The most ingenious infiltration operations often use the simplest methods.
Between tedious theories and calculations, the lecture gradually drew to an end. As the bell signaling release resounded, Russell immediately lifted his head, not a trace of drowsiness in his eyes. He deftly accepted the notebook Mary offered, then picked up his bag.
"Let's go," Russell said, standing up as he spoke.
The two walked side by side out of the lecture hall. The afterglow of the setting sun lit up the square in front of the school building like a golden carpet, shimmering underfoot.
They chatted casually and soon arrived at a fork in the path before the school building.
"See you tomorrow," Russell said, stopping in his tracks.
"Yeah, see you tomorrow," Mary replied, stopping as well. She looked at Russell. The sunset cast long shadows, and their silhouettes nearly overlapped on the ground.
"Don't forget about our Saturday plans," she added quietly.
"Of course," Russell smiled and nodded. "Even if I forget the time for the final exams, I won't forget an afternoon tea date."
Hearing this, Mary gave him a satisfied glance before heading for the dormitory.
When Russell pushed open the door to 221B Baker Street, the strong scent of tobacco mixed with the aroma of coffee greeted him.
He followed the scent and found Charlotte standing in front of the evidence wall. She held a cup of coffee in one hand and a slender baton in the other, muttering to herself while pointing at a huge map of London. The fire in the hearth burned brightly, casting a flickering glow on her focused profile.
"Any progress?" Russell approached her, his gaze sweeping quickly over the tangled map covered with strings and sticky notes.
"Lestrade delivered a pile of old papers," Charlotte said, setting aside the baton and picking up her coffee. After taking a sip, she spoke with thinly veiled disdain. "Still, it's better than nothing."
"Did he find Bilson?"
"No." Charlotte shook her head. "We barely traced a few of his last residences and only got some accounts about Bilson from the landlords."
She pointed her baton at a sketch on the wall: a typical Eastern European face, with high cheekbones, deep-set eyes, and a chilling gaze.
"An arrest warrant has been issued. Now the whole of Scotland Yard is searching for him."
"What about Charles?" Russell asked again.
"He's still babbling the same nonsense in the asylum." Charlotte clicked her tongue in irritation.
"So, absolutely no progress, then?"
Russell helped himself to a cup of coffee.
"We can't even confirm if Bilson is alive or dead. What if the Professor has already silenced him?"
"If that's the case, we'll just have to accept our bad luck," Charlotte replied. "And pray Charles regains sanity soon. Lestrade is nearly losing his mind."
What in the world happened to him?
"Scotland Yard's phones haven't stopped ringing since this morning," Charlotte took another sip of coffee, schadenfreude laced in her tone. "The Moriarty case has sent the aristocrats into a panic. They keep pressuring Lestrade—either to expose Moriarty's crimes or to prevent the newspapers from promoting his performances."
"Does Lestrade even have that much influence?" Russell raised an eyebrow.
"Clearly, he doesn't. So, as I said—he's appropriately anxious now." Charlotte shrugged. "On the other hand, making the Professor's private life public would only cause unnecessary panic."
So, in their eyes, the Lloyds Bank case was considered closed. All current issues circled back to Moriarty. And as the officer directly involved, Lestrade, naturally, couldn't abandon the investigation into the Professor just to chase after some petty thief.
So...
Though Charlotte didn't finish, Russell already understood her point.
Since noon, system notifications had kept popping up in his mind, so persistently that Russell eventually blocked them out of sheer annoyance.
Just as Charlotte was speaking, he glanced at his screen and noticed Lestrade had awarded him a considerable number of "Malice Points."
Yeah, I get it. Lestrade must really hate Moriarty by now.
"There are plenty of people in London who hate him. Lestrade is hardly an exception," Charlotte said. She tossed her baton onto the table and returned her gaze to the information wall, as though she might summon the Professor's ghost from the tangled lines and scribbles.
Seeing this, Russell didn't say any more. Once Charlotte entered this kind of intense focus, she was like someone injected with adrenaline—even if Mrs. Hudson dropped in, she probably wouldn't care.
That's good, at least she's busy with work and not distracted by me.
After a few casual exchanges, Russell turned and headed back to his own room.
When night had fallen completely, he climbed out the window and, accompanied by the strains of a violin, slipped away into the darkness of Baker Street.
…
Compared to the dignified luxury of Kensington, the design of Mayfair was distinctly more modern. This was the wealthiest district in London, and the heart of the social season.
Russell stood on the top floor of a building, overlooking the whole of Mayfair. Looking around, he saw almost nothing but opulent residences. There was no room whatsoever for anything commonplace or cheap.
The number of police patrolling the streets had obviously increased; an officer could now be seen roughly every hundred meters, often with police dogs in tow.
That public notice really made a splash.
"Yeah, that's right, exactly so," Russell murmured to himself, leaning on the railing and enjoying the fresh evening breeze. Even with all the heightened security, there was not the slightest hint of worry in his tone.
This was exactly what he wanted.
The more nervous they are, the more their weaknesses show.
His gaze swept past the rows of extravagant houses and finally settled in the distance on a building that seemed more commercial than residential.
To be precise, it was a club—a private club.
Such private clubs were not uncommon in Mayfair. Only qualified members could enter, and privacy was thoroughly guaranteed.
On the surface, the Romantic Club offered only a limited selection of services: billiards, drinks, food, entertainment... Deals were often struck amid the clinking of glasses and the sound of billiard balls sinking into pockets.
But this was only the first mask. The true face that lay beneath? Sometimes, that too was just another mask.
Russell leapt from the rooftop, landing in the narrow gap between the buildings. When he appeared in the alley again, his gentleman thief outfit had disappeared.
Instead, he wore a yellow work vest, carried an old tool bag and a collapsible ladder.
The most advanced infiltration missions often rely on the simplest approach.
…