Post by lee on Dec 22, 2023 6:52:27 GMT
Times Past
The Missing Toyman
Metropolis, November 1, 1946—
Ace reporter, Clark Kent, accompanied by Jimmy Olsen, photographer, wandered around the empty jail cell that, up until two days ago, housed a man named Winslow Percival Schott, also know as The Toyman. While young Olsen took pictures, Kent looked the cell over very closely; he was truly surprised to discover no clues as to how the man had escaped. The warden stood in the hall as the newspaper men gathered whatever they could for their story. Clark joined him after another few seconds.
“It looks like your men did a good job collecting the evidence,” Clark said as he approached the older man.
The warden rubbed his chin. “There’s the rub, Mr. Kent. My men found no evidence at all.”
The newsman was surprised to hear the man admit how his men came up empty-handed. He was even more surprised by the man’s next statement.
“Before we let you in here to get your story,” the warden said, “detectives from the Metropolis Police Department went over the cell with a fine-tooth comb. There was nothing. It’s like Schott was never here.”
“If you don’t mind me asking,” Clark began, “why would you admit this to the press?”
The warden turned and looked the newspaperman square in the eye. “To be honest, Mr. Kent, we need help. We are hoping you will publish the story so Superman will see it. Metropolis doesn’t have a spotlight like they do in Gotham City, and I can’t think of any other way to get his attention.”
Clark smiled. “Yes, well. I can honestly say I don’t see Superman as a spotlight sort of person. Still, I will make sure it is printed, and in a way that in no manner detracts from you or our police force.”
The warden relaxed. “Thank you so much, Mr. Kent. This is why I requested only you from among all of the newspapermen in Metropolis; because I believe you to be a man of integrity.”
Clark put his notepad and pencil in his coat pocket and shook the man’s hand. “Trust me, Warden. Superman shall definitely know of your plight.”
On the cab ride back to the Daily Star, Jimmy tapped gently on the lens cap of his Kodak. After a couple miles, he finally spoke. “So, Mr. Kent. What do you think happened to Winslow Schott?”
It was a question Clark Kent had been asking himself from the moment he walked out of the cell. After using everyone of his secret Kryptonian senses to examine the place of Toyman’s confinement and finding nothing, he could honestly say, “I have no idea.”
Gotham City, December 23, 1946—
“Get up,” the unknown voice that Winslow Schott had grown to expect, and dread, and fear, said, just as it had for nearly two months.
The disheveled, little man pulled himself up from the ragged cot that had been his bed since he was taken from the Metropolis Penitentiary. He trudged over to the tables in the center of the room and saw they were, as always, laden with whatever he would need to make his daily quota of toys. Mundane, non-life threatening (save if a part was swallowed), toys. He had given up wondering which villain that called Gotham home would force him to make toys without utilizing his special talents; his only question now was what would be done with him once he was finished his appointed task. And, as it had been since he was brought here, a plate of food was sitting on his work stool.
“Eat quick,” the same voice said over the speaker he had given up searching for. “Soon, you will be done and gone from this place.”
Winslow felt there was a hint of the ominous in his captor’s words. He tried to put it out of his mind and focus on making the toys.
The day passed as it had every other day since he arrived; a toy was made, boxed, and stacked at the far end of the room, and then the procedure was repeated over and over until the day was done. He had given up complaining about being hungry despite the loud protests of neglect from his stomach, knowing he wouldn’t receive another meal until the next morning.
December 24, 1946—
“Get up.”
Winslow rose and started the same day all over again. Upon reaching the table, he found the plate of food as usual, which he quickly devoured, but there was fewer supplies with which to build toys.
“Good news, Mr. Schott,” the voice said as he began working on his first toy. “Today is your last day slaving away at that table. And here’s some more good news. By 3 o’clock this afternoon, this will all be behind you. Work hard and work fast, Mr. Schott, for you haven’t much time left.”
When the voice went silent, Winslow heard something new; it was the ticking of a clock. He turned and saw the new addition to his prison hanging on the wall. With each tick, a new seed of dread began to grow in the pit of his stomach. To remove it from his mind, or, at least, push it into the deepest recesses, he poured his few remaining hours into the one thing that made him happy; making toys.
The day passed by, toy after toy, until Winslow heard another new sound; the sound of a bell pealing three times. With each peal, the toy maker swore he could hear the beat of his own heart growing louder. The final peal seemed to last forever. A cold sweat soaked his brow like a fresh-dug spring and his palms grew clammy.
“Well done, Mr. Schott,” the voice said, this time not unexpected. “You have exceeded my every expectation.”
“Now what?” Winslow asked. “Is this where you tell me I have outlived my usefulness and kill me?”
“My dear Mr. Schott. If you would be so kind as to return to your cot.”
The Toyman refused to move.
“Please, Mr. Schott. Return to your cot. It will make things so much more easier.” There was a brief pause. “I promise you, you won’t feel a thing.”
Winslow looked around. For sometime now, he had figured his life was over when his work was complete. Seeing no way out, he felt the last vestiges of hope fade. Slowly, he made his way to the cot and sat down.
And then everything went black.
Gotham City, December 25, 1946—
“I say, Sir,” Alfred Beagle said as he handed his employer the morning newspaper. “That was a jolly good thing you did.”
Bruce Wayne set his cup of coffee down and looked up at his butler. “What are you talking about, Alfred?”
“The orphanages, Sir,” Alfred said, placing the open newspaper on the table in front of Bruce. “You saw to it every single child in every Gotham City orphanage and children’s hospital woke up this morning with a toy from St. Nicholas.”
Bruce picked up the paper and quickly skimmed over the story his butler had brought to his attention. Once he was finished, he put the paper down and leaned back in his chair. “Hmm.” He thought for a moment. “Perhaps it was Santa, Alfred.”
“Oh, Sir, you are having a jest at my expense.”
“Honestly, Alfred. I had nothing to do with it.”
Alfred looked at his employer for a second. Just by the look in Bruce’s eye, he knew the man was telling the truth. “If you were not the Santa those children needed, then I wonder who was.”
Metropolis, December 25, 1946—
Clark Kent stood beside the warden outside the same cell they had stood together nearly two months earlier. He shook his head.
“The mystery deepens,” the warden said. “I hated to call for you on Christmas morning, but I thought you might be interested to see this.”
Inside the cell, Winslow Percival Schott was sound asleep in the cot he hadn’t occupied since late October.
“And you have no idea how he got back in here?” Clark asked.
“None.”
In the almost two months since he first disappeared from his cell, there had been no sightings of, nor any crimes that could be attributed to, the Toyman. Where had he been and what had he done were the two questions foremost on the two men’s minds.
“Ah, well,” the warden said. “I guess all’s well that ends well.”
Clark used his Kryptonian senses, half expecting to find absolutely nothing, just like last time. This time, however, he spotted something stuck to the bottom of the cell door. Stooping down, he carefully picked it up. The warden said something.
“What was that you said, Warden?” he asked.
“I was asking if you heard about what happened in Gotham?” the warden repeated. “Say, what did you find there?”
“What happened in Gotham?”
“Well, apparently Santa made a bunch of orphan kids very happy.”
Clark held his find up for the warden to see. It was a single strand of chemically-stained, green hair.
The End
The Missing Toyman
Metropolis, November 1, 1946—
Ace reporter, Clark Kent, accompanied by Jimmy Olsen, photographer, wandered around the empty jail cell that, up until two days ago, housed a man named Winslow Percival Schott, also know as The Toyman. While young Olsen took pictures, Kent looked the cell over very closely; he was truly surprised to discover no clues as to how the man had escaped. The warden stood in the hall as the newspaper men gathered whatever they could for their story. Clark joined him after another few seconds.
“It looks like your men did a good job collecting the evidence,” Clark said as he approached the older man.
The warden rubbed his chin. “There’s the rub, Mr. Kent. My men found no evidence at all.”
The newsman was surprised to hear the man admit how his men came up empty-handed. He was even more surprised by the man’s next statement.
“Before we let you in here to get your story,” the warden said, “detectives from the Metropolis Police Department went over the cell with a fine-tooth comb. There was nothing. It’s like Schott was never here.”
“If you don’t mind me asking,” Clark began, “why would you admit this to the press?”
The warden turned and looked the newspaperman square in the eye. “To be honest, Mr. Kent, we need help. We are hoping you will publish the story so Superman will see it. Metropolis doesn’t have a spotlight like they do in Gotham City, and I can’t think of any other way to get his attention.”
Clark smiled. “Yes, well. I can honestly say I don’t see Superman as a spotlight sort of person. Still, I will make sure it is printed, and in a way that in no manner detracts from you or our police force.”
The warden relaxed. “Thank you so much, Mr. Kent. This is why I requested only you from among all of the newspapermen in Metropolis; because I believe you to be a man of integrity.”
Clark put his notepad and pencil in his coat pocket and shook the man’s hand. “Trust me, Warden. Superman shall definitely know of your plight.”
On the cab ride back to the Daily Star, Jimmy tapped gently on the lens cap of his Kodak. After a couple miles, he finally spoke. “So, Mr. Kent. What do you think happened to Winslow Schott?”
It was a question Clark Kent had been asking himself from the moment he walked out of the cell. After using everyone of his secret Kryptonian senses to examine the place of Toyman’s confinement and finding nothing, he could honestly say, “I have no idea.”
Gotham City, December 23, 1946—
“Get up,” the unknown voice that Winslow Schott had grown to expect, and dread, and fear, said, just as it had for nearly two months.
The disheveled, little man pulled himself up from the ragged cot that had been his bed since he was taken from the Metropolis Penitentiary. He trudged over to the tables in the center of the room and saw they were, as always, laden with whatever he would need to make his daily quota of toys. Mundane, non-life threatening (save if a part was swallowed), toys. He had given up wondering which villain that called Gotham home would force him to make toys without utilizing his special talents; his only question now was what would be done with him once he was finished his appointed task. And, as it had been since he was brought here, a plate of food was sitting on his work stool.
“Eat quick,” the same voice said over the speaker he had given up searching for. “Soon, you will be done and gone from this place.”
Winslow felt there was a hint of the ominous in his captor’s words. He tried to put it out of his mind and focus on making the toys.
The day passed as it had every other day since he arrived; a toy was made, boxed, and stacked at the far end of the room, and then the procedure was repeated over and over until the day was done. He had given up complaining about being hungry despite the loud protests of neglect from his stomach, knowing he wouldn’t receive another meal until the next morning.
December 24, 1946—
“Get up.”
Winslow rose and started the same day all over again. Upon reaching the table, he found the plate of food as usual, which he quickly devoured, but there was fewer supplies with which to build toys.
“Good news, Mr. Schott,” the voice said as he began working on his first toy. “Today is your last day slaving away at that table. And here’s some more good news. By 3 o’clock this afternoon, this will all be behind you. Work hard and work fast, Mr. Schott, for you haven’t much time left.”
When the voice went silent, Winslow heard something new; it was the ticking of a clock. He turned and saw the new addition to his prison hanging on the wall. With each tick, a new seed of dread began to grow in the pit of his stomach. To remove it from his mind, or, at least, push it into the deepest recesses, he poured his few remaining hours into the one thing that made him happy; making toys.
The day passed by, toy after toy, until Winslow heard another new sound; the sound of a bell pealing three times. With each peal, the toy maker swore he could hear the beat of his own heart growing louder. The final peal seemed to last forever. A cold sweat soaked his brow like a fresh-dug spring and his palms grew clammy.
“Well done, Mr. Schott,” the voice said, this time not unexpected. “You have exceeded my every expectation.”
“Now what?” Winslow asked. “Is this where you tell me I have outlived my usefulness and kill me?”
“My dear Mr. Schott. If you would be so kind as to return to your cot.”
The Toyman refused to move.
“Please, Mr. Schott. Return to your cot. It will make things so much more easier.” There was a brief pause. “I promise you, you won’t feel a thing.”
Winslow looked around. For sometime now, he had figured his life was over when his work was complete. Seeing no way out, he felt the last vestiges of hope fade. Slowly, he made his way to the cot and sat down.
And then everything went black.
Gotham City, December 25, 1946—
“I say, Sir,” Alfred Beagle said as he handed his employer the morning newspaper. “That was a jolly good thing you did.”
Bruce Wayne set his cup of coffee down and looked up at his butler. “What are you talking about, Alfred?”
“The orphanages, Sir,” Alfred said, placing the open newspaper on the table in front of Bruce. “You saw to it every single child in every Gotham City orphanage and children’s hospital woke up this morning with a toy from St. Nicholas.”
Bruce picked up the paper and quickly skimmed over the story his butler had brought to his attention. Once he was finished, he put the paper down and leaned back in his chair. “Hmm.” He thought for a moment. “Perhaps it was Santa, Alfred.”
“Oh, Sir, you are having a jest at my expense.”
“Honestly, Alfred. I had nothing to do with it.”
Alfred looked at his employer for a second. Just by the look in Bruce’s eye, he knew the man was telling the truth. “If you were not the Santa those children needed, then I wonder who was.”
Metropolis, December 25, 1946—
Clark Kent stood beside the warden outside the same cell they had stood together nearly two months earlier. He shook his head.
“The mystery deepens,” the warden said. “I hated to call for you on Christmas morning, but I thought you might be interested to see this.”
Inside the cell, Winslow Percival Schott was sound asleep in the cot he hadn’t occupied since late October.
“And you have no idea how he got back in here?” Clark asked.
“None.”
In the almost two months since he first disappeared from his cell, there had been no sightings of, nor any crimes that could be attributed to, the Toyman. Where had he been and what had he done were the two questions foremost on the two men’s minds.
“Ah, well,” the warden said. “I guess all’s well that ends well.”
Clark used his Kryptonian senses, half expecting to find absolutely nothing, just like last time. This time, however, he spotted something stuck to the bottom of the cell door. Stooping down, he carefully picked it up. The warden said something.
“What was that you said, Warden?” he asked.
“I was asking if you heard about what happened in Gotham?” the warden repeated. “Say, what did you find there?”
“What happened in Gotham?”
“Well, apparently Santa made a bunch of orphan kids very happy.”
Clark held his find up for the warden to see. It was a single strand of chemically-stained, green hair.
The End
