"Madman… he's a complete and total madman!"
Henry cursed with ferocious excitement—yet the grin on his face was pure ecstasy.
"But… he's a genius. A marketing genius!!"
He snapped his head up, those wolfish eyes locking back onto Russell.
"That's it? He didn't say anything else?"
"No, sir." Russell shook his head, still wearing that perfectly harmless smile. "I should be going."
"Wait!" Henry slapped a hand down on Russell's shoulder, gripping so hard it felt like he meant to crush bone. "Are you going to meet him again in the next few days? If—if—he has any new instructions, you come to me first! Price is negotiable!"
"I can't be sure, sir. He contacts me—I don't contact him." Russell calmly brushed Henry's hand off his shoulder. "And I really do have to go. I've got quite a few more letters to deliver tonight."
"What do you mean?" Henry froze. "Isn't that letter for The Times?"
"Clearly not." Russell shook his head and, with a casual motion, produced more than a dozen identical envelopes from his pocket.
"I—I'll buy them all! Every envelope! One hundred pounds each—no, two hundred! I'll take everything!" Henry blurted, already turning as if to call for funds.
Russell cut him off before he could.
"Sorry, Mr. Henry. No matter how much you offer, I won't sell."
"Why?!" Henry whirled back, eyes burning. "You want money, don't you? I'll pay!"
"Mr. Moriarty says that sometimes you have to give other newspapers a chance." Russell spoke with sincere, almost solemn seriousness. "That's his decision."
The moment those words landed, the fever on Henry's face stiffened.
He stared at Russell, at the stack of matching envelopes, at that utterly earnest smile—and his mind started racing.
Moriarty's decision…?
What the hell was that lunatic planning?
An exclusive "show" published only in The Times would already be enough to make all of London sit up and choke on its breakfast.
But instead, he was letting every paper on Fleet Street speak in unison.
He didn't want a solo.
He wanted a city-wide chorus.
Henry could practically see tomorrow morning already: Londoners taking their usual subscriptions from the paperboys—only to find the same letter printed on every front page.
The Times or The Guardian.The Daily Telegraph or The Morning Post.
Every headline. The same notice.
This wasn't just front-page news.
It was an unprecedented declaration—directed, staged, and orchestrated by Moriarty himself—covering the entire city.
"Damn it…" Henry hissed, fist clenching… then slowly loosening.
He got it now.
Moriarty didn't want one paper's sales to explode.
He wanted London's fear—and London's anticipation.
He wanted everyone in the city, regardless of class or identity, to become an audience member for his grand performance.
"All right." Henry drew a deep breath, forcibly swallowing his resentment. He dragged his face into a smile that looked more painful than cheerful. "If that's Mr. Moriarty's will, The Times will comply."
He paused, then added carefully, almost pleading:
"If… if Mr. Moriarty has any further news, I hope The Times will be the first name you think of."
"I'll consider it," Russell said.
"Pleasure doing business, Mr. Henry."
And with that, he gave Henry no chance to cling any longer. He turned and walked out of The Times building, disappearing into Fleet Street's lights—the kind that never truly went out.
Henry Scott remained where he was, staring at the direction Russell had gone, unmoving for a long time.
His mind churned.
He'd spent half his life in the mud and blood of Fleet Street. He understood the subtext instantly.
Lloyds Bank had lied.
And The Times had become the bank's loudspeaker—its accomplice.
"Damn it…" Henry snarled through clenched teeth.
"Editor?" someone ventured.
"Everyone!" Henry spun around. The bloodshot eyes were alive again—lit with that feral fire only true newspapermen had. "Drop whatever you're writing. Layout—now!"
He slammed the desk.
"Biggest font we have. I want all of London to know—the big one is coming!"
Russell didn't linger after leaving The Times.
He continued down Fleet Street like a tireless night walker, visiting one brightly lit building after another.
The Guardian's editor—Edgar, younger than Henry and even more ambitious—read the letter and immediately demanded to know why they weren't getting the exclusive.
Russell replied with a faintly provoking tone:
"Mr. Moriarty believes you shouldn't put all your eggs in one basket. And he wants to see which is louder—The Times' voice, or The Guardian's pen."
That lit Edgar up instantly.
He paid the hundred pounds without blinking—and even added fifty more as a "consultation fee," hoping Russell might reveal details the letter didn't show.
Russell accepted with a bright smile and fed him a few vague, slippery lines that sounded meaningful while saying absolutely nothing.
After that, it was more of the same.
Russell was a midnight postman—except he wasn't delivering blessings.
He was delivering tickets.
Every paper, once it confirmed authenticity, fell into the same frenzy Henry and Edgar had.
They all understood: a news storm unlike anything before was about to swallow London whole—and they would be both witnesses and amplifiers.
By the time Russell delivered the final letter and stepped out of The Morning Post's offices, the cash in his pocket had grown from a single hundred-pound note into a satisfyingly thick stack.
He glanced at Big Ben's hands in the distance.
It was nearing midnight.
The streets were emptier now. Only the occasional heavy cart rolled over the cobblestones, grinding out a dull rhythm.
Russell turned up his jacket collar against the cold wind, shoved both hands into his pockets, and strolled toward Baker Street.
Tonight was only the beginning.
He couldn't wait to see tomorrow's papers.
....
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