02x15 - The Devil's Fingers

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A peaceful evening
at Wayne Manor.

Inside the stately living
room, a musical rehearsal.

Imagine me singing to the piano
of the world-famous Chandell.

I must have lost my wits.

But you have a
voice of a nightingale.

And remember what
we're rehearsing for...

the annual benefit of the
great Wayne Foundation.

Oh, my, yes. It's downright selfish
of me to be so nervous, isn't it?

Listen for a moment.

I'll toy idly with the keys
and set the mood again.

Such mastery of the keyboard.

It's almost hypnotic.

I can almost smell the Highland heather,
remembered so fondly from my youth.

And I can see the Gordens
and the Campbells...

coming down the slopes
of Loch Lomond to meet...

Bless my eyesight. - Oh.

Good day to you, lads and
lassies. A very good day to you.

Hand over your
jewelry, will you now?

You fiendish figments of the
imagination, what's the meaning of this?

We are ghosts, maestro.

We've been called from
slumber by your bonny music.

Aye, it will happen again and
again wherever you perform.

Go away.

I've never heard such a
monstrous thr*at in all my life.

Hear this then, maestro.

Oh, it's inhuman.

Indeed, madam. Demonic.

- Oh.
- Swiftly now, lassies, we've much to do.

- The bonny baubles are in the bag.
- Well done, lassies.

Now, let's see what else we can
pick up in handsome Wayne Manor...

then it's over the
hills and far away.

Oh. Oh, maestro, maestro.

Oh, mercy alive. Police.

Amazing, an armed
as*ault by female phantoms.

Ha. Almost beyond belief.

And in our house too.

What on Earth will Bruce and
d*ck say when they get home?

Get home? Uh, Mr. Wayne is away?

Oh, yes, he's off in the wilds
with the Millionaires Hunting Club...

and my nephew, d*ck,
is on a school holiday.

Maybe a blessing. With any luck, we'll have
this wrapped up by the time they return.

Luck spelled "Caped Crusaders."

Oh. What a wonderful idea.

Why didn't I think of them?
- Heh-heh.

Police headquarters.

Switchboard,
Commissioner Gordon here.

Plug me in at once into
the hotline Batphone circuit.

I regret to say, sir, Batman and
Robin are not at present available.

What?

Well, surely, you
must be jesting.

Alas, sir, I am not.

Batman is enjoying one
of his infrequent vacations.

Catastrophic, unprecedented.

Batman and Robin not available.

You... You know what
this means, don't you?

If you're thinking what
I'm afraid you're thinking...

Precisely, Chief O'Hara.

The moment we've
dreaded for years has arrived.

This time...

we're going to have
to solve a case...

ourselves.

Who knew in advance that you
would be playing a Scotch theme?

Yes, Mr. Chandell, who
indeed? Who beside yourself?

Really, gentlemen, I'm dismayed.

This morning's Gotham
City Times, the society page:

"Among the highlights...

will be a medley of Highland
airs sung by Mrs. Harriet Cooper...

to the piano of the
incomparable Chandell."

This travesty's gone far enough.

Now, are you going to call Batman,
or do I have to call him myself...

on that famous hotline
I've read so much about?

Mr. Chandell.

It's useless.

The grim truth is that Batman
and Robin are on vacation.

The Dynamic Duo, out of town?

How crushing.

Crushing, indeed.

Well, who is going to protect my
concert tonight at Gotham Town Hall?

Tonight?

Now, hear this,
emergency, cancel all leaves.

Throw a complete anti-criminal
cordon around Gotham Town Hall.

Don't count us out, Mr. Chandell.
The situation is well in hand.

Good day, sir.

A good day, sir.

But will it be a good night?

I'm frightened, Chief O'Hara.

An echo haunts my ears.

I'd give me right
arm to hear it now.

The noblest, most inspiring words
in the entire English language:

"To the Batmobile,
Robin. Let's go."

Behind the facade of a
bankrupt manufacturer...

of music rolls for
mechanical player pianos...

the headquarters of an infamous
criminal genius, Chandell.

Seems almost too easy with
Batman and Robin on vacation.

Chandell, love,
could it be a trap?

Oh, impossible, my sweets.

You should have seen the
dear commissioner's face.

The Dynamic Duo
is away, all right.

What a break.

The one every super
crook has dreamed of.

They're utterly fooled.

Our clever charade at Wayne
Manor has put me above suspicion.

Gee.

Oh, that must be your twin
brother, Harry, at the secret entrance.

Get into your costumes,
dearies. I'll let him in.

Everything set
for tonight's caper?

Of course.

Tiny radio transmitter hooked
up inside your criminal piano?

- Naturally.
- It should be a pretty good haul.

I'll take 95 percent this time.

You fiend.

Blackmailing a genius like
myself into a life of crime.

It's your own fault,
Chandell, kid...

using a mechanical player
piano at the White House concert...

which made you famous.

What else could I do? I'd
hurt my fingers in the piano lid.

Who cares?

If I expose what you did, the great Chandell
is deader than this music roll factory.

Using a player piano, fooling
the president of the U.S.A...

with a roll cut by Paderewski.

Harry, what would it take for
me to get out of your power?

Five million bucks, cash.

I can get it for you, Harry.

Five million? Where?

I have a fantastic plan.

In fact, I've already started.

If it works, I'll have the entire
fortune of the Wayne family.

Chandell, have you
flipped your keyboard?

Ask me no more,
dear brother, you'll see.

What, we have to be fingerprinted
before we enter the auditorium?

- How very gauche, if I may say so.
- Oh!

All right, Hoffman.

Officer.

Let these people through.

As I scarcely need tell you, Mrs.
Cooper, we have grave fears tonight.

I'm taking no chance of a
criminal slipping through.

Of course, I understand.

But how embarrassing
for poor Chandell.

Can't be helped. I'm leaving no stone
unturned in our effort to protect him.

- Have a pleasant evening.
- Thank you.

Still, it nags at me.

There's a certain indefinable
clumsiness in our procedure.

D-minus-5 seconds,
curtain going up.

Commissioner Gordon to all machine gunners
stationed in theater boxes, get ready.

At the first sign of criminal
activity, make every b*llet count.

Strange.

Strange? Strange what?

I've been listening to that Chandell
concert from Gotham Town Hall.

Just before the end of "Danse
Arabe" he struck a C-minor chord...

that I'm positive
doesn't belong there.

I'm not sure I follow you.

Oh, I don't know,
just a simple error.

But do me a favor, chum, run
out and check the muskrat traps?

Sure thing, Bruce.

Gee, Sal.

Gosh, d*ck.

- That about says everything, doesn't it?
- Uh-huh.

Oh, me and my left-footed
thumbs, how did I do that?

It's all right,
d*ck, I'll mop it up.

- Are you sure?
- Uh-huh.

Oh, don't be upset.

- d*ck Grayson to Bruce Wayne, what's up?
- Not sure. What would you say if I said...

the great Chandell had just
made a mistake in a C-minor chord?

Holy impossibility.

Precisely, d*ck. Something
strange and unusual is going on.

I'm afraid it means the
end of our vacations.

Oh, of all the awful luck.

- Mm, beg pardon?
- Never mind, Bruce.

The fight against crime
comes before everything.

- Where do you want me to meet you?
- Wayne Manor.

I fear we haven't
a moment to lose.

Good heavens.

The Burma Import Company,
it's just been blasted and robbed.

Saints alive. While he was
playing a Burmese number.

The same dreadful pattern.

The felons were a trio of female
phantoms, apparently Burmese dancing girls.

Chief O'Hara to all
machine gunners...

you can put back on your safety
catches, we've been outfoxed.

Batman.

Batman, where the devil
are you in this hour of need?

Yes?

Chandell here, my
sweets. How did it go?

Like a dream, lover.

Too bad we have to turn over 95 percent to
that chiseling, bad nick brother of yours.

Don't worry, we'll buy
him off forever, quite soon.

Instructions, stake
out Wayne Manor...

and let me know the moment Bruce
Wayne and his young ward return.

A grim tale, indeed.

I reproach myself bitterly
for having been out of touch.

Oh, I wouldn't do that, sir.

Doubtless your brief excursion into
the wilderness has sharpened your mind.

True, Alfred, and yet...

Where's Mrs. Cooper now?

At her request, sir, I left
her at Gotham Town Hall.

She insisted on paying a private visit to
the great maestro in his dressing room.

Gosh, he's quite a famous
ladies' man, isn't he?

Really, d*ck, I'm afraid some romantic
interlude has fevered your imagination.

Your Aunt Harriet is
utterly above reproach.

Gee, whiz, I certainly
didn't mean that she...

Holy apparition.

Gone, like wraiths.

Who the heck were they?

Criminal tools, of course.

There's a mystery here...

and I have a strange hunch
that Chandell is at the heart of it.

- Will the commissioner be in his office?
- Of course. In the face of this crime wave...

he'll be alertly marshaling
all the forces of law and order.

- Yes?
- Put any fears you may have had aside...

commissioner,
we're back in action.

Batman. Batman.

The answer to a
policeman's prayer.

Thank you, commissioner.

Good night.

First on the agenda,
check on Aunt Harriet.

To the Batpoles. Let's go.

Bonnie, call Chandell in his
dressing room at Gotham Town Hall.

Tell him the Dynamic
Duo is back in action.

Yes, sir.

Back in action?

Uh, how reassuring.

Thank you for the information.

What is it, maestro?

Oh, nothing, just a
call from my agent.

- Are you enjoying your root beer?
- Oh, yes, it's delicious.

May I?

Yes, sweet lady, it has
been most delicious...

but I fear this thrilling tête-à-tête
must come to an end for now.

Oh, how thoughtless of me.

Artists like yourself
need sleep, don't they?

You put it so well.

Dear Harriet, until tomorrow?

Oh, what dreams I'll have.

I trust you'll have no
trouble getting home, my pet?

I sent Alfred on ahead...

but there's almost always
a cab waiting downstairs.

Until tomorrow.

- Parting is such sweet sorrow.
- Oh.

Until tomorrow.

Good news, Chandell, kiddo,
your pal, Mr. Wayne, is back.

Bad news, so are
the Caped Crusaders.

They must be eliminated.

- How?
- Are your nasty piano movers handy?

Yeah. They're snoozing
in the back room.

Awaken them at once.

Do exactly as I say.

There's Aunt Harriet
now, getting into that cab.

- Holy relief, she must be on her way home.
- No doubt, Robin.

Let's have a word
with Chandell, shall we?

The poor devil.

He's been assaulted
with a root beer bottle.

What luck. Here's a
bottle of smelling salts.

Heavenly days, am I dreaming?

No, it's us, in the flesh.
Who att*cked you?

I've covered for the fiend long enough.
It was my criminal twin brother, Harry.

Holy fratricide.

Any idea where he hangs out?

As a matter of fact, yes.

His lair is an abandoned
music roll factory.

Twenty Befront Street.

Zip code, 9999979.

Thank you, Chandell.
We'll take care of him.

Come on, Robin.

Look, Batman, the
felonious phantoms.

Indeed, Robin. From the looks in
their eyes, I think they're the victims...

of some kind of
criminal hypnotism.

Let's interrogate them, huh?

Good thought, Robin. Perhaps
we can learn something.

Take them to the
cutting machine.

Holy pianola, what is this?

It's obvious, we're about
to be fed into a machine...

designed to perforate
paper into player piano rolls.

Farewell, costumed clowns.

And now, exit music
for a pair of bats.

You'll come out presently
as perforated music rolls.

The great Chandell could play
no more prettily than you will.

Goodbye.