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!"
Taking a look in the mirror, Moe certified Margo's statement and sped the cab ahead. He was neatly in advance when he reached the side door of the Metrolite, but he didn't stop.
Instead, Moe whizzed past, went along the darkened street and swung around the block. He went by so fast, that Margo did not get a look at the hotel's side door.
A man was lounging there: Lamont Cranston. He not only saw the cab, he observed that a suspicious car was trailing it.
Things happened while those cars were rounding the block. Cranston became a figure in black: The Shadow. He signaled some blinks with a tiny flashlight; they were seen across the street. The Shadow had merged with darkness, away from the hotel door, when Moe's cab came past again.
This time, Moe slackened, and Margo thought that he intended to stop; but, instead, he kept on. Of course, the trailing coupe slowed when the cab did, but it didn't resume its speed.
A door yanked open on the driver's side of the coupe. Something hit the thug and sent him clear across the car into his companion's lap. Before the other hoodlum could get rid of the burdening driver, his head took a hard jolt, too.
By then, there were three in the car, and the driver was The Shadow. He pulled to the far curb and stepped out. Harry Vincent promptly joined him; The Shadow blinked the flashlight on the faces of the stunned men. Seeing that they would stay put awhile, he turned the car over to Harry, who drove away.
Finishing another tour around the block, Moe stopped at the Metrolite and let Margo out. Very anxiously, she looked back toward the corner, then decided that Moe must have managed to slip the trailing car. Margo went into the hotel, while Moe was looking at a green blink from a flashlight, farther down the street.
Wheeling over, Moe picked up The Shadow and made a brief report. The Shadow ordered a prompt return to Dwig's hide-out.
"Sorry about Miss Lane," informed Moe. "She's expecting to meet Mr. Cranston at the Metrolite."
"Rather odd," returned The Shadow. "He didn't tell her that he would be there."
"No," Moe admitted. "But I did."
"Then Cranston can blame it on you?"
The Shadow's tone ended with a whispered laugh that carried nothing more significant than the fact that Margo Lane might have a very long wait before she dined with her friend Lamont Cranston.
CHAPTER XII. THE FIFTH VICTIM
IN his squalid basement hide-away, Dwig Brencott was talking on the telephone, while other men stood by.
Sleek, suave of tone, Dwig was a contrast to his companions. They were husky, but dumb-faced, recruits that Dwig had signed to take the place of the lamented gunzels who had suffered, permanently, from meeting with The Shadow and the police.
Except for the telephone, the hide-away had no furnishings other than a table and some broken-down chairs. It was quite apparent that Dwig, when he gestured for his tribe to follow him, intended to abandon the place. The Shadow could tell that from the looks of the place.
For The Shadow was present, though unseen.
The cloaked investigator had entered the hide-away from the back.
Peering through a partly opened door, he heard Dwig say: "Let's go!" Then, followed by his small but tough crew, Dwig went out through the front.
Even though he glanced back, Dwig did not see The Shadow. Motionless in the other doorway, the cloaked observer had benefit of darkness; but that was not all. It was unlikely that Dwig could have seen The Shadow.
Using the system of remaining absolutely immobile, with even his thoughts fixed, The Shadow was practicing the ways of the Tibetan mystics.
It was their belief that such concentration could produce the equivalent of invisibility. Through experience, The Shadow had demonstrated that complete immobility did reduce an observer's chances to almost nil.
It produced the semblance of a power through which he could cloud men's minds; and many of The Shadow's enemies had sworn that he had suddenly appeared in the midst of a lighted room before their startled eyes.
Only a few could claim that they had seen The Shadow vanish, for the simple reason that it was much more difficult the other way about. Though The Shadow could fade rapidly into darkness, he required ideal conditions if he sought to remain on the very ground, unnoticed. Once crooks saw The Shadow, their minds became too excited to be readily quieted.
If Dwig had any suspicions that The Shadow might be about, they were so vague that they did not bother him. His mind was at ease and tending toward other matters.
Had The Shadow spoken at that moment, in ventriloquial style, he could have startled Dwig into absolute bewilderment. In fact, Dwig would have imagined The Shadow almost anywhere except at the spot where he actually was.
But The Shadow did not speak; nor did he choose to reveal himself. He simply waited, motionless, until Dwig had followed the others outside. Then came the slightest stir amid the darkness, the merest swish of a black cloak, as The Shadow made his own departure from the rear of the hide-out.