The Further Adventures of The Joker (31 page)

The Joker breathed it all in, expanding his chest as he stood on the soil of Nazi Germany. Yes, it was just as he had thought it would be.

He walked up to the immigration booth. The official examined his passport and peered at him suspiciously. “Herr Simmons? You come to Germany at a strange time. We are at war, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” the Joker said. “Against France and England. Nothing to do with us Americans. Anyhow, there’s not much happening yet, though, is there?”

“We conquered Poland last month!” the official said.

“Big deal.” The Joker smirked.

The official stiffened. His eyes narrowed. “I could have you arrested for a remark like that. I have a good mind not to let you into Germany.”

“Read the note in back,” the Joker said, flicking his finger toward his passport.

The official opened the passport and took out a piece of paper. He unfolded it and read it, once, then twice. He looked at the Joker and his jaw fell open.

“But that signature—”

“Yes,” the Joker said. “Are you satisfied? I’ll be off then.” The Joker retrieved his passport with a quick movement of his purple-gloved hand, and walked through the barrier to the waiting cars outside.

One of those cars was an enormous Mercedes-Benz, gunmetal gray, imposing. The chauffeur came over, clicked his heels, bowed. “Herr Simmons? I will attend to your luggage. Please get in.”

The Joker settled down in back. His trip was starting well.

Soon the limousine had left the gray city of Hamburg under its haze of smoke, mist, and rain. They were on the
Autobahn
now, moving at high speed to the south. There were thin dead woods on either side. Nothing was in bloom yet. The trees looked unreal in the thin shimmering mists that clung to them.

After a while they were in the Black Forest. Here the limo turned off onto a side road, and then another side road. At last it went through an open gate onto the wooded estate of the Bad Fleishstein Spa.

The proprietor, Herr Gerstner, a small, balding, worried-looking man in a tuxedo, hurried out to open the limo door and greet the Joker personally. “Herr Simmons! So very happy am I to greet you and welcome you to our spa. We had received Herr Obermeier’s phone call alerting us to the imminence of your arrival. We have prepared our finest chalet for your occupancy. It is called ‘The Kaiser’ and your driver can proceed to it and unload your luggage.”

“Great,” the Joker said. He turned to the chauffeur. “Go do that, Hans, and I’ll accompany Herr Gertie here to the spa.”

“You must have a glass of cherry liqueur with me,” Herr Gerstner said. “It is the finest in all Germany.
Heil Hitler!”

The Joker smirked but did not reply. The two men strolled up the curving path that led to the main building. There was only a scattering of people around, since it was still early for the spa season. But those the Joker saw were well-dressed and had a prosperous, self-contented look. The Joker decided at once that this was one of the nice things about dealing with cultured and wealthy people. They looked good and they had money.

After drinking a glass of cherry brandy with Herr Gerstner, the Joker strolled through the woods to his chalet. Hans had hung up his clothing, but, following orders, hadn’t touched several suitcases with special locks on them.

“OK,” the Joker said, “you go find yourself a place to stay in the village we passed. Telephone your number to Gertie when you’re settled. Be prepared to move at any time.”

Hans saluted and left. The Joker made several telephone calls from the chalet, one of them long-distance to Rome. Then he went outside and strolled around the chalet, knocking off the heads of early spring flowers with his walking stick. Going back inside, he unlocked a small pigskin case and took out several sheets of paper. He studied them carefully, then locked them away again. By then it was time for dinner. He checked his appearance critically in a tall mirror, and substituted a floppy silver and mauve cravat for his black shoestring tie, and strolled back to the main building.

Herr Gerstner had given him a table to himself beside one of the long French windows. The Joker ate the soup and salad without comment. But when the waiter brought him a plate of greenish brown things curled into circles and swimming in a suspicious-looking sauce, he bent over it apprehensively, smelled it, and tapped with his knife on a wineglass to get the waiter’s attention.

“What is this?” he asked.

The waiter, a tall blond boy with a bad foot, which had kept him out of the military service so far, blushed and said,
“Rollmops,
sir.”

“And what exactly,” the Joker asked, “is
rollmops?”

“It is herring, Meinherr,” the waiter said. “It is a special delicacy here in our great country. The sauce is light and contains vinegar—”

“You
eat it,” the Joker said. “What else have you got?”

“The main course is roast pork with prunes, sir.”

“I don’t eat prunes. Haven’t you got any real food?”

By then Herr Gerstner had seen that something was wrong and came hurrying oyer.

“What is the trouble, Herr Simmons? How may I serve you?”

“That’s easy,” the Joker said. “Have somebody clear away this slop and bring me some real food. I was assured when I made my booking in this joint that you could cook food of any nation.”

“I assure you, we can. Our chefs are world-famous! What would you like?”

“A hamburger steak, medium-well done with plenty of fried onions, french fries, coleslaw, and the trimmings.”

“Trimmings?” Gerstner asked, struggling with the idiom.

“Excuse me, gentlemen, perhaps I could help.” A woman dining alone at a nearby table had overheard the conversation with considerable amusement. Now she swiftly told Gerstner what to bring, breaking off to enquire of the Joker, “Would you like to finish with apple pie and vanilla ice cream?” The Joker nodded, staring at her. The woman completed the order. Herr Gerstner bowed and went away.

“Where’d you learn about American food?” The Joker asked. “You’ve got a good accent but you’re not American, are you?”

“No, I am not,” the woman said. “But I have relatives in America. I visited them on their estate outside of Philadelphia a few years ago, before the war. I am the Baroness Petra von Sidow.”

“And I am Alfred Simmons,” the Joker said, smiling his smile that split his face laterally from ear to ear. The Joker’s smile was a sight that, under other circumstances, had made strong men flinch and had given women nightmares. But the Baroness Petra seemed not to be disconcerted by it.

The Joker looked at her and saw a young woman dressed in the latest Parisian fashion. She was not exactly pretty; her features were too severe for that. But she was as handsome as a young lioness, and looked about as dangerous. Her ash blonde hair was pulled tightly back. Her thin lips were outlined in a dark red lipstick. Her blue eyes were highlighted by dark makeup. Her off-the-shoulder dress displayed her magnificent shoulders and bosom.

“Perhaps you would care to join me for dinner, Herr Simmons?” she said.

“Only if you permit me to buy a bottle of the finest champagne,” the Joker said gallantly.

The dinner went well. The Joker was amazed, because he had never been much of a ladies’ man, certainly not since the death of Jeanne and his bath in the chemical vat while making his escape from Batman. The immersion in the hellish mix of chemicals had resulted in permanently dying his face dead white, his lips red, and his hair green. But Petra didn’t seem to mind. After dinner there was a dance in the spa’s grand ballroom. The Joker hadn’t planned on attending. But Petra wanted him to go. He accompanied her to her room so she could get a light stole.

Her room was a suite on the spa’s top floor. Petra let them in with her key. The first sight that greeted their eyes was a little chambermaid in black costume and frilly white cap asleep in one of the big armchairs.

The Joker found this amusing. Not so Petra.

“Asleep?” she cried. “How dare she sleep when she should be tidying up my things!”

Petra looked around furiously as the maid stumbled to her feet babbling apologies. Petra’s gaze fell on a riding crop hanging from the wall. She seized it and flailed furiously at the maid, once, twice, three times, reducing her to tears.

“Now, little fool,” Petra said, “find me my stole and don’t let me ever find you sleeping in here again!”

The maid hurried off and returned a moment later, wiping her tears with the stole. It was at that moment that the Joker fell in love with Petra.

That evening, dancing with Petra under the stars, on the balcony of the hotel, was the most romantic evening the Joker had ever spent. Petra seemed to be taken with him, too.

“I hope to see you again,” the Joker said, when the evening was at an end.

“But of course! We are staying in the same hotel, after all.”

“Unfortunately,” the Joker said, “I must leave tomorrow on business. But I’ll be back in a day or so.”

“You have not told me what is your business, bad boy,” Petra said.

“I’m a businessman,” the Joker said, “I get things and sell things. You know how it is with business.”

“I have always thought business was very dull,” Petra said. “But perhaps that is because my family has not had to engage in it. We have lived from the income of our family estates in East Prussia for hundreds of years.”

“You got a good thing going,” the Joker said.

She shrugged. “East Prussia is home, of course, but I have always wanted to travel. I enjoyed my stay in America, but there is another place I want to go to.”

“Where’s that?”

“Rio de Janeiro!” Her eyes gleamed. “I have relatives there. They tell me it is the most fabulous life. And I simply love to samba!”

“I’ve got some contacts there, too,” the Joker said. “Look, Petra, we must talk more about this.”

“I would be delighted,” Petra said. “Good night, Herr Simmons. Or should I say—Herr Joker!”

The Joker returned to his chalet. He was walking on air. It took an effort to remind himself that he had come to Europe for a purpose, and that the time for action was almost at hand.

Early the next morning his chauffeur arrived punctually at the chalet. The Joker had him put two suitcases into the trunk, and then told him to drive to Flugelhoff Airport, the nearest international airport to the spa. Arriving, he saw that most of the field was taken up with military activities. There were two squadrons of Heinkel bombers parked wing to wing at one end of the field. Security was tight. But the Joker’s passport and the letter in it from Obermeier were more than sufficient to get him through. Soon they were in the air. The Joker watched through the window as they crossed the Alps and began the journey down the Italian peninsula.

Despite the air of ingenuousness that he put on, the Joker was very well aware that there was a war on. It was inescapable, even far away in America. He had followed Hitler’s progress, taking the Rhineland, the Sudetenland, then launching the blitzkrieg against Poland. The Poles had resisted gallantly but couldn’t stand up to the German army of more than a million men and the great panzer divisions that raced on ahead of the troops. Norway and Denmark had fallen. Britain and France were in a state of war with Germany, but so far little had happened. Both sides, Allies and Axis, mobilized, but the French stayed behind the Maginot Line, the Germans behind the Seigfried Line. And the world waited to see what would happen next.

The Joker was a master criminal. He knew that war brought great opportunities for those who could move fast, fearlessly, and with imagination. Those were his qualities. A scheme had lain in the back of his mind for a long time. The present state of upset in Europe made it the perfect opportunity. Now he was doing it.

The German plane flew down the Po Valley and at last began the descent at Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci Airport. Customs and immigration were simple. The Joker had several letters of introduction. And he had a well-filled wallet and spread money around liberally among the delighted customs and immigration people.

He went through the formalities quickly and there was a chauffeur to meet him just outside the customs area.

“Signore Simmons?”

“You got it,” the Joker said.

“Giuseppe sent me,” the chauffeur said. “I am Pietro. I am to take you to where the others are awaiting your arrival.”

“Sounds good to me,” the Joker said. He let Pietro open the door for him. The vehicle was an old but immaculate Hispano-Suiza, the deluxe model with gold fittings.

“Nice bus,” the Joker commented.

“Nothing but the best for you, Signore,” Pietro said. “That is what Signore Giuseppe said.”

They drove off into the streets of downtown Rome. It was late afternoon. The brilliance was just going out of the sky. By the time Pietro had fought the traffic and brought them to Trastevere, it was early evening.

Evening in Trastevere. The skies of Italy were as brilliant as those of Germany were gloomy. The streets were filled with banners from a recent Fascist rally. Huge portraits of Il Duce hung from the sides of the tall terracotta buildings. The limo pulled up in front of a large restaurant. There were potted palms in front. Several men in business suits lounged in front of the entrance. From the sag in their pinstriped suits, the Joker could tell they were armed. He had no doubt they were the guards for Giuseppe Scuzzi, his contact in Rome for the coming operation.