As the sound of the mechanism rang out, Russell's gaze fell back onto the desk.
He pulled open the drawer, found the hidden compartment inside, and opened it. A yellowed envelope lay quietly there.
Russell took it out, opened it with curiosity, and extracted the transaction records inside.
Good, he didn't recognize a single name on it.
Whatever, it didn't matter if he recognized them. Mycroft and the bunch at The Times certainly would.
He stowed the envelope away, then restored the scene to its original state. No rush to leave a calling card yet. After all, there were still two places left to scour.
Russell didn't pause in the slightest; he turned and merged into the study's shadows, like a drop of ink falling into water, silent and traceless.
Next target: the guest room, scandalous photos.
As for the jewelry in the master bedroom's safe, he'd play it by ear. If he had time to spare after getting the photos, he'd take them along the way. If not, then forget it.
Dancing was the priority.
The guest room was at the other end of the corridor. Unlike the stuffiness of the study, this place exuded a cold desolation from long disuse. Clearly, this room was meant for overnight guests, but Minister Roy's estate hadn't hosted anyone for a long time.
Russell walked in; there was a faint scent of air freshener in the air.
He searched the room and found another envelope with almost no effort or time wasted. Inside was a stack of photos, about as thick as a coin.
He casually pulled one out and glanced at it by the moonlight streaming in from the window.
In the photo, Minister Ethan Roy was behaving intimately with a hot, blonde, blue-eyed young woman. The background appeared to be a hotel suite.
And besides this woman, there were several other different members of the opposite sex in the photos. Some he had seen in advertisements, others he had heard of. Without exception, they were outstanding in appearance, slender in figure, and all Slightly Famous.
"Living it up quite a bit."
Russell shrugged and stuffed the photo back. After thinking for a moment, he pulled one out again and put it in his pocket.
Done with all this, he glanced at the clock hanging in the guest room.
Seven o'clock.
Quit while ahead, or aim for perfection?
Russell pondered for a moment.
Hyde Street wasn't far from Imperial College. Even walking, it was at most a ten-minute journey...
Forget it, might as well since I'm here. Since I'm seeking thrills, I might as well see it through to the end.
The master bedroom was on the third floor, the most heavily guarded place in the entire mansion. But for Russell, who knew the guard patrol routes by heart, this was just walking a few more flights of stairs.
He like an elegant night raven, he landed soundlessly on the carpet of the third-floor corridor.
The master bedroom's lock was more complex than those of the study and guest room; it was the newest type of Swiss mechanical lock. But for [Sleight of Hand C+], it was merely the difference between ten seconds and thirty seconds.
Russell held his breath. The silver needle manipulated the lock mechanism deftly, his mind seemingly able to outline every rotation of the internal gears.
Click.
The lock opened.
Inside the master bedroom, an aura of luxury rushed forth: thick Persian carpets, a huge four-poster bed, and a massive oil painting of Ethan Roy himself on the wall.
The Minister in the painting had a dignified face and sharp eyes, as if scrutinizing every intruder.
Russell turned a blind eye to this. His target was the waist-high, seemingly indestructible German-made safe in the corner.
Russell crouched halfway down, pressing his ear against the cold metal door. This time, he didn't use any tools, only gently turning the dial with his fingertips.
Click... clack... click... The subtle sounds of the mechanism were transmitted clearly into his brain through bone conduction.
The sound difference corresponding to each number was infinitely amplified under the enhancement of [Listening C+].
In less than a minute, the heavy safe door emitted a muffled hum and opened in response.
Inside, the glitter of jewels almost overflowed. Diamond necklaces, ruby rings, sapphire brooches... a dazzling array, enough to drive any real thief crazy.
But in Russell's eyes, there was not a trace of greed.
He calmly took out the most conspicuous and largest diamond necklace, weighed it in his hand, and nodded with satisfaction.
Next, he took out the intimate photo of Ethan Roy and a certain popular female star that he had set aside in his pocket. He flipped the photo over and, using the fountain pen he carried with him, wrote a sentence on the back in flamboyant handwriting:
[A small, insignificant gift, to Mrs. Roy — Moriarty]
Having done all this, he placed the signed photo in the most conspicuous spot in the center of the safe. Then, he closed the safe door and restored everything to its original state.
He wasn't worried that Ethan Roy would see the safe first and destroy the evidence. Because compared to these treasures, upon learning his home had been visited by the Phantom Thief, the first places he would check would definitely be the study and the guest room.
After all, he had a prior record.
Even if, hypothetically, Ethan Roy did discover the photo in the safe and destroyed it first. He could destroy one, but could he destroy a whole stack?
The rest would be delivered to The Times before long.
Russell stood up, holding the diamond necklace, then left the master bedroom and vaulted into Timmy Roy's room.
Timmy Roy's room, like the man himself, was filled with an aura of vulgar ostentation. The room's decor was full of the exaggerated style of young aristocrats.
Polo match sashes hung on the wall, and fashion magazines and cigar boxes were messily piled on the desk. The air was permeated with the scent of expensive cologne, attempting to mask the owner's lingering adolescent hormonal musk.
Russell had little interest in a teenager's bedroom, nor did he want to know if there were any unspeakable magical little books hidden under the bed.
He walked straight to the bedside table with a clear goal, pulled open the drawer, and tossed the priceless diamond necklace in, as if discarding a worthless toy.
The diamonds collided with a messy pile of cufflinks and tie clips, making a crisp sound.
Russell clapped his hands, ready to call it a day.
However, just as he was about to leave, his peripheral vision caught a drawer on the desk that was half-open. There seemed to be something inside, letters perhaps?
Out of curiosity and the intuition of a Phantom Thief, he stepped forward and picked up the letter.
The letter recorded the ambiguous interactions between Timmy Roy and a girl named Anne Brown. In layman's terms, love letters.
Nothing interesting, just a bit cheesy.
Russell rolled his eyes, then noticed that there seemed to be quite a few more letters like this in the drawer.
Following the principle of "since I'm already here," he took all the letters out one by one and opened them. Without exception, they were all flirtatious letters.
However, the female lead wasn't always Anne Brown. Now this was interesting.
Anne Brown, Isabella White, Joey Carter... Russell flipped through them roughly; at least five or six different ladies had been Timmy Roy's "one and only true love" in his writing.
Every letter was flowery and seemingly sincere, as if the writer had carved out his entire heart and offered it to the recipient.
And as luck would have it, Russell had seen the names of these ladies on the Malice Points list.
Well, look at that.
He put the envelopes away one by one, then looked up at the clock.
Seven forty-five.
"About time."
Russell stowed the letters, turned and ran towards the balcony, then leaped down.
"Time to go to the party."
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