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Secret Origins
Idle Handsby HarveyKent
Inspired by the original story in Adventure Comics #40
PART ONE "While Gotham City police officials deny rumors of the existence of a mysterious 'bat man' in their city," the newsreader's mellifluous voice flowed from the radio speaker, "Police Commissioner James W. Gordon had no comment. This concludes the six o'clock news broadcast. Stay tuned for 'The Sandman' over most of these GBS stations."
I stood hunched over the worktable in my combination laboratory and workshop, and muttered curses under my breath. I was working on my latest concept, an idea that had occurred to me while mountain climbing in Colorado the previous spring. I envisioned it as a hand-held pistol that would fire a kind of miniature harpoon with a wire attached, with a thumb-trigger that would wind the wire in on a miniature winch. An emergency device to be used by mountain climbers, window washers, and others whose careers demanded they brave the heights, in case of falls. But I could not get the winch mechanism just right. Disgusted, I pushed the metal parts away from me, and ran a hand through my dark hair.
"Green Coal presents 'The Sandman'!" an announcer's excited voice burst from the radio. "Green Coal, the finest Pennsylvania anthracite, is colored a harmless green at the mine for easy identification to assure top quality! Ask for Green Coal by name!"
"And now, The Sandman! That mysterious figure who appears from nowhere, dealing swift justice to the lawless, leaving behind his silent calling card, a handful of sand sprinkled on the bodies of his victims! Tonight, The Sandman faces the menace of the Dragon Tong!"
I chuckled at the inanity of the radio drama. I kept the radio in my workshop to relax my mind as I worked, but perhaps I should remove it; it was more of a distraction than anything else. I looked down at the scattered pieces I was trying to fit into my harpoon gun, and sighed with desperation. Perhaps it would never work. Maybe I should call my old friend Lee Travis and ask his assistance. In college, the two of us were always working on one fanciful project or another; nothing ever came of them, but we always managed to produce working models of their ideas, by putting our heads together.
I glanced up at the shelf where a few such joint efforts rested, gathering dust. The pistol that fired a cloud of anesthetic gas, intended for use by the police as a more humane method of disabling criminals than the common bullet. The gas mask, modeled after the World War protective gear but much more streamlined, for use by the same police to protect them from the effects of their own gas-guns. I considered our youthful naivete. The police, interested in humane treatment of criminals. What a joke.
I touched the concealed spring that opened the door of my workshop and emerged into the den of my opulent home. My father had been a wealthy man, amassing millions of dollars in mining and manufacturing. After my parents' deaths, I had discovered this hidden room behind the mantel in the den; apparently used by my father to keep certain...hobbies secret from my mother. I had cleared it out and used it as my laboratory and workshop, not out of any desire to keep anything I did hidden from Humphries (the butler; another inheritance from Father), but simply because of the convenience of the large space and good lighting. I spent many hours puttering away in that room, trying to do something useful.
PART TWO Most of my life seemed a search for something useful to do. My father had made so much money, I had no need to ever make any. Without a need to establish a career, I had obtained what is generally called a "liberal arts education". I studied a variety of subjects, in a search for something that would interest me passionately. Nothing did. Many things caught my passing interest; literature, chemistry, Eastern religions. But nothing gave me that fire, that drive, that my father had. Athletics came close; I excelled in many sports in school, and even thought of competing professionally. But the school physicians detected a slight heart murmur. It might never amount to anything, or it might bring on a heart attack at a young age; therefore no professional sports team would have me. Too great a liability. I still participated in physical sports, just to keep fit. But that did not fill the empty hours and days of my life. And the years, oh so many stretching out before me. I had to find something to occupy me, some passion I could devote my life to.
"Mr. Watkins to see you, sir," Humphries said. I hadn't even noticed him come into the den, I had been so deep in thought.
"Thank you, Humphries," I said. "Please show him in."
I liked seeing old Tom, but these days, it had a bittersweet edge to it. Tom Watkins was my godfather, a very old friend of the family. He was the one link I had to my parents, now deceased. But even that link was slowly slipping away.
"How does he do it?" Tom asked, without greeting, storming into the den and throwing the evening paper down in front of me. I glanced at the headline; something to do with Vivian Dale, the actress.
"How does who do what, Tom?" I asked, as Tom shed his overcoat and sat down.
"The Tarantula!" Tom roared. "He's got to be some kind of a magician! He sent warning to the police a day before, saying Vivian Dale would be kidnapped from her home. The police put a guard around the place; she was constantly watched. And still she disappeared!"
"Would have been smarter for her to get out of her home for awhile," I mused.
"Don't make jokes, Wesley!" Tom snapped. "We've got to do something!"
"We?" I repeated. "Tom, what can we do that the police can't?"
"I don't know, blast it," Tom sputtered. "But Vivian is our friend! We've got to do something! We can't sit idle!"
I let out a deep sigh. This was what I meant about Tom slipping away. Vivian Dale was no friend of ours; I had never even met her, and to the best of my knowledge, neither had Tom. His aged mind was starting to confuse him; he was having difficulty distinguishing fantasy from reality. He had seen so many Vivian Dale movies, he had come to believe that he knew her personally. He had the same problem with Charles Laughton. His doctors said there was nothing they could do; "old age", they called it. Rubbish. Not every white-haired old gentleman lived in a fantasy world; there was something more to it than that. But it was beyond the medical science of 1939 to determine what, much less treat it.
"You're right, Tom," I said, humoring his delusion. "We should do something."
PART THREE "I just don't see how that Tarantula fellow could have gotten poor Vivian out of her house, with everyone watching," Tom said, pounding his knee with his fist.
"Some stage magician's trick, probably," I offered. "Nothing Thurston or Blackstone couldn't do."
"Bah!" Tom spat. "What we need, Wesley, is to bring a master sleuth into this! Philo Vance, maybe, or Nick Carter! Do you suppose we could get one of them interested?"
It was so painful to hear my old friend, my godfather, speak of fictional characters as though they were real people. My parents' deaths had been sudden, shocking, but not as painful as watching Tom slowly fade away like this.
"Or--the Sandman!" Tom cried enthusiastically. "Now there's a brilliant mind! He's solved scores of cases for the police, yet no one knows who he really is, or where he is or anything! If only he would get involved, he'd find Vivian!"
"I'm sure he would, Tom," I said indulgently. "But I doubt the Sandman knows about the case."
"Well, you're probably right," Tom said bitterly. "Too busy tracking down the Jubara Dope Ring, I suppose."
"I suppose," I said, trying to keep the pity from my voice.
Tom went on talking for another hour or so, then said his good-byes and left. Poor Tom. I couldn't stand to think of his mind slowly deteriorating like that. I forced myself to think of something else, anything else. I picked up the paper and concentrated on the Vivian Dale story. Some nut job calling himself the Tarantula had indeed sent a warning to the police that Miss Dale would be kidnapped from her very home. The police had suggested that she move into a hotel temporarily, but the haughty actress wouldn't hear of it. So instead the police had put a guard around her house. And still she had disappeared, right under everyone's nose.
The paper carried a photo of Miss Dale's house. Very old-looking, maybe a hundred years or more.
I began to wonder...could it be possible?
I reached for the phone to call the police, tell them my theory. My hand stopped halfway to the receiver. I had been searching for a purpose in life, something to drive me. Perhaps this was it. Maybe I was crazy, diving head-first to what could be, for all I knew, a nest of killers; but maybe, just maybe, I wasn't crazy at all. Maybe this was the purpose my life had been leading up to, and it took circumstances and Tom Watkins to show it to me.
PART FOUR "Good night, Humphries," I said, after dismissing the old retainer for the night.
"Good night, sir," the butler said, and headed off to his quarters. When I heard his door close I touched the concealed spring that opened the door to my workshop. Fifteen minutes later I emerged, wearing the streamlined gas mask that Lee and I had created, carrying the working model of our gas-gun. I wore one of my father's old suits, something I would never be recognized in, and an opera cloak from last year's masquerade ball. I felt I was ready, and yet something seemed to be missing. I glanced around the room, wondering what it could be.
My eyes lit on the flowering cactus plant I had brought back from New Mexico, in its huge clay pot in the corner of the den. Ah, of course. Reaching down, I scooped a handful of sand from the pot and placed it in the pocket of the coat. Now I was ready.
Tom Watkins thought the Sandman should take an interest in the Vivian Dale case, did he? Well, tonight he would.
I reached the Dale mansion shortly after midnight, parking my car several blocks away and continuing on foot. I crept into the shadows of the house, and peered through a window. A uniformed policeman was speaking to a small group of people, one or two in servants' uniforms.
"All of you," I heard the officer say, "will remain here, guests and servants alike. You were all in the house when Miss Dale disappeared; I'm afraid you're all suspects."
"That's ridiculous!" An older, hawk-faced man snarled. "I demand to be--"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Crossart," the policeman said, "but I'm afraid it means everybody. Nobody leaves until Miss Dale is found."
I came away from the window, shaking my head. It was like a scene from a bad movie. One of Miss Dale's movies, perhaps. I started skulking around the rear of the house, searching for a way in. For a moment or two I felt ridiculous, like an actor in an absurd Republic movie serial. When I found a service entrance standing ajar, I began to feel less foolish. I wondered for a moment why the rear door was left open and unguarded, with the premises supposedly secured by police. When I heard a soft humming coming from beyond a tall bush standing to one side of the door, saw a thin trail of cigarette smoke wafting over the bush, I understood. Thanking Providence, I quietly slipped into the house.
I quickly made my way upstairs; Miss Dale's boudoir would surely be on that floor. Finding her room, I began to search the walls for a hidden trigger for a secret door. It was perhaps simpler for me than for the police; owning such a secret chamber myself, I knew what to look for. Behind the full-length mirror, I found what I searched for; the mirror slid silently aside, and a dark chasm yawned before me.
"What are you waiting for, Mr. Sandman?" I asked myself silently, then stepped into the gloom.
PART FIVE I stalked silently through the gloomy chambers. Progress was slow; someone had marked a trail with luminescent paint, but I still had to be careful not to bump into anything and make a noise. I heard voices far ahead, and I headed for them like a bat following a sonar signal (please excuse the florid simile; apparently those news stories from Gotham City have taken their toll on me). I wasn't sure what I expected to find, but whatever it was, I'm pretty sure it wasn't what I did see.
"Got any threes?" a tough-looking young man in work clothes said across a small folding card table.
"Go fish," the beautiful woman across the table from him said.
The youngster took a card from the pile, looked at it, whooped in glee. "Fished what I wanted!" he taunted.
"Hey, louder, huh? The cops didn't hear." Vivian Dale said bitterly. "God, I hate this! Hiding out in my own house!"
"If you got any better ideas on how to bring your career back to life," the man said, "I'm sure Mr. Crossart'd love to hear 'em. Otherwise, Universal is always lookin' for dames to scream in the background in Frankenstein pictures."
"Okay, okay, point taken," Vivian grumbled.
I shook my head silently. A publicity stunt. The whole thing was a publicity stunt. I was of a mind to turn around and head home, hang up this ridiculous Sandman idea. And yet, a great many police officers were here tonight, searching for Miss Dale's "kidnapper". Police who had been called away from other duties, other crimes that may go unprevented or unsolved due to this foolish woman's vanity.
I took careful aim, and pressed the trigger of my gun. A cloud of purplish mist flooded into the small room where Vivian Dale and the young man played cards. In seconds, both slumped over the card table, fast asleep.
I turned on my heel to leave, then halted. I remembered something. I reached into my pocket, and sprinkled a handful of sand on the table and their backs. Then I turned and walked back up the secret passage, into the house.
PART SIX As I left, I heard footsteps coming from another direction. There were more than one passageway to this hidden room; this old house must be honeycombed with them. I hurried along, not ready to meet the Tarantula yet. I wanted him to see the results of my work first.
"Vivian?" I heard him call behind me. "Bert? Are you--what?!?" I can only imagine what must have happened next. Imagine Mr. Crossart's reaction as he saw the sand sprinkled over the sleeping bodies of his co-conspirators. He probably thought there was something very, very strange going on. Then again, perhaps he never listened to the radio.
I quickly made my way out into the house, into Miss Dale's bedroom. I prepared a surprise for my friend the Tarantula, whom I expected to come bolting out of the secret door any minute.
It took longer than I thought. Perhaps he had stayed behind to try and awaken Miss Dale and Bert. No such luck there; the gas Lee and I developed puts them out quite a bit longer than that. Or perhaps he stood, dumbstruck by it all, for a few minutes. At any rate, it was ten minutes before he emerged into the room. Wearing a blue cloak and hood that covered his entire head. I thought he looked ridiculous, but who was I to talk? He glanced about the room as he emerged, and saw a figure seated in a chair next to the window. A figure in a slouch hat and long flowing cloak. Snarling, he drew a revolver from his pocket and approached the chair.
"Okay, friend," he growled, "I don't know what your game is, with the sand and everything. What, you trying to cut yourself in or something? Figured out what we're doing, decided to earn some hush money? Well, you just clinched the ending to our scene! I surprised the Tarantula and shot him dead, and the Tarantula's going to be you! How do you like that ending? Talk, damn you!"
I let the gas gun do the talking for me. From my position hidden behind the bedroom door I let him have it, a cloud of anaesthetic gas right in his hooded face. I was a bit worried that the hood might protect him from the gas, but I shouldn't have been. It was obviously porous enough to let him breathe, so it let him breathe gas. He crumpled to the floor unconscious. I retrieved my hat and cloak from the pillow in the chair, and set about leaving the package for the police to find.
As I reached my car in its hidden spot, a little later on, I felt exhilarated. I don't know why, of course, the whole thing was silly. A stupid ruse to boost a fading star's waning popularity. And yet, I couldn't deny the thrill I felt from having captured the Tarantula and his gang. Listen to me, his gang. A movie star's unscrupulous agent, a master criminal. His embittered client and his hired muscle, his gang. I was romanticizing the whole thing. It was stupid.
Wasn't it?
EPILOGUE The next day was clear and bright, the brightest I'd seen in many months. I had thought that, with the light of day, my Quixotic taste for adventure would fade away like a dream. It hadn't. If anything, it had strengthened. I was now determined that the Sandman would continue to walk, to mete out justice. And I would be he. The radio company might want to sue me for using their character's name, but let them try. They'd have to find me.
As I looked out at the new day dawning, I began to feel that I was on the threshold of something. That a new age was dawning with that golden sun, an age of heroism and valor, and I was going to be one of the pioneers of that age. I softly chuckled at my own grandiose thoughts. Lee would laugh himself silly, if I ever told him.
"Wesley!" Tom cried out anxiously, bursting into the room. "Did you hear? It's remarkable!"
"What is, Tom?" I asked calmly, sitting down to my breakfast.
"The Sandman!" Tom sputtered. "It's like he heard me, asking for help! He found Vivian, captured the Tarantula! The papers are saying it was all a publicity stunt, but I can't believe that. I've known Vivian for years, she'd never do a thing like that. But the Sandman! He answered my prayer! It's remarkable! Well, what do you say? Don't just sit there, Wesley! Say something!"
"Remarkable, Tom," I agreed with a wry smile. "Remarkable."
The End
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