In theory, all you needed was an extendable ladder and a repairman's high-visibility vest.
And with those two things, you could waltz into anywhere in the world — however heavily guarded.
The Louvre, for instance. Or somewhere like that.
Russell pulled on a matching battered flat cap and tugged the brim down low, shading most of his face.
He fished a pair of oil-stained work gloves from the toolbox and pulled them on, then hoisted the extendable ladder onto his shoulder and strolled unhurriedly out of the shadows, merging with the Mayfair street beyond — a street blazing white under its rows of gas lamps.
The beat of the patrol constable's boots against the pavement grew steadily closer. Russell could even hear the police dog's low, suppressed panting, lodged deep in its throat.
He didn't so much as flinch. He simply kept walking, eyes fixed straight ahead, pace steady, posture entirely relaxed — exactly like a repairman who'd just finished a long day's work and was trudging off to his next job.
The constable drew level with him, let his gaze linger for a moment, then called out.
"You there. Hold on."
The constable stepped forward and blocked his path.
"What are you doing out here?"
"Someone from the Romandy Club rang in a repair call, sir," Russell replied, all straightforward cooperation.
The constable's gaze made a slow circuit of him — from the flat cap, to the oil-stained gloves, and finally to the extendable ladder resting cold and heavy on his shoulder.
"The Romandy Club?" the constable repeated, his tone sharpening with scrutiny. "What sort of repair?"
"Gas pipes," Russell said, his voice coming out slightly hoarse, carrying just the right note of weary exhaustion. "They're saying one of the kitchen pipes has a small leak — strong smell of gas. Asked me to get over there quick and take a look."
He delivered his well-rehearsed story at a measured pace, and as he spoke, gave a small sniff, as though the cold damp night air had gotten into him.
The constable checked the contents of the toolbox, and once he'd confirmed it held nothing but the usual repair equipment, waved him on.
Everyone was just out here trying to earn a living. No sense making life difficult for each other.
Besides — upsetting the gentlemen inside the Romandy Club was one thing, and that'd be the repairman's problem. But if it somehow blew back on him? His own livelihood wouldn't be looking too healthy either.
"Right, off you go. Get a move on."
"Yes — yes, of course." Russell gave a nod, then set off briskly in the direction of the Romandy Club.
Arriving at the entrance, Russell glanced at the row of gleaming carriages drawn up outside, quietly made himself smaller, and with his head lowered, threaded through the crowd to the front.
He cleared his throat and held out a business card.
"Sir... Wilson Repairs."
The attendant manning the door was tall, immaculately uniformed, and wore the expression peculiar to those who serve the upper classes — polite, and entirely detached.
He did not reach out to take the visibly oil-stained card. Instead, he pinched it between two fingertips and lifted it, as though it were something liable to soil his white gloves.
"Wilson Repairs..." he murmured, repeating the name, his gaze sliding over Russell's cheap and rather grimy outfit, his brow creasing by a fraction.
Then he turned to his colleague beside him and said, "Take him round to the side entrance."
"Right." The colleague gave a short reply, then strode off towards the other side.
"Follow me."
Russell hurried after him, and under the attendant's lead, passed through an inconspicuous side door into the club.
"What are you here to fix?" the guide asked.
"The ventilation system, sir."
"Those exhaust fans have been needing a look at..." the attendant muttered, then added a warning: "Stay close behind me when we're moving. Don't go staring around, don't go wandering off. The guests in here are not the sort you want to cross. Understood?"
"Yes, yes, of course." Russell nodded repeatedly.
The attendant led Russell through a narrow staff corridor carpeted in grey linen.
Unlike the blaze of gilt and light in the main entrance hall, the lighting here was considerably dimmer.
"Kitchen's down that way," the attendant said, jerking a thumb towards the far end of the corridor without turning around. "Main mechanical room for the ventilation system is upstairs. Come with me."
"Yes, sir." Russell maintained his meek, obliging manner, ladder on shoulder, following along step for step.
His gaze appeared to be directed at the floor. In reality, his peripheral vision was busy sweeping the surrounding layout into memory with quiet efficiency.
The attendant led him up the staff staircase to the second floor, then pulled the door open.
"When you're done, come straight back the way you came. Is that clear?"
He said it with evident impatience, making it plain he had no intention of accompanying Russell any further.
"Yes..." Russell nodded, gave the man an ingratiating smile, and walked in.
The staff corridor door swung slowly shut behind him. The attendant's footsteps receded, then faded entirely into silence.
Russell placed his hand on the door handle, stepped back out, and turned his gaze upward along the staircase as it continued to climb.
The Romandy Club had four floors in total.
The ground floor held the bar, the restaurant, and the ballroom.
The second floor was the kitchen and the rest lounge.
The third floor housed the billiard room, the cigar bar, and the private card rooms.
And his target was on the fourth floor.
According to the map, it was an archive room — something like the underground storage room beneath Lloyds Bank.
Only instead of gold and jewels, what was kept inside were secrets. Secrets that could not bear the light of day.
Secrets sufficient to ruin, on the spot, any person of name and standing in London's upper society.
Russell brought his footsteps down to near silence and made his way up the staircase.
But when he reached the third floor, his steps came to a halt.
To be precise — he couldn't go any further.
The staff staircase only ran as far as the third floor. To reach the fourth, you had to go through the guest staircase on the third floor.
That was the only way in or out — at least, for ordinary people.
For anything else, he had a word to say to his Twilight Shroud.
Russell leaned against the wall of the third-floor staff staircase. A deduction notification chimed in his head as the cost was deducted, and there, between his long fingers, a small round pellet had appeared as if from nowhere.
Unhurried, he held the cylinder between index finger and middle finger, and applied the faintest pressure.
With a soft, muffled pop, a dense black fog erupted and billowed outward through the stairwell in an instant.
By the time the smoke had cleared, the Phantom Thief was gone.
His body lurched with a brief sensation of weightlessness and disorientation — and when Russell opened his eyes again, his feet were planted on a thick, plush carpet.
He was now inside one of the private booths in the fourth-floor archive room.
The booth was not large — roughly the size of a shower cubicle — and its layout was simple to the point of austerity.
Uniform wooden boxes, each fitted with a small, modest lock. That was the sum total of the security these files had been afforded.
At first, Russell couldn't quite work out why records this sensitive were being stored in something so basic — so casually, almost carelessly protected.
But then something caught his attention. He half-crouched and peeled back one corner of the carpet.
What met his eyes was not marble tile or anything else he might have expected. It was a panel of smooth-grained wood.
The entire fourth floor had been built from timber.
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