Verbeck opened his eyes at eleven o’clock that morning after a
dreamless, refreshing sleep to find Muggs standing at the foot of his
bed, fully dressed, grinning, the morning newspapers in his hands.
“They’ve got it all, boss,” he reported. “That Black Star sent letters
to the papers last night by special messengers, and from a downtown
hotel. Whaddaya think of his nerve? Here it is—story of the whole
thing, givin’ us a lot of credit and makin’ fun of the police for
lettin’ the crook escape. I’ll bet that fat chief has a fit when he
reads this!”
“Probably he read it several hours ago and already has had his fit,”
Verbeck said. “Had breakfast? Yes? You’re the original early bird,
Muggs. Well, I’m famished!”
Verbeck bathed and dressed in record time, and hurried to the café in
the basement, eager to eat and be gone before the regular luncheon
crowd gathered to point him out and make remarks about his pursuit and
capture of the Black Star.
No sooner had he seated himself at his favorite table than the waiter
placed before his eyes an extra edition of one of the evening papers,
damp from the press. Roger spread it open to find his own portrait
gazing at him from the front page, and as he waited for his toast and
eggs and coffee he read.
The Black Star had sent a letter to the evening paper also, but
through the mail, with a special-delivery stamp affixed. Again the
master criminal scoffed at the police, threatened some particularly
daring crimes to demonstrate that he did not fear them, and then paid
his respects to Roger Verbeck. A reproduction of the last paragraph of
the Black Star’s letter was shown in the paper:
To All Whom It May Concern: There is war between myself and
Roger Verbeck, who caused me considerable trouble the last few
days. I hereby warn all persons not to give aid to this enemy of
mine—to refuse him shelter, food, clothing, refuse to hold
conversation with him, or have business dealings with him of any
sort whatsoever. Against those who dare disobey this order I’ll
strike—and strike hard.
*****
Roger smiled as he read that paragraph; he presumed it was one of the
Black Star’s jokes—for he had discovered that the master rogue had a
sense of humor. Certainly it could be nothing else. Roger Verbeck was
the last of one of the city’s old families, a young man respected by
all, with unlimited wealth at his command, possessing a myriad of
acquaintances and legions of friends. This warning of the Black Star
was very liable to fall upon deaf ears.
Still, it was embarrassing, and Roger found himself frowning because
of the unpleasant publicity. That was one way the Black Star could
fight him—by making him ridiculous through the newspapers; for it was
certain that the papers would print any letters the Black Star sent
them. Roger caught a vision of future days of horror, with every one
pointing him out, joking him, making his life miserable. On the
streets, at any of his clubs, wherever he met his friends, his name
would be coupled with that of the Black Star. There would be but one
escape—and that by capturing the master crook, turning the laugh on
him, and so ending the affair.
Having breakfasted, Verbeck had Muggs get out the roadster, and they
drove to police headquarters. The snowstorm was at an end, and the day
was warm for March. But they failed to find the spirit of spring
prevalent when police headquarters was reached.
A sleepy chief paced the floor of his private office, chewing at his
inevitable black cigar. Detectives, plain-clothes men, and uniformed
officers rushed in and out. Telephones rang.
“Don’t ask me,” the chief roared when he saw his visitors. “I’ll tell
you—it’ll take less time. We haven’t got him. We haven’t even
discovered a trace of him. The handcuffs he wore were found in an
alley less than half a dozen blocks away—and that’s all. He’s found
time to send letters to the papers—and to me.”
“He sent one to you?” Roger asked.
“He did. If ever I get my two hands around the throat of that Black
Star I’ll choke the life out of him. I wouldn’t care if he got mad and
sent me cuss words—but he called me a blanked fool!”
“Ah! We are fellow sufferers,” Verbeck said. “That’s what he called
me.”
“You! You’ve heard from him?”
“When I got home this morning his black stars were pasted around my
apartment, and I found a letter pinned to my pillow—or rather Muggs
did. Here it is.”
Verbeck handed it over; the chief read it. Then the head of the city’s
police department sat down before his desk, thought for a moment, and
finally pushed a button. A sergeant entered.
“Send me Detective Riley!” he ordered.
A moment’s waiting, while the chief chewed his cigar and Roger and
Muggs puffed at theirs. Then Riley entered and saluted his chief
respectfully.
Detective Riley was a man of fifty, and he had been in the department
since the age of twenty-one. He knew every inch of the city, and was a
man of nerve and resource. But for his honest and outspoken opinions
of political leaders undoubtedly he would have been high in the
department. As it was, he was satisfied.
“I believe you know Mr. Verbeck, Riley,” the chief said.
“I certainly do, sir,” the detective answered, grinning at Roger. “His
father got me my job on the force, and I taught Roger how to hold a
bat when he played ball on the corner lot near the old Verbeck place.”
“Um! You know this town pretty well, too, and you’re an honest man.
Sit down—and listen. You’re going on the trail of this Black Star,
Riley. And if you’re in at the death when he’s nabbed I’ll see you
made a captain, if I have to go into politics myself and slay half a
dozen ward bosses who don’t like your looks.”
“Some special line of work, sir? I’m already assigned to the case.”
“So is every other man in the department. Yes—this is a special line
of work. You are to glue yourself to Mr. Roger Verbeck and hang on.
Understand?”
“But, chief——” Roger began.
“Just a moment, Mr. Verbeck. I admire your courage and all that, but
we’ve got to do this in proper fashion. You’ve been threatened by this
Black Star. He’s going to take you partly into his confidence so he
can make a fool of you. I want Riley with you for two reasons. The
first is that you are going to have police protection whether you wish
it or not. If Riley is with you and Muggs, one man can be awake and on
the job always, yet all of you get plenty of rest. The second is that
Riley can add his police experience and knowledge of crooks and the
city to your natural courage and cleverness. Understand? If this Black
Star communicates with you or makes a move against you in any way
Riley will be there and on the job to help. You’ll not lose time
sending to headquarters for assistance.”
“I understand, chief.”
“Another thing. Do you feel you can trust Riley?”
“I certainly do,” said Verbeck earnestly.
“Good enough! It isn’t every one we can trust in this game. You take
Riley with you and go after the Black Star, independent of this
department—just as you did before, except that you’ll have a regular
officer along. And we’ll work on our own lines. And between us, we’d
ought to get our hands on him. Riley knows a certain private phone
number he can use in case of emergency, and a call will rush a score
of men to any part of the city. That’s agreeable? Get out, then, and
take Riley with you! I’m going to lie down on the couch and take a
nap.”
Verbeck laughed and led the way from the private office, waiting in
the lobby with Muggs while Riley went to his locker for certain
paraphernalia he always had on his person when engaged on a particular
case.
“I like that guy,” Muggs confided in a whisper.
“The chief?”
“Naw! This Riley. I’m glad he’s goin’ to be along.”
“If I needed a recommendation for Riley—which luckily I do not—that
would be the best I could get,” Roger said, and he meant every word of
it.
“I think the three of us can make the Black Star look like a sucker!”
“You don’t want to underestimate the Black Star, Muggs. Whenever you
feel inclined to do so, remember a certain smash behind the ear he
gave you recently when you thought his hands were tied.”
“He’ll never do it again!” Muggs declared. “If I ever get my lamps on
that man again I’ll forget how to turn my head!”
Riley returned, and the three went out to the roadster.
The greater part of the afternoon was spent in Verbeck’s apartment
discussing plans for the campaign. There was no sense, Riley pointed
out, in running blindly around town trying to find the man they
wanted; for the Black Star, it was to be supposed, was in hiding for
the time being, and without doubt planning a campaign of his own.
Detectives were watching railroad stations, hotels, and lodging
houses, and the deserted residence where the Black Star had had his
headquarters. There was nothing for the three men who sat in Verbeck’s
library to do except wait for the master criminal to make the first
move.
Roger visited Faustina Wendell for an hour that evening, while Muggs
and Riley remained outside in front of the house where she lived with
her mother and brother. Then the three returned to Roger’s apartment
and spent an hour around the pool table.
“A crook works at night if he’s breaking safes and vaults,” Riley
said. “Hence it is proper that we are prepared for night work. I
suggest we never retire until four or five o’clock in the morning and
get up about noon. Then we’ll be ready to jump if anything happens.”
“Get a deck of cards, Muggs,” Verbeck ordered. “What Detective Riley
says goes. By the way, Riley, I’ve ordered the roadster left standing
in front of the building all night, ready for a quick jump.”
“That’s the stuff! I wish this Black Star would hurry up and start
something. I’m anxious to get into action.”
Tired of cards, they played pool again, and then they read, and then
they talked of the Black Star some more, and finally they began
wondering if it wasn’t time to retire.
“Just four o’clock,” Verbeck announced.
And then the telephone rang!
Roger stepped across the room to the desk and picked up the
instrument; Muggs and Riley were on their feet, eager to know what the
message would be, and hoping it was a call to battle.
“Is this Mr. Verbeck’s apartment?” a voice demanded.
“Yes,” Roger answered.
“And who is this speaking?”
“This is Mr. Verbeck.”
“Indeed? I thought perhaps it was that dolt, Detective Riley, from
headquarters. I understand he is a more or less permanent guest of
yours.”
“Who is this?” Roger demanded in turn.
“Pardon me for not telling you before. This is the Black Star.”
“What’s that?” Roger exclaimed.
“I assure you I am the Black Star. This is not one of your friends
playing a joke on you. I just thought I’d call you up and say that the
letter I sent the newspapers was meant. I’ve already made a move
against the manager of the apartment house where you live because he
hasn’t ousted you.”
“Indeed?” Roger asked, beckoning Riley and Muggs toward him.
“You think I am jesting? I never jest about my work, Mr. Verbeck. I
imagine you’ll have to find another home before night. Pardon me if I
ring off now. It is possible you are sending Detective Riley or Muggs
to another telephone to trace this call. And that would be both
unnecessary and embarrassing for me. For I am speaking to you from the
office of your own apartment house. Good-by!”
Roger Verbeck dropped the telephone, spoke a dozen quick words, and
was running out into the hall, closely followed by Riley and Muggs.
Down three flights of stairs, four steps at a time, they rushed, and
into the lobby.
Not a person was in sight.
From outside came the roaring of an automobile engine. They ran to the
door, hurled it open, and hurried out. Tearing down the broad
boulevard was Roger Verbeck’s big roadster, and the man who drove it
turned an instant to wave one hand at them.
“The nerve of——” Muggs began.
Detective Riley emptied his automatic at the vanishing car, and
growled low in his throat because he knew he had missed.
“The night clerk——” Verbeck cried. “Where was the clerk?”
They rushed back into the lobby. They heard doors slamming on the
floors above as tenants, aroused by the turmoil and shooting, started
an investigation. And they heard groans coming from behind the long
desk.
Verbeck vaulted the counter, and cried out in surprise. On the floor,
bound hand and foot, and gagged, was the night clerk of the
bachelor-apartment house.
In the middle of his forehead was pasted a tiny black star!
And pinned to his breast was a card that bore this information:
To the Manager: This is just a hint that Roger Verbeck must go.
If he does not, my next demonstration will be more disastrous.
*****