"They're about the same, about the same."
Russell waved a hand. "You never told me how much milk to add, so I just had to eyeball it."
"..."
Charlotte shot him a glare, then took another sip. After mulling it over, she finally said, still displeased:
"Next time you want to pour milk, don't waste my coffee grounds."
"So, the only conclusion we've reached so far that's even remotely useful is that Mary's father was both a victim of Moriarty and a possible target of The Professor?"
Russell picked up the file on Arthur Morstan and glanced at it curiously.
The contents roughly outlined Arthur Morstan's life and the like—altogether very official material.
After all, it had been retrieved from Lloyds Bank; even if there really were some unsavory history, there was no way it would be printed on something like this.
"As things stand, yes." Charlotte nodded.
"So do you suspect he is The Professor, or that he's connected to The Professor?"
"I suspect he's connected to The Professor," Charlotte said. "But at the moment there aren't enough useful leads."
"Why not suspect that he himself is The Professor?" Russell asked, intrigued.
"Accumulating his initial capital by orchestrating some crimes early on, then pivoting into business, washing himself clean and going legitimate—it sounds reasonable enough."
"He's already in his fifties," Charlotte said.
"The Professor's active period, all told, was no more than two years.
You could say that before The Professor had even made a name for himself in London's underworld, Arthur Morstan was already a fabulously wealthy merchant."
"Then, starting from the premise that he's connected to The Professor, what's your conjecture?" Russell asked.
"Enemy, or collaborator?"
"I lean toward collaborator," Charlotte said after some thought.
"If you raise your perspective a little and survey the whole affair, you'll notice one thing.
Setting the newspaper aside, the single greatest beneficiary is Arthur Morstan."
Charlotte pointed at the photograph on the file.
"He received compensation from Lloyds Bank, and he also won the support of The Guardian, which even ran a personal interview just for him.
And the cost? Practically nothing.
Moriarty stole the contents of his safe, but then returned every last item—Arthur Morstan suffered no loss whatsoever.
To put it bluntly, all he did was take those documents out of the safe and then put them back.
Yet from that one simple take-and-replace, the profit generated in between was already an astronomical figure."
"So you suspect that The Professor and Moriarty—the two of them were helping Arthur Morstan?" Russell looked at Charlotte.
"But... what makes him worthy of it?"
"That's exactly the part I can't figure out, either." Charlotte furrowed her brow.
"On what grounds could Arthur Morstan... what conditions did he promise?
The Professor I could understand, but how could he order around an unpredictable character like Moriarty?"
"Maybe he simply offered too much?" Russell asked tentatively.
"A merchant rich enough to rival a nation, offering a price even a Phantom Thief couldn't refuse—that seems to make sense."
"And then this Phantom Thief would be willing to split the spoils with some obscure, unheard-of crime consultant?"
Charlotte gave him a sidelong glance.
"Whether it's The Professor or Moriarty, neither of them seems like the type who's short on money."
Short, very short indeed.
Russell said silently to himself.
"Something's off—there's a problem with this whole chain of logic."
Charlotte downed the cup of warm milk coffee in one go, then turned her attention back to the file in her hands.
"Arthur Morstan... The Professor... Moriarty... among these three, there must be some deeper connection we haven't yet discovered."
She murmured under her breath, sinking once more into a storm of thought.
Seeing this, Russell tactfully refrained from disturbing her any further and simply rose quietly to his feet.
As it happened, he'd rested enough himself. Tonight he'd go find some poor sucker—no, go find someone in difficulty and do a good deed to accumulate some virtue.
Not long after he left, Charlotte suddenly gave a start, snapping out of her brainstorming.
She first looked around for a good while, and only after confirming that Russell was no longer in the room did she let out a breath, then let her gaze fall upon that coffee cup.
"Tsk..."
Charlotte picked up the coffee cup, carried it over to the sink, washed it clean, and hung it off to the side.
After that, she walked over to the information wall and flipped it around.
Gazing at all the various conjectures about The Professor on it, Charlotte pondered for a moment, then picked up a sticky note.
She wrote something on it, then stuck it in an inconspicuous corner.
The writing on the note was covered by another note above it; if you weren't paying attention, you wouldn't even notice there was an extra one tucked there.
Having done all this, Charlotte set down her pen, pinched the bridge of her nose, and flipped the information wall back around.
She glanced at the densely packed [Moriarty], then withdrew her gaze, turned, and walked toward the bedroom.
She collapsed straight into sleep.
Deep in the night.
Russell's eyes opened on the bed.
The alarm hadn't gone off yet, but the biological clock he'd cultivated over the years had already roused him precisely from his light slumber.
He climbed out of bed gingerly and changed into the black trench coat he'd long since prepared. Moonlight streamed through the window, gilding his crisp movements with a silver edge.
Tonight's target was a smuggler named Hannigan.
This fellow dealt mainly in silk and porcelain from the East.
On the surface he was a law-abiding, diligently tax-paying upstanding citizen, but in secret he smuggled certain unmentionable contraband within the hidden compartments of his own cargo ships.
According to the information given by the System map, Hannigan had hidden all the ledgers concerning his smuggling behind that painting hanging at the head of the bed in his mansion's bedroom.
As recovery training after a week of rest, it made for quite a decent challenge.
Plotting out his route in his mind, Russell climbed in through the window, his figure soon melting into the darkness.
Southwark District.
As the core area of Southwark, this was a mixed zone of administration, transportation, and culture.
The people who lived here were of practically every kind—officials, merchants, workers, paupers...
Hannigan's mansion sat right in this mixed and murky district, an unremarkable—one might even say somewhat dilapidated—Victorian terraced house.
Russell landed soundlessly on the rooftop across the way, then leapt down and planted himself on the branch nearest the balcony.
Standing on the branch, his body swaying gently in the night wind, his gaze fixed precisely on the second-floor bedroom.
The curtains were drawn, but a sliver had been left open, with no light. Clearly, there was no one in the bedroom.
Russell waited a moment before springing down from the branch, the tips of his toes tapping lightly on the balcony railing, then landing steadily on the cold floor tiles without making a single sound.
The balcony door was locked, but to Russell that was as good as nonexistent.
He drew out that set of Precision Lockpicking Tool from his pocket, and in less than five seconds the door was open.
Russell slipped inside and gently pulled the door shut behind him.
Standing in the bedroom, he heard the muffled sound of talking coming from next door.
It seemed Hannigan was still chatting with someone; it was just that, separated by a wall, the voices sounded somewhat blurred.
Combined with that deliberately lowered tone, if not for his upgraded [Listening], he probably wouldn't have heard a thing.
Even so, he couldn't make out exactly what the other party was saying.
Barring any surprises, they were probably discussing matters related to the smuggling.
Still not forgetting work at this hour—truly dedicated.
Russell thought to himself, then prepared to make it quick.
He walked straight to the head of the bed, his gaze falling upon that oil painting hanging on the wall.
After carefully taking the painting down, a square recess was revealed within.
The ledger was right inside.
The corner of Russell's mouth curled up. He reached out and took the ledger, then left his card on the bedroom table.
Having done all this, Russell clapped his hands in satisfaction and casually returned the painting to its original spot, as if nothing had ever happened.
Deed done, he shook out his sleeves and departed, his merits and name deeply concealed.
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