NARRATOR". Outside the Gotham City National Bank...
wealthy young socialite Miranda Fleece is about to perform an act of charity.
Begging your pardon, ma'am, if you don't mind hearing a tale of some real bad luck.
I know how it goes, poopsie, say no more. Have a hundred.
Heaven bless you.
Help, police, fuzz!
Amazing. A veritable deluge of counterfeit bills.
Being passed not by criminals but by well-known pillars of society.
It baffles me completely.
Uh, there's something funny about these counterfeits, commissioner, have you noticed?
They're blank on one side and completely genuine on the other.
Exactly.
It's almost as if some deranged mind were trying to taunt our very sanity.
Begorra, that laughter.
- Where does it come from? - Nowhere, and yet everywhere.
Commissioner, I have a terrible feeling we've heard this laughter before.
So true, Chief O'Hara, so true, it all fits perfectly.
Joker.
Once again we take our poor cracked pitcher to the Caped Crusader's well.
Gosh, economics is sure a dull subject.
Oh, you must be jesting, Dick.
Economics dull, the glamour, the romance of commerce...
it's the very life blood of our country's society.
Frankly, I can think of nothing more stimulating than economics and commerce...
Yes, Alfred.
Begging your pardon, sir. It's the telephone in the study, sir.
Come on, Dick, this may lead us to a more practical lesson in loss and gain.
I'm with you. So long, Aunt Harriet.
Mercy alive, the way that boy changes his mind.
I wonder if he's over-tired.
Yes, commissioner?
Words are superfluous, Batman, uh, listen.
Holy funny bone, The Joker.
Courage, commissioner, courage. Joker seldom has the last laugh.
To the Batpoles.
Saint's preserve us, there it goes again.
- Diabolical, I'm being driven out of my senses. - Precisely the fiend's intention, commissioner.
Batman's right. Joker knows we'll need every ounce of our sanity to outwit his filthy plot.
- Hand me the Bat-Detector, Robin. - Roger.
I'll turn it in for super laugh track sensitivity.
- Extend your left arm, commissioner. - Pardon?
Do as I say, commissioner, extend your left arm.
Oh, yeah, sure.
Ingenuous, this criminal mirth issues from a tiny, super-powered loud speaker...
built into your left cuff link.
- Great Scott. - Exhibit A.
- How the devil did it get there, Batman? - Joker is a master conjurer, Chief O'Hara.
No doubt he brushed against the commissioner in a crowd...
and easily affected the substitution. Stand up, commissioner.
Oh, yeah, sure. Ahem.
Aha.
Just as I suspected...
the agile crook also managed to slip an induction receiving antenna...
into your left trouser leg.
Exhibit B.
Yes, now I remember.
Some oddly costumed fellow did bump into me in the subway this morning.
Holy chutzpah. Planting criminal radio gear on the police commissioner.
No time for emotion, old churn, let's apply our brain power to Joker's plot.
This was passed by an innocent dupe?
What's more, the woman had just received that bill from the Gotham City National Bank.
Gosh, Batman, if we could just puzzle out how funny money is handed out by a bank.
Good thinking, Robin. Time for us to go fishing, if you ask me.
- Fishing? - But where, Batman?
Where the fishing is always best, commissioner, from a shady bank.
NARRATOR". Meanwhile, a strange scene unfolds atop this building...
which houses Penthouse Publishers, formerly innocent purveyors of mirth...
now the secret headquarters of The Joker.
Oh, this continued mirth is exhausting, even for the Clown Prince of Crime.
Figure he finally found the gizmo?
That dunderhead Gordon, he couldn't find a haystack in a needle factory.
No, you can be quite certain, sweet Josie Miller...
the failure of our tiny receiver means Batman is on the job.
Gee, I'm not very glad to hear that, Joker.
My foolish, trepidatious child, he's not headed here.
Why even as we speak, you can bet he's racing to the bank and doom. Ha, ha.
Mr. Yock, Mr. Boff, warm-up time.
Those sure are nifty robots, Joker.
Comically lifelike, aren't they?
They were my manual training project last spell I did in that filthy penitentiary.
Do you think they're strong enough to hold Batman and Robin?
Observe. Mr. Yock, Mr. Boff...
practice alert, bats on the premises.
There on the table.
Smash them, bash them, crash them.
Ha, ha! Exterminate them utterly into primordial batstuff.
Robots, as you were. At ease.
- What's that Joker? - The signal from the bank.
Oh. Those blundering bipeds, they've swallowed our bait.
Quick, let's watch! Quickly!
Watch, my sweet.
What's that? Counterfeit currency emanating from this bank, it's impossible.
A word one must employ with the greatest of caution, Mr. Flamm.
Impossible, I say.
Just answer me a question, have there been any recent changes in personnel?
Let's see.
Yes, our Ms. Pruett left, the date was May 7th, 1951.
- No, something more recent. - Nothing whatever, Batman.
Except, of course, our chief teller, he went out for a sandwich at noon and didn't return.
He did send in a substitute, I'm pleased to say, Mr. Glee.
That's him over there.
- He had references, of course? - Of course, Batman, impeccable.
- Thank you. - Yes.
Notice anything odd, Robin?
- His rather formal attire. - That and something else.
The way he counts out those bills. Holy precision.
Indeed, precise to an almost inhuman degree.
- Something weird about his collar button too. - Good for you Robin...
I wondered if you'd noticed. Now if my strange hunch is right...
- Good afternoon, Mr. Glee. I'm Batman. - Obviously, sir.
I've been admiring your collar button.
WOW! Oh.
The filthy bat creature touched the lens.
Tell me, Mr. Glee, why is a collar button like an old pile of burning automobile tires?
Answer. Because they both choke.
Holy clockworks, a mechanical marvel.
I'm flabbergasted, Batman. How on Earth did you know that was a robot?
Simple, Mr. Flamm, even the most infallible robots have one defect.
They have no sense of humor.
Batman told him a funny joke. When the creature didn't laugh that was proof.
Well, you wretched ruin, I guess we'll take you back to the Batcave.
One last warning, Mr. Flamm. The next time your chief teller goes out for a sandwich...
and sends a stranger back in his place, scrutinize him carefully.
I'm sure I speak for the chairman of the board, millionaire Bruce Wayne...
in saying that you owe that to all of your depositors.
Good day, citizens.
Oh, eureka, look.
Mr. Glee's retriever signal is coming in as planned. Huh!
- The Batmobile. - Oh, yes, my sweet.
With Mr. Glee in the trunk. Ha, ha.
We'll give pursuit. We'll find the Batcave.
Quick to the Jokemobile.
Clear the way, you people, clear the way, please clear the way.
Turn on the portable robot retriever. Pick up the signal.
- Left on Mulberry. - Tallyho.
Whoo! What a bat hunt.
Holy honey corn, that's a tracking signal.
Obviously there's a tiny transmitter built into that robot in the trunk.
- You mean, you knew we were being followed? - Oh, yes.
What'll we do, Batman, lure them into an ambush and bash them with our Batarangs?
I have a better notion.
Of course, we'll activate our trusty Bat-deflector.
Right again, Robin. Turn it on.
Bat-deflector activated.
- How's the retriever signal? - Stronger than ever, Joker. Faster.
- Right turn. - Strange, I don't see any road.
Well, I can't help that, Joker, the signal says right turn.
Oh, how humorous. Ha, ha.
Hold tight for the bumpsy-daisy.
Frabjous day, moment every super crook has dreamed of.
Look, we've discovered the entrance to the Batcave.
- Which way from here, Joker? - Oh, it must be around that little hill.
- Get the gas grenades. - Roger.
Oh. We'll gas them out of the cave and get them when they come out.
Death to the blundering bats, tallyho. Ha, ha.
- What's the matter? - Bizarre, the signal says the Batcave is here.
Look, we've been out-tricked.
"Laugh, criminals, laugh!"
I'll have it. By all the saints of wicked mirth, I'll have it.
The last laugh will still be mine.
I regret to say, no unusual indications.
We're dealing with a perfectly normal robot.
Holy dead end, not a clue to where it came from.
Excusing the intrusion, sir, but might I point out an oddity in this automaton's attire?
By all means, Alfred.
His sleeve, sir, now to my practiced eye, uh...
it would appear that it has been pressed by a most uncommon pressure.
He's right, Batman, look.
The buttons are pushed almost through the back.
And here, sir, I clearly detect traces of multicolored, uh, spots...
which have been frequently, but clumsily sponged.
Congratulations, Alfred, you're keen sartorial sense has done it again.
- Thank you, sir. - Robin, warm up the Bat-Spot Analyzer...
while I take a sample of this affected cloth. - Roger.
I'll just snip right through here, Alfred.
- Bat-Spot Analyzer ready to go, Batman. - Roger.
Now, let's keep our fingers crossed, Robin.
Mm-hm.
- What is it, Batman? - Those curious spots.
They're minute traces of printer's ink.
Of course, used by Joker in his counterfeiting operation.
Exactly, transferred to the cloth...
when that Cheapskate pressed his robot's wear in his printing press.
Bless my steam iron, how revolting.
Revolting, indeed, Alfred, like the colors of these inks...
arsenic green, rotten apple red, bilious blue.
I believe there's just one sort of legitimate printing firm that would employ such hues.
- A firm that prints comic books. - Right again, Robin.
Now to check our Business Index Machine...
to see if any such firm has recently changed hands.
Penthouse Publishers sold one week ago to a certain Mr. W. C. Whiteface.
- Whiteface? Joker. - More than possible, Robin.
Too bad we have no proof.
Dear me, yes, but if you were to pounce on them like that...
you'd lay yourself open to a most damaging suit for false arrest.
- Gosh, he's got us buffaloed. - Not quite, Robin.
I have a plan to get that proof.
Listen, here's what we'll do.
Infuriating. Here I am on the brink of the greatest caper in criminal history...
and the Dynamic Duo still at large.
I must be dreaming, it looks like millionaire Bruce Wayne.
- What? - I'm sure of it, Joker.
I've seen his picture in the paper hundreds of times.
Robots, amber alert.
I'm ruined, bankrupt, wiped out.
There's only one more chance.
Oh, excuse me, Mr. Whiteface, I failed to introduce myself, I'm Mr. Bruce Wayne.
- Oh, at your service, sir. - Thank you. How do you do?
I hardly dare ask it, Mr. Whiteface...
but do you know anyone...
who could print me up a batch of counterfeit currency?
Ooh.
What a curious request to make of a legitimate business man such as myself.
Yes, I know it does seem a bit odd...
but you see, I foolishly succumbed to the temptation of speculation...
with the funds of the Wayne Foundation, the results were catastrophic.
Tomorrow is the annual accounting...
and if I don't have 1 million dollars in cash...
I will be headed up the river without a paddle.
Very interesting, Mr. Wayne, but, uh, why do you come to me?
I chanced to be thumbing through one of the comic books that you publish...
and it struck my eye...
the inks that you use...
are identical to the inks used by the United States Treasury.
- What do you think, sweet Josie? - Smells like a trap, Joker.
Indeed. On the other hand, the fellow's tale is so utterly absurd that it could be true.
Uh, just for fun, Mr. Wayne...
supposing I did provide you with this whimsical funny money?
Just what would be in it for me'?
I would be happy to appoint you vice chairman of the Gotham National Bank.
Oh, dear me, yes, that does appeal to my notorious sense of humor.
Vice chairman of the board of the Gotham National Bank.
Yes.
I have here a personally signed document...
appointing you to the position I previously mentioned.
But before I give it to you, I require proof...
that you will deliver your end of this unhappy bargain.
- Proof? - To wit.
You get the document...
after you run off a sample of counterfeit on your press over there.
Hmm.
- Josie, ink the rollers, I'll get the paper. Quick. - Yes.
- Ready to roll. - Bingo.
Hold it, Joker, you're under arrest.
Great Scott. It's the junior half of the Dynamic Duo.
Robin to Batman, while on a routine anti-crime patrol, I've caught the Joker.
He's plotting with Bruce Wayne.
Situation under control, no need for you to leave the Batcave. Over and out.
Is that so, Boy Wonder.
Robots, give him a whimsical whammy.
Well, things look grim for our side, Mr. Whiteface...
perhaps I should lend them a hand.
You idiot, you're only getting in the way.
Oh, how delicious, the Boy Wonder about to be pressed flat into a comic book.
Observe.
Mr. Whiteface, this is murder.
Well, how true, Mr. Wayne...
yes, and just to ensure against a double-cross, you will perform it.
- Never. - Boff, Yock, seize him.
Yes, force his hand on the lever.
Gosh, what an ugly twist of fate.