Russell listened in silence as the man haggled.
With only two or three sentences, he tried to cut Russell's pay in half—and somehow still looked pleased with how "reasonable" that sounded.
"Finished?" Russell asked.
"Of course. If you're willing, I can—"
"If you're done, then return it to me, Mr. Henry," Russell said, extending his hand. "I'm going to The Guardian."
"I don't think they'll be stingy about five hundred pounds."
Henry's expression froze, as if the muscles in his face had forgotten how to move.
"What do you mean?"
"Exactly what it sounds like." Russell kept his hand out. "There are a few things you've gotten wrong."
"First: this isn't a gift from Moriarty to your paper."
"It's from me. I'm the one giving it to you."
"Moriarty handed the material to me, but he never told me I had to submit it to The Times. So who gets it depends entirely on my mood."
"And whichever paper pays more… is the one I'll feel friendliest toward."
He continued calmly.
"Second: I don't need you to 'commend' me in some corner of your paper. I don't care."
"I prefer something more practical than empty praise."
"For example, I'm renting a place alone on Baker Street. And not long ago, I became a freshman at Imperial College London."
"Do you know what that means?"
He didn't wait for Henry to answer.
"It means I'm paying both rent and tuition—never mind the other expenses."
"Add it up and I'm spending about four hundred pounds a year, Mr. Henry."
"So when you ask me 'how about it,' my answer is—five hundred pounds. Not a penny less."
"Either pay, or give it back."
Russell paused, then added smoothly:
"Of course, you could also throw me out and swallow this scoop without paying a single penny."
"But take a guess—do you think I'd go to The Guardian and tell them, in detail, what you did here tonight?"
"I imagine they won't mind losing the headline—so long as they get to step hard on a competitor in print."
"And while you're guessing, you can also guess whether the Phantom Thief Moriarty reads newspapers."
"If he learns what you tried to do, who do you think gets exposed next?"
"That part… I can't guarantee."
"…"
With every sentence, Henry's face darkened another shade.
He stared at the young man—at that fearless gaze—while his hand tightened around the envelope.
Watching that constipated expression, Russell let a small smile surface.
Then, just before Henry could respond, Russell offered a timely "concession."
"Of course, if you're willing to add another fifty pounds, I can give you an additional piece of information."
Henry frowned. "What information?"
"About Cabinet Minister Ethan Roy's idiot son—Timmy Roy."
"Tonight, at Imperial College London's freshman icebreaker gala, his 'romantic exploits'—being intimately involved with several noble young ladies at the same time—were exposed in public."
"And by coincidence, I was there. I watched the entire thing from beginning to end."
Henry's eyes lit up instantly.
A veteran newspaperman like him smelled the value at once.
A Cabinet minister was about to collapse under a corruption scandal—and on the very same night, the heir everyone had pinned hopes on was publicly ruined by a private-life scandal.
Father and son.
Politics and high society.
Both collapsing at once.
And most importantly—Timmy Roy's targets were noble daughters.
"I can even give you details," Russell said, his voice like the devil whispering into a willing ear.
"Such as which young ladies slapped him in front of everyone… and who their fathers are…"
"No need," Henry cut him off with a slap of his palm on the desk. Whatever hesitation he'd had evaporated on the spot.
If The Times could run that as an exclusive, five hundred pounds was nothing.
Their performance numbers would add a zero to that figure—and then some.
Henry yanked open the bottom drawer of his desk, pulled out a money pouch, and counted quickly.
"Three hundred pounds… Damn it. Wait here!"
He set the money on the desk, flung the door open, and barked into the newsroom:
"Everyone—right now—stop what you're doing!"
His voice cracked like thunder through what had been an excited but still orderly office.
"Scrape together two hundred and fifty pounds. Now!"
The reporters who'd been shut outside the door blinked—then immediately understood.
Something big was coming.
"My wallet's upstairs—I'll get it!"
"My house is right next door—I'm going!"
"Hell—who's got spare change? Lend it to me, I'll pay you back double next month!"
The sounds of frantic pocket-searching, hurried footsteps, and gleeful profanity blended into total chaos.
For a moment, The Times looked less like a newspaper office and more like London's busiest stock exchange.
Russell stood in the doorway and watched the commotion, the corner of his mouth faintly lifting.
Unhurried, he returned to Henry's desk, pulled over a chair, and satached down.
He even picked up a gossip rag, flipping it open as though he had all the time in the world.
His composure was a sharp contrast to the pandemonium outside.
Before long, a thick wad of mixed bills—some crisp, some worn—was carried in.
A young reporter ran in, panting, holding the money in his hat like a makeshift basket.
"E-Editor… we… we got it!"
Henry took the hat, dumped the bills onto the desk, and counted them with the speed and precision of a bank teller—hands moving so fast they almost blurred.
"Five hundred and fifty pounds. Not a penny more, not a penny less."
He looked up and pushed the pile toward Russell.
Russell set the paper down.
He didn't even glance at the money.
He simply began reciting names, one after another, in a flat, steady voice.
Annie Brown. Isabella White. Joy Carter…
Henry froze—then immediately understood.
He snatched up his pen and started writing, recording every name Russell said.
Russell's narration was calm, but vivid—so visual it made the hardened editor listen as if spellbound.
Henry's pen flew across the page, capturing every keyword that could become a scandalous subheadline.
"…And that's about it."
When Russell finished, Henry finally stopped writing—like waking from a trance.
He stared at the shorthand filling his notebook, feeling his blood burn with excitement.
He could already see tomorrow's paper.
No—more than tomorrow.
For a week.
No, for a month.
The Times would own the headlines.
"Magnificent. Absolutely magnificent!" Henry couldn't help exclaiming. The way he looked at Russell had changed completely.
"Who are you, really?"
Russell stood, smiling, and leisurely stuffed the money into his pocket.
"Me?"
He raised his head and met Henry's probing stare, then gave him a pure, harmless smile.
"I'm just a cash-strapped university student."
"An ordinary citizen passing by… who happened to get lucky."
With that, he gave Henry no chance to press further and turned toward the door.
"Then I won't take up any more of your time. Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Henry."
Click.
The office door opened, then closed softly behind him.
Henry Scott remained where he was, sitting there in a daze.
Only after a long while did he finally let out a breath, leaned back, and collapsed into his chair.
He picked up a fresh cigar, lit it with a trembling hand, and took a deep drag.
The harsh smoke made him cough—but he laughed anyway.
He laughed like a child who'd just gotten the toy he'd wanted most.
Ordinary citizen?
To hell with that.
But… who cared?
Even if he was Moriarty, what did it matter?
The only thing that mattered was this:
He was about to become very, very rich.
-------
My : pat*eon*com/RuneA
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