Black Star's Subterfuge/Chapter 1

MIRKS, sarcastic grins, ingratiating smiles—these things had Roger Verbeck endured throughout the afternoon, until it seemed to him that his countenance burned continually because of humiliation, until his face had set with sternness, and he greeted friends and mere acquaintances alike with a cold and distant nod.

The Black Star had done this—that master criminal who had held the city at his mercy for six months or more, who committed crimes notable for their originality and daring.

It was five days now since the Black Star's robbery of the diamond vault of Jones & Co., a robbery in which he had made Roger Verbeck, his man Muggs, and Detective Riley objects of ridicule. In those five days the Black Star had made no open move, and the three men who had sworn to capture him waited for the next blow, hoping that, when it fell, they would at least find some minor clew to follow, some half-hidden trail that would lead them to the quarry.

Verbeck had spent the afternoon in the business section, purchasing supplies, for he had decided to live in the old Verbeck house with Muggs and Detective Riley, while his campaign against the Black Star was being waged. Even those who admired him because of his determination to match wits with the master criminal, smiled knowingly when he passed. They had read the Black Star's letters to the newspapers, in which he had told how he had hidden in Verbeck's own house, while the police looked for him throughout the city.

And now, at seven o'clock in the evening, Roger Verbeck sat at a table in a corner of a fashionable restaurant, his back to the room, and tried to enjoy his dinner. Detective Riley had gone to police headquarters for a visit. Muggs was purchasing more supplies, and was to get his own dinner and meet Verbeck with the roadster an hour later.

Enjoyment of the meal seemed an impossibility. Verbeck knew those in the restaurant who recognized him were grinning behind his back. He knew the public was watching the duel between himself and the Black Star, ready to ridicule Verbeck if he lost, and as eager to applaud him if he won and sent the master rogue to prison.

The police worked in vain to corral the master crook and his band. Long ago the public had begun to regard the police department as worthless in this particular affair. Moreover, the feud between Roger Verbeck, the young millionaire, and the Black Star, acknowledged clever criminal, was more spectacular. And so Verbeck found himself in a corner. To save himself from humiliation, he must continue his campaign with the help of only Muggs and Detective Riley until the Black Star passed through prison doors to begin a long sentence.

The smirks and grins that Verbeck had faced this day served only to double his determination to conquer the Black Star. It was a game of wits and strategy, for the Black Star abhorred violence. None knew better than Roger Verbeck that he had been out-generaled in the last affair. But failure had increased his caution and cunning. In their next clash, he felt sure, the Black Star would find that the mettle of his foe was better.

Now Verbeck sipped his demitasse, and in a panel mirror before him observed the approach of the waiter with a finger bowl. He glanced at his watch—within fifteen minutes Muggs would be before the restaurant with the roadster. They would pick up Riley at headquarters and hurry to the old Verbeck house, to begin their vigil. For they slept in the daytime for the greater part, and remained alert at night, ready to answer an alarm if the Black Star committed another crime, eager to get on the scene as soon as possible and try to pick up the trail. It was known that the Black Star had reorganized his band and established a new headquarters since Roger Verbeck and Muggs had almost destroyed his establishment. And from this new headquarters, Roger Verbeck doubted not, the master crook would conduct a campaign of crime that would terrorize the city. If the new headquarters could be located

"Pardon me, sir, are you ill?"

Even as the waiter spoke, Verbeck realized that his thoughts were becoming confused, his hands were trembling, and beads of perspiration were standing on his forehead. His stomach revolted. He reached for the glass of water near him, and it was necessary for the waiter to guide it to his lips.

"I guess—I" he stammered.

"Try to stand, sir. There is a small retiring room directly to your right. If you wish to go there, sir"

The waiter aided him to stand even as he spoke. He guided Verbeck's faltering steps toward the little retiring room. Half a dozen diners had noted the occurrence. The head waiter hurried across the room.

"Mr. Verbeck had been taken ill suddenly," the waiter said, in a low voice.

Almost instantly the manager was among them.

"Why, it is Mr. Verbeck!" he gasped. "Suddenly ill, you say, George? Get a physician immediately!"

Verbeck was sitting on the divan in the corner of the room, scarcely able to keep from toppling over. He felt himself glowing weaker. His eyes closed, and he was unable to open them again. His head fell back. The manager bent forward and stretched him on the couch.

Two men appeared in the doorway, and the manager and head waiter whirled to face them.

"Pardon me," the first said, "but I noticed what happened, and thought I might be of some service. I am a physician—here is my card."

"Look at this man, then," the manager directed. "He became suddenly ill while eating"

The professional-looking man already was bending over Roger Verbeck. His companion stood to one side.

"Why, it is Mr. Roger Verbeck!" the physician exclaimed. "I know him well, but did not recognize him in the restaurant—his back was toward us."

"Anything serious?" asked the worried manager.

"He is subject to these attacks—a peculiar stomach trouble," the physician explained. "I have treated him many times. Undoubtedly he ate something a bit too rich. No—it is not serious. But we must get him home. Have one of your men call a taxicab, and let it go into the alley. We can get him through the hallway and kitchen and into the cab. I presume you do not wish to have the other diners disturbed?"

The manager of the restaurant did not—that was what was worrying him. He sent a waiter to call the cab. He watched while the physician mixed a drop of medicine in water and poured the mixture down Verbeck's throat. The manager did not think it peculiar, in that moment of excitement, that the physician carried a vial of medicine in his waistcoat pocket.

"We'll take care of him, sir," the doctor went on. "This is a friend of mine who was dining with me. Do not be alarmed—I assure you, Mr. Verbeck will be himself again within an hour. It really is an advertisement for your place, rather than otherwise—it shows your food is rich."

The physician chuckled and smiled, quite like a professional man taking charge of a situation, and trying to put every one at ease. The manager felt grateful. He walked ahead as the physician and his friend carried Roger Verbeck through the narrow rear hallway and through the kitchen to the back door. He watched as they put him in the cab.

"Drive to Mr. Verbeck's residence as quickly as possible," he heard the physician order the chauffeur. "You know where it is—the old Verbeck mansion? Good!"

Well satisfied, the manager went back to the dining room, glad that it had not been any fault of his food that had made Roger Verbeck ill, glad also that few of the regular diners had noticed the incident.

The cab started through the alley, turned into the first street, and hurried toward a boulevard close by.

"Easy!" the physician said to his companion, chuckling as he looked at the unconscious Verbeck.

The cab sped along the boulevard. The Verbeck mansion was to the north; the taxi dashed south.