frowned at the still-made bed.
Then he returned to the kitchen, filled a silver thermos with coffee, and took the elevator down to the building’s garage.
Seven minutes later, he parked the Wayne limo in a corner of a railroad yard, got out, carried the thermos to a rusty freight container that sat, lopsided, on concrete blocks. He got a key from his vest pocket and opened a padlock on the container’s hatch, then stepped inside.
A hiss. The floor lowered, taking Alfred down to the long, low-ceilinged concrete chamber he usually entered through a tunnel that led to Wayne’s apartment building. But today, he thought it wise to assure himself that the elevator entrance was in working order, and was pleased to learn that it was. A hundred years ago, Hiram Wayne had this room built because he wanted to experiment with a steam-driven subway train. The train proved to be a bad idea, but the Wayne family had retained ownership of the ground Hiram had used for his experiments. This chamber had been forgotten by everyone, and although Bruce had heard it mentioned by an uncle, he doubted its existence until recent excavation had uncovered part of it. Bruce sensed that it might some day be useful and, again with the invaluable help of Alfred and Lucius Fox, had pumped out water, reinforced walls, done everything necessary to make it habitable.
Batman’s massive vehicle sat in the center of the room, near a cluster of computers, printers, workbenches, power tools, and microwaves. Bruce sat amid the clutter, watching a television tuned to GCTV, the local all-news station.
“It will be nice when Wayne Manor is rebuilt, and you can swap not sleeping in a penthouse for not sleeping in a mansion,” Alfred said, pouring coffee into the thermos cap.
Alfred handed the cap to Bruce and sat in a nearby chair to join his master. When the news report ended, Bruce returned to what he had obviously been doing when the broadcast had come on, stitching a gash on his arm from where one of the Chechen’s dogs had bitten him.
Alfred took the needle from him, and said, “When you stitch yourself up you make a bloody mess.”
“But I learn about my mistakes.”
“You ought to be pretty knowledgeable by now, then.” Alfred busied himself with doctoring.
“The problem this time was my armor,” Bruce said. “I’m carrying too much weight. I need to be faster.”
“I’m sure Mr. Fox can oblige.” Alfred peered more closely at the wound. “Did you get mauled by a tiger?”
“A dog. A big dog.”
For a while, neither man spoke. Finally, Bruce said, “There were more copycats last night, Alfred. With guns.”
“Perhaps you could hire some of them and take weekends off.”
“This wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when I said I wanted to inspire people. I would never resort to guns or to killing anyone. These gang members are making it dangerous, Alfred. Innocents could be killed by their antics, and I don’t want to shoulder the blame!”
“I know, Master Bruce. But things are improving. Look at the new district attorney.”
“I am. Closely. I need to know if he can be trusted.”
“Are you interested in his character . . . or his social circle?”
“Who Rachel spends her time with is her business.”
“Well, I trust you’re not following me on my day off.” Alfred held up a stack of surveillance photos he saw on a side table. They were of Rachel Dawes with Harvey Dent, and they had obviously been taken over the past several weeks, perhaps even months. “Are you sure about that?”
“If you ever took one,
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