“You have no idea if he’s even in town. Please, sir, there must be a better way.” Generations of understairs expertise shaped the butler’s inflection; Queen Victoria herself would have reconsidered.
But not Batman.
“I’ll make an entrance that he’s sure to hear about. Bruce Wayne: the debaucher debauched; scoundrel and squanderer. Maybe I’ll even make the papers, Alfred. It’s been a while since Bruce Wayne has tromped across the gossip pages.” He released the railing and charged up the stairs two at a time.
Alfred started up the stairs at a more reasoned pace. “I’ll await you in the car, sir.”
There was always a chance that Bruce would see his reflection in the mirror and realize this was no time for playacting, but it was a slim chance and Alfred wasted no time getting down to the garage. He guided the limousine out of its stall, parking it conveniently close to the door and coincidentally blocking the sports car. Bruce Wayne stood in the doorway. He surveyed Alfred’s careful arrangement and accepted it without comment.
If he had not known the precise condition of every garment in Bruce’s wardrobe, Alfred might have believed that he’d found his tuxedo rolled up in a ball behind a door somewhere. It was criminally wrinkled. The cummerbund and tie were both slightly askew and there was a reddish smear on the starched white shirt that could pass for wine, lipstick, or blood—depending on the prejudice of the observer. He landed on the leather seat with a thud that shook the car’s suspension.