He was recalling statements that Cranston had made last night and tonight. He uttered them now, with evil satisfaction. He cared not that the unconscious man could not hear.
"Going away for a long trip, eh?" snarled Savette. "May never come back. Dangers strike anywhere here, as likely as in the jungle. Fill the box, eh? With a taboret — packed so it can't break. You wouldn't mind taking a trip in it yourself.
"Well you can." Savette's voice became a hideous chuckle. "Yes, take a trip. You are dead, Cranston. Dead. For forty-eight hours, so far as I am concerned. But to the world, you will be dead forever. Dead — when I choose to say the word. Dead men sometimes live — for a time. You are one who will live, until your usefulness is ended!"
Savette examined the hypodermic. Satisfied that he had given his victim the full charge, he dropped the syringe back in his pocket. Stooping, he tumbled the millionaire's body into the box. The form seemed stiff and inert as the fiend huddled it among the padding rugs. Savette stood back and surveyed his handiwork. He closed the door of the box and applied the three heavy padlocks. He pushed the taboret a little to one side. Then he turned to the hall. He went downstairs, carrying Cranston's portmanteau with him.
Out on the porch, the physician gave a low whistle. Two men came from a truck parked in the darkness. Savette gave them a terse order.
"Upstairs," he said. "Bring down the big box from the lighted room." While the men were on the way, Savette placed the portmanteau in his car. He waited until the men brought out the large box and placed it on the truck. He waved his hand as a signal, and the truckmen drove away.
Doctor Savette went back into the house. He walked up to the den, and laughed as he looked at the taboret. It was a valuable article, but not so valuable as the one that he had taken in its place. He picked up the taboret and set it in a corner. The top flopped open. Savette noted that the interior was empty. He turned out the light in the den. He extinguished other lights on the same floor. He did the same when he reached the downstairs hall. He closed the big front door, latching it behind him. Richards would be here in the morning. He would find nothing out of order. All of the furniture had been removed; only the few articles that were in the den remained for the valet to clear away. When Doctor Savette reached his home in New York, he carried Lamont Cranston's portmanteau upstairs with him. He opened the suitcase eagerly. He went through its contents with excited fingers. Here were the articles he wanted! Checkbooks, lists, and other objects of importance. Savette found gold and negotiable notes to the value of two thousand dollars. But he pushed these valuables aside in contempt. What were such trifles? This suitcase would be the means of making millions!
Money! He would have it now. The firm of Savette and Tremont, with their Russian partner, Orlinov, would teem with sure success. Lamont Cranston's wealth would be the basis of many millions more!
Curbing his criminal emotions, Savette closed the portmanteau and placed it in a corner.
He began to consider a milder subject, the simple matter of a short vacation. Savette leaned back in satisfaction as he rested in his easy-chair.