Roger Verbeck dropped the telephone, spoke a dozen quick words, and was running out into the hall, closely followed by Riley and Muggs. Down three flights of stairs, four steps at a time, they rushed, and into the lobby.
Not a person was in sight.
From outside came the roaring of an automobile engine. They ran to the door, hurled it open, and hurried out. Tearing down the broad boulevard was Roger Verbeck’s big roadster, and the man who drove it turned an instant to wave one hand at them.
“The nerve of——” Muggs began.
Detective Riley emptied his automatic at the vanishing car, and growled low in his throat because he knew he had missed.
“The night clerk——” Verbeck cried. “Where was the clerk?”
They rushed back into the lobby. They heard doors slamming on the floors above as tenants, aroused by the turmoil and shooting, started an investigation. And they heard groans coming from behind the long desk.
Verbeck vaulted the counter, and cried out in surprise. On the floor, bound hand and foot, and gagged, was the night clerk of the bachelor-apartment house.
In the middle of his forehead was pasted a tiny black star!
And pinned to his breast was a card that bore this information: