Muggs stood in front of the door for a moment after Verbeck had dashed
from the house, then turned to face the Black Star again. Muggs’ lower
jaw was shot out, his eyes were narrowed, and, but for Verbeck’s
orders, he probably would have launched himself at the Black Star and
attempted the old-fashioned retaliation known as “beating up.”
Muggs was small in size, but he had great strength in his arms and
shoulders, and possessed knowledge of a multitude of tricks to aid him
in the art of self-defense or aggression. He worshiped Roger Verbeck.
He was ready at any time to fight for Verbeck, to defend his life and
his happiness. The fact that the Black Star had caused his master
misery was enough to make Muggs want to throttle the man. But Verbeck
had decreed against that.
Muggs wished he was at his master’s side, helping him in the fight. He
imagined Verbeck driving the roadster at top speed through the streets
to the big hall; he fancied him entering upon the brilliant scene
there, as he had intended doing at a later hour, getting Faustina
Wendell and her brother to places of safety, then witnessing the
capture of the Black Star’s band. He anticipated a telephone call from
Verbeck telling of success.
Meanwhile he walked back and forth before his prisoner, the pistol
held in his hand, and raged at the man on the divan.
“A cur like you causing a man like Mr. Verbeck pain!” he exclaimed.
“Killing’s too good for you! I hope you get a life sentence. But he’s
got you, Mr. Black Star! My boss has you! Have your little signs
pasted on his bed and all over his library, will you? Leave sassy
letters for him, eh? I reckon you’re sorry for it now!”
The Black Star still was smoking the cigar Verbeck had given him. He
blinked at Muggs, and puffed at the cigar furiously, then suddenly
bent forward and bowed his head on his hands.
“That’s right!” Muggs went on. “Think of your sins! Do a little
wailing yourself! Cause my boss trouble, will you? You’d better put
your head in your hands and wish you’d played straight! Small good it
will do you to repent now, you scum!”
The Black Star’s head bent lower; he was a picture of misery. Muggs
looked at him with scorn and turned to walk the length of the room. He
stopped his tirade long enough to pick up a sandwich from the table
and begin eating it. He imagined the Black Star about to weep because
disaster had overtaken him—and Muggs always felt disgusted when he saw
a man weep.
But the Black Star was not weeping—he was endeavoring a subterfuge.
When he bowed his head, the burning end of his cigar rested against
the rope that bound his wrists together. Now and then he puffed again,
until the rope was scorched. Strand after strand was burned through as
Muggs talked.
“Getting your dirty hands on your betters and making them join your
gang!” Muggs said, walking back toward him. “You got your hands on one
too many, I guess. And I’ll be a witness at your trial, too! I’ll help
send you over the road——”
He had passed the Black Star and was about to turn. And at that
instant the Black Star sprang. Muggs was taken unawares. A fist dealt
him a blow on the back of the head. As he staggered forward, trying to
turn, the pistol was wrenched from his hand and the butt of it crashed
against his temple. The Black Star struck him even as Muggs had struck
the Black Star in his headquarters room, when Roger Verbeck was shot
into the pit.
“Take that, you whelp!” the Black Star cried. “Try conclusions with
me, will you—you and your precious master? You haven’t whipped me yet!
There’s something in that old house I want—money, and those
letters—money to get me away to Chicago, and the letters to send to
the prosecuting attorney with a sarcastic little note. I’ll fix your
precious master and his girl. And while he’s trying to save her I’ll
be taking a train out of town. As for my crooks—bah! I never saw their
faces—they are no friends of mine. Let ’em go to prison—there are
plenty more crooks to be had!”
He kicked the prostrate Muggs and hurried from the house. He did not
know exactly in what part of the city he found himself, but he made
for a crossing where he had seen a trolley car flash past, where he
could make a start downtown.
And Muggs, groaning in pain, remained on the floor, but he was not
fully unconscious. He had heard every word uttered by the Black
Star—they seemed to ring in his brain. He kept telling himself he
wanted to get up, he wanted to do something—but he could not. He
struggled mentally to rise, and finally his will was communicated to
his muscles. He rolled over, sat up on the floor.
Dizziness overcame him, but he closed his eyes and bit his lower lip
and tried to master it. And in time he did, and staggered to the divan
and fell upon it.
What was it the Black Star had said? That he was going to his
headquarters to get money and letters, that he was going to leave the
members of his band to their fate, and make his escape. He must stop
the Black Star! Verbeck’s plans would be shattered unless he did. And
the Black Star would be a living menace to Verbeck unless he was
stopped, and perhaps would build up another organization in some other
city. Even in this moment of pain Muggs, though claiming no superior
power of reasoning, could not help but think what a fool the Black
Star had been to tell Verbeck his schemes. That was the man’s
weakness—he had to boast. It was boasting that had brought him to the
close attention of Roger Verbeck and caused all the trouble.
“My hunch was right,” Muggs muttered. “I told the boss—that I had a
hunch!”
He sat up again; the dizziness had passed, but his head still pained.
He must act quickly, he kept telling himself over and over. Then the
plan for which he had been groping flashed into his brain.
Muggs sprang to the telephone and called police headquarters. He got
the chief on the wire.
“The Black Star has escaped!” he cried. “You’ll get his gang down at
the dance, but you’ll not get him unless you hurry. He knocked me down
and escaped. I know where you can catch him—if you’re quick!”
Shotted queries and commands came to him from the frenzied chief.
“A house—in the south end of town!” Muggs gasped. “A deserted house—he
has his headquarters there! He’s gone there to get money, then he’ll
get out of town. You can catch him! ... What’s that? Oh, yes—I didn’t
give you the address!”
Muggs swayed from the telephone, but in a moment had gathered his
strength and was talking again. He gave the location of the house, and
the chief said that he understood.
“And I’ll be there—I’ll start right now,” Muggs added. “I’ll be there
to identify him.”
Sudden decision had come to Muggs, and he stumbled away from the
instrument without further words, not even stopping to hang up the
receiver. He hurried across to the door and threw it open and went
out. The stinging cold air refreshed him. He started along the
driveway.
By the time he reached the boulevard, Muggs was himself again, except
that the pain pounded in his head because of the blows the Black Star
had given him. He hurried along the street, half running. On the first
corner he waited for a car.
An automobile came along, bound for town, and Muggs hailed the driver.
He was a private chauffeur going to the big hall to fetch home from
the ball some of the women of the family for which he worked. Muggs
told him it was a matter of life and death, and the chauffeur allowed
him to crawl up beside him and put on speed. Five minutes later, well
down in town, Muggs got off and hailed the first taxicab he saw,
offering double pay if good time was made, and the cab soon was
rushing toward its destination.
The police had acted promptly on Muggs’ information, and as the
taxicab whirled around a corner half a dozen blocks from the goal,
Muggs could hear in the distance the shrieking of a siren on a police
automobile. He urged his chauffeur to greater speed. At a corner he
stopped the cab, paid the driver, and the next moment was running down
the dark side street toward the deserted house.
He slipped along the hedge and crept near the wall, making his way
toward the door. It was closed, and Muggs did not try to open it, but
went on to a window. He raised it as he had that first night when
Verbeck had been with him. Muggs wanted to get inside and catch the
Black Star at work. He wanted just one blow at the Black Star before
the police arrived, for the blow that had been given him, and for the
misery Verbeck had been caused. Then he’d gladly hand the Black Star
over to the authorities.
He slipped through the window. As he did so the police automobile
stopped on the nearest corner, and men piled out of it and ran forward
to surround the house. Muggs gave them one glance, then left the
window and stepped softly across the room. Light was coming through
that crack in the door—the Black Star was there!
Muggs put his eye to the crack. He did not see the Black Star—he saw
Roger Verbeck just blowing out the candle and starting to enter the
dusty hall!
The meaning of the situation flashed over Muggs in an instant. The
Black Star had not arrived yet. Verbeck had come here to get those
letters before going to the big hall. And he—Muggs—had brought the
police! They would capture Roger Verbeck—and there was nothing to
prove that Roger Verbeck was not the Black Star!