Wanted: Prince Charming - Dead or Alive part 11

[Panther]

(tries to slink in unobtrusively, so obviously everyone stares at her)

Ummm… Hi? (Kowtows with looks of apology and humility) I am sooo very sorry this story sort of ended up taking the summer off. Many thanks for those who waited both patiently and not so patiently, especially Batgirl, Daughter of Evil, and Silver Knight. As a peace offering I offer the concluding part in its entirety. (I must break this bad habit of putting conclusions off.)

Summary of prior events:

Once upon a time (fifty years ago) a man named Oliver Midwinter was a thief in Paris so good at his ‘trade’ that he was bestowed the name “le Chat” by the newspapers. Unfortunately, for him, he was eventually caught and sent to jail. After doing his time his life continued fairly uneventfully until his son and daughter-in-law died and he found himself raising his granddaughter, Olivia Midwinter. He did a pretty good job, but went a little overboard on the bedtime stories about when he was a thief and how to pick locks. He eventually had to go to a nursing home and died when Olivia was in her late teens.

Three years later she went out into Gothom and became ‘The Cinderella Thief’ stealing jewelry and leaving a miniature glass slipper behind. She then wore all her stolen goods to a costume party and waltzed out under the Gothom Knights’ noses with a valuable crystal jewel encrusted goblet that belonged to Veronica Vreeland. It had been the only object her grandfather had attempted and failed to steal. She left the jewels but not the cup behind and then skipped country, leaving the Knights, especially Nightwing, fuming at her audacity.

However, she soon discovered she had developed a dangerous habit, which she could not break. To further her ‘career’ she joined The Guild of Thieves, a European criminal organization that, by no small coincidence, her grandfather had founded with one Jacque de Tousmeiters and an Orlando Chardon. Jacque is now in a Masion des Lunes having lost his wits to senility and Orlando went on long ago to form his own criminal organization, although he is also getting a bit old for that line of work. The Guild is a small and elite organization, priding themselves on only taking the most valuable and daring of commissions, never getting caught, and never having to stoop to the crude method of violence.

Once a year, however, they celebrate the anniversary of the founding of the Guild by stealing something for themselves. The Guild is made up of many nationalities but feels allegiance towards none. Once a year they pick a country to steal something of its heritage. This has not escaped the notice some officials, notably, Lady Molly of Scotland Yard. She traced the Guild to Gothom and, once there, warned Batman of the Guild’s arrival.

Bruce Wayne, meanwhile, has a slight problem in the form of Eugenia Falkland, an old friend who showed up on his doorstep and begged for help. He agreed and they posed as a couple to deflect any suspicion (despite the fact she loves a very attractive African-Chinese-Dutch-Englishman named Henry Courtly.)

On with the show! (Also, suspend your disbelief and pretend its still 4th of July weekend. After all, I am Goddess in my writing and what I say is Law. hehehe)


***********************

Part 11a

Bruce paced around the library in the Wayne Manor. Every now and then he would grab a book at random from a shelf, flipped through, read a few pages, a page, a paragraph, a sentence, a phrase, then snap it shut and thrust it back on the shelf and resume his rapid pacing.

Now and then he would stare out the Art Deco style double windows, clearly the gorgeous view not registering as he went back to pacing, occasionally collapse onto one of the armchairs or sit tensely on the sofa, only to get up again and resume his silent but active worrying.

Again and again the phone conversation replayed in his head:

“Bruce? It’s me, Eugenia. It’s…its getting worse. The stopgap didn’t worked, and neither did your solution with the Mad Hatter’s old gadgets. I need the antidote!” her accent swung back wildly between Bostonian tones and West End London and bordered on hysterical.

“Eugenia, you can’t give up,” Bruce said in a forced reasonable, calm and reassuring tone. “We just need a little more time and then-”

“Oh Bruce,” Eugenia interrupted, “I have to! Not for me, but-” and there the conversation had ended.

The line had gone dead.

Bruce had rushed over to her apartment, not bothering with suiting up and exiting from the batcave, instead shaving time off by racing to the garage and taking the first car he came to. It was a 1966 Thunderbird. Red. It was practically a crimson blurry streak as he charged over to the east end of Gothom, narrowly missing three cars, a suburban, two trucks, a stop sign, and six pedestrians along the way.

But what ever had happened, he was too late. The rooms were in complete disarray. It looked like there’d been some sort of struggle. Even in the midst of a furious rage both at himself and the people who had done this to his friend, he had allowed himself a brief smile at the thought of the fight Eugenia must have put up.

But that amusement didn’t last long.

Now, in the Manor’s library, he finally gave up on trying to think. He went down to the cave and silently worked out in the training area, trying to get rid of his emotions to allow him to think. He allowed himself a break after three straight hours of exercise. He showered, changed, and sat in front of the Bat computer. After all, it was where he did some of his best thinking. The exercise must have cleared his head a little, because he now found himself able to think a little more un-obstructively.

He, quite literally, decided to go back to the drawing board. He took a pen and some blank printer paper and began to write out all the clues to the puzzling problems he had to solve if he ever wanted to see Eugenia alive again.

Alfred came in and interrupted Bruce in the middle of crumpling up yet another flawed theory and set down the tea tray just as it landed on top of the pile of other scrunched up balls of paper massing on the cave floor a few feet behind Bruce’s chair.

Alfred raised an eyebrow at the blatant disregard to the rules of housekeeping but refrained from commenting on the mess. “Excuse me sir,” he said instead, “but you have been invited to a function being hosted by the Gothom Historical Society.” He held out the white card with gold lettering. “And,” he said before Bruce could ask, “I’m afraid there is no getting out of it. They wish to make thanking you for the large donation you made to help preserve the Old Dutch Inn a main part of the event.”

The Inn dated back to Dutch fur traders and had then been a tavern know as the Koningsstraat. The tavern had been the meeting place for many of Gothom’s famous and infamous historical figures for several centuries from 17th century witch hunters, to 18th century revolutionaries, 19th century suffragettes, and 20th century gangsters. It undergone many changes in the process and now sadly it had become derelict. It had been scheduled to be demolished and the space turned into a parking lot until the Wayne Foundation had stepped in and paid to have the building preserved and turned into a local heritage museum.

“And what is the event?” asked Bruce, mentally going though his calendar of important upcoming social events.

Alfred frowned and spoke with what approached close to distaste. “The 225th anniversary of the *cough* victorious Battle of Gothom.”

Bruce fought back a smile at his oldest friend’s aggravation. The battle he was referring to went back to 1776. It had actually more been a case of merchants wanting to protect their supply ships rather than idealistic soldiers fighting for lofty ideals, something the conservative and Republican historical society rarely pointed out.

“Right,” he said, trying not to sound as tired as he felt, “I remember, it’s going to be the building itself.”

“Indeed sir; you have the honor of cutting the ribbon.”

Several quips came to mind, and Bruce quickly dismissed all of them, but wondered if perhaps now his younger aides were beginning to rub off on him rather than the other way around.

Instead he tiredly rubbed the back of his neck and wished, as he wished everyday that he could be in two places at once. He sighed, there was no hope for it, he must put on the social mask and leave his charges with strict instructions to notify him if – no – when they found something to go on.

*****************

At the party Bruce was struggling to appear that he was enjoying himself when he spotted the last person he would have expected to see at a revolutionary celebration in an American heritage museum – Lady Molly. Gone were the business dress suit and raincoat, replaced by a modest but obviously expense cocktail dress and her hair had been elegantly styled. She was acting the part of distinguished foreign guest to a tea, but an act it surly was. Bruce recognized a look of surveillance on her face even as she chatted sociably; it was a look that had been on his face on many a stakeout.

He frowned, if Lady Molly was here, then ipso facto she had some sort of lead that connected the Guild of Thieves with this party; unfortunately she would think it very odd if some strange American playboy just walked up and started to talk to her about an international criminal case he should know nothing about.

Then he shrugged and thought why not take that idea and run with it. Putting on his most charming social mask he approached the group of people surrounding Lady Molly, all laughing at her anecdote concerning the royal family. Remembering a piece of advice from a magician he had once known he causally confiscated a sprig of lavender flowers from a vase on a side table and unobtrusively put it in his pocket.

“-and then the fisherman swallows and says to the Prince of Wales: ‘But your highness, I thought it was for lunch!’” The receptive audience laughed harder.

“Excuse me miss,” said Bruce, joining the group, allow me to introduce myself, Bruce Wayne, and you are?” he asked, holding out his hand in a questioning greeting.

“Lady Molly,” she said friendly, taking his hand and shaking it.

“Charmed,” he said, putting on his absolute most engaging social mask. “Is this your first time in America?”

“Actually, yes.”

“Then permit me to be, if not the first, then the most sincere in welcoming you,” and with a clever slight of hand he made the flower appear in his extended hand as if from thin air.

“Lovely!” she exclaimed.

“Nowhere as near lovely as the Lady,” he said, “but what brings you here?” moving into delicate interrogation mode.

“I work for Scotland Yard, and now I’m here on a visit to see how American detectives work.”

‘Sweet liar’, thought Bruce with a smirk, out loud he said, “And yet you managed to find time to visit our local heritage museum, how wonderful.”

“Ahh… yes,” replied Lady Molly distractedly, she seemed to be trying to see something a distance behind Bruce; he turned and scanned the room as well.

[Panther]

Across the room Olivia popped the hors d’oeuvre she’d snagged from one of the circulating waiters into her mouth and hastily turned her face as she caught a glimpse of Lady Molly looking in her direction. She mingled deeper into the crowd and then, satisfied she wasn’t being surveyed, she stopped to pretend to be deeply engrossed in examining a watercolor in the Norman Fortier collection but really reflected on matters far deeper than a pretty seaside painting.

‘So I meet Prince Charming – but he’s already engaged to Sleeping Beauty,’ she thought with some amusement, but more apprehension. How ironic that the hunk she’d seen at the airport was Henry Courtly. She had been able to identify him easily, despite the fact the photo she had seen had been black and white, had been taken in horrid lighting conditions, he’d been wearing army fatigues and about three days worth of stubble and at the airport he was cleaned up, shaved, and in a business suit. Of course Joe had already told her all about Operation Sleeping Beauty and now Olivia failed to curb the sinking sensation in her stomach that she had gotten mixed up in things way out of her league.

She glanced at her watch; almost time to get to work. She turned around to start moving into position, and accidentally bumped into someone behind her. “Oh, excuse- ….me.” The ‘me’ came out in kind of a gasp as she realized she had bumped into no other than Henry Courtly.

“No apology necessary ma’am.” He said formally. “Are you a fan of Fortier as well?

“Err, well, I like the storm paintings,” she waved a hand at the corner filled with paintings of black clouds, “all of the action and movement in those paintings. And you?” Outside she tired to remain calm while within she writhed. ‘I gotta get to Joe’, she thought franticly, ‘if Courtly’s here then things are probably gonna get ugly real fast!’

‘And to think this started out simple!’

****************Flashback*********************

When she got to the privacy of her hotel bedroom Olivia opened her suitcase and dumped its contents onto the bed. The motley black garments shimmered like cloth cut from the night sky itself. The vest’s many pockets still held her “tools of the trade” and she couldn’t resist trying on one of the black gauntlets. She flexed her fingers, excitement building at the thought of being back in her old stomping grounds, and the plans and audacities that waited to be carried out.

The very thought of carrying out another job made her near giddy with excitement. Her grandfather had never said a truer word as when he had warned her thievery gets into the blood and holds you as desperately as any drug. However, it still didn’t feel like a bad thing. Olivia still had no qualms about it. Everyone she and the Guild robbed were all rich anyway and with all that insurance were often compensated within days for their loss. Olivia had nothing but contempt for the elite and their decadence.

Amidst her belongs was also a copy of the newspaper she’d been reading earlier. There had been an article about one of the Bat’s latest successful apprehensions, and Olivia shivered. She may have learned from the best, and picked up a few new tricks, but he was still the Bat. The Guild always dared ‘em, but this year it felt like they’d been dared back.

She actually learned quite a lot form the Guild, and not just new techniques. She learned about Jacque de Tousmetiers, Josephine’s uncle, now senile and in a country home, who had once upon a time had been a heartbreaker. He had left a Jack of Hearts playing card after a job, after he had dated the woman long enough to learn exactly where all valuables were kept; she’d learned the fact that her grandpapa had left a white business card after with a gold cat’s paw print in it - many had been left around Paris after a busy night’s work - Orlando had preferred sharks, and today’s present members had their own traits, like Mademoiselle Papillion who left a delicate and colorful paper butterfly, and Blanche Lapin, who lived for the chase, and you can guess what she had on her card.

Olivia then took out a small bag and upturned into on the bed as well. There was a showering of bits of glass. They were all copies of the remaining five from the original bracelet.

She picked up one and examining it thought of something Mark Twain had once said – ‘Be good, and you will be lonesome.’

***************end of flashback********************

‘What am I doing?’ She thought as she pretended to hobnob with Gothom’s elite, ‘am I crazy or what? Only insane people try to pull off stunts like this.’ She had graciously left Henry Courtly and was now in the hallway trying to quietly get to the staircase.

Suddenly she felt a strong tug on her arm and was pulled into the closet underneath the stairs. The door was slammed shut behind her and she was in darkness – with someone else.

“Scream and I break your arm,” promised a harsh voice. Olivia knew that voice.

“Nightwing,” she said in a quiet gasp.

He got straight to the point. “Olivia Midwinter,” he growled, “I don’t know why you’re here, but I suggest you *don’t* do whatever you have planned. I’m a little too busy with serious matters right now to deal with *you*.”

“My life is no concern of yours.”

“But this city is.”

“And I have nothing against this city.”

“But what about some of the people in it? Say…a certain Vreeland?” Nightwing felt, rather than saw, Olivia’s mouth twist into a sneer of distaste but before anything else could be said a loud commotion could be heard through the door. Nightwing flung it open to revel more darkness in the hallway; it appeared there had been a sudden power outage, and it was creating a panic among the guests.

[Panther]

As the museum was plunged into darkness Lady Molly pulled out her gun and yelled into a discreet microphone, “All units, move into position NOW! The Guild is on the move, repeat, all units move in, the Guild is on the move! Guard all exits! No one is to leave under any circumstances! DO NOT let them get away!!”

Alleged gusts, waiters, security guards, nearby pedestrians outsides, shadows inside and out suddenly turned into Interpol, FBI, CIA, MI5 agents, Scotland Yard officials, several French and Belgium detectives, Gothom police, four Green Berets, a member of the Russian secret police, and one Navy SEAL who was supposed to be retired but had pulled some strings to be part of what he considered one last loose end to tie up in his long and decorated career.

Trusting her usually deadly accurate instincts Lady Molly raced upstairs to where the star and temporary exhibit was being held; a very early American Flag dating back to the Revolution itself. Irreplaceable, priceless, and a very tempting prize.

The display case was now empty.

Far from being dismayed Lady Molly actually smirked and pulled out a pocket tracker, which resembled a calculator with a large display screen. A dot could be seen moving across the green grid. The flag, and whoever had it, was still in the building. As she hurried back down the stairs following the directions the screen gave her she gave no notice to the fact several members of the guild were already under arrest.

Some were putting up quite a fight but one man being handcuffed was merely remarking very scathingly to no one in particular: “We could have at least picked a country with guards easier to bribe! Or maybe an area less well known for vigilantism? But oooooo no!”

*************************

Bruce had just exited stage left and reentered after a quick costume change when he caught the phrase: ‘Sleeping Beauty Operation.’

“What did you say?” he demanded. He turned and faced the man who had spoken, it was one of the arrested Guild members.

“Nothing,” muttered the man. He had a Cockney accent and a very sour look on his face.

“I asked you a question, buddy,” snarled Bruce, and losing all control and going into full Bat mode he picked the guy up by the shoulders and slammed him against the wall, only slightly disturbing two paintings and a silverware collection.

“H’all I said was I ‘ope the Sleeping Beauty Operation goes as smoothly as this!” As alarmed as he was, the sarcasm remained.

“And what do you know about it?” Batman’s voice dropped down to a freakily ice-cold level and there was murder in his eye.

The man panicked. “Orlando h’asked J-J-Joe for h’a little help with this pharmaceuticals job he was trying to pull off. It involved a drug ransom and I think its going down tonight too,” he babbled, “but it’ll h’all go to ‘ell for sure since Henry Courtly was reported to be in town.” A trace of cynicism returned to his face. “The black knight is sure to do something heroic to try and rescue his damsel in distress.”

“Where?” Batman asked, giving him a look that had frightened older, wiser and more experienced criminals.

The man giggled in a nervous and frightened way. “As da always said – ‘two birds with one stone’!”

********************

Lady Molly had replaced the antique flag with a replicate, going by a gut instinct of what she thought the Guild would be most likely to steal. After so many years tracking them she felt she had quite a feel for them. Being a woman of many talents she had sewn up a state of the art tracer into the embroidered tongue of the snake that hissed the warning: ‘don’t tred on me.’

She descended down a rickety pair of stairs to the basement of the museum. It was very old and smelled strongly of mold. It looked as though the last time it had been renovated was the 1950’s. She continued to hold the tracer in front of her and smiled as she thought of the children’s game ‘Hot or Cold’. The tracer led her to the wall on her right hand side. Without the least feeling of dismay, having done her homework, she calmly twisted the light fixture that controlled the secret doorway that lead to what had once been a well-known speakeasy in the 1920’s.

She walked into the former barroom, and there all feelings of confidence ended.

The room was only lighted in the middle from some lights around the bar’s mirror that miraculously still worked. Another miracle was no one noticed Lady Molly’s arrival, but that might have been because there was a furious argument going on between a well-aged woman and an even older man.

“We have to pull out of here - NOW!” the woman yelled. She had a Parisian accent.

“This operation is not over,” growled the man, thick with an English accent. Orlando Chardon himself.

“Your medical scheme ez evaporating like une fairy tale.” She shook a multicolored piece of cloth under his nose for emphasis; no doubt it was the faux flag.

Very quietly Lady Molly activated the alarm on a private tracer a co-worker had convinced her to always have on her person after the Fordwhych case. She stayed hidden in the shadows, pressed against the wall, and carefully scanned the room. It appeared to be quite large, definitely expanded past the original perimeters of the basement, but part of the cavernous appearance might have been an illusion caused by the gloom. People were grouped around the man and woman in two loose groups, glaring around with tense faces. In the farthest corner away from Lady Molly she saw a shape that roughly resembled a body lying horizontal, and she prayed silently that tonight wouldn’t end with a chance to see the Gothom City Morgue.

Lady Molly recognized several notorious members of both The Guild and Orlando’s gang. She was able to pick out Sarah Tonin, looking like the evil archeologist in Indiana Jones and the Search for the Holy Grail with her blond ponytail, black leather, and cold expression. She held a gun casually in her right hand and Lady Molly knew from her file that she probably had several much more sophisticated and state-of-the-art compact weapons concealed on her person. She then bit back a gasp as she spotted Amy Gadala.

Amy Gadala looked like she should have been leading a rebellion in South Africa. Gadala was about the same height as Sarah, but looked taller. Something to do with the way she carried herself like one of royal blood, or a well trained solider. Both of which seemed possible to her co-workers since she was as closed mouth about her past as Miss Tonin. Tonin, for all her country roots, could still pull off looking sophisticated and pleasant if the occasion called for it, while Gadala tended to be more withdrawn, speaking as sparingly but gruffly as possible, and, honestly, was an absolute five-letter word.

All Lady Molly knew from her files was Amy Gadala was labeled “an old fashioned fighter” in Yard slang, since her recorded weapons were all things such as chocker wires and daggers, which she was an expert at throwing, judging by the autopsy photos of victims associated with her.

Lady Molly was just beginning to wonder where Joe was as the debate became more heated. Her fierce training and iron constitution kept her from screaming when she felt a hand on her shoulder.

“Lady Molly, I presume?” asked a female voice in a whisper. She glanced back and found herself looking into a black-cowled face with piercing green eyes and a rather, in her opinion, out of place grin. “Batgirl,” the imp said, pointing a hand towards a yellow bat on her black outfit.

“Charmed, I’m sure,” drawled Lady Molly facetiously, also in a whisper. “And I do hope you’re here to tell me the cavalry is coming?” she said questionably.

“For what? This?” she looked into the room past Lady Molly and rolled her eyes. “No problem.”

“My dear Batgirl,” hissed the lady through clenched teeth, “I don’t think you know what your dealing with here.”

“But I do,” said a third voice, this time male. Through the open now-not-so-secret passageway yet another uninvited guest came in.

“Courtly, long time no see,” said Lady Molly dryly.

“Same to you, Mrs. Robertson,” replied Henry Courtly in a comradely voice. Batgirl was confused for a moment; then figured even ladies had to have last names.

“What are you doing here?” the British detective not quite hissed at him.

“Eugenia’s down here,” he said, his face hardening into a mask.

“Eugenia Falkland? Holy s--- Courtly, how’d you two get mixed up in this? And how big is this?” asked Lady Molly, managing to blow up at him and stay quiet at the same time.

“Later,” said Courtly tersely, “I got a damsel in distress to rescue.” And he disappeared into the gloom.

“Henry,” she quietly snarled his figure disappearing into the darkness, “Lord Henry Erasmus Courtly the third, you great big bloody idiot – wait for me!”

Are they really going to single handily take on this lot? Batgirl wondered to herself feeling a bit at a loss as they both disappeared. She’d been joking a minute ago – she had been gong to wait for the cavalry to help, but now –

[Panther]

“Orlando Chardon, you are under arrest!” called out Lady Molly in a clear resonate tone. She stepped into the light in the middle in the room, her gun trained at Orlando’s forehead.

“And,” she added, addressing the rest of the room, but maintaining eye contact with Orlando, “you do NOT want to shot a British cop, especially since this place is crawling with more law enforcement officials than the Tower Jewel House.” She grinned in a humorless manner. “Now, where’s Joe?”

Orlando laughed, “Oh, you got to be kidding! You mean to tell me you’ve been tracking after the Guild since the Royal Emerald Scandal and you don’t know-”

“Who’s over there?!?” cried out someone, and everyone’s attention shifted the far corner.

Lady Molly silently swore and Orlando was the first to recover as recognized the man who’d created the disturbance. “Tisk, tisk Prince Charming. Didn’t you know you were supposed to wait a hundred years before rescuing Sleeping Beauty?” Henry Courtly stepped slowly towards the light, arms out forwards and palms up appealingly, but there was still a very hard look on his face.

Someone in the background exclaimed, “Henry Courtly? Sacre Dieu, this certainly throws a monkey wrench in things.”

Batgirl rolled her eyes to heaven and as she fumbled with her utility belt remarked to no one in particular, “Once again it is up to the cool headed, pragmatic red head to save the day.”

“Could she use some help?” asked yet another voice behind her. She looked behind her. “With pleasure,” she said with a smile. Amazingly, Batman smiled back.

The yelling started soon after the first smoke bomb was set off. And when everyone realized it was getting worse there was a mad dash to the small doorway and as many of the criminals rushed out officers rapidly filling the basement greeted them with handcuffs and Miranda rights. Some put up a fight but the odds were grossly not in their favor.

Within the old speakeasy, however, Henry had cornered Orlando; in fact, he was chocking him. “Where’s the antidote?!?!?” he demanded, and while Orlando struggled to breath and vainly tried to get the hands off his neck he was painfully aware they were, at the moment, the only ones in the room – besides the girl in a coma.

“All right, all right,” he managed to choke out. Henry let him go, not caring he dropped the older man about half a foot when he did. Orlando reached into a pocket with a trembling hand and with drew a small vile just as Batman and the rest descended on them. Suddenly his face got a crafty look on it and he said, “No happy endings tonight!” as he threw the vile as hard as he could. The antidote soared threw the air and then began to descended in a graceful arch as if in slow motion. Everyone could only look on appalled – until it landed neatly in Lady Molly’s hand, catching it just after she had reentered the room.

She grinned at the rest of the people in the room, “I was a champion Rounders player back in my boarding school days.”

*******************

Upstairs Lady Molly remarked in a satisfied manor, “We’ve been chasing after these two groups a long time, especially Tonin and Gadala.” She paused thoughtfully, “But I really am very surprised at myself for not figuring out the secret behind master thief Joe.”

“Yes, Lady Molly, do be so kind,” remarked one of the Belgium detectives sarcastically, “as to tell us where that old son of a b---- is? He always manages to slip out every time it looks like we come close!” He was quite upset, knowing the night’s work would be no good without the brains behind the operation.

“Oh do calm down,” said Lady Molly in a pleased manor, “we caught Joe without even knowing it!”

“Well?”

“Did you ever see 'Mission Impossible'?”

“Yes, what’s your poi-” he began to ask irritably and then a long “Ohhhh!” of comprehension. “Which one?” he asked with a grin.

Lady Molly stepped up to one of the arrested thieves. “Allow me to present Madam Josephine, better known simply as ‘Joe’.” The old woman looked very mad as her cloak of ambiguity went out the window.

Nightwing listened with some interest, but then noticed one face was missing. Where was little miss Cinderella? If she skipped out could they possibly catch her at the airport or would she lie low somewhere? He posed the question to Batman, but before he could answer a woman behind him in the crowd of Gothom’s elite heard him and answered first.

“That Cinderella tramp? Here? She’s come back to steal my necklace!” exclaimed the woman. It was no other than Veronica Vreeland. And after she said it, it made a lot of sense to Nightwing.

So he took off. “Not this time,” he said through clenched teeth. He hopped on his motorcycle, and revved off into the night.

[Panther]

In the Vreeland Manor Olivia riffled through Veronica’s dresser, pushing aside expensive makeup and ignoring valuable jems. She dumped one of the jewelry boxes completely upside down; earrings, bracelets, rings, and necklaces spilling out onto the polished mahogany surface of the table and dropping silently onto the plush carpet. But not the necklace. She knew it had to be here. Miss Vreeland hadn’t been wearing it at the party and it was not in her safe. Not that it was very safe safe anyway, given the way the electronics part of it had recently shorted out.

“Looking for something?” asked a voice right behind her. She jumped – but not very far because there was also a very strong hand clamped on her wrist.

She twisted around and glared at Nightwing. “I just came to pick up my mother’s shoes, that’s all,” she said in an aggravated voice. Before he could reply she kneed him in the groin with one leg and then smashed down on his right foot with her other leg and ran for it. She bolted out of the bedroom and down the long hallway.

The second and first floor of the Vreeland Manor were joined by a carpeted marble, grand ballroom style, sweeping staircase. The hallway ran around an empty space that looked down upon the first floor reception area. The hallway Olivia ran down ended directly across from the stairs. Running down the hallway she decided to take a terrible chance to shave off time in exiting.

Olivia had entered the manor through a large doomed skylight above the foyer and grand staircase and had descended down a rope to the first floor. Descending down she had past a large chandelier that hung in the space above the foyer and was dead center between and slightly below the railed boxed u-shaped hallway leading to the stairs. A chain suspended it from a domed skylight. Olivia ran towards the railing, vaulted herself onto it, and leapt into space.

Nightwing, running somewhat behind her, skidded to an astounded halt as he saw the young thief take what looked like a fatal plunge. There was an audible thud and crescendo of crystal as she landed on the chandelier. It swayed slightly as she crouched and slowly half stood up and balanced herself. She reached over and grabbed the black rope. With a look behind her to grin at the aghast Nightwing she started to shimmy up the rope.

The rope had been securely tied to one of the leering gargoyles that decorated the rim around the magnificent dome skylight. It had seemingly born her weight going down with no problems, but that was not what it had been designed to do. Now, the return trip plus the heavy tug she had made when she transferred her weight from the chandler to the rope was taking its toll.

The grin on Olivia’s face was replaced by a look of horror as the cracking started. Nightwing made a move to do something, but she was too far away and it was too late.

“Oh – ”. But whatever word was going to follow were replaced by a shriek of pure noise and fright as she fell along with the rope and bits of stone and plaster.

[Panther]

At the hospital Eugenia slowly recovered after Henry administered the antidote.

“I don’t understand,” said one of the doctors, “what happened to her?”

“It was an artificially induced form of narcolepsy,” said Henry, not taking his eyes away from Eugenia. “After she was given the original drug it caused sleep attacks that would slowly grow in frequency and length until it would lead to a permanent coma and she would eventually slip into an untimely death. Chardon was going to use it to extort her father, William Falkland, into giving him God awful amounts of money and access to all sorts of drugs.

[Panther]

Nightwing, literally, swooped down and approached Cinderella lying on the marble floor amidst the small pile of rubble. She was pale and biting her lip so hard it was bleeding. Her left foot was turned out at a grotesque angle. He carefully examined it. “Ow,” she said clearly and distinctly as he gently felt the bone.

“You have a broken ankle,” he said flatly. “And you’re lucky that’s all it is.”

She swore, softly. Then she asked in an almost innocently curious voice, “What’s it feel like to run with a broken bone?”

“Like hell,” he replied honestly, remembering the last time he’d done that.

“Well, I’ve had enough of that, thank you. I think I’ll just stay put. Oh here, pass this on to Lady Molly would ya?” from one of her many pockets she handed him a silver key. “Its for the Hall of Nations, there are some things beneath even the Cinderella thief.” She sniffed in an aristocratic manor.

“Decided to abandon those who abandoned your grandfather?”

“They didn’t!” she denied angrily, “They tried to get him out both legally and illegally – but he refused their help, not the other way round! He told them it was going to take it as a chance to stop and turn over a new leaf. And he did! I just wish,” her voice lowered and became wistful, “I wish he told me how he was able to stand it. It’s…” she paused, groping for words. Half desperately she said, “I can’t stop this by myself. I know I can’t. But its not the stealing and the things – its the planning. Even if I don’t want to my mind keeps making up these plans. I’m going crazy.”

He choose not to make any cracks regarding her last sentence. In the distance the police sirens could be heard waling. “Time to go,” was all he said, strangely not feeling as much triumph as he would have thought earlier at catching the Cinderella Thief.

“‘Then lead the way, and heavens so shine, that they may fairly note this act of mine!’” she quoted with a sad smile.

“ ‘All’s well that ends well’?” he asked ironically.

“ ‘Twelfth night’,” she corrected, “but appropriate none the less,” she added trying to look as dignified as possible in her condition.

*********************

Handcuffed, she let herself be walked/carried/assisted away with absolutely no resistance. She had the air of one finally resigned to the fate handed to her by the oracle at the beginning of the Greek tragedy. “Midwinter will return,” she said calmly in an ambiguous fashion.

Veronica Vreeland suddenly pushed herself through the crowd and joined the little group by the police cars, having obviously followed the cavalcade from the museum’s soiree. “My necklace! The little tramp was going to try and steal my necklace!” Veronica angrily wailed at the police officers. She got passed the crowd and immediately began to harangue Olivia.

“Where’s the cup?” demanded Veronica angrily. “Where’s my grandfather’s trophy?” she raged at la petite voleue, her eyes slightly bulging, hands balled into fists.

“Oh that.” Olivia cast her eyes downward mock demurely. “I don’t think you’ll want it anymore.” She raised her gazed upward and her face was a mix of frosty disdain and secretive pleasure

“What did you do with it?!?!?!!?” Veronica practically screamed at her as Olivia was put in the cop car.

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. All good things must come to an end,” she said in a singsong voice.

“OoooooOOOOOoo!” Veronica half hissed, half screeched, “You little brat! You ruined it, didn’t you? Took it all apart and smelted it and pawned the valuable parts!

“Ma’am, it’s just a-” the cop stopped at the look both women gave him.

[Panther]

“Oh, the media’s gonna have a field day with this,” remarked Batgirl mischievously.

She was right.

********************

Gothom Evening News:

“-and one Miss Paulette Papillion,” reported Summer Gleason, coming to the end of the report after royally screwing up the pronunciation of almost all the names of those involved, “a former entomologist, attempted to poison the arresting officers. Failing that she attempted to poison herself; she was thwarted and lead off to jail with the rest of this so called guild of thieves.” The screen switched from footage of several police vehicles driving away from the Old Dutch Inn back to Summer Gleason’s eternally smiling face. “Now back to the station.”

********************

AP wire story a week later in the Daily Planet:

Late last night and in the early hours of this morning a raid was conducted in what was thought to be an abandoned guildhall in the Quartier Latin section of Paris. Investigative work had lead police to suspect this as the central warehouse for the notorious Guild of Thieves, caught last week operating temporarily in Gothom City. A large stash of stolen goods was seized in the raid. Some were clearly only being temporarily held in this clearing house of stolen goods of the exotic and priceless variety, but a large display case was found filled with artifacts of many national heritages from all over Europe reported missing from as far back as half a century. Goods are being returned to rightful owners, although some will most certainly be disputed over.

*********************

Not long later in sunny Monte Carlo:

“Oh Bruce, its beautiful!” exclaimed Eugenia opening his wedding gift to her. It was a golden chocker type necklace with a ruby carved into a rose set in the middle. “Oh Bruce – you shouldn’t have, you’ve already done so much-”

He cut her off, “There’s a condition.” They were relaxing in a marble veranda, out of the fierce midday sun. Soon Eugenia and Henry – now Mrs. and Mrs. Courtly – would be off starting their European tour honeymoon and Bruce would have to go back to the business matters that had brought him to Europe in the first place, but for the moment they were taking a break from the world in an ancient mansion that had been converted into an elite hotel in the 1930’s.

“What?” she asked curiously. She was wearing a very simple white sundress, and still managed to be a stunning bride while Henry looked gorgeous in his lightweight suit and his smile was just as wide as Eugenia’s. The sat on an antique French love seat across from Bruce who was in a comfortable wicker chair.

“If you ever have a son, PLEASE don’t name him Bruce,” he begged in a charming fashion.

“As you wish,” she said mock primly, and then burst into giggles. “What do you think that old vulture will write after all those columns about how I was ‘the one’ for you?”

“I’m sure she’ll come up with something,” said Bruce with his day smile. A waiter came out to replace their empty glasses with fresh margaritas.

The one, mused Eugenia to herself, think you’ll ever find her Bruce? She’d have to be able to mingle with upper crust, and either be able to work beside you at night or understand why you have to do what you do. And you’d have to open up enough to risk her getting hurt… Eugenia suddenly realized that she was acting exactly like the silly love struck type who, in love, wants everyone else to be in love as well. “I’m just sorry you had to get into that biding war all for naught,” was all she said out loud.

“Your father taught me a lot which came in handy more than once, I owed you one,” remarked Bruce causally.

Eugenia laughed dryly. “Hardly. But if you wish to transfer debt genetically, then that’s fine with me.” Then she giggled because Henry was leaning over to kiss her ear.

“How long do you think we can honeymoon before we get tracked down and parental units throw fits?” he asked. His words word practical but his tone promised all the things that could be done in short amounts of time.

“Oh, Henry, don’t blow the ambiance. I really don’t care at this point what mother thinks.”

“Well, I just hope your dad doesn’t have a heart attack over the shotgun style wedding.”

“Are you kidding? With the way your family goes back? Dad will be most pleased that the Falklands’ are now allied by marriage with the Courtly’s. My father’s got a family ego as big as I don’t know what. Why else would he give his daughter a name that means ‘good genes’?” She paused to give a loud yawn.

“Are you feeling alright?” asked Henry in a concerned voice, putting his arms gently around her.

She smiled at him tenderly, “I’m fine darling, its just the heat. Don’t worry, no more narcoleptic like attacks.”

“I was ready to kill someone when I thought I would have to see you spend the rest of your life in a glass case.”

“That’s Snow White,” she said mock admonishingly, “I,” she said pointing at her new necklace, “was guarded by roses.” She threw a brief, grateful look at Bruce, then, looking back at her love she playfully wagged a finger at him and said, “Please try to keep track of your damsels in distress, my dear Prince Charming.”

**********************

Newspaper article several months later in The Gothom Times:

The Gossip Corner
By Gerty Sanders

It is with greatest delight that I am privileged enough to announce to Gothom and the world that through my sources I have discovered that in a small ceremony held yesterday afternoon at St. Martin’s playboy billionaire Bruce Wayne stood as godfather to the daughter of Eugenia Falkland and Henry Courtly.

Eugenia Falkland is now full owner of the business of her late father, Sir William Falkland, who passed away two months ago and left Falkland Inc. to his only child who was, ironically, formerly pegged by some as The One for the very eligible bachelor Bruce Wayne. Henry Courtly is a civil servant in Her Majesty’s government. The American branch of Falkland Inc is rumored to go up for auction quite soon; so that the new owner can concentrate on solidifying the foundation to the company in Briton, but that shall remains to be seen. It is speculated that the baptismal ceremony was held here not only to include Bruce Wayne in what psychologist would no doubt call a gesture of unfulfilled desires, but also to tie up certain business loose ends. This reporter sincerely hopes that Eugenia did not marry out of spite after some sort of altercation with Bruce Wayne, although there is gossip to that effect.

What, exactly, the father of the baby does, has not presented itself yet to this newspaper. After much investigating the only thing that can be reported is a quote from the man himself: “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you”, Henry Courtly told this much affronted reporter. It seems Eugenia Falkland has jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire.

The charming English couple eloped suddenly several months ago in Monte Carlo much to the chagrin of Mrs. Laura Z. Connolly-More, mother of the bride and a resident of Boston. Mrs. Connolly-More and her latest husband, Robert “Bobbie” More attended the ceremony and Mrs. Connolly-More was seen to have made quite a fuss over her granddaughter, although a few cold looks and words passed between mother and daughter. In a sure sign of the times, the child had arrived a mere seven months after the wedding ceremony.

It is said that the new grandmother bestowed a large trust fund upon her granddaughter plus a trip around the world as soon as she is old enough. The baby received several baptismal gifts, including, our sources note, a ruby ring for later and a mahogany crib for now from her godfather and a pink silk and lace robe and a pair of calf skin baby slippers from her godmother along with a silver mirror, brush, and comb set with a pink floral design, which, unless I’m very much mistaken (which I rarely am) came from Tiffany’s – or perhaps Harrods.

Sources for the Gothom Times report that the position of godmother went to Lady Molly of Scotland yard but was filled in by proxy as she unable to come over to the States at the time. Lady Molly Robertson-Kirk has made several English newspaper headlines, one of the latest being her connection to the release of her husband, Captain Hubert De Mazereen, from Dartmoor prison. The Yard states only that the Lady is ‘following up certain leads’ in concern to some case in Skopje. Why a British detective would concern herself with matters in Macedonia is beyond this reporter’s fathoming. Miss Barbara Gordon, recent graduate from Gothom University and currently a member of the GPD, stood as proxy. She reportedly gave the baby a teddy bear and an embroidered blanket.

While so little known about the father, some speculate he is a member of one of England’s oldest noble families, and it is with the greatest of pleasure that I introduce to Gothom his firstborn child; the lovely little Lady Rose.



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“All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts”.

All’s well that ends well, Shakespeare

[Panther]

Amidst the towering megaliths and mountains of steel and glass places like this little building were becoming very scarce. The original foundations had seen many changes in Gothom and had been used for many different purposes, currently serving as a historical society. However, history wasn’t the most popular subject at the moment and retro was totally un-schawy. The building was in a less populated district. The section hadn’t exactly gone to seed – yet – and the Tomorrow Knight had hardly ever been sighted over here. But still, the area was by no stretch of the imagination anywhere near any source of any action whatsoever.

On a normal night the museum was as silent as a grave after closing time. It was so still you could hear the dust settling and spiders spinning webs in dark, forgotten corners of areas with the original wooden paneling and flooring. Small discreet lights gently illuminated a few strategic areas, but for the most part the only light came in from the street through the windows. The hum of vehicles could just barely be heard in the early evening, but usually not once the night progressed far enough. On a normal night the scene was so boring it would have made a sloth yawn.

This wasn’t a normal night.

The main room of the small museum was on the second floor. A figure emerged from the shadows and entered the middle of the room, gently illuminated by city light pollution, spilling in from the skylights. But even in the semi lighting the figure was undistinguishable due to being shrouded in black. The living shadow walked to the main display case, confident no alarm would go off, having just dismantled them five minutes ago. In a very few minutes the thief obtained the goal from the case and just as silently and mysteriously left.

On the black velvet cloth a white business card lay in the now vacant area. The backside was facing up. In fancy cursive writing were written the words:

Midwinter has returned

[Batgirl]

Bravo! :audience stands and appluases wildly: Wonderful ending dear Panther! Abosuletly worth the wait! I knew Ms. Falkluad was preganant! Lady Rose, what a pretty name! Wow, that was great. So, does this mean Another Olivia story?

[Daughterof_Evil]

That...my friend...was EXCELLENT BEYOND BELIEF!!!

I mean, Sarah Tonin, how funny is that!? And your descriptions were gorgeous, the character development was stunning-

*chokes on her own words*

I loved the party scene, with all the secret agents...that was a riot. I can only imagine what was going on in your head when you were writing this...it must've been like a zoo in there! And the ending! My God, woman, are you trying to get us to slobber for a trilogy!? So many questions! Did Rose become a secret agent? Did Olivia ever find her own Prince Charming? And did she teach her multitudes of offspring the secrets of the trade!!??

*gasping*

Thank you so much for writing such a colorful, beatiful, and exciting story! You have such a unique style of prose, I don't think I could ever find another writer like you!