us the tip. It’s a good thing we thought of mucilaging the edges of the cake where we inserted the saws. Quote the sheriff as saying the saws were baked in the cake.”
The press room at the Criminal Court was in a furor when the News scoop became known. Hurried trips to the sheriff’s quarters confirmed the story. There were the cake and the saws, and the sheriff telling how cleverly the work had been done. The Democrat and all the others had to run the story. The cake was mailed from Pass Christian, and correspondents there told of the tall, dark, foreign-looking man who had been seen skulking about the town, carrying a suspicious-looking parcel. None of these was acquainted with the business manager of the News.
Scarcely had the cake grown stale when another thriller quickened the heart-beats of the populace. This time holy-picture cards were the novel means of getting Aspara on the front pages. Innocent-looking post cards were mailed to the condemned man. But Sleuth Short was not taking any chances. The cards felt bulky. He opened one of them with his jackknife. A white powder spilled upon his desk. Aha! Someone trying to smuggle poison! Isn’t it damnable? And just then Mac appeared.
“Is it true that poison has been sent to Aspara?” he asked. The sheriff bellowed his anger. He cursed his underlings, but finally admitted the truth of the story.
“I know a great deal about poisons,” he said, “but this baffles me. I will send it to the city apothecary for analysis. That’s all that can be done now. But who the H— told you about it?”
At ten minutes to deadline Mac called the city editor.
“Went through swimmingly, John,” he said. “The quinine is to be sent to the city apothecary for analysis and that, you know, will mean a couple of months. Short says he knows a lot about ordinary poisons but this baffles him. Probably some deadly importation. Play that up. I forgot it when I wrote the story last night.”
The two big beats brought the News into its own again. Its public was back eating out of its hand, and the hanging was only a day off. “We just want one more sensation,” Keene said to Mac, “and the thing is done."
Mac was writing a sob story, to appear after the hanging, about the lone bouquet of faded flowers laid on the bier of the murderer by the frayed little woman that called him husband, when Keene made the suggestion. Mae thought a minute.
“I have it!” he said. “Spring a story today that a reprieve may be granted Aspara. That will disappoint the people tremendously and make them watch and hope that it fails.”
“Great!” shouted Keene. “John, call the governor on long-distance while Mac writes the story.”
The governor was asked whether he would grant a reprieve if Aspara made a confession implicating the Black Hand. Of course, he said he would. Then Mac hurried to the condemned cell and spoke to Aspara.
“I come with a message from the governor,” he said melodramatically as he approached the bars. “If you will confess what you know about the Mafia, the governor will grant you freedom."
Aspara shot a look of hate at the intruder.
“Me no confessa,” he snarled. “Me confessa to priest only.”
But that was enough.
“Aspara will carry his knowledge of the Mafia to his grave,” began the follow-up story. “He stolidly maintains his silence and even the offer of
