Rat-faced gunmen in the dingy back rooms of saloons muttered over his exploits with bated breath.  In tawdrily gorgeous apartments, where gathered the larger figures, the proconsuls of the world of crime, cold, conscienceless brains dissected the work of a colder and swifter brain than theirs, with suave and bitter envy.  Evil’s Four Hundred chattered, discussed, debated—­sent out a thousand invisible tentacles to clutch at a shadow—­to turn this shadow and its distorted genius to their own ends.  The tentacles recoiled, baffled—­the Bat worked alone—­not even Evil’s Four Hundred could bend him into a willing instrument to execute another’s plan.

The men higher up waited.  They had dealt with lone wolves before and broken them.  Some day the Bat would slip and falter; then they would have him.  But the weeks passed into months and still the Bat flew free, solitary, untamed, and deadly.  At last even his own kind turned upon him; the underworld is like the upper in its fear and distrust of genius that flies alone.  But when they turned against him, they turned against a spook—­a shadow.  A cold and bodiless laughter from a pit of darkness answered and mocked at their bungling gestures of hate—­and went on, flouting Law and Lawless alike.

Where official trailer and private sleuth had failed, the newspapers might succeed—­or so thought the disillusioned young men of the Fourth Estate—­the tireless foxes, nose-down on the trail of news —­the trackers, who never gave up until that news was run to earth.  Star reporter, leg-man, cub, veteran gray in the trade—­one and all they tried to pin the Bat like a caught butterfly to the front page of their respective journals—­soon or late each gave up, beaten.  He was news—­bigger news each week—­a thousand ticking typewriters clicked his adventures—­the brief, staccato recital of his career in the morgues of the great dailies grew longer and more incredible each day.  But the big news—­the scoop of the century —­the yearned-for headline, “Bat Nabbed Red-Handed”, “Bat Slain in Gun Duel with Police”—­still eluded the ravenous maw of the Linotypes.  And meanwhile, the red-scored list of his felonies lengthened and the rewards offered from various sources for any clue which might lead to his apprehension mounted and mounted till they totaled a small fortune.

Columnists took him up, played with the name and the terror, used the name and the terror as a starting point from which to exhibit their own particular opinions on everything and anything.  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.