The Black Star (Vintage Mysteries Series). Johnston McCulley
Table of Contents
Verbeck put his car in the garage, returned to his apartment and slept. He awakened at eleven o’clock, rushed through bath and breakfast, got the car out again, purchased groceries, and whirled away toward the old house.
There he found Muggs pacing back and forth, with the pistol in his hand, reading the Black Star a lecture on the evils of a nefarious existence. The Black Star looked disgusted.
“If you’re going to keep me prisoner,” he told Verbeck, “I’d be obliged if you’d give me another jailer.”
“What’s the matter with Muggs?”
“Barring the fact that he is insane, he may be all right. I don’t want to be talked to death.”
Verbeck gave him a grin for answer and unpacked the groceries. He had small time to spend here, and, taking Muggs into a corner, he bade him be sure to guard the prisoner carefully.
“You may not see me again until to-morrow morning, Muggs,” he said. “I’ll be busy this afternoon, and to-night I’m going to that house where the Black Star has his headquarters and start some plans going.”
“You’ll be careful, boss?”
“I’ll be careful, Muggs. When it comes time for sleep what are you going to do here?”
“Stay awake, I guess.”
“There is a vegetable pit in the basement, remember. Get plenty of blankets from the closet and put them there, and make him climb down and sleep on them. You can bolt the trapdoor and sleep in peace here before the fire. Careful, now. I’m off!”
At one o’clock he put the car in the garage again, for he had decided he’d not use it that afternoon. Precisely at ten minutes of two he was standing at the corner on which he had directed the crook the night before to fumble with his hat and await orders.
It happened to be a pet day with shoppers. Traffic officers worked furiously to keep the crossings free of vehicles; uniformed footmen opened limousine doors and helped well-dressed women across the walks and into shops. Conversations seemed limited to dry goods and bargains.
Verbeck had not remembered how the corner would be thronged when he gave the Black Star’s man his orders. The corner now was a jam of human beings. Verbeck crossed the street and stood beside a stone pillar in front of a show window, from where he could watch easily.
The hour of two arrived, and Verbeck scrutinized every man who passed the corner. Five minutes passed, and no one had given him the signal. And then he saw Howard Wendell, the brother of his fiancée, walking slowly down the street close to the curbing.
Verbeck drew back quickly behind the pillar. If Howard Wendell saw him, he undoubtedly would stop to talk, and Verbeck did not want to hold a conversation just then.
Wendell passed without seeing him. He stopped for an instant on the corner; he removed his hat, and he ran one hand around the brim of it as if brushing away dust.
Verbeck’s jaw dropped and his eyes bulged with amazement. The next instant he was chuckling at the coincidence of it. There was no possibility of Howard Wendell being a member of the Black Star’s band, of course. The boy accidentally had done what Verbeck had ordered the crook to do, that was all, and when he came to think of it Verbeck realized it was a natural thing for any man to do, and wished he had told the crook to use some other sign.
Howard Wendell walked on up the street, and Verbeck continued his watch. The minutes slipped by, and no other man gave the sign. A doubt entered Verbeck’s mind. That boast he had made at the reception—Howard Wendell had heard that, and the Black Star had known of it soon afterward. And Howard had given the correct sign.
“Bosh! Can’t be!” Verbeck muttered to himself. “I’m a fool to think it for a minute. Why on earth would Howard be mixed up with a gang of crooks? Even if he wanted to be, how could he get into a first-order gang like that of the Black Star? They’d not have him! I’m crazy to think of it!”
He looked at his watch; it was a quarter of three. He decided to go to the hotel where the unknown crook was to hold conversation with Miss Freda Brakeland. Perhaps he could decide the matter there, learn the crook’s identity.
The lobby of the hotel was thronged when Verbeck entered. He met men and women he knew, but managed to keep free from lingering conversation. He wanted to be at liberty to make a complete investigation.
Then he met Faustina Wendell face to face.
“Why, Roger!” she gasped. “Fancy meeting you here! I’ve heard you say you hate hotel lobbies.”
“I came in to take a peek so I’ll hate them more,” Verbeck replied. “And you?”
“Browning Club meeting, dear.”
“It is over already?”
“A quarter of an hour ago. In fact, we met only to postpone it, for every one is talking of the Charity Ball to-morrow night.”
“I see,” said Verbeck. He did see—that he had missed his chance to learn the identity of the crook.
“I came down in the electric,” Faustina continued. “Come along home with me, if you haven’t an engagement.”
He entered the electric and sat beside her as she piloted the car through the busy streets. She was giving all her attention to the driving, and he did not attempt conversation. And now that her face was in repose, it seemed to Verbeck that there was a peculiar expression on it, one that he was not used to seeing. He would have sworn that the girl beside him, who had promised to be his wife, was anxious, worried—and that was foreign to her nature.
The Wendells had been wealthy once, but were not now. Mr. Wendell had died two years before, leaving an estate much smaller than was anticipated. His widow had built a modern apartment house, and from it derived an income, the Wendells living in one of the apartments on the first floor. Yet they had enough to maintain their position in society, and this was an important position, for the Wendells were an old pioneer family, noted for piety and pride.
“You are looking tired,” Verbeck observed.
“You’re not very complimentary, Roger. Perhaps I am a bit tired, though.”
“Too much Charity Ball?” he asked.
“I am not worrying much about that. I intend going, of course.”
“I should hope so,” Verbeck said.
“Would it disappoint you very much if I said I’d rather not?”
“Nothing you can do will disappoint me,” he said loyally; “but I cannot imagine a Charity Ball without you in attendance. Are you thinking of remaining away?”
She was looking ahead, and Verbeck imagined that her lips quivered for an instant.
“Is anything the matter?” he asked. “You don’t seem to be yourself to-day.”
“I—oh, it is nothing, Roger! Perhaps I am a bit nervous. Let us talk of something else. Here we are at home. You’ll come in, of course?”
He followed her inside, and greeted her mother, who immediately left them alone.
“Now,” Verbeck said, bending toward her, “tell me what is troubling you. I can see that there is something.”
“Really it is nothing, Roger. Perhaps I am a bit out of sorts. And—what I said about the ball—forget that, please.”
“But if you do not wish to go——” he said.
“Can’t we decide it to-morrow afternoon, dear? All right—let us leave it until then. Perhaps I’ll be feeling better.”
“And there is no trouble—nothing I can do to help?” he persisted.
“Foolish