"Madman... an absolute madman!"
Henry cursed, his excitement barely contained, but an ecstatic smile lit up his face.
"But—he's a genius as well! A marketing genius!!"
He suddenly raised his head and, like a wolf, fixed his gaze on Russell again.
"That's all? He didn't say anything else?"
"No, that's not it." Russell shook his head, his harmless smile never leaving his face.
"I have to go now."
"Wait!" Henry seized his shoulder with so much force it was as if he wanted to crush bone.
"Are you meeting him again in the next few days? If... if he gives you any new instructions, contact me immediately! The price is negotiable!"
"I really don't know, sir. After all, he's the one who reached out to me, not the other way around."
Russell slowly brushed Henry's hand off his shoulder.
"Well, I should be going. I still have several letters left to deliver."
"What do you mean?" Henry paused, then asked, "Wasn't this a letter to The Times?"
"Of course not."
Russell shook his head, and produced twelve envelopes from his pocket.
"I'll buy them all! One hundred pounds per envelope—no, two hundred! I'll take every last one!"
Henry blurted this out and turned, rallying others to gather funds.
But Russell cut him off first.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Henry, but no matter what price you offer, I have no intention of selling."
"Why not?" Henry turned on Russell sharply. "You just want money, don't you? Then take it!"
"Mr. Moriarty said other newspapers also deserve a chance from time to time," Russell replied gravely. "That's what he meant."
As soon as those words left his lips, the fire drained from Henry's face.
He stared at Russell, at the identical envelopes in his hands, and at his sincere smile, a million thoughts racing through his mind.
What does Moriarty mean by this? What is that lunatic trying to do?
An exclusive performance in The Times alone would have captivated all of London.
But now, he had chosen to make every paper on Fleet Street raise its voice.
He didn't want a solo performance; he wanted a symphony of the entire city.
Henry could almost picture the spectacle that would unfold the next morning as Londoners received their papers from the newsboys.
The Times, The Guardian, The Daily News, The Morning Post—each front page would feature the same provocative letter from the mysterious thief.
This wasn't an ordinary news headline. This was an unprecedented, grand proclamation, orchestrated by Moriarty himself and directed at the whole city.
"Damn it..."
Henry muttered under his breath, his clenched fists slowly relaxing.
He understood.
Moriarty didn't want one newspaper's sales to spike; he wanted to set all London abuzz with panic and anticipation. He wanted every resident of the city—regardless of class or status—to be an audience member for this grand performance.
Henry Scott was furious at losing the scoop, his anger and malice rising by fifty points.
"Alright then." Henry drew a slow breath and forced the semblance of a smile onto his scowling face. "Given it's Mr. Moriarty's desire, we shall comply, of course."
After a pause, he added, "If Mr. Moriarty gives you any new information, please contact The Times first."
"I'll consider it," said Russell. "It has been an honor doing business with you, Mr. Henry."
With those words, he slipped away before Henry could stop him, leaving the office of The Times, his figure quickly swallowed up by Fleet Street's ever-glowing lights. Henry Scott stood frozen, staring long and hard in the direction Russell disappeared.
His mind worked at lightning speed.
As a veteran lawyer who'd spent half his life on Fleet Street, he instantly grasped the true meaning behind Russell's words.
Lloyds Bank had lied.
And their mouthpiece, The Times, became their accomplice, deceiving the nation.
"Damn it..." Henry cursed, grinding his teeth.
"Editor-in-chief?"
"Ladies and gentlemen!"
Henry suddenly spun around, the beastly flame of a true journalist burning once more in his bloodshot eyes.
"Stop all drafts! Start with the layout! Use the largest font size! We need every citizen in London to know something momentous is happening!"
After leaving The Times, Russell didn't stay a moment longer. He stalked down Fleet Street like a tireless night traveler, visiting every newspaper office that still burned bright.
Edgar—the younger, more ambitious editor-in-chief of The Guardian—was the first to react.
After glimpsing the letter's contents, his first question was why Russell hadn't sold them the exclusive.
Russell answered in a slightly provocative tone.
Mr. Moriarty believed you shouldn't put all your eggs in one basket. And he was curious to see whether The Times carried more weight, or whether The Guardian's pen was sharper.
Those words instantly ignited Edgar's competitive spirit.
He agreed on the spot, paying not only a 100-pound information fee but an extra 50 pounds as a consultancy fee—hoping Russell would divulge details about Moriarty not given to The Times. Of course, Russell cheerfully obliged, but deflected with ambiguous statements.
The rest of the process was nearly identical.
Rusell Watson moved like a midnight postman—except he was delivering not blessings, but notices.
Once the authenticity of the letters was confirmed, every newspaper, without exception, launched into excited chaos like Henry and Edgar.
They knew an unprecedented storm of news was about to sweep London—and they would witness it and fan its flames.
By the time Russell delivered the last letter and stepped out of the Morning Post building, his pocket cash had grown considerably from the original hundred pounds.
He glanced at the distant hands of Big Ben. It was nearly midnight.
The streets were emptying, the only sound the plodding of horses dragging heavy loads across the cobblestone. Russell lifted his collar against the chill night wind, thrust his hands in his pockets, and strolled slowly toward Baker Street.
Tonight was only the beginning.
He couldn't wait to read tomorrow's papers.
…