The second option was also Russell's favorite.
He would randomly select a passerby on the streets of London late at night—someone who looked relatively pleasing to the eye and was also in need of money.
Then, he would hand the envelope containing the explosive material to them, attaching a note with the contact information of a certain editor-in-chief at The Times.
Of course, the note would also specify that as long as this letter was delivered to the designated person, they would receive a substantial errand fee.
Usually, after the person completed the task with half-doubt, the editor-in-chief would tacitly pay a reward far exceeding the value of a simple errand.
The reason for doing this was actually quite simple. Aside from doing a good deed, occasionally he could use this identity himself to earn some extra cash.
As the old saying goes, the hand that gives the rose retains the fragrance.
All of this was to pave the way for his own future 'self-production and self-sales.'
After all, when it came down to it, he had to pay rent.
Not to mention that he was now in university, and there were tuition fees every semester.
That meant he needed money even more.
Mrs. Hudson was certainly kindhearted, but he didn't want to overdraw on that kindness.
For the newspaper offices on Fleet Street, this kind of messenger from Moriarty was no longer anything new.
At first, they were very curious about the identity of the messengers and tried to pry something out of them.
But soon, these reporters discovered that Phantom Thief Moriarty's selection method was completely random.
Sometimes it was a drunken tramp, sometimes a maid who had just gotten off the night shift, and there was even once a single mother crying that she had no money for her child's medical bills.
They knew nothing about Moriarty; they simply met a masked, generous ghost on some desperate night.
Over time, the newspaper offices became accustomed to this pattern.
To them, every time a new messenger appeared, it was like the long-awaited Santa Claus finally knocking on the door.
Because they knew that what was contained in that letter was inevitably a piping hot headline that could shake all of London.
·
·
Russell walked along the streets of Fleet Street.
At this hour, the lights were still on in the various newspaper offices lining the street, indicating they hadn't gotten off work yet.
Russell held the envelope in his hand, pondering which newspaper office to choose for his submission.
In the end, he chose The Times.
The reason was simple.
The Times was the most straightforward when it came to paying money.
It just so happened that rent was due in a while.
Thinking this, Russell reached out and pushed open the glass door of The Times building.
The light at the front desk was on, and the customer service representative on duty wore a drowsy expression.
"Hello, sir."
Russell stepped forward and knocked on the desk.
The sleepy receptionist raised his head, struggling to identify the visitor, and asked indistinctly:
"May I ask what this is about..."
"I'm here to make a submission," Russell said.
"Moriarty sent me here."
"Moriarty?"
Hearing this familiar name, the receptionist's eyes, originally hazy with sleep, instantly cleared up.
His gaze swept over Russell quickly—a plain black suit, slightly messy black hair, and those eyes that shone somewhat excessively under the lights.
This didn't look like a Phantom Thief; he looked more like a university student who hadn't had time to change clothes after attending a banquet.
"Sir, you..."
The receptionist's voice carried a trace of imperceptible trembling.
"Obviously, I am the lucky one this time."
Russell placed the kraft paper envelope in his hand onto the desk and pushed it toward him.
The receptionist's breathing almost stagnated.
He looked at that unsealed kraft paper envelope, then raised his head to look at the calm and composed young man before him.
Having worked on Fleet Street for a long time, who didn't know what a messenger from Moriarty signified?
That was a headline, that was sales volume, that was a bonus, that was a carnival for the entire newspaper office!
"Please... please wait a moment!"
The receptionist practically sprang up from his chair using both his hands and feet. He picked up the internal line on the desk, his movements appearing somewhat clumsy due to his excitement.
"Hello?! Yes, it's me! Is the Editor-in-Chief in? Yes! Immediately!
"Tell him to come down right now! Oh God, he's here! He's here with a gift!"
The person on the other end of the phone seemed to be complaining about his fuss, but when the receptionist uttered the name [Moriarty] in a voice suppressing wild joy, the other end of the line fell into a deathly silence for a moment.
Immediately following that was the loud noise of a chair being knocked over and the sound of chaotic footsteps.
Russell leaned against the front desk with ease, even having the leisure to examine the award-winning news photos hanging in the newspaper office's lobby.
Less than a minute later, a middle-aged man wearing suspenders, with hair as messy as a bird's nest and half a cigar still clamped in his mouth, scrambled down the stairs.
Behind him followed several reporters who were equally disheveled but had eyes shining like wolves.
"Where is it?! Where is the letter?!"
The Editor-in-Chief of The Times, Henry Scott, rushed to the front desk, his gaze locking onto that kraft paper envelope immediately.
He immediately cupped the envelope with both hands, as if what it contained was not paper, but the Holy Grail.
Only then did he turn his gaze to Russell.
"You are the messenger?"
"As you can see." Russell shrugged.
Henry narrowed his eyes and carefully tipped the contents of the envelope out.
A stack of photos, a sheaf of documents.
When he saw that familiar face clearly on the photo, his pupils constricted abruptly.
Ethan Roy!
Cabinet Minister! Mycroft Holmes's number one political enemy!
He almost subconsciously stuffed the documents and photos back into the envelope, then blocked it with his body, glancing around vigilantly for fear that the walls had ears.
"Follow me." He lowered his voice.
Russell followed Henry into the Editor-in-Chief's office. The reporters behind them were ruthlessly shut out, left to pace anxiously at the door like fledglings waiting to be fed.
The office door was locked, and the curtains were drawn tight.
Only then did Henry let out a long sigh of relief. He took out a silver flask from his chest pocket, took a fierce swig, and then spread the contents of the envelope out on the table again, examining them word by word.
The content of the photos was erotic and explicit, and the records in the documents were even more shocking.
Trading power for money, using power for personal gain, buying and selling government positions... every single item was enough to make Ethan Roy die without a burial place in the political arena.
"Oh God..."
Henry muttered to himself, his fingers trembling slightly from excitement.
He knew that every time Phantom Thief Moriarty made a move, it was explosive material.
But he had never imagined that the material this time would be this explosive!
This was no longer a simple headline; this was a political earthquake sufficient to shake the entire Cabinet of the British Empire!
"This... are these all real?" Henry raised his head and looked at Russell.
"Don't ask me; how would I know?" Russell spread his hands.
"Right... that's true, look at me..." Henry nodded, then thought of something else.
"You haven't told anyone else, right?"
"Of the newspapers in all of London, I've only read The Guardian and The Times," Russell said.
"And your address is closer, so..."
"Then I'll take it all!" Henry interrupted Russell almost immediately.
"These photos and records, I want them all. Those guys at The Guardian can forget about getting these. Name a price."
"Hmm... five hundred pounds?" Russell said tentatively.
Hearing this, Henry frowned in difficulty, and the feverishness on his face cooled down considerably.
Five hundred pounds; this was not a small sum.
He fell silent for a moment, then began to size up the young man in front of him.
Composed demeanor, clear eyes... he didn't look like an owner who was short of money.
Perhaps... he could haggle?
"Five hundred pounds..." Henry paused.
"Young man, do you know what five hundred pounds means to an ordinary family?
"That is a whole year's income. I admit this stuff is priceless, but this is a gift from Phantom Thief Moriarty to our newspaper office; you are just a messenger."
Henry relit the cigar that was about to go out, took a deep drag, and the exhaled smoke shrouded his shrewd and calculating face.
"Two hundred pounds. That is the highest price we can offer. A generous errand fee far exceeding the market rate.
"After the matter is concluded, we can even mention the righteous act of a certain brave citizen in a corner of the newspaper.
"—How about it?"
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Fresh chapter for today, as promised!