“Yes, and he’ll be dead before he gets out that way, if some one who can open that vault doesn’t come soon. Where’s a telephone?”
He saw one in a corner, and rushed toward it and gave the private number.
“That you, chief?” he asked. “This is Riley? Have you sent men? What’s that—just started? Great Scott—— He did, eh? Say, chief, have the desk sergeant telephone to the manager of Jones & Co. to hurry down here. We’ve got the Black Star locked in the vault, and have to get it unlocked. Yes—sure!”
He hung up the receiver and turned to the others.
“Men on the way,” he said. “The chief says he just got the telephone message. Says the sergeant said he tried three phones near your place, and all of them had wires cut. Pretty smooth article, that Black Star—but we’ve got him! There they come now!”
From the distance came the sound of a siren, the clanging of a patrol-wagon bell. Then the pounding feet on the marble stairs, loud commands, and men rushed into the establishment of Jones & Co.
“We’ve got him!” Riley exulted. “Caught him at it! Locked him in the vault! And now we’ll stand around until the manager gets here and works the combination. He played a smooth game, all right—ask Mr. Verbeck about it. But we got him! I reckon he’s mighty sorry now that he stayed in town to make a fool out of Mr. Verbeck.”
They waited, crowding about the place, talking excitedly in whispers, debating whether the Black Star would put up a fight when the door was opened, whether he’d commit suicide and cheat the law, now that he was cornered.
Then the chief came beaming, dreaming of the vindication of his department the newspapers would have to grant. He grasped Verbeck by the hand warmly, patted Muggs on the back, congratulated Detective Riley.
“I didn’t tip off the reporters this time,” he said. “Too late for ’em, anyway. They’ll get it in the noon editions to-day, though. Laugh at the police department, will they? Not after this!”