The Black Star (Vintage Mysteries Series). Johnston McCulley

      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.

      CHAPTER II—THE BLACK STAR

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      Verbeck found Muggs at the corner of the apartment house, standing in the shadows and trying to shield himself from the stinging sleet and biting cold wind.

      “He’s just reaching the ground, boss,” Muggs said. “See him?”

      “I see him. Be careful now, Muggs; we don’t want to lose him. Thanks for understanding and loosening his bonds. There he goes!”

      The erstwhile prisoner had reached the ground and was darting through the shadows toward the alley. Down this he ran for half a block, then crept between two buildings, and so reached the boulevard near a corner, with Verbeck and Muggs a hundred feet behind him. It was difficult trailing the man through a storm of sleet and fine snow, but Verbeck and Muggs had trailed men before, sometimes for amusement, and at other times through necessity.

      The man hesitated at the curb a moment, then struck across the driveway. Verbeck and Muggs followed. They took opposite sides of the walk and slipped along over the frozen ground, darting from shadow to shadow, always watching the elusive shadow ahead. At the street crossings their quarry walked across boldly, and they could not follow instantly for fear of being detected, but they always picked up their man again, once they were across.

      Thus they covered a dozen blocks, and it appeared that the midnight prowler considered himself safe now. He hurried down a cross street, his head bent forward against the cold wind that swept up the hill. Block after block Muggs trailed him, while Verbeck shadowed from the other side of the street, dodging into dark doorways now and then when he expected his man to look behind.

      The quarry stopped at a corner, lighted a cigar, and stood waiting. Muggs was concealed in a doorway fifty feet behind him; Verbeck was in another doorway across the street.

      An owl car came along, and their quarry boarded it. But Verbeck had been expecting that, and for some time had been watching a taxicab standing before a drug store on the corner. As the owl car started up again, Verbeck dashed across the street, and he had the chauffeur out of the drug store and into the seat before Muggs reached the spot.

      “Follow that owl car,” Verbeck directed. “There’s a man on it that we’d like to see when he gets off.”

      “I’m wise,” the chauffeur cried. “Fly cops, eh? Get in!”

      The cab lurched along the slippery street, keeping half a block behind the owl car. Whenever the car stopped, the cab drew up at the curb, and Verbeck put out his head to watch. But their quarry remained aboard.

      “If this keeps up we’ll clear out of town,” said Muggs.

      “Anxious for action?” Verbeck asked, laughing. “You may get plenty of it before we are done. Have a bit of patience, Muggs.”

      “I’ve got patience, all right, boss—and I’ve got a hunch, too.”

      “Let’s have it!” At times Verbeck had a great deal of respect for Muggs’ hunches.

      “I’ve got a hunch we’d have done better if we’d handed that gent over to the police.”

      “I gave you credit for understanding the situation, Muggs.”

      “Oh, I understand what you want to do, all right. It’d be great to clean up this Black Star and his gang single-handed, hog tie ’em all, then call in the cops and hand ’em over—especially since he sent you that sassy note—but I’ve got a hunch we’re going up against a stiff game. This Black Star ain’t no slouch!”

      “Afraid?” snarled Verbeck.

      That touched Muggs on a tender spot, and Verbeck knew it. Muggs turned deliberately and faced his employer.