"But look here, Bill, you don't mean to tell me he'll keep on getting away with it indefinitely?"
The editor frowned. "Confidentially--I don't know," he said with a chuckle: "The situation's this: for the first time the super-crook--the super-crook of fiction--the kind that never makes a mistake--has come to life--real life. And it'll take a cleverer man than any Central Office dick I've ever met to catch him!"
"Then you don't think he's just an ordinary crook with a lot of luck?"
"I do not." The editor was emphatic. "He's much brainier. Got a ghastly sense of humor, too. Look at the way he leaves his calling card after every job--a black paper bat inside the Marshall safe--a bat drawn on the wall with a burnt match where he'd jimmied the Cedarburg Bank--a real bat, dead, tacked to the mantelpiece over poor old Allison's body. Oh, he's in a class by himself--and I very much doubt if he was a crook at all for most of his life."
"You mean?"
"I mean this. The police have been combing the underworld for him; I don't think he comes from there. I think they've got to look higher, up in our world, for a brilliant man with a kink in the brain. He may be a Doctor, a lawyer, a merchant, honored in his community by day--good line that, I'll use it some time--and at night, a bloodthirsty assassin. Deacon Brodie--ever hear of him--the Scotch deacon that burgled his parishioners' houses on the quiet? Well--that's our man."
"But my Lord, Bill--"
"I know. I've been going around the last month, looking at everybody I knew and thinking--are you the Bat? Try it for a while. You'll want to sleep with a light in your room after a few days of it. Look around the University Club--that white-haired man over there--dignified--respectable--is he the Bat? Your own lawyer--your own Doctor--your own best friend. Can happen you know--look at those Chicago boys--the thrill-killers. Just brilliant students--likeable boys--to the people that taught them--and cold-blooded murderers all the same."
"Bill! You're giving me the shivers!"
"Am I?" The editor laughed grimly. "Think it over. No, it isn't so pleasant.--But that's my theory--and I swear I think I'm right." He rose.
His companion laughed uncertainly.
"How about you, Bill--are you the Bat?"
The editor smiled. "See," he said, "it's got you already. No, I can prove an alibi. The Bat's been laying off the city recently--taking a fling at some of the swell suburbs. Besides I haven't the brains--I'm free to admit it." He struggled into his coat. "Well, let's talk about something else. I'm sick of the Bat and his murders."