The Black Star (Vintage Mysteries Series). Johnston McCulley

box and quickly put it on, then adjusted the black mask. Beneath the robe, his hand clutched the butt of his automatic. Searching the edge of the casement, he found a push button and touched it with his finger. Inside, a bell tinkled.

      A few seconds passed, and then there was a sharp click and the door flew open. Verbeck entered and closed the door after him. Before him was a long corridor, musty, the air in it rank, dust on walls and ceiling. It appeared that the entire house had not been renovated, only the one room.

      Verbeck slipped along the corridor to where a streak of light entered it, indicating a door. Holding the pistol ready beneath his robe, he opened the door and stepped into the room, and stood beside the blackboard as the other man had done. The Black Star was not there.

      The seconds seemed hours as he waited, trying to keep his eyes away from the door behind which he knew Muggs was watching him, his ears strained to catch the first sound of the master criminal’s approach. Then the other door opened, and the Black Star appeared and walked to his station on the other side of the room. He nodded his head, and Verbeck picked up chalk and eraser and turned to the blackboard.

      He was playing a dangerous game, and did not know how soon he would be detected. He felt small fear, for Muggs was waiting to help him, and he had heard nothing, seen nothing to indicate that the Black Star had allies in the house.

      “Number Four,” Verbeck wrote on the board.

      “Countersign?”

      “Florida,” wrote Verbeck.

      He turned to find the Black Star’s eyes glittering straight into his. The flaming jet on the hood seemed to be dancing in derision. Verbeck wondered whether he had made a mistake, and he soon found out, for the Black Star turned to the blackboard and wrote rapidly:

      “Number Four is a woman, and Florida is not her countersign.”

      And then he faced Verbeck again.

      The crisis had arrived sooner than Verbeck had expected. The Black Star knew him for an intruder, and knew also that he must have observed a great deal to be able to don robe and mask and start the blackboard conversation. The master criminal could be expected to act with dispatch.

      Before the Black Star could make a move Verbeck’s robe parted and his left hand emerged, holding the pistol ready for instant action. With his other hand he waved toward the armchair, and then he spoke:

      “Sit down! And put your hands flat on the table!”

      His eyes still glittering into Verbeck’s, the criminal obeyed. Standing at the end of the table, Verbeck confronted him, scarcely knowing what step to take next. The man before him did not speak, but those glittering eyes—burning, malevolent, ominous—seemed to cry out with surprise, hatred, and threats.

      “So you are the Black Star?” Verbeck said. “Quite a comedy you play here, eh? Masks hide faces and blackboards take the place of spoken words. A very clever crook—you. But I said a clever man could find you, and I say it again. This is the best proof of it, isn’t it? You challenged me—and I have come. So your man thought he had escaped, did he? If ever you see him again, tell him that his bonds were left loose purposely, so that he’d escape and could be shadowed here. Allow me, sir—Mr. Roger Verbeck, at your service!”

      Verbeck raised a hand and tore off his mask, and bowed low in irony, meanwhile watching his victim, for he did not make the mistake of underestimating the cleverness of the man before him, and he was alert for tricks. He saw the Black Star’s hands contract and his arms stiffen, and imagined the master crook calling down curses on the head of the man who had led enemies to his stronghold.

      Then the Black Star spoke—in a low, penetrating voice, almost a monotone, obviously disguising his real tones.

      “I suppose you think you are very clever?” he said.

      “I don’t advertise my cleverness like some persons, and then fail to live up to my estimation of myself,” Verbeck replied.

      “You have done something no outsider has done before—you have seen the Black Star in his workshop. That is, indeed, a rare privilege. And, of course, you’ll pay for it in the end.”

      “You think so?” Verbeck asked.

      “I presume you started out with the intention of handing me over to your stupid police. The greatest and most difficult thing, you perhaps thought, would be to locate me. Well, you have located me—and your task is but begun.”

      “Indeed?”

      “It takes evidence to convict.”

      “Naturally,” said Verbeck. “Suppose I call the police now. How about the robe and mask you wear, that star, these blackboards, those printed letters identical with ones that have been received by the police and the newspapers? Evidence? This room is full of it!”

      “But, when you get right down to the point,” said the Black Star, “you’ll want evidence of theft and burglary, you know.”

      “I never heard of a gang yet where some one wouldn’t turn state’s evidence.”

      The Black Star chuckled, and through the slits in his mask his eyes seemed to be dancing with delight.

      “That is just where my cleverness comes in,” he said. “To show you how little I fear you, Roger Verbeck, I’ll tell you things no man knows except myself. I can tell you, for instance—and it is the truth—that the Black Star does have a band working for him, but that not one of them ever saw his face or heard his voice.”

      “Nonsense.”

      “Not nonsense, but the truth. So certain am I as to what is going to happen to you, Roger Verbeck, that I’ll reveal secrets and show you how useless it would be to fight me, before you—er—cease to trouble me further. I say no member of my band ever saw my face or heard my voice, and it is the truth. I say, moreover, that I never saw the face of one of my band or heard his voice, that I know nothing of their names or identities, and, whenever a crime is committed, I do not know which person or group does the work. Can you understand that? Turn state’s evidence, Mr. Verbeck? Not a man of them knows a thing to tell, except against himself.”

      “Rot!”

      “The truth,” said the Black Star. “Attend me closely. I reveal my methods to you, because you’ll never pass them on. I began my work years ago. I have a genuine partner, who is not in this city at the present time. When I decided to invade this town he came here. He rented this old house and fixed up this one room in it. The furnishings were carted one at a time, and they were unloaded several blocks away and fetched here at night. When everything was ready, I came.

      “My gang? This one man who knows me got the gang together. Every one of them is an expert in his particular time. Each was eager to work under me, for I am in a position to insure success and big profits. My organization extends farther than you dream. Each man was fetched here and taught what to do. Here he comes to get orders and to report. There is no conversation except on the blackboard; and masks are always worn.

      “At the first, these men drew numbers out of a box, and in addition I gave each a countersign. I issue orders by number, and they report by number. If I was on the witness stand at this moment and wanted to betray my men I couldn’t do it. I could only say that a certain crime was committed by Number One, for instance—but if all were lined up before me I couldn’t swear they were members of my band, because I’d not know. Do you understand that, Mr. Roger Verbeck? Very clever, eh? We work together, yet were we to pass on the street we’d not dream we knew one another. Absolute protection—you see? Hand me over to the police this minute—if you can—and it will avail you nothing. No jury would convict on the evidence that could be presented. And my organization, in a hundred different ways, would come to my rescue.”

      “I thought none of them knew you,” said Verbeck.

      “That is the truth. You do not understand everything yet. I have a band of men who do the real work. And I have an organization that collects knowledge I must have. Every