Ministers
mentioned him in sermons; cranks wrote fanatic letters denouncing
him as one of the even-headed beasts of the Apocalypse and a
forerunner of the end of the world; a popular revue put on a special
Bat number wherein eighteen beautiful chorus girls appeared masked
and black-winged in costumes of Brazilian bat fur; there were Bat
club sandwiches, Bat cigarettes, and a new shade of hosiery called
simply and succinctly Bat. He became a fad--a catchword--a
national figure. And yet--he was walking Death--cold--
remorseless. But Death itself had become a toy of publicity in
these days of limelight and jazz.
A city editor, at lunch with a colleague, pulled at his cigarette
and talked. "See that Sunday story we had on the Bat?" he asked.
"Pretty tidy--huh--and yet we didn't have to play it up. It's
an amazing list--the Marshall jewels--the Allison murder--the
mail truck thing--two hundred thousand he got out of that, all
negotiable, and two men dead. I wonder how many people he's really
killed. We made it six murders and nearly a million in loot--didn't
even have room for the small stuff--but there must be more--"
His companion whistled.
"And when is the Universe's Finest Newspaper going to burst forth
with 'Bat Captured by BLADE Reporter?'" he queried sardonically.
"Oh, for--lay off it, will you?" said the city editor peevishly.
"The Old Man's been hopping around about it for two months till
everybody's plumb cuckoo. Even offered a bonus--a big one--and
that shows how crazy he is--he doesn't love a nickel any better
than his right eye--for any sort of exclusive story.
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