assignment. So Keene readily saw that the police run was where he properly belonged.
Scoop after scoop resulted from the transfer. The sedate morning papers contented themselves by ignoring these as “fakes,” but nevertheless the subscription list of the News grew rapidly and the street sales brought constant smiles in the business office.
But the efforts of the Index in the interest of the Aspara passing were bearing undeniable fruits. The paper was finding readers that heretofore had been absolutely faithful to the News, and a canvas of the News’ circulation showed a falling off for several days. Drastic steps must be taken.
“Mac,” said Keene, when the two were seated in his office, “we’ve got to do something. "We’re slipping. I want our hanging edition to break all known records, and I want our subscription list built up meanwhile.”
“I’ve written everything that had a semblance of fact in it,” said Mae, “and a whole lot more that had not even that. Truth is, this Aspara is dead from the collar up. If he led the Mafia, then it is a harmless thing. He spends his time with the priests and refuses to use even the little English he knows when we try to interview him. There’s only one thing to be done.”
“And that is—”
“Fake it and fake it strong.”
“What have you in mind?”
“A series of sensations inspired by ourselves. Let us put over some fakes so big and so truthful-seeming that even the old morning cronies will have to take notice. I’ll never be content until I make them print as follow-ups our worst fakes. They brand us as liars and by that means nullify our scoops when they are genuine scoops.”
“Go as far as you like, Mac. But what stories are there?”
“There are always stories; the air is full of them. Give me until tomorrow morning and I will submit a plan.”
Two days later a “box-car head” in the News told the city that a bold attempt to cheat the gallows of Aspara had been made. A cake had been mailed to him from a point in Mississippi. It was a harmless-looking confection of the sponge variety, but cleverly buried in it were two sharp saws. The cake was delivered at the prison about half an hour before the home edition’s deadline. It came in a special delivery package. Scarcely had it been received when Mac approached the sheriff.
“Sheriff Short,” he said excitedly, “is it true that weapons have been sent to Aspara concealed in a pie or cake?”
The sheriff was acutely surprized.
“Who in H— told you that?” he shouted. “There’s a leak somewhere in this office! Why, the cake has scarcely been cut! I demand that you tell me who informed you."
Mac looked innocent and rather hurt.
"Why, Sheriff, our office just called me to say that such a rumor reached them. Is it true ?"
“Well, since you know, it is true. Here’s the cake. It’s a clever piece of work, too. See how the saws have been baked right in it. See how the heat has tarnished them.”
Mac looked and concealed a smile.
“That’s what comes from long experience in detecting crime, Sheriff,” he said. “None but an expert would notice a thing like that.”
Then he hurried to a telephone.
“Let her go, John,” he said to the city editor. “The cake came and Sheriff Short is trying to find the leak in his office—the leak that gave
