Black Star Comes Back

Front matter

by Johnston McCulley Author of the “Thubway Tham” Stories, etc.

Part I

Part I

CHAPTER I.

A Nocturnal Visitor.

Through the intricate mazes of a horrible nightmare, Roger Verbeck tried to fight his way back to a proper understanding and a full realization of events.

He seemed to be half asleep, half awake; now on the verge of consecutive thinking, now back in a strange country peopled with unusual monsters, with fear and violence on every side.

Something strangely familiar characterized this peculiar feeling, as if he had experienced it often before. His half-asleep mind groped for the solution as he tossed on his bed like a man coming out from under the influence of some powerful drug.

Drug—that was it! His mind cleared sufficiently for him to grasp his condition. These peculiar, horrible nightmares—he had experienced them often a year or so before. They had been caused by a vapor used by The Black Star, the master criminal, who, with the aid of his powerful organization, had terrorized the city for a time.

Roger Verbeck's memory seemed to be working better now, and it carried him back to those days when The Black Star and his band had been doing pretty much as they pleased, when Roger Verbeck had taken the field against the master rogue, aided only by Muggs, his small, ugly, and intensely loyal valet.

The Black Star, having heard that Roger Verbeck had boasted that he could catch him, though the police had failed, had issued a challenge. Verbeck had accepted the challenge, and The Black Star had made a laughingstock of him for a time, but ultimately the master criminal had been placed behind the bars and denied bail.

And then members of the criminal's organization had managed their leader's escape from. jail, and The Black Star had conducted a campaign of crime that had terrorized the city. Roger Verbeck and Muggs had played in that game also. It had ended in the destruction of The Black Star's organization. Many of his men and women were sent to prison for long terms, but the master rogue himself had escaped at the last moment, leaving a taunt behind him.

That had been a year ago, and nothing at all had been heard from The Black Star since. It was supposed that, taking his enormous illegal gains with him, the master criminal had made his way successfully to some foreign country, and there was living the life of a wealthy man. Long ago the police had given up all hope of capturing him and bringing him to trial.

Roger Verbeck fought with himself to escape from the land of semidelirium, trying to tell himself that it would not do to have such nightmares when there was no reason for it. He supposed that he was experiencing a slight attack of indigestion, that his memory cells were at work, carrying him back to those sensational days of a year ago.

He realized that he was awake, and yet it seemed that he could make no move beyond tossing about on one side of the bed. Dimly he saw a shadow playing on the wall of the bedchamber, caused by a streak of moonlight coming through the nearest window. That proved that he was awake, did it not?

And yet his vision was peopled with grotesque monsters, too. It was exactly as it had been when The Black Star used to drug him. He tried to fight away that thought, tried to rid himself of the feeling. Perhaps, he told himself, he was going to be very ill.

Finally he decided to call Muggs, who slept in the adjoining room, Muggs, who was a light sleeper, would rush to his aid immediately.

Verbeck opened his mouth and tried to speak Muggs' name. But not the slightest sound came from between his lips. It was as though he suddenly had been stricken dumb. His lips moved, his jaws moved, but he could not speak.

The cold perspiration stood out upon his face and hands, and he began to wonder whether he was really in a serious condition.

He tried to turn over on the bed, and found that he could not do so. He could see the one wall of the familiar bedroom, with the shadows playing over it, and there seemed nothing unusual. He heard no sounds except those he might have heard on any night. Muggs was snoring in unconscious bliss, and a limb of the big tree at the side of the bachelor-apartment house was brushing against the wall in a breath of wind. That was all. There was nothing unusual or ominous to make him apprehensive.

“I must be ill,” Verbeck thought.

Once more he tried to turn over, and found that now he could move a little. Again he made an effort to find his voice to call for Muggs, but did not succeed. He tried to get the handkerchief beneath his pillow, but he could not complete the effort.

Then he was still for a time, looking up at the ceiling, gasping for breath, realizing that he was bathed in cold perspiration. His mind was clearing, however. And now he tried to tell himself that he merely had had a bad dream, caused by indigestion, and that the thought of The Black Star had terrified him for a time.

He was getting control of himself rapidly now and regaining the use of his muscles. He secured the handkerchief, rubbed his hands and wrists, and wiped the perspiration from his chin. He almost laughed when he thought of his feelings a few minutes before. He had been terrified as if the Black Star had come back. The master rogue was living like a prince in some out-of-the-way place, chuckling to think how he had terrorized a city and what profits he had taken.

Verbeck managed to sit up on the edge of the bed. He did not intend to call Muggs now. He would rest a bit, and then get a drink of cold water and then go back to bed and try to get some more sleep.

There was no need to turn on the night light above the little stand at the head of the bed, for the moonlight lit the room sufficiently. Verbeck looked around the apartment, and saw nothing. Muggs had left his door open, and the door that led to the living room was open also. There were no unusual sounds at all.

“A nightmare!” he repeated. “I must have eaten something that did not agree with me.”

Now the spell had passed, and Roger Verbeck was his usual self. He felt the perspiration on his forehead, reached for the handkerchief again, and raised it to wipe his brow. In the middle of his forehead there seemed to be a peculiar dry spot.

With an exclamation he snapped on the light. Taking up a hand mirror from the table, he looked at his reflection in the glass. Then he gave a cry, sprang to his feet, and bent forward to look again.

Pasted in the middle of his forehead was a small black star!

Verbeck was silent for a second, as though trying to realize what it meant, and then he called, “Muggs! Muggs!”

He staggered toward Muggs' room. The valet had bounded from his bed, and they almost crashed together a few feet from the door. There they stood, looking at each other, speechless, their eyes bulging, their hearts hammering at their ribs.

“Boss—boss!” Muggs exclaimed.

Muggs saw the black star on the forehead of his employer; Roger Verbeck saw a similar star on the forehead of Muggs.

“Boss, he's—he's been here! He's at work again! I—I've been sick.”

“So have I, Muggs. Thought at first it was a nightmare.”

“It's that old vapor dope, boss. Some of his men have slipped in here, shot it under our noses, then pasted these blamed stars on our faces. Boss! What does it mean?”

“It probably means, Muggs, that we are going to have another session with The Black Star,” the master replied.

“Then we'll get him, won't we, boss? We'll get him right this time—and put him where he belongs.”

“We'll try our best, Muggs. I believed with the police that he had left the country.”

“Maybe it's just some trick, boss. Some other crook!”

“You were ill, weren't you?” Verbeck interrupted. was I, Muggs. And I recognized the feeling. We were victims of that peculiar vapor that The Black Star uses in pistols and bombs. Either he is at us again, Muggs, or else some of his old gang, who are acquainted with The Black Star's secrets, are starting to work.”

“Maybe that is it, boss,”

“It is not likely, Muggs. The Black Star himself would go after us, I suppose, whereas his people probably would ignore us and watch only the police. The Black Star says that he thinks it improves the game to have us after him, Muggs.”

“Then we've got to go through with all of it again, I suppose,” Muggs said.

There was no fear in his voice, and no regret. A close observer would have said that Mr. Muggs welcomed the conflict, if it were coming. The early career Of Muggs had been one filled with excitement, and not altogether according to law. For certain reasons Verbeck had made him an honest man and a valet, and Muggs was grateful. He could be a perfect servant, and he could be a valuable comrade in arms. And Muggs cannot be blamed if he wished now and then to be the latter. Being a valet grows monotonous to a man who loves adventure.

As for Roger Verbeck, though he would not have confessed it, perhaps, he felt a thrill himself at the thought that The Black Star again was in the city and at his nefarious work. He anticipated keen pleasure in another chase of the master rogue. The Black Star was a worthy foe; he abhorred bloodshed and violence, he played a game of wits, he laughed when he won, and he was always ready to admit when an enemy scored a point against him.

“Goin' to telephone the cops, boss?” Muggs asked.

“We should do that, I suppose. The police, and especially our friend the chief, will be rather startled, I think.”

With Muggs at his heels he led the way to the living room. The telephone was in a corner near the light switch. Verbeck hurried across the room, while Muggs remained standing at the door of the bedchamber.

But he did not reach the switch. From a corner of the room, near a window that opened upon a fire-escape landing, came a voice that both Verbeck and Muggs remembered well—a rich, deep voice that seemed to hold an eternal note of ridicule.

“Stop where you are, please, both of you!” it said. “Hands above your heads, gentlemen. Do not force me to be rough, I pray you. You know that I abhor violence.”

They whirled around and faced the corner. By the faint streak of moonlight they could see a man standing just beside the window—a man dressed in dark clothing, a black hood over his head, and on the hood a star of jet which gleamed even in that faint light.

A characteristic chuckle reached their ears, and again the voice of The Black Star came to them.

“So we meet again, gentlemen. I'm glad to see you, Mr. Verbeck. And let us hope that a year's rest has sharpened your wits. I dislike very much to fight a witless foe. And there is Mr. Muggs! Ugly but faithful Muggs!”

“That'll be enough from you, you crook!” Muggs answered angrily. “I'll make your face ugly enough!”

“My dear Muggs, still keen for violence? You haven't improved during the past year. You are going to be as amusing as ever, I believe. Steady, Muggs; stand just where you are! Sit down, Mr. Verbeck, and let us have a little conversation of a serious nature.”

Verbeck sat down in a chair beside which he had come to a stop at The Black Star's first remark. Verbeck was himself again, alert, cautious, a worthy foe. His eyes pierced the dusk of the corner where the moonlight gleamed from the star of jet on the black hood of the master rogue.

Muggs remained standing against the wall, just. inside the door. With his hands above his head, he was bending forward, and he, too, was trying to see into that dark corner, trying to get his eyes accustomed to the gloom so that he could watch every movement of The Black Star. The valet was a man who believed in watching for an opportunity and in striking hard the moment opportunity presented itself.

The Black Star's chuckle came to them again. Muggs was grinding his teeth in rage. Roger Verbeck, watching closely, bent forward in his chair and said nothing.

“So!” The Black Star exclaimed. “Rather surprised to find me here, are you? You presumed that I had left your fair city and was living like a prince in some foreign land, did you? As it happens, my work here is not done. About a year ago you almost caught me. You did catch some of my companions, the best ones; in fact, broke up my organization.”

“And we'll do it again!” Muggs warned.

“Be a gentleman, Muggs, and do not interrupt,” The Black Star said with a laugh. “Your rage is amusing, if you only knew it. Save it until later, for you are going to have use for it. Mr. Verbeck, I expect you to take the field against me again.”

“From that statement I take it that you are preparing to indulge in more crime,” Verbeck said.

“I am going to collect damages, Mr. Verbeck, because my organization was ruined and I was annoyed. It may interest you to know that I have spent the past year building up a new organization, and that it is more nearly perfect than the old one. Now I am ready to strike. I am here to-night, and have done what I have done to show you that we stand in the same relation as before.”

“Indeed!” Verbeck retorted.

“Are we to be foes as usual? I wish to know, Mr. Verbeck. If you promise on your word of honor as a gentleman not to raise your hand against me, but to let the police do their own work, you'll not be molested.”

“I am not in the habit of making bargains with criminals,” Roger Verbeck said.

“I really am very glad, Mr. Verbeck. It makes the game all the more exciting to have you in the field against me. Danger sharpens my wits, you understand. Opposition is strengthening—and the city police present very little real opposition. We'll consider, then, that we are foes?”

“Always,” said Verbeck.

“You can bet your life!” Muggs put in. “And we're goin' to run you down this time, you crook! And when I get my hands on you I'm goin' to choke you!”

“Dear, dear! You always are thinking of violence, aren't you, Muggs? I don't see how Mr. Verbeck can endure it. You must be a splendid valet. However, I am not here to speak of that. I just want to assure you gentlemen that my plans are huge, that I intend making a great haul. I rather think that you'll be surprised, perhaps startled, when you grasp the bigness of it.”

“And do you have an idea that you can succeed?” Roger Verbeck asked suddenly.

“Certainly,” The Black Star replied. “What is to prevent me?”

“Why, cuss it, we can stop you!” Muggs broke in again. “You and your whole gang can play a few fancy tricks maybe, but before long we'll get you right. Any man can stand in a corner, cover two other men, and keep them off for a few minutes. Think you're doing something, don't you? You poor fish!”

The Black Star's laugh came to them faintly.

“Your anger certainly is amusing, Muggs,” the master rogue said. “I think that, in this little clash of ours that is to come, we are going to deal with some new things. You see, I have spent almost an entire year in my preparations. I am out after a cool million, Mr. Verbeck. It'll be ransom money, in a way.”

“Ransom money!” Verbeck exclaimed.

“Oh, I have no idea of holding you for ransom, Mr. Verbeck,” The Black Star declared. “I want you on the outside fighting me. I want to know that there is at least one worthy foe in the field against me. The better you fight me, the keener will be my wits. I'm after a million dollars damages for what happened to my organization last year, and I'm going to collect the million.”

“Like fun!” Muggs challenged.

“And I have no intention of robbing some bank or big trust company, of stripping precious jewels from women's throats and arms, or anything like that,” The Black Star continued. “Those are the old games, overplayed and done. I like to be original in a measure, you understand.”

“So you plan to steal a million,” Verbeck said. “Very well, Mr. Black Star! You'll find me against you as before. And allow me to call your attention to the little story about the pitcher that was taken to the well once too often.”

“I had expected something more original from you than that,” The Black Star countered, “but we'll let it pass. I understand what you wish to convey.”

Muggs, being out of the conversation for a time, had continued bending forward until his body was balanced on the balls of his feet. He was ready for a spring, ready to chance a clash with the master rogue. In the uncertain light Muggs could not see very well, but he supposed that The Black Star held a vapor pistol ready and would fire it instantly. Then for the victim would come a period of unconsciousness, illness, and realization of the fact that he had been outdone.

But Muggs was ready to chance all that. He watched as well as he could, and as The Black Star ceased speaking to Verbeck, Muggs sprang. He was quick, silent, almost deadly in his intention. Muggs had from the first conflict held an enmity for The Black Star that was difficult to understand unless a person realized the depth of Muggs' loyalty to Roger Verbeck. The master criminal had made a laughingstock of Roger Verbeck once, and Muggs had never forgotten it, never would forgive it.

He sprang, and as his body shot through the air his hands went forward, ready to clutch at a human throat. As he sprang, The Black Star laughed again, louder, more sarcastic. Roger Verbeck rushed in at the same instant. Both Verbeck and Muggs, anticipating a shot from a vapor pistol, tried not to breathe for the moment.

Muggs' spring ended in a crash as he went against the wall near the window. To the floor with him went a dummy Black Star ingeniously contrived. It had been the dummy menacing them, a sort of scarecrow Black Star placed beside the window, where the faint streak of moonlight would strike it.

Verbeck, uttering an exclamation of surprise, sprang back and snapped on the lights. The Black Star's wild laughter was filling the room again. And suddenly it was still, and they heard him no more.

“How—how2” Muggs was stammering.

Verbeck was at the open window, making a hasty examination.

“Muggs, he commences his new campaign by making fools of us,” he said. “Look here! He or one of his men entered through this window, drugged us, then placed the dummy, and went away, leaving the window open.”

But he talked2”

“See this, Muggs?”

“What's that thing, boss?”

“It is a sort of tone amplifier, Muggs. See that wire running from it? The Black Star, wherever he happens to be at the other end of the wire, can speak into the transmitter, and his voice sounds as though he stood a few feet in front of us here in the room.”

Verbeck got out on the landing of the fire escape, and in the bright moonlight continued his investigation.

“Muggs, the wire runs across this court and into the next building,” he reported. “It is an even bet that The Black Star was in a room over there; that from a window he could watch into the living room here, and, the moment we started to enter, he spoke and stopped us. He played a sort of safe, long-distance game with us, Muggs. He was laughing at us while we watched the dummy and prepared to spring upon it.”

“He—he's made fools of us right at the start, boss,” Muggs admitted.

“And here is another wire, Muggs—dictograph, I'm willing to wager. Do you understand now? Over that wire he heard what we said, and by means of the tone amplifier replied to us, meanwhile watching us from a distance. When the police trace those wires, Muggs, it is more than an even bet that they will find some new tenant has the rooms across the court, and he never will be seen round the place again. One of The Black Star's gang, of course.”

“He's kidded us at the start all right,” Muggs said with anger in his voice. “But we'll get him, won't we, boss? And we'll get him proper this time.”

“We must, Muggs,” Verbeck said. “And we may be sure that it will be no easy task. He is angry because his band was scattered a year ago, and he has had twelve entire months in which to perfect his plans. We know him, Muggs, and we must confess one thing to ourselves—The Black Star, if a crook, is a mighty clever man.”

“Sure, boss; but you are, too,” the loyal Muggs declared earnestly.

Verbeck smiled as he hurried across the room to the telephone to call police headquarters. He was smiling because of the characteristic remark Muggs had made, and he was smiling also to think that he would get his friend, Chief of Police Somerset, out of bed, and probably would shock the chief's nervous system with the news.

CHAPTER II.

The Black Star Strikes.

Chief of Police Somerset, a man of methodical habits, was known to the public at large as an honest, hard-working individual who had made his way up from the ranks solely on merit. He lived in a modest home in a quiet part of the city, and seemed to have the day's events run on schedule.

Chief Somerset ordinarily left his home at a fixed hour in the morning and returned at a fixed hour in the evening. In his office the routine work was handled according to a well-arranged plan. Only in case of extreme emergency did Chief Somerset vary his daily habits. With knowledge it was not difficult for The Black Star and his men to make some plans of their own that had to do with the chief. They could depend upon finding him where they wanted him, and when they wanted him. °

On this night, about the time The Black Star was talking to Roger Verbeck and Muggs, the telephone on the little table beside the chief's bed gave forth a musical clatter that brought the head of the city's police department out of a refreshing slumber.

The chief turned over in bed, snapped on the night light, and reached for the telephone instrument, inclined to be testy because he had been disturbed.

“Hello!” he called.

“Chief?”

“Yes.”

“Captain Wilkinsen speaking, chief.”

Wilkinsen was captain of detectives, and, though not normally on duty at night, he was the sort likely to be found on hand at any time there was work to be done. Wilkinsen was a protégé of the chief, an officer much admired, capable, and a terror to evildoers.

“Well, Wilkinsen?” the chief asked.

“Mayor Redner has just been shot by a burglar, chief. The alarm came in a moment ago. I thought maybe you'd want to go over there yourself. I'll be out as soon as possible. I'm sending a department auto past the house to pick you up.”

“The mayor shot!” Chief Somerset exclaimed. “I'll go right over to his house. You'd better hurry out and take charge of things, captain.”

Chief Somerset hung up the receiver and sprang out of bed with what seemed to be a single motion. An instant later he was tumbling into his clothes with the speed of a fireman answering a night alarm. He called to his wife, dashed down the stairs, and hurried to the front door. An automobile was just stopping at the curb before the house.

Hurrying out to the walk, the chief noticed that a man in uniform was behind the wheel and that two more men in uniform were sitting in the rear of the machine. He naturally assumed that they were officers from the nearest precinct station.

One of the men sprang out to hold the door of the car open. Chief Somerset acknowledging their salutes, darted into the machine. The chauffeur started the car immediately.

“Know anything about this?” the chief asked.

He turned to look at the officer beside him on the right. He did not know the man, but that was not surprising. There were scores of men on the force attached to suburban precinct stations whom the chief had never seen except in ranks on inspection day, and whose faces were not familiar to him.

The man addressed turned toward him as though to reply to the question. At the same moment the man on the other side of the chief bent forward suddenly, something bright flashed in the light from a corner arc, and Chief Somerset's head was enveloped in a cloud of grayish, pungent vapor.

Startled for the moment, he gasped as he bent backward. Then, like Roger Verbeck, the chief realized that this was the particular vapor used by The Black Star and his men. It flashed through his mind that there was something wrong, that these were not officers of his force, that it had not been Captain Wilkinsen talking to him over the telephone, but somebody who imitated the captain's voice and manner perfectly.

In his first surprise he had drawn some of the vapor deep into his lungs. Now, as he struggled to reach the weapon he always carried, he felt his arms grasped by the two men in the seat beside him.

His senses reeled, the bright street lights shone as though through a fog, and when he tried to cry out he found that he could not. Gasping for breath, he leaned back against the cushions. Dimly he saw that the two men were holding protecting sponges over their mouths and nostrils.

Somerset made one last effort, but it was nothing more than a shudder. He heard one of the men beside him chuckle. Red flames seemed to flash before his eyes, and then everything went black. The chief had succumbed.

The chief had been a victim of that vapor a year before, and this time his return to consciousness sent him through a similar ordeal. He seemed to struggle through the throes of a terrible nightmare. Then he heard sounds, voices, the shuffling of feet. He opened his eyes to a blurred vision, but after a time the vision became normal again, and Chief Somerset sat up, holding his head in his hands.

A moment later, the touch of sickness past, he dropped his hands, raised his head, and glanced around. He found himself in a room of ordinary size, furnished in an ordinary manner. In the ceiling a single dome light burned. There was a table, half a dozen chairs, two doors, but no windows. He noticed a small ventilating device in a corner near the ceiling.

Now he was upon his feet, going through his pockets rapidly. As he had expected, he found his revolver gone, his handcuffs, even his pocketknife. His pockets had been emptied.

He hurried across to the nearest door and tugged at the knob, but the door was locked. He investigated, then decided it was bolted on the other side also. Toward the second door he hurried, anger surging through him.

But before he could reach it the door was opened. The chief stopped in his tracks. Into the room came two men. At least, the chief supposed they were men. Their bodies were enveloped in long black robes. Over their heads were black hoods such as The Black Star's people had used before, two tiny slits accommodating the eyes. Even their hands were covered with black gloves.

“What's the meaning of this?” the chief demanded angrily. “Up to your funny tricks, are you? Let's have an answer, quick!”

Neither of them offered a reply. As they separated they took positions to either side of the door and stood there with arms folded across their breasts. The chief took one quick step toward them, only to find that both covered him immediately with weapons that he recognized as vapor pistols.

Now another man came through the door and stopped between the two masked figures. Chief Somerset took a step backward. On the hood of this third man was a big star of gleaming jet.

“The Black Star!” the chief exclaimed.

“The same, chief.”

“Are you indeed The Black Star, or are you some other man trading on his infamous names?”

“I think that I can convince you, chief. At the time of my capture we had several talks together, so you should know my face.”

The master rogue stepped forward and lifted the front of his hood. The chief knew that there could be no mistake—The Black Star stood before him.

“So you are at work again,” the chief said. “We thought you had left the country. It would have been better for you if you had. For this time we are going to land you!”