Now, Savette had begun to share Tremont's theory that The Shadow had been killed.
There were good reasons for so believing.
It seemed incredible that the man could possibly have escaped. The mobster who had fired the shot at which The Shadow toppled had gazed from the end of the dock to see no one.
That was Biff Towley's assurance.
Moreover, Glade Tremont's statement about the currents in the Sound were true ones.
Searchers had discovered the body of a dead gangster wedged beneath another dock a half mile away. No body had been found that might have been The Shadow's; but there was every cause to believe that his form, too, had found its way to some obscure spot.
Most convincing of all was the fact that The Shadow had not revealed himself. There was no chance — so Savette thought — that The Shadow could know of present plans. Checkmated, his only hope — if he lived — of saving Cliff Marsland's life was to communicate and come to terms.
Savette was confident on this point. Therefore, The Shadow must be dead.
Nevertheless, the wily physician had not changed his plan of holding Cliff as a hostage.
With his agent captive, The Shadow could not dare to strike. Savette, despite his smugness, was well versed in the lore of the underworld. He knew that The Shadow would never abandon an underling to destruction. For a short while, Savette had entertained the thought that perhaps operatives of The Shadow might carry on. That, he was soon convinced, was not only illogical, but also impossible. Actually, The Shadow was a lone wolf. His special agents were merely men who obeyed orders blindly, covering places where The Shadow could not be. These leaderless operatives could not even know of Cliff Marsland's plight.
Now, with full security, Savette was contemplating another crime. Money was needed for a definite purpose. With his past record, it was only natural that the scheming physician should decide to use an evil method in the furtherance of his desire.
Reclining, with eyes half shut, the fiend made mental notations of persons whom he had in mind. Among his patients were many wealthy persons; but as he had told Tremont, there was an obstacle with each that prevented surety of action.
Savette took chances when necessary. He had not been so particular in the past, when he had first embarked upon his insidious trail of crime. Now, with his career besmirched, and his mind schooled to ease and perfection in method, he wanted to perform the coming job in the safest and best way possible. Some minds are naturally crooked. Gerald Savette did not possess the quirks and twists of the natural criminal. To him, evil was useful only as a means to a definite end. He, like his associates, had left a bloody trail behind them. But in the lesser jobs, they had let Biff Towley attend to the dirty work. Gerald Savette felt himself a criminal deluxe. He was about to make his farewell bow to his secret profession. From then on, he would be secure as a wealthy, retired physician. That was the goal he had set.
Tremont wanted action soon. So did Orlinov. Both could wait — a month if necessary.
Unless a perfect scheme presented itself, Savette would hold back to the limit before perpetrating his last evil. While he waited, he was playing his suave part of a reputable physician. He was strict ethically. He was not overdoing himself. He was enjoying social functions, extending his connections, adding to his prestige. A wary method indeed!
Tonight, Savette was keeping an appointment with a group of wealthy men. Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was past eight o'clock. Nearly time to be going. He rang a bell and summoned his servant, Hughes.
"Order the car from the garage," said Savette. "By the way, Hughes, let me have that envelope with the invitation that I left on the table in the other room. Get that first." Hughes bowed and left the room. He returned, carrying the envelope; Savette opened it. He smiled as he read the contents of the letter.
This had come as a follow-up to a phone call which Savette had received from Lamont Cranston, the millionaire with whom he had formed an acquaintance.
Cranston was giving a special party to a few chosen guests. The affair was set for tonight.
Savette had accepted the verbal invitation. The letter carried instructions, telling how to reach Cranston's home in New Jersey. It also expressed pleasure in the fact that Doctor Savette would be able to attend the affair. When the car arrived from the garage, Savette set out immediately.
He headed for the Holland Tunnel, reached the Jersey side, and arrived at Lamont Cranston's home shortly after nine o'clock. Most of the guests had arrived. Savette was greeted by his host.
He was introduced to the other men, all of whom were wealthy and influential.
"I have not seen you for some time, doctor," remarked Cranston, as the two were standing side by side.
"Where was it we last met?"
"Let me think," said Savette slowly. "Ah, yes. I seem to recall it. Weren't we both at Clark Murdock's?"
"Clark Murdock." Cranston seemed puzzled. "Now it comes back to me. I had forgotten the name of that chemist chap. The one who had all the queer experiments. Very interesting. I wonder how he is progressing."
"He is dead," said Savette, in a tone of surprise. "His laboratory blew up. Didn't you know about that, Mr. Cranston?"
"I seldom read the newspapers," replied Cranston, in a laughing tone. Then his words became solemn. "I am sorry to hear the man died by accidental cause. A great loss to science. He appeared to have discovered something of value. I thought that he was still at work, trying to develop that machine of his." Another guest interrupted the conversation.
It was nearing midnight. Refreshments were served. While all were eating, Cranston made an announcement.
"This is something of a farewell party, gentlemen," he said. "The wanderlust has seized me again. I am leaving for distant regions, tomorrow."
A buzz of interest arose. Lamont Cranston had a great reputation as a globe-trotter.
Questions came. All wanted to know his plans.
"My plans?" Cranston's staid face took on a cryptic smile. "I have none, gentlemen. I go where the mood seizes me. Africa — India — South America. All are alike to me. I do not follow the beaten trail.
"Alone and unattended, I may walk into the midst of a Senegambian tribe. The chief will recognize me. Unheralded, I may appear among the ancient Indians of Peru. There, too, my presence is welcome.
"I have been to Lassa, the Holy City of Tibet. I have trekked through the South African veldt. I have explored the far reaches of the Amazon. I go to places where my very name is unknown to those who recognize me.
"All of the primitive peoples whom I meet have given me their own name. Translated, I am known as 'Child of the Moon,' 'White Chief,' 'Smoke Man' — and a host of other curious titles.
I carry weapons, but I seldom use them, except when I am tracking game. I surprise my primitive friends with conjuring tricks, tobacco smoke, simple medical preparations, and other devices which I carry with me.
"I possess an aptitude for learning any dialect almost as I hear it. In this way, I get along well — even with cannibals, who have invariably considered me of more value as a wise man than as a kettle of stew. On my prospective journey, I shall encounter old friends and make new ones."
"You must run great risks," observed someone.
"Of course," said Cranston. "Sometime, I shall not return. No one will ever hear of me again. Well, that will be an interesting way to shake off this life. I prefer the unusual — in death as well as in life."
"You will be gone long?"
"Longer than usual. I cannot tell the exact period that my trip will cover. That depends upon my varying moods. On this occasion, however, I am doing the unusual. I have arranged my affairs for two years and I am closing this establishment for the first time. The servants leave tomorrow." The bizarre notions of Lamont Cranston were highly interesting to this group. These wealthy men preferred the security of New York to the dangers of the jungle. Someone remarked to that effect. Cranston laughed in response.