THE BLACK STAR
[Illustration: A section of the floor had swung downward with a
crash._Frontispiece_]
The Black Star
A Detective Story
BY
JOHNSTON McCULLEY
_Frontispiece by_
EDGAR WITTMACK
CHELSEA HOUSE
79 Seventh Avenue, New York City
1921
Copyright, 1921
By CHELSEA HOUSE
The Black Star
All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign
languages, including the Scandinavian.
CONTENTS
- CHAPTER I—AN AIDED ESCAPE
- CHAPTER II—THE BLACK STAR
- CHAPTER III—INTO THE PIT
- CHAPTER IV—ROGUE FOR A DAY
- CHAPTER V—MUGGS ON GUARD
- CHAPTER VI—AN UNPROFITABLE AFTERNOON
- CHAPTER VII—IDENTICAL ORDERS
- CHAPTER VIII—THE POLICE GET A TIP
- CHAPTER IX—“CHICKENS COME HOME TO ROOST”
- CHAPTER X—CAUGHT IN A NET
- CHAPTER XI—CLOSE QUARTERS
- CHAPTER XII—AT THE CHARITY BALL
- CHAPTER XIII—MUGGS—GREAT LITTLE MAN
- CHAPTER XIV—UNEXPECTED NEWS
- CHAPTER XV—THE CHALLENGE
- CHAPTER XVI—A NOCTURNAL VISIT
- CHAPTER XVII—INTERRUPTED CONVERSATION
- CHAPTER XVIII—MYSTERIES
- CHAPTER XIX—SUSPICION
- CHAPTER XX—THE VOICE ON THE WIRE
- CHAPTER XXI—THE END OF THE WIRE
- CHAPTER XXII—ON THE SCENT
- CHAPTER XXXII.—INTO THE VAULT
- CHAPTER XXIV—HOW IT ENDED
- CHAPTER XXV—SHADOWED BY THREE
- CHAPTER XXVI—A MAN OF MYSTERY
- CHAPTER XXVII—IN BLACK STAR’S HANDS
- CHAPTER XXVIII—THE POLICE LAUNCH
- CHAPTER XXIX—BLACK STAR TAKES A TRICK
- CHAPTER XXX—MUGGS IN ACTION
- CHAPTER XXXI—IN THE BANK
- CHAPTER XXXII—A NARROW ESCAPE
- CHAPTER XXXIII—PUZZLED POLICE
- CHAPTER XXXIV—WHAT HAPPENED TO THE CHIEF
- CHAPTER XXXV—AN UNEXPECTED BLOW
- CHAPTER XXXVI—IN CUSTODY
THE BLACK STAR
CHAPTER I—AN AIDED ESCAPE
Winds whistled up the river, and winds whistled down from the hills,
and they met to swirl and gather fury and rattle the city’s millions
of windowpanes. They carried a mixture of sleet and fine snow, the
first herald of the winter to come. In the business district they
swung signs madly back and forth, and roared around the corners of
high office buildings, and swept madly against struggling trolley
cars. They poured through the man-made cañons; they dashed out the
broad boulevards—and so they came to the attention of Mr. Roger
Verbeck, at about the hour of midnight, as he turned over in his warm
bed and debated whether to rise and lower the window or take a chance
with the rapidly lowering temperature.
“Beastly night!” Verbeck confided to himself, and put his head beneath
the covers.
He slept—and suddenly he awakened. A moment before he had been in the
midst of a pleasant dream; now every sense was alert, and his right
hand, creeping softly under the cover, reached the side of the bed and
grasped an automatic pistol that hung in a rack there.
From the adjoining room—his library—there came no flash of an electric
torch, no footfall, no sound foreign to the apartment, nothing to
indicate the presence of an intruder. Yet Verbeck sensed that an
intruder was there.
He slipped quietly from the bed, shivering a bit because of the cold
wind, put his feet into slippers, and drew on a dressing gown over his
pajamas. Then, his pistol held ready for use in case of emergency, he
started across the bedroom, taking short steps and walking on his
toes.
A reflection entered the room from the arc light on the nearest street
corner. This uncertain light was shut off for an instant, and Verbeck
whirled quickly, silently, to find another man slipping up beside him.
It was Muggs—a little, wiry man of uncertain age, who had been in
Verbeck’s employ for several years, valet at times, comrade in arms at
times, willing adventurer always. Muggs bent forward until his lips
were close to Verbeck’s ear.
“I heard it, too, boss,” he said. “Somebody in the library!”
Verbeck nodded; they crept nearer the door. Inch by inch, Verbeck
pulled aside one of the curtains, until they could peer into the other
room. A gleam from the corner arc light penetrated the library, too.
It revealed the interior of the room in a sort of semi-gloom, causing
elusive shadows that flitted here and there in such fashion that they
scarcely could be distinguished from substance. Also, it revealed an
open window near the fire escape—and it showed the form of a man
standing before Verbeck’s antique desk in a corner.
Muggs bent beneath his master’s arm to see better. He felt Verbeck
grip his shoulder, and looked up to find him indicating the open
window. Like a shadow, Muggs, who also held a weapon in his hand,
slipped through the curtains, crept along the wall, and advanced
toward that window to cut off the intruder’s retreat.
An instant Verbeck waited; then he stepped into the room, found the
electric switch, and snapped on the lights, and leveled his automatic.
The man before the desk whirled with a snarl that showed two rows of
jagged, uneven, yellow teeth. He took in the situation at a glance,
saw Muggs at the window, and Verbeck at the door, and knew he had been
caught in a trap. His eyes narrowed and flashed; he bent forward,
giving the appearance of a rat at bay, and his hand dropped slowly
toward his hip.
“Better not!” There was a certain quality in Verbeck’s voice that told
the burglar the man before him was neither nervous nor afraid, and
would shoot if necessary. The thief’s hands went above his head in
token of surrender, and the belligerent light that had been in his
eyes faded.
“It appears,” said Verbeck, “that we have discovered you in a delicate
position.”
“Aw, don’t try to be clever! I guess you’ve got me, all right!”
“Rather unceremonious, this call,” Verbeck went on. “Why didn’t you
send up your card from the office?”
“Aw——”
“Be seated, please!”
Still holding his hands above his head, the burglar took the chair
Verbeck indicated.
“Now, Muggs——” Verbeck said.
Muggs had been waiting for the word. He sprang away from the window
and took the cords from the portières. Working swiftly, he bound the
burglar’s hands behind his back, then fastened them to the chair. Then
he assumed the rôle of guard, and Verbeck lowered his pistol and
walked toward the desk.
“I fancy you didn’t find much, my man,” he said. “This is a bachelor
apartment, you know, and there is little of value in the library
unless you seek books or pictures.”
“Aw——”
“If you had entered the dressing room now—— But, of course, if you had
done that, Muggs probably would have filled you full of lead first,
and made a complete investigation afterward. It is better for you that
you didn’t enter there. Why you should crawl into a bachelor’s
apartment, when there are so many pretentious residences where silver
and plate are to be found, not to speak of women’s jewels, is more
than I can fathom. You must be an amateur at this sort of thing. Um!
What is this?”
On the desk was a sealed letter addressed to Mr. Roger Verbeck, the
address having been stamped with rubber type. In one corner of the
envelope had been pasted a tiny black star. On the polished surface of
the desk other little black stars had been pasted. There was one also
on a vase. There was another on the glass door of a bookcase.
“The Black Star!” Verbeck exclaimed.
He turned swiftly to scrutinize his prisoner, but there was no
expression on the man’s face to denote that he showed interest, and he
was looking at the floor. Muggs was watching the bound thief closely,
but his dancing eyes and parted lips showed that Verbeck’s words had
interested him deeply.
“So! We are honored by a visit from the Black Star, Muggs!” Verbeck
said. “Think of that! The cleverest crook the town ever had to worry
over—the man who got the famous Smith diamonds and cracked a safe
across the street from police headquarters, who has lifted half the
silver in town and stripped society women of their jewels—and he has
paid us a visit. We must be getting important, Muggs—eh?”
“Yes, sir,” said Muggs.
“Well, well! The man every one is looking for and cannot find, who has
been sending naughty notes to the police, telling them how dull they
are. I understand he even tips off what he intends doing, and then
does it under their very noses. Very clever chap—for a crook! Declares
all the detectives in the world can’t catch him! Um! Suppose we see
what is in this letter.”
He grinned at the prisoner and ripped the envelope open. In it was a
single sheet of paper. The letter, too, was printed, and its uneven
lines showed that it had been stamped one letter at a time. It was
similar in appearance to the letters the newspapers declared the
police had received. Verbeck read it swiftly:
Mr. Roger Verbeck: Last night at a certain reception people were
talking of the Black Star. You made the remark that the Black
Star was not a crook, but a gang—that the police didn’t catch
him because they had so many cases on which to work that they
couldn’t give their undivided attention to any particular one.
You declared that any clever man who applied himself to the task
could capture the Black Star and break up his gang. You boasted
that you could do it yourself, and easily.
To show you how useless it would be for you to pit your brains
and skill against mine, I am putting this letter on your desk
while you sleep in an adjoining room, and am leaving my sign on
some of your belongings. I am even putting a black star in your
bed within a foot of the spot where you rest your head while you
are sleeping. After this exhibition, either admit that the Black
Star is clever, or do as you boasted you could do—catch me.
“Read it, Muggs,” said Verbeck, guarding the prisoner himself as Muggs
obeyed. “What do you think of that, eh? Intended us to wake up and
find these things stuck all over the place! Trying to show us how very
clever he is, this naughty Black Star, and we catch him at it.
There’ll be joy at police headquarters over this. Now you just keep
your eyes on this gentleman, Muggs, while I get into my clothes, and
then we’ll continue the entertainment.”
Verbeck hurried to the dressing room, leaving Muggs on guard, and
dressed as swiftly as possible. He carried a topcoat and cap to a
chair near the door of the bedroom, and then he hurried over to the
bed.
The Black Star had done as he had said. On the head of the bed was one
of the little signs, and whoever had placed it there had put his hand
within six inches of Verbeck’s head. The man in the other room,
Verbeck decided, had done that first, then gone into the library to
finish his work.
Verbeck hurried back and relieved Muggs.
“Go and get into your clothes,” he ordered, “and then hurry back here.
I’ll try to entertain our guest while you are gone.”
He drew up a chair and sat down, facing the prisoner, and less than
six feet away. He was humming a tune, and there was a smile playing
about his lips. Had the prisoner been well acquainted with Roger
Verbeck that smile would have put him on guard.
Verbeck already had formed a plan. He and Muggs understood each other
well, thanks to sundry adventures in which they had participated in
the four corners of the earth, and he knew that Muggs even now was
reading the note he had scrawled hurriedly and left on the dressing
table, and would act accordingly.
“The Black Star—well, well!” he exclaimed, grinning at his prisoner
again. “And so you are the clever crook?”
“I’m not saying anything!”
“You decorated the head of my bed with that thing, I suppose?”
“You can suppose all you like.”
“Thanks! Rather surly, aren’t you?”
“You hand me over to the police, and you’ll get yours!” said the
prisoner.
“Are you, by any chance, trying to frighten me?”
“I’m giving you fair warning. You hand me over and you won’t live long
to gloat about it!”
Roger Verbeck grinned again and resumed his humming. His eyes never
left the prisoner, but he was thinking deeply. In the first place, the
letter from the Black Star bothered him. The remarks that the Black
Star accused him of making he had made. But the puzzling part of it
was that he had made them to half a dozen friends when there was no
stranger near. He had spoken them in a drawing-room in the presence of
Faustina Wendell, his fiancée; Howard Wendell, her brother, and some
others concerning whose integrity there was no question. How, then,
had the Black Star heard of them?
The Black Star had terrorized the city for the past four months.
Whenever a master crime was committed a tiny black star had been found
pasted on something at the scene of operations. The police had been
unable to get a clew. Each crime seemed bolder and more daring than
the one before, and more highly successful. The Black Star sent
taunting letters to the newspapers and police, and the public demanded
his arrest and imprisonment with loud voice.
His crimes, too, showed a deep knowledge of private matters. It
appeared that the Black Star knew the interior arrangements of
residences he robbed. Sometimes he even knew the combinations of
safes—for in two instances a safe had been opened and looted, and then
properly closed again, but with a tiny black star inside it. He was
aware when valuable jewels were taken from safe-deposit boxes to be
worn at some affair; he knew when members of families were out of the
city, or servants absent. He had shown in a thousand ways that he
possessed knowledge of great value to a criminal.
Roger Verbeck’s boast had not been an idle one. He believed sincerely
that no crook could be so clever but what some honest man could match
wits with him and win. He believed, too, that the Black Star did not
work alone, but was the leader of a band. Not for an instant did
Verbeck think the man he had taken prisoner was the notorious Black
Star, but it pleased him to let the prisoner believe he did.
His first impulse had been to call the police and hand the man over.
But he guessed that such a course would not insure the capture of the
master crook, and that the prisoner would refuse to talk, take a
sentence for burglary, and thus allow the Black Star and the others to
go free.
It would be clever, Verbeck decided, to allow this man to escape, to
shadow him, and to learn more. Roger Verbeck had adventured with Muggs
scores of times, and he yearned for an adventure now. Here was his
chance. Besides, the Black Star had issued the challenge.
Muggs returned fully dressed. For an instant the eyes of master and
man met, and there flashed between them an understanding.
“Better look at this chap’s bonds, Muggs,” Verbeck said. “We don’t
want him escaping before the police come.”
Muggs bent behind the prisoner’s chair and fumbled with the cord, and
when he arose his eyes met those of Verbeck again, and Verbeck knew
that Muggs had obeyed orders.
“Now go down and call the house manager,” he directed, “and I’ll
telephone the police.”
Muggs hurried out into the hall. Verbeck left his chair and stepped
back to the door of the bedroom.
“I fancy you’ll be secure for a moment or so,” he told the prisoner.
“You’ll scarcely get away unless you carry that chair with you.”
He backed through the curtains, grasped his topcoat and cap, and
crossed the room on his toes and unlocked the hall door. To cover the
sound of the key turning in the lock, he spoke as if calling a number
on the telephone.
“Hello! Police headquarters?” he asked. “This is Roger Verbeck
speaking. Hurry up here! I’ve just caught the Black Star trying to
loot my rooms. My old address—yes!”
And while he spoke he opened the door, so that his voice would drown
any squeak the hinges might give; and then he slipped into the hall
and hurried to the front stairs. He dashed down the three flights four
steps at a time.
The prisoner had tugged desperately at his bonds and had felt them
give. With sudden hope, he had worked furiously to get free. He was
through the window and descending the fire escape as Verbeck finished
the imaginary telephone message to the police, exulting at what he
fondly thought had been his close escape.