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. Bonus--huh!"
and he crushed out his cigarette. "It won't be a Blade reporter
that gets that bonus--or any reporter. It'll be Sherlock Holmes
from the spirit world!"

"Well--can't you dig up a Sherlock?"

The editor spread out his hands. "Now, look here," he said. "We've
got the best staff of any paper in the country, if I do say it.