The motor cyclist stopped beside the roadster at this moment.
“Got him all right?” he asked.
“Cinch! Muggs is now sleeping peacefully in the rear beneath a heavy robe. I sure caught him off guard.”
“Well, Verbeck is the next job. He may stay in there talkin’ to his girl half the night, and he may be out in three minutes. It’ll be a game of wait, I guess. I’ll hang around to give help, if you need it, and be ready to jump in as soon as you get him. You gave Muggs a heavy shot, didn’t you?”
“I guess he’s good for half an hour in dreamland, all right.”
“Verbeck wants to get a heavy shot, too. When we get out on the river road we can bind and gag the two of ’em. Careful now. If we miss out on this the big boss’ll half kill us.”
“I ain’t never failed him yet, not the Bl——”
“Cut it!” the motor cyclist exclaimed. “Be gentle with that name around these parts. This is the home of Verbeck’s fiancée, remember, and Heaven knows what sort of cops might be posted around here. I’d better duck now.”
He left the roadster and walked a short distance down the street, finally coming to a stop against a wall. There he waited in the shadows, as did the driver of the light truck at the mouth of the alley. The truck driver had witnessed the undoing of Muggs, and had chuckled some at it, but had made no move to interfere. Little cared he if the Black Star’s men rendered Roger Verbeck’s chauffeur unconscious and hurled him into the rear of the roadster!
Fifteen minutes passed. The motor cyclist left his retreat and walked up and down the street now and then. The man in Verbeck’s car remained crouched behind the wheel of the machine, and the truck driver at the alley’s mouth did not change his position.