trouble. Nevertheless, The Shadow promptly told Weston, in Cranston's calmest manner, that four deaths were enough for anyone.
Weston agreed. He couldn't blame Cranston for deciding to go back to the club.
Thus did The Shadow manage to be on his way, to again become a figure clad in black, a hidden crime hunter who would be in readiness for whatever word might reach him, regarding the trail of the stolen link to death!
CHAPTER XI. THE BATTLER IN BLACK
MARGO LANE was more than ever convinced that Lamont Cranston was The Shadow. Only The Shadow could have snapped up so innocent a trail as that of a loitering telegraph messenger and picked it as a prize.
For two blocks, Margo had felt herself upon a stupid quest, wondering why Moe, the patient hackie was falling for the joke and sneaking the cab at a snail's pace along the curb.
Then, when the messenger looked back from another corner, Margo's opinion reversed itself. He didn't spot the cab, for Moe had it out of sight between two other cars that were parked on the street. But Margo saw the messenger's face, with its ugly, triumphant leer. She also spied him start into a run as he took the corner.
Moe followed after him. Around the corner, the fake messenger was peeling off his uniform jacket as he sprang into a waiting car manned by other thugs. From then on, Margo was glad that she wasn't at the wheel of her own coupe, trying to trail the group ahead. Shrevvy was much better qualified for that very ticklish job.
He let the other car get out of sight before its passengers could notice the cab behind. Then, taking cross streets, mingling with traffic, Moe picked the right car from a dozen others and was back on the trail again.
Not only on the trail, but free to follow closer, because the men ahead did not suspect his cab. Of all vehicles, taxicabs, the commonest type in Manhattan, were the best to use in work like this.
Margo was gradually piecing facts together. She knew that each murder had been the lead to the next, and reasoned that, in this case, something different had occurred. It could only be that the fugitive messenger had taken the clue that linked Raft's death to one to follow.
But Margo couldn't quite figure why crooks had planted something and then removed it. She felt sure, however, that The Shadow could answer that question, and probably would - through Lamont Cranston
- when she met him later.
Events caused Margo to drop that problem. The trail was leading into a rather sinister portion of the East Side, where shabby old buildings ranged on each side of an elevated line. Such neighborhoods were all right normally, but when mobsters dived into them, every house became menacing.
When the car ahead rolled into a side street that stretched, dark and gloomy, toward the river, Margo felt that they were near the end of the ride.
She was right. Crooks halted their car and disembarked, while Moe deftly extinguished the cab lights and slid into a parking space some distance behind. Margo watched slinky figures cross the sidewalk and sneak into a basement. She couldn't even tell which one had been the messenger boy.
The fact pleased her. It meant that the sidewalk was dark enough for her to do some stealthy work on her own. She opened the rear door of the cab, caught a warning gesture from Moe. Coolly, Margo said:
'It's all right, Shrevvy. I'll be careful.'
'They may have a lookout,' voiced Moe, shrewdly. 'Those guys can konk you quick. I ought to know.'
He rubbed his head, as though recalling a few such experiences. Margo laughed lightly, though she was taking the words to heart.
'I'll be very careful, Shrevvy.'
MARGO was true to her word. She was wearing a dark dress, which enabled her to keep nicely unobserved as she moved along the line of basement fronts. But, as she neared the one where the crooks had entered, she remembered her promise to Moe.
It was well that she did. As Margo waited, one doorway short, she saw a huddling man shift from the adjoining doorstep.
Drawing back, Margo felt quite secure, though annoyed because she couldn't get closer. This was really a job for The Shadow, and Margo realized it. There was just a chance that luck might come her way -
and it did.
The reason that the lookout had shifted was because a door was opening. Men emerged in a shaft of dim light, and Margo was able to overhear their voices. Not only that, she saw a face exceedingly like the sleek but sallow countenance of Dwig Brencott.
The sleek man spoke.
'A couple of you lugs cruise around,' he said. 'The Shadow has got wise to too much, and even when The Shadow learns too little, he knows too much. So keep cruising for a half-hour; then duck out. I'll call you later.'
As the door closed, Margo worked away. She was trembling during the return trip to the cab, fearing every moment that hands might fling from a doorway and grip her. Straight opposite the cab, she was afraid that some clatter from her high heels might betray her, so she took off her shoes and carried them as she stole across the sidewalk.
In the cab, her nerve returned. She was putting on her shoes again, as she leaned to the front seat and said:
'We'd better start, Shrevvy -'
It was then that a real horror overwhelmed Margo. The cab no longer had a driver!
Sinking back, the girl opened her purse and tried to draw out a small automatic that she had there; but her fingers were gone numb.
Not that Margo was short on nerve; she could take care of herself in a pinch; otherwise, she wouldn't be working for The Shadow. But the belief that she might first have to rescue Shrevvy from the clinches of a mob was enough to mentally stun her.
Someone bounded into the cab from the street side and took the wheel. Margo caught a grip on the gun and shoved it forward, saying boldly:
'Don't move!'
A voice answered. It was Moe's. He thought that Margo meant the cab, not himself.
'O.K.,' he said. 'What are they doing? Prowling around?'
'They may be.' Margo slid the gun back into the bag. She was glad Moe hadn't spied the weapon. 'Only they're in a car - the ones we've got to avoid.'
Moe gave a grunt, as though he expected what Margo told him. Then:
'Find out anything?' he asked.
'Dwig is in the hide-away,' replied Margo. 'He'll be there for the next half-hour.'
'Good enough!'
With that, Moe started the cab. It dawned on Margo that he must have called Burbank, saying that he thought they had located Dwig and that the wanted crook would be around awhile.
Guesswork on Moe's part, but the sort The Shadow liked, because it could be promptly countermanded if it turned out wrong. Otherwise, it would stand, and was a great timesaver, for, if right, such guesses would enable The Shadow to make prompt plans.
There was one point, however, that Margo couldn't fathom. As they turned into an avenue, she questioned:
'Where are you taking me, Shrevvy?'
'To keep your date,' was the reply. 'The one you made with Mr. Cranston. He said to meet him at the Hotel Metrolite, didn't he?'
Lamont hadn't said anything of the sort, but Margo did not dispute the matter. She was sure that Moe had been told to remind her of the imaginary date. Since it was certainly time for dinner, Margo relaxed, while the cab zigzagged from street to avenue.
As they swung a corner sharply, she landed half around in the rear seat and had a look through the back window.
WHAT she saw, worried Margo. A coupe was jabbing past the same corner, acting very much as if on the cab's trail. Thoughts of the cruising car rang home to Margo. She exclaimed to Moe:
'They're following us! Like we followed them!'
