"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-bloodied murderers all the same.
"Bill! You're giving me the shivers!"
"Am I?" The edit or 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."
His companion rose as well, but it was evident that the editor's theory had taken firm hold on his mind. As they went out the door together he recurred to the subject.
"Honestly, though, Bill - were you serious, really serious - when you said you didn't know of a single detective with brains enough to trap this devil?"
The editor paused in the doorway. "Serious enough," he said. "And yet there's one man - I don't know him myself but from what I've heard of him, he might be able - but what's the use of speculating?"
"I'd like to know all the same," insisted the other, and laughed nervously. "We're moving out to the country next week ourselves - right in the Bat's new territory."
"We-el," said the editor, "you won't let it go any further? Of course it's just an idea of mine, but if the Bat ever came prowling around our place, the detective I'd try to get in touch with would be - " He put his lips close to his companion's ear and whispered a name.
The man whose name he whispered, oddly enough, was at that moment standing before his official superior in a quiet room not very far away. Tall, reticently good-looking and well, if inconspicuously, clothed and groomed, he by no means seemed the typical detective that the editor had spoken of so scornfully. He looked something like a college athlete who had kept up his training, something like a pillar of one of the more sedate financial houses. He could assume and discard a dozen manners in as many minutes, but, to the casual observer, the one thing certain about him would probably seem his utter lack of connection with the seamier side of existence. The key to his real secret of life, however, lay in his eyes. When in repose, as now, they were veiled and without unusual quality - but they were the eyes of a man who can wait and a man who can strike.
He stood perfectly easy before his chief for several moments before the latter looked up from his papers.
"Well, Anderson," he said at last, looking up, "I got your report on the Wilhenry burglary this morning. I'll tell you this about it - if you do a neater and quicker job in the next ten years, you can take this desk away from me. I'll give it to you. As it is, your name's gone up for promotion today; you deserved it long ago."
"Thank you, sir," replied the tall man quietly, "but I had luck with that case."
"Of course you had luck," said the chief. "Sit down, won't you, and have a cigar - if you can stand my brand. Of course you had luck, Anderson, but that isn't the point. It takes a man with brains to use a piece of luck as you used it. I've waited a long time here for a man with your sort of brains and, by Judas, for a while I thought they were all as dead as Pinkerton. But now I know there's one of them alive at any rate - and it's a hell of a relief."
"Thank you, sir," said the tall man, smiling and sitting down. He took a cigar and lit it. "That makes it easier, sir - your telling me that. Because - I've come to ask a favor."
"All right," responded the chief promptly. "Whatever it is, it's granted."
Anderson smiled again. "You'd better hear what it is first, sir. I don't want to put anything over on you."
"Try it!" said the chief. "What is it - vacation? Take as long as you like - within reason - you've earned it - I'll put it through today."
Anderson shook his head, "No sir - I don't want a vacation."
"Well," said the chief impatiently. "Promotion? I've told you about that. Expense money for anything - fill out a voucher and I'll O.K. it - be best man at your wedding - by Judas, I'll even do that!"
Anderson laughed. "No, sir - I'm not getting married and - I'm pleased about the promotion, of course - but it's not that. I want to be assigned to a certain case - that's all."
The chief's look grew searching. "H'm," he said. "Well, as I say, anything within reason. What case do you want to be assigned to?"
The muscles of Anderson's left hand tensed on the arm of his chair. He looked squarely at the chief. "I want a chance at the Bat!" he replied slowly.
The chief's face became expressionless. "I said - anything within reason," he responded softly, regarding Anderson keenly.
"I want a chance at the Bat!" repeated Anderson stubbornly. "If I've done good work so far - I want a chance at the Bat!"
The chief drummed on the desk. Annoyance and surprise were in his voice when he spoke.
"But look here, Anderson," he burst out finally. "Anything else and I'll - but what's the use? I said a minute ago, you had brains - but now, by Judas, I doubt it! If anyone else wanted a chance at the Bat, I'd give it to them and gladly - I'm hard-boiled. But you're too valuable a man to be thrown away!"
"I'm no more valuable than Wentworth would have been."
"Maybe not - and look what happened to him! A bullet hole in his heart - and thirty years of work that he might have done thrown away! No, Anderson, I've found two first-class men since I've been at this desk - Wentworth and you. He asked for his chance; I gave it to him - turned him over to the Government - and lost him. Good detectives aren't so plentiful that I can afford to lose you both."
"Wentworth was a friend of mine," said Anderson softly. His knuckles were white dints in the hand that gripped the chair. "Ever since the Bat got him I've wanted my chance. Now my other work's cleaned up - and I still want it."
"But I tell you - " began the chief in tones of high exasperation. Then he stopped and looked at his protege. There was a silence for a time.
"Oh, well - " said the chief finally in a hopeless voice. "Go ahead - commit suicide - I'll send you a 'Gates Ajar' a
nd a card, 'Here lies a damn fool who would have been a great detective if he hadn't been so pig-headed.' Go ahead!"
Anderson rose. "Thank you, sir," he said in a deep voice. His eyes had light in them now. "I can't thank you enough, sir."
"Don't try," grumbled the chief. "If I weren't as much of a damn fool as you are I wouldn't let you do it. And if I weren't so damn old, I'd go after the slippery devil myself and let you sit here and watch me get brought in with an infernal paper bat pinned where my shield ought to be. The Bat's supernatural, Anderson. You haven't a chance in the world but it does me good all the same to shake hands with a man with brains and nerve," and he solemnly wrung Anderson's hand in an iron grip. Anderson smiled. "The cagiest bat flies once too often," he said. "I'm not promising anything, chief, but - "
"Maybe," said the chief. "Now wait a minute, keep your shirt on, you're not going out bat hunting this minute, you know - "
"Sir? I thought I - "
"Well, you're not," said the chief decidedly. "I've still some little respect for my own intelligence and it tells me to get all the work out of you I can, before you start wild-goose chasing after this - this bat out of hell. The first time he's heard of again - and it shouldn't be long from the fast way he works - you're assigned to the case. That's understood. Till then, you do what I tell you - and it'll be work, believe me!"
"All right, sir," Anderson laughed and turned to the door. "And - thank you again."
He went out. The door closed. The chief remained for some minutes looking at the door and shaking his head. "The best man I've had in years - except Wentworth," he murmured to himself. "And throwing himself away - to be killed by a cold-blooded devil that nothing human can catch - you're getting old, John Grogan - but, by Judas, you can't blame him, can you? If you were a man in the prime like him, by Judas, you'd be doing it yourself. And yet it'll go hard - losing him - "
He turned back to his desk and his papers. But for some minutes he could not pay attention to the papers. There was a shadow on them - a shadow that blurred the typed letters - the shadow of bat's wings.
CHAPTER TWO
THE INDOMITABLE MISS VAN GORDER
Miss Cornelis Van Gorder, indomitable spinster, last bearer of a name which had been great in New York when New York was a red-roofed Nieuw Amsterdam and Peter Stuyvesant a parvenu, sat propped up in bed in the green room of her newly rented country house reading the morning newspaper. Thus seen, with an old soft Paisley shawl tucked in about her thin shoulders and without the stately gray transformation that adorned her on less intimate occasions, - she looked much less formidable and more innocently placid than those could ever have imagined who had only felt the bite of her tart wit at such functions as the state Van Gorder dinners. Patrician to her finger tips, independent to the roots of her hair, she preserved, at sixty-five, a humorous and quenchless curiosity in regard to every side of life, which even the full and crowded years that already lay behind her had not entirely satisfied. She was an Age and an Attitude, but she was more than that; she had grown old without growing dull or losing touch with youth - her face had the delicate strength of a fine cameo and her mild and youthful heart preserved an innocent zest for adventure.
Wide travel, social leadership, the world of art and books, a dozen charities, an existence rich with diverse experience - all these she had enjoyed energetically and to the full - but she felt, with ingenious vanity, that there were still sides to her character which even these had not brought to light. As a little girl she had hesitated between wishing to be a locomotive engineer or a famous bandit - and when she had found, at seven, that the accident of sex would probably debar her from either occupation, she had resolved fiercely that some time before she died she would show the world in general and the Van Gorder clan in particular that a woman was quite as capable of dangerous exploits as a man. So far her life, while exciting enough at moments, had never actually been dangerous and time was slipping away without giving her an opportunity to prove her hardiness of heart. Whenever she thought of this the fact annoyed her extremely - and she thought of it now.
She threw down the morning paper disgustedly. Here she was at 65 - rich, safe, settled for the summer in a delightful country place with a good cook, excellent servants, beautiful gardens and grounds - everything as respectable and comfortable as - as a limousine! And out in the world people were murdering and robbing each other, floating over Niagara Falls in barrels, rescuing children from burning houses, taming tigers, going to Africa to hunt gorillas, doing all sorts of exciting things! She could not float over Niagara Falls in a barrel; Lizzie Allen, her faithful old maid, would never let her! She could not go to Africa to hunt gorillas; Sally Ogden, her sister, would never let her hear the last of it. She could not even, as she certainly would if the were a man, try and track down this terrible creature, the Bat!
She sniffed disgruntledly. Things came to her much too easily. Take this very house she was living in. Ten days ago she had decided on the spur of the moment - a decision suddenly crystallized by a weariness of charitable committees and the noise and heat of New York - to take a place in the country for the summer. It was late in the renting season - even the ordinary difficulties of finding a suitable spot would have added some spice to the quest - but this ideal place had practically fallen into her lap, with no trouble or search at all. Courtleigh Fleming, president of the Union Bank, who had built the house on a scale of comfortable magnificence - Courtleigh Fleming had died suddenly in the West when Miss Van Gorder was beginning her house hunting. The day after his death her agent had called her up. Richard Fleming, Courtleigh Fleming's nephew and heir, was anxious to rent the Fleming house at once. If she made a quick decision it was hers for the summer, at a bargain. Miss Van Gorder had decided at once; she took an innocent pleasure in bargains. The next day the keys were hers - the servants engaged to stay on - within a week she had moved. All very pleasant and easy no doubt - adventure - pooh!
And yet she could not really say that her move to the country had brought her no adventures at all. There had been - things. Last night the lights had gone off unexpectedly and Billy, the Japanese butler and handy man, had said that he had seen a face at one of the kitchen windows - a face that vanished when he went to the window. Servants' nonsense, probably, but the servants seemed unusually nervous for people who were used to the country. And Lizzie, of course, had sworn that she had seen a man trying to get up the stairs but Lizzie could grow hysterical over a creaking door. Still - it was queer! And what had that affable Doctor Wells said to her - "I respect your courage, Miss Van Gorder - moving out into the Bat's home country, you know!" She picked up the paper again. There was a map of the scene of the Bat's most recent exploits and, yes, three of his recent crimes had been within a twenty-mile radius of this very spot. She thought it over and gave a little shudder of pleasurable fear. Then she dismissed the thought with a shrug. No chance! She might live in a lonely house, two miles from the railroad station, all summer long - and the Bat would never disturb her. Nothing ever did.
She had skimmed through the paper hurriedly; now a headline caught her eye. Failure of Union Bank - wasn't that the bank of which Courtleigh Fleming had been president? She settled down to read the article but it was disappointingly brief. The Union Bank had closed its doors; the cashier, a young man named Bailey, was apparently under suspicion; the article mentioned Courtleigh Fleming's recent and tragic death in the best vein of newspaperese. She laid down the paper and thought - Bailey - Bailey - she seemed to have a vague recollection of hearing about a young man named Bailey who worked in a bank - but she could not remember where or by whom his name had been mentioned.
Well - it didn't matter. She had other things to think about. She must ring for Lizzie - get up and dress. The bright morning sun, streaming in through the long window, made lying in bed an old woman's luxury and she refused to be an old woman.
"Though the worst old woman I ever knew was a man!" she thought with a satiric twinkle. She was
glad Sally's daughter - young Dale Ogden - was here in the house with her. The companionship of Dale's bright youth would keep her from getting old-womanish if anything could.
She smiled, thinking of Dale. Dale was a nice child - her favorite niece. Sally didn't understand her, of course - but Sally wouldn't. Sally read magazine articles on the younger generation and its wild ways. "Sally doesn't remember when she was a younger generation herself," thought Miss Cornelia. "But I do - and if we didn't have automobiles, we had buggies - and youth doesn't change its ways just because it has cut its hair. Before Mr. and Mrs. Ogden left for Europe, Sally had talked to her sister Cornelia ... long and weightily, on the problem of Dale. "Problem of Dale, indeed!" thought Miss Cornelia scornfully. "Dale's the nicest thing I've seen in some time. She'd be ten times happier if Sally wasn't always trying to marry her off to some young snip with more of what fools call 'eligibility' than brains! But there, Cornelia Van Gorder - Sally's given you your innings by rampaging off to Europe and leaving Dale with you all summer and you've a lot less sense than I flatter myself you have, if you can't give your favorite niece a happy vacation from all her immediate family - and maybe find her someone who'll make her happy for good and all in the bargain." Miss Cornelia was an incorrigible matchmaker.
Nevertheless, she was more concerned with "the problem of Dale" than she would have admitted. Dale, at her age, with her charm and beauty - why, she ought to behave as if she were walking on air, thought her aunt worriedly. "And instead she acts more as if she were walking on pins and needles. She seems to like being here - I know she likes me - I'm pretty sure she's just as pleased to get a little holiday from Sally and Harry - she amuses herself - she falls in with any plan I want to make, and yet - " And yet Dale was not happy - Miss Cornelia felt sure of it. "It isn't natural for a girl to seem so lackluster and - and quiet - at her age and she's nervous, too - as if something were preying on her mind - particularly these last few days. If she were in love with somebody - somebody Sally didn't approve of particularly - well, that would account for it, of course - but Sally didn't say anything that would make me think that - or Dale either - though I don't suppose Dale would, yet, even to me. I haven't seen so much of her in these last two years - "
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