That evening there came the heavy winds again. They came as night
descended, to howl about buildings and shriek through the streets,
carrying the merest suggestion of snow. They swayed the arc lights,
rattled signs, and shook skeletons of trees. And then they settled
down to a steady blow from the north, and soft snow began to fall
heavily. And through the steady sheet of snow gleamed thousands upon
thousands of incandescent bulbs at the big hall where the Charity Ball
was to be held.
That hall had been built to hold thousands, and its capacity would be
tested this night. On the dancing floor would be women famous in
society, stately matrons, pretty girls enjoying their first social
season. Gowns to dazzle would be shown by hundreds, and
jewels—precious and famous jewels—would flash reflection from myriads
of electric lights—jewels taken from safe-deposit boxes to be worn at
this affair, and then to be returned to their hiding places.
The galleries would be filled with spectators; a gigantic orchestra
would please musical ears; in the streets outside, hundreds of
limousines would be waiting for the end.
Verbeck was thinking of the scene at the big hall as he drove his
roadster out to the old place again shortly after ten o’clock that
night. He had intended going to the old house earlier, but had been
delayed in carrying out his plans. And now everything was done—there
was nothing more to do except await the appointed hour, call police
headquarters, ascertain that the members of the Black Star’s band were
in jail, and then turn over the Black Star himself. He would have a
good excuse to escape the plaudits of the police and reporters at
headquarters—he would have to hurry to the big hall to dance with his
fiancée and escort her to her home.
The gates were open, and Verbeck sent the car through and along the
driveway, and brought it to a stop where it would be shielded by the
corner of the house from the swirling snow.
When he entered the living room, the Black Star was sitting on the
divan in the corner, and Muggs was pacing back and forth before him,
still preaching on the merits of an honest existence as compared to a
life of thievery.
“Everything is lovely, boss,” he reported to Verbeck. “This gent has
been getting restless, but he hasn’t made a move he shouldn’t. I’ve
been hoping he would—I haven’t taken a pot shot at a man in ages.”
“We’ll have no carnage, Muggs,” said Verbeck, laughing. “We want to
hand him over entire, not in pieces. Give me that pistol, and I’ll
watch the gentleman while you untie his hands and fasten them again in
front instead of behind his back. I’m going to give him a cigar to
smoke; he’ll need it to quiet his nerves.”
Muggs did as he was ordered, and the Black Star accepted the cigar
with good grace and puffed at it with evident enjoyment.
“Do we call the police now, boss?” Muggs asked.
“Not yet, Muggs.”
“You and I have done a lot of things, boss, in all corners of the
world,” he said in a whisper, so the Black Star could not hear. “When
you feel that you can’t hold in any longer, you make me stop being a
valet, and let me be a comrade, and we go out after adventure. It’s
always been all right. But, about this thing—— Boss, I told you I had
a hunch.”
“I’m afraid your hunch isn’t working well this time, Muggs. The thing
has been accomplished. I’m merely waiting here until the police make a
move I requested them to make, and then we’ll surrender the Black
Star. It hasn’t been so very much of an adventure, after all, has it,
old man? There hasn’t been much excitement—not what we call
excitement.”
“I’ll not be satisfied until the police have their hands on him,
boss.”
“Neither shall I. But nothing is going to happen, Muggs, to bother us.
Keep that hunch of yours until another time.”
Muggs resumed his guard of the prisoner, and, though he asked Verbeck
nothing concerning the plans he had made, there was a question in the
expression of his face. Verbeck lighted a cigar for himself, and sat
down not far from the Black Star. He looked at his watch.
“It is half after ten,” he announced. “Mr. Black Star, in exactly an
hour and a half the police will take into custody some of your people;
eight men and two women, to be exact.”
“Indeed?”
“Exactly,” said Verbeck.
“Would you mind telling me how this is to be done? I am somewhat
interested and wholly skeptical.”
“Last night,” said Verbeck, “I assumed your robe and mask, and played
at being the Black Star. I destroyed the orders you had prepared,
countermanded all of which I learned, and issued new orders of my own.
There was no hitch in the arrangement. Not one of them became
suspicious as far as I could see.”
“And the orders?” the Black Star asked, interest showing in his face.
“Were the same in each instance,” said Verbeck. “The orders make it
possible for the police to round up the entire gang at one swoop.
They’ll be kept separate until I turn you over and tell all I know.
With those facts upon which to work the detectives will have no
trouble getting confessions. As for you—Muggs and I can swear to
enough to convict you, especially after the police have searched that
house where you had your headquarters.”
There was a look of apprehension in the Black Star’s face now, but he
did not pretend to Verbeck that he was alarmed.
“May I ask how you expect to catch these persons?” he asked.
“Yes—and I’ll tell you. There was a flaw in your perfect arrangement,
Mr. Black Star. You taught your crooks to work in the dark, and not
ask questions. They have faith in you; and if you ordered one of them
to enter the First National Bank at noon and hold up the first teller
to the right, he’d perhaps do it, believing that his work was only a
part of a big scheme and that he’d escape consequences because of some
plan of yours.”
“True,” said the Black Star. “I have issued orders that seemed
dangerous, but were not so when a man knew all the different angles of
my plan.”
“Exactly. And so, when I gave orders that seemed dangerous, scarcely
an objection was raised. You want to know how they are to be captured,
eh? Here is a copy of the orders I gave each, Mr. Black Star, listen
to it!”
Verbeck pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and read:
“You will dress as well as possible—evening clothes if you
can—and attend the Charity Ball. I give you herewith money for
ticket and other expenses. You will mingle with the crowd on the
dance floor, and, working alone, lift all the jewels you can. Be
careful of discovery, but do not fear the outcome. Between ten
o’clock and midnight will be the best time for you to do your
work.
“Exactly at midnight you will be in the southwest corner of the
lobby, where there is a drinking fountain. Before going there
put a bit of red ribbon on the lapel of your coat. If you see
others wearing this sign, do not speak to them or give them any
attention. Follow these instructions to the letter, and our
great plans will be consummated. It is to be a big clean-up, and
all arrangements have been made.”
Verbeck ceased reading, and looked across at the Black Star.
“You understand?” he asked. “Each one thinks he does not know all the
plan, but will be safe if he carries out his instructions. I gave each
a bill out of the drawer in the table, and I told the women to wear
the red ribbon on their shoulders. A score or more of detectives will
be in the neighborhood. At midnight they will take in custody all who
wear the red ribbon. A quick search will disclose stolen property in
their possession. You see? I don’t know whether I’m guilty of a felony
or not, ordering them to steal like that, but I guess I’ll be
forgiven, since it is in such a good cause.
“So there goes your perfect arrangement, Mr. Black Star. Those crooks
who have been trusting you will be cursing your name before long. And
you’re going to the penitentiary with them. You can’t be crooked and
get away with it always—no matter how clever you are. And all this,
Mr. Black Star, because you overplayed your part by sending a man to
put a letter on my desk. You needn’t sneer—I’m not meaning to praise
myself. There are a thousand men in town who could have overcome you,
given the chance I had.”
“I am not sneering at your egotism,” said the Black Star, apparently
without emotion. “I am sneering at the futility of your plans. I
warned you, Roger Verbeck. I told you that chickens come home to
roost. So you’ll send my men and women to jail, will you? You’ll break
up my organization? You strike me a deathblow like that—and you’ll
strike yourself one at the same time.”
“I’ve heard your pointless talk before,” Verbeck said.
“But this is not pointless talk, Roger Verbeck. It is very much to the
point. I told you that I had an organization that gathered
information, didn’t I? I said it was separate and distinct from the
band that committed the crimes. You have made the grave mistake, I
fear, of mixing the two bands together—and the consequences will not
be to your liking.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes—indeed! How do you suppose I heard of your boast at that
reception a few nights ago? How do you suppose I know so much about
people’s private affairs? I’ll tell you, Roger Verbeck—I know because
men and women of your acquaintance belong to my organization. You
don’t believe that, eh? You will—soon.”
“I scarcely can imagine any of my friends turning crook.”
“Not voluntarily, perhaps. Not because they need money, either—not
always.”
“Explain,” Verbeck said.
“I’ve told you I have a partner who knows me well—he and I work
together. Some of the organization know him, but not one knows me, nor
has seen my face or heard my voice. If you are skeptical, I’ll outline
the plan in a few words. In Chicago, for instance, we caught a certain
youngster of this city when he was in trouble. He was extricated from
his scrape, and the price of it was that he join my organization. We
held something over his head. Deathly afraid, he carried out my
orders; he feared to refuse. Through him we brought into the
organization the girl to whom he was betrothed—threatening to send her
sweetheart to prison unless she joined the band. You see? A sort of
endless-chain affair.”
“I don’t believe it!” Verbeck exclaimed.
“You want proof, eh? In ten minutes, Roger Verbeck, you’ll be giving
me my liberty, and you’ll be moving heaven and earth, with me beside
you, trying to prevent the capture of those people at the Charity
Ball. You know who told me of your boast at that reception? He told me
because he admires your native cleverness—begged me to stop everything
and leave town, for, he said, if you started out to get me you’d do
it.”
“He was a sensible man, and you should have taken his advice,” said
Verbeck.
“I am telling you the truth, Verbeck. The man who told me was Howard
Wendell, the brother of the girl you expect to marry.”
“You lie!” Verbeck cried, springing from his chair. Muggs snarled, and
stepped forward, ready for a fray, but Verbeck motioned him back.
“I do not lie,” said the Black Star. “I told you to beware, that the
chickens might come home to roost. Two months ago Howard Wendell was
in Chicago on some business for his uncle. We knew him—we wanted him.
A man already a member of the organization saw to it that Howard
Wendell went the pace for a few days. He is but a boy, we’ll say—he
was easily led. He woke up one morning to find that he had gambled
away three thousand dollars of his uncle’s money. He was almost insane
because of what he had done. His friend took him to my partner; my
partner gave him the money.”
“But that——”
“Wait! In return he gave my partner a check drawn on a bank in this
city. Of course it was a forged check. Oh, he did not intend it as
deceit! He said the check was worthless. My partner laughed and said
he knew it, but that he would keep it until the boy could pay—if he
never paid, it would be all right. My partner, you see, owned the
gambling house where the money was lost. You begin to understand?”
Verbeck still stood before him, hands clenched.
“But the next day he was informed that the check would be presented,
would be returned, and that he would be arrested for having written
it—unless he did as he was ordered. That is how Howard Wendell became
a member of our organization.”
“You beat!” Verbeck cried.
“Don’t beat me up yet—please,” sneered the Black Star. “If you stop to
do that you’ll suffer considerable anguish later. I am not done—there
are more chickens coming home to roost. What numbers did the men have,
those to whom you gave orders?”
Fearing, Verbeck told him.
“So? Howard Wendell is one of them, Verbeck. He is the one who brought
you the letter that first night concerning the Greistman
jewels—remember? He’ll be one for the police to nab to-night. He must
have been surprised to get orders like that—he understood he was to do
nothing except gather information.”
Verbeck felt that the Black Star was speaking the truth. Howard had
objected to the orders—had said that they were unfair to him, but that
he was unable to help himself. It had been possible for him to tell
the Black Star of Verbeck’s boast. He had given the sign that
afternoon before seeking a talk with Freda Brakeland. And the police
would capture Howard Wendell through Verbeck’s planning, capture him
with stolen jewels in his possession.
“And the women?” the Black Star asked. “Tell me quickly! What numbers
did they have?”
Verbeck told him.
“The first is one of the cleverest in the organization,” said the
master crook. “She is an experienced thief. But the second—small
wonder you did not find her number in the book! She is a new one. That
was her first visit, and I had ordered it some days before. She was
brought into the organization through her love for another, a member
of her family. So she’ll be caught, too, eh? And do you know her
identity, Roger Verbeck? Do you know the woman you are handing over to
the police through meddling with my affairs? I’ll tell you—gladly: She
is Miss Faustina Wendell—your fiancée!”