“No, thanks, chief. I’ll go along home now and get some sleep. Here’s hoping you catch your man. He didn’t have much of a start, and he had handcuffs on his wrists—but he’s a slippery customer. My man can testify to that. He slipped away from him once, and left a bump on his head when he did it.”
“Better let me send up those men, Mr. Verbeck, even if they are pretty much worthless. We don’t want to have you found knifed in bed some morning.”
“I’m not afraid of any of the gang, chief, and the Black Star can’t organize again and issue orders until he has a new headquarters. And, remember, I’ve talked to the Black Star. He isn’t the sort of man who kills.”
“No?”
“No; he’s the sort that takes a pride in being a master criminal who uses brains instead of violence in pulling jobs no other man would approach and in doing them in a neat manner. Did he ever leave a mussed-up safe behind?”
“He generally unlocks ’em, takes what he wants, puts one of his blamed black stars in ’em, and locks ’em again—cuss him!”
“There you have his character, chief. Good night!”
Verbeck and Muggs made their exit in dignified and proper manner, and they did not speak until they were in the roadster and a block from police headquarters, on their way home. Then Muggs broke the silence in characteristic fashion.
“Whaddaya know about that!” he exclaimed in great disgust.
“The Black Star is a clever man, Muggs.”