He was an oldish chap, the messenger, well over twenty-one, of the jockey type that never seemed to outgrow the job of delivering telegrams. He handed the telegram envelope to Weston, mentioning that it was for Mr. Raft.
The telegram wasn't very important. It was from an upstate real-estate concern, quoting prices on some lots. Cardona crowded in to have a look at it, while the commissioner was showing it to Cranston.
The messenger inquired drearily if there was a reply. When Weston told him no, the fellow shambled from the office, clamping his hat upon his head.
Looking outward, The Shadow saw Moe's cab pulling up in front. Officers were going out to order it away, and it was Cranston's part to explain the cab's arrival.
He motioned Margo toward the outer door as the messenger passed through; then, following, The Shadow quietly told the officers that the cab had come for Miss Lane.
HELPING Margo into the cab, The Shadow was about to tell her to have Moe cruise around the block, when a better idea occurred to him. In this weird trail of death, the merest trifles might prove important.
Certainly, anything that the police ignored was worthy of observation.
At the corner ahead, The Shadow saw the telegraph messenger turning from sight, whistling as he went.
On a hunch less justifiable than most of Cardona's, The Shadow said to Margo:
"Have Shrevvy follow him."
Returning through the outer office, The Shadow indulged in one of the slight smiles that sometimes showed themselves on the usually immobile lips of Cranston. He'd supplied another little touch, to dispel Margo's long-held belief that Cranston was The Shadow.
Sending her with Moe along the route of a sauntering messenger-boy wouldn't strike Margo as worthy of The Shadow. She would regard it as real stupidity on Cranston's part, when the trail wound up at a telegraph office.
Of course, the cab would then return, and The Shadow would have it later; at least, so he thought, until he reached Raft's private office again. He came just in time to see Cardona reach for the dead man's right arm, raise it and look beneath.
The memo pad was gone!
Only one person could have taken it: the telegraph messenger! Small wonder that he had looked so old; the fellow was a fake, a crook disguised in uniform, like the men in the truck at Sherbrock's!
The Shadow recalled instantly how Cardona had blocked his view of the messenger while the fellow was in Raft's office. That was when the pretended messenger had snagged the memo pad and slipped it into his cap!
Like other planted clues, the memo pad had been a link arranged by murderers to carry the death trail farther. For some reason, men of crime had found it necessary to eliminate that lead. But the stolen link still existed, and The Shadow had sent Margo along the trail!
It was fortunate that she was in Moe's cab, for Shrevvy was a very clever hackie, a good man at dodging 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.