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I never know where to begin with these things. Should I start at the beginning, as it were, or start things off in medias res, the res in this case probably being the vat of acid? I put it to Jeeves, who suggested that the latter option, followed by a flashback to establish setting, was “very much in the post-modern idiom”.
“But, I say, Jeeves,” I said, “what do you mean by post-modern? How can one be more modern than modern?”
“The phrase refers not to modernity itself, sir, but rather to the philosophical and aesthetic movement referred to as Modernism. Indeed, once a movement had laid claim to the title of Modernism, there was nowhere to go but up, so to speak, sir. The defining features of postmodernism are hard to pin down, but frequently involve self-referentiality, the “re-mixing” or recontextualisation of found sources, the use of deliberate anachronism or paradox, and the treatment of popular culture with equal reverence as Classical works or high art.”
“And the use of fractured timelines is all tickety-boo with postmodernists?”
“Indeed, sir. Even more complex temporal structures are possible: the novelist Iain M. Banks structured his novel Use of Weapons as two interleaved narratives, one proceeding forwards in time and the other backwards, with the basic scheme further complicated by flashbacks and flash-forwards; the film Memento consisted of a sequence of scenes each ending as the previous one started, so as to dramatise the effects of the protagonist’s anterograde amnesia; and in the motion picture Pulp Fiction, the filmmaker Tarantino…”
“Never mind the filmmaker Tarantino, Jeeves.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Expunge him from your mind.”
“I have already done so, sir. Be that as it may, sir, postmodernism is, to use the current vernacular, not merely a thing, but a thing that exists, sir.”
Well, you can’t say fairer than that, what? So the p. of campaign is this: start in medias res with the aforementioned v. of acid, flash back a day to explain how I came to be there, allow the action to run through to a dénouement, and wrap the whole thing up with a frame story establishing character and setting. Got all that? Good. On with the motley.
Do you know the worst thing about living in a city under the heel of organised crime? Zoning regulations. Judging by the dull ache at the base of my noggin, it couldn’t have been more than half an hour since I’d been rendered unconscious by a sap or blackjack, and yet that had evidently been enough time to transport me from Le Foie Heureux to what appeared to be a chemical warehouse, truss me up by my heels, and suspend me from the ceiling above a gent’s size vat, in which a large quantity of acid was merrily bubbling away. Wouldn’t be allowed in London, of course, where there are rules against siting dangerous chemical plants so close to fashionable restaurants. There are rules against it in Gotham too, of course, but when the people enforcing those rules have a fat envelope full of moola to look forward to if they look the other way and a bullet in the head if they don’t, who can blame them for taking option A?
“If this is dating, American-style,” I said to nobody in particular, “you can keep it.”
I was staying in Gotham - not the one in Nottinghamshire, I mean the American one - for a few weeks with my old Oxford pal Bruce “Beefy” Wayne, at his ancestral pile on the edge of town. I thought the place looked like the architects of Chatsworth and Blenheim had got into a drunken argument about who was best, decided to settle the matter then and there, and met in the middle with an almighty crash of buttresses and balustrades; Jeeves, as ever, was more temperate, saying only “very stately, sir.” Nonetheless, the place combined all the advantages of country-house living with convenient access to a bustling metropolis, and I was very grateful to accept old Beefy’s invitation.
“Stay as long as you like, Bertie,” he’d said, “I’ve got more rooms here than I know what to do with.”
It was true; despite the place being built as if to house at least a regiment of assorted Waynes and hangers-on, he lived there with only his butler Pennyworth and a young chap called Grayson, the latter being some species of gymnast.
I was feeling sore in both body and spirit after Beefy had given me a thorough thrashing at rackets. We’d been pretty evenly matched at the ‘Varsity, where we’d taken our Blues together, but years of late nights and gaspers had clearly taken their toll on me.
“I say, Beefy, you’ve been keeping your hand in!”, I said, as he poured me a most welcome second w. and soda. The first tissue-restorer was already working its magic, and I anticipated only minor muscular agony the next morning.
“Thanks, Bertie. I try to keep in shape, but don’t often manage to get a game in; it’s mostly parkour and mixed martial arts these days, with the occasional bout of spelunking. Anyway, will you be joining us for the party this evening?”
“The orphanage benefit? Rather!”
The social life of Gotham’s great and good revolves around a series of charity benefits, raising money for some good cause or other. Beefy was hosting one himself at the manor, in aid of one of the Wayne Foundation’s many orphanages.
“Tell me, young Beefy, why do you have so many orphans in Gotham? Are they all victims of this ghastly crime war?”
“Many of them, yes, but the biggest cause is actually industrial accidents. In a city with a corruption problem as bad as ours, it can be hard to encourage a culture of workplace safety. Far too many factory owners decide it’s easier and cheaper to buy off the inspectors. WayneCorp doesn’t, of course, but it makes it darned difficult to compete.”
“Dashed unfortunate. Still, you seem to manage,” I said, waving an airy hand at the stately p. surrounding us.
“One does one’s best. Anyway, Bertie, I must go back about my business as a Captain of Industry: I’ll see you at the party tonight.”
My name's Wooster, Bertie Wooster. I'm a friend of Beefy’s - that is, of Mr Wayne's - from his time as a Rhodes Scholar.”
“Delighted to meet you, Mr Wooster. I'm Harleen Quinzel.”
The penny took a second to drop.
“Not Doctor Quinzel, of Arkham Asylum? Beefy - er, Bruce - speaks very highly of your work.”
“The very same, and I'm delighted to hear it. The Wayne Foundation has been a generous sponsor of my research.”
“You'll probably think me very old-fashioned, but I’d imagined someone more on the lines of Sir Roderick Glossop - old, grey-haired, male.”
“Oh! Do you know Sir Roderick, Mr Wooster?”
“Rather! Old friend of the family. Introduced his daughter Honoria to her husband.”
“I've never met Sir Roderick, but I do enjoy reading his case studies. Particularly the one about the man who kept a fish and several cats under his bed! I sometimes wonder which of us has the odder patients.”
“Yes, well I wouldn't take that one entirely seriously. Composite of several different incidents, don't you know. Patient confidentiality and all that.”
An electronic beeping came from her bag, interrupting the cosy tête-à-tête.
“Work calls, I'm afraid - one of my patients is trying to escape again.”
I don't know if it was the room, or the jazz, or the perfume, or simply being in America, where the twin spirits of can-do and seize-the-day are everywhere. But whatever it was, I took the plunge.
“I say, Dr Quinzel? Would you care to have dinner with me tomorrow?”
“Why, Mr Wooster, you're very forward.”
“Oh, please, call me Bertie.”
“Only if you'll call me Harley. Very well, meet me at Le Foie Heureux at eight. I'm sure a man with your connections will have no difficulty securing a table.”
She turned on her heel and was gone.
Come the appointed hour, I was cooling my heels at the bar, toying idly with a pensive gin-and-tonic. I know it’s a lady’s prerogative to keep a chap waiting, but I was starting to worry that our dinner would be cut short - tables at this place were booked solid, and I’d only been able to get one when Beefy had intervened with the maitre d’hôtel, an alumnus of the Wayne School of Snootiness for the Disadvantaged. As the clock tinkled the quarter-hour, I became aware of a distinct dimming of the light behind my right shoulder, and looked around to find myself staring up at a huge looming sort of chap, constructed along similar lines to the Empire State Building.
“Doctor Quinzel has been un-av-oid-ably det-ained, and sends her apo-lo-gies”, he rumbled, with the air of one reciting his lines. “She asks that you meet her in the all-ey outside.”
“Oh, right-ho.”
I’d been hanging by myself for about ten minutes, and was starting to come round to Beefy’s point of view in re Gotham’s health-and-safety problems - neither the hook I was hanging from nor the bolts connecting it to the ceiling looked like they’d been manufactured or installed in accordance with the relevant American National Standards - when the door opened.
“Awwwww, Pudd’n, all for me? You shouldn’t have!”
The voice sounded familiar.
I awoke in a hospital room, surrounded by anxious faces.
“Bertie! Thank goodness you're alright!” said the lad Grayson.
“You're lucky that Batman and Robin got to you when they did, Bertie.” added Beefy. “Gotham General has the best suspension-trauma unit in the world, but your specialists said that if you'd been hanging another five minutes you could have lost a leg, or even worse.”
“I say, you chaps, it's awfully good to see you. But how did I get here?”
“It's not totally clear - the police arrived to find you cut down, and Harley Quinn and the Joker tied up to a support beam. What is clear, though, is how the dynamic duo got to you in time. Step forward, Jeeves!”
Jeeves glided forward modestly.
“As you will recall, sir, I spent the morning at Gotham Public Library, which has a remarkably comprehensive subscription to the leading psychological journals. Reading Dr Quinzel’s papers, I found signs of an increasing countertransference, or identification with her patients. This was especially evident in her papers on the Joker. My suspicions aroused, I cross-checked the shift patterns at Arkham Asylum with newspaper reports of supervillain attacks, and quickly determined that all known incidents involving the supervillainess Harley Quinn occurred on Dr Quinzel’s nights off. It was apparent to me that you were in great danger, sir, and that I must contact the Caped Crusader at once. I had had my suspicions as to his identity since we arrived in Gotham; I was able to confirm them by consulting the book at the Gotham branch of the Junior Ganymede club.”
“The identity of the Batman is written in the Junior Ganymede book, Jeeves? I know the valet’s code of omerta is sacrosanct, but that seems like a dangerous piece of information to have lying around.”
Pennyworth had gone rather pale, I noticed. No doubt shocked at this lapse in standards by a member of his profession.
“The Batman's gentleman's gentleman would never be guilty of such a lapse of operational security, sir. The information is not written in the clear; only someone, like me, who had served with him in the late War would have a chance of finding the hidden message.”
“Ah yes. Remind me, Jeeves, which unit did you serve in?”
“One doesn't like to say, sir.”
“This does present a problem, though,” said Beefy. “Dr Quinzel was Arkham’s chief psychiatrist; now she’s its newest patient. After this, and that unfortunate business with Dr Crane last year, we’ll struggle to find a replacement for her.”
“Yes, I suppose so. To lose one Chief Psychiatrist may be regarded as a misfortune, but to lose two in two years looks rather like carelessness, what?”
Jeeves coughed politely.
“I may be able to help there too, sirs. I am in correspondence with Sir Roderick Glossop’s gentleman’s personal gentleman, who informs me that Sir Roderick is tired of his Harley Street practice and wishes to take a sabbatical. I am sure, if he were offered a temporary role as Chief Psychiatrist at Arkham Asylum, he would leap at the chance.”
“Jeeves,” said Beefy, “Bertie has often mentioned your intellect, but now I have seen it for myself I must agree: you stand alone. If the Batman were here, I have no doubt that he would gladly relinquish the title of World’s Greatest Detective to you.”
“You are too kind, sir.”
“Well, Jeeves, that about wraps it up, what?”
“Quite so, sir. A not uncreditable addition to your expanded memoirs. I shall post it on the Internet under the usual pseudonym.”
“Thank you, Jeeves. Anything else?”
“This morning’s Times contains disturbing news from Gotham, sir. It appears that the city is being terrorised by a new costumed villain: an elderly gentleman with an upper-class British accent, operating under the nom de crime of ‘The Limey’.”
“Oh dear, Jeeves.”
“Indeed, sir.”