"Think about it. The South Bank warehouse district is one of London's largest logistics hubs, handling thousands of tons of cargo every day. Even if Scotland Yard received an anonymous tip from a concerned citizen, and only the most remote warehouse—registered under Cousin Philip's name—turned out to be stocked with enough arms to equip an entire infantry company…"
Mary deliberately drew out her words, a malicious glint of anticipation shining in her eyes.
"In this sensitive period, less than half a month before Christmas and the turn of the new year, a massive cache of illegal weapons and high-performance explosives was seized in the densely populated South Bank. Coming right after yesterday's mass strike… ah, I simply cannot imagine what those people were plotting."
"In that case, Lestrade will act like a mad dog and have the entire warehouse complex surrounded." Russell followed her train of thought and continued.
"Every warehouse will be sealed. Every account book and every record of cargo movement will be scrutinised without mercy. This will no longer be a mere commercial dispute—it will become a major crime that threatens national security. Until the origin and purpose of those weapons are thoroughly investigated, not even a single thread of yarn will be allowed to leave that warehouse, even if Arthur Morstan fully recovers and walks out of the hospital."
"Exactly~"
Mary excitedly tapped Russell's leg with her foot.
"Wasn't Cousin Philip planning to stop the supply of raw materials under the pretext of 'safety concerns' at the warehouse? Then let's grant his wish and give him a real safety risk. Now it's perfect—no need to invent excuses. Scotland Yard has closed it for him. When it reopens… that will depend entirely on the progress of Scotland Yard's investigation, and whether I, as the innocent head of the family, decide to help clear his name."
"This completely cuts off every escape route." Russell couldn't help but let out a quiet sigh.
"It doesn't just destroy his chance of resuming supplies. It brands him with the label of treason, which could mean decades in prison—or, in the worst case, the death penalty."
He paused for a moment, then asked mockingly, "But several hundred pounds of explosives and military rifles aren't cheap. A phantom thief's appearance fee is negotiable, but where are you going to get that kind of cash?"
"No need to worry, Mr. Moriarty." Mary slid off Russell's lap, walked over to the rosewood desk, and pulled an old parchment map from beneath a thick stack of documents.
She spread the map across the bed and, under the dim light, firmly tapped a ruined pier on the lower reaches of the Thames with her long, slender finger.
"Dog Forest Pier. Three months ago, a special consignment bound for Ireland was stranded here by a sudden storm. The seller is a cowardly local thug who refuses to move it. The goods are currently stored in an abandoned air-raid shelter beneath the pier."
The girl turned around and gave Russell an almost perfect smile.
"The exact location of the cargo, the structural diagram of the bunker, and even the shift-change schedule of the guards are all written on this paper. As for how to quietly move everything into Philip's warehouse… well, that is your specialty, isn't it, Mr. Phantom Thief?"
Russell took the map and glanced over it. The information was astonishingly detailed— even the brand of cheap whisky preferred by the guards was clearly marked.
"The information network Professor has woven beneath this city seems even larger than I imagined." Russell carefully folded the map and tucked it into his inner pocket, then gave Mary's perfectly soft cheek a punitive pinch.
"Looks like I'll be working overtime tonight."
"When you're finished, you can settle the account however you like, as long as I can afford it." Mary did not dodge. Instead, she pressed her delicate cheek against Russell's gloved palm and rubbed against it like a sly, lazy cat.
"Please go ahead, Mr. Phantom Thief. I'll be waiting in Kensington for your good news… and, ah yes, I still have to write a few urgent telegrams to the French fabric smugglers."
Russell nodded lightly and did not linger any longer. He turned and walked toward the floor-to-ceiling French window that stood open.
A fierce wind mixed with ice and snow fragments instantly rushed in, making the window screen dance violently.
The next moment, he stepped onto the edge of the stone balcony railing. His slender black figure leaned backward like a drop of ink dissolving into water, and silently sank into the winter night.
The glass door closed skillfully, shutting out all the cold. The bedroom once again regained its warmth and quiet.
…
3:15 a.m., Dog Forest Pier, lower reaches of the Thames.
Here the wind and snow were even fiercer than in the city. The air was constantly filled with the strong stench of dead fish and the smoke of low-grade coal.
Piles of containers and abandoned metal piers crouched in the night like steel giants.
According to the information Mary had provided, a batch of military firearms originally destined for Ireland was hidden in an air-raid bunker beneath a brick house.
When Russell silently arrived at the location, two guards wearing tattered cotton jackets stood outside, trembling from the cold.
They huddled around a fire made of burning wood scraps, passing a flat aluminium wine flask and cursing, completely unaware of the phantom thief above them.
To avoid unnecessary trouble, Russell intended to finish the job quickly.
He withdrew his hand; a small black sphere was pinched between his fingers.
Whoosh—
A cold wind swept past. Black smoke spread overhead and melted into the night.
Using the teleportation ability, Russell entered the air-raid bunker without anyone noticing.
The strong smell of engine oil and gunpowder hung in the air.
Under several dim explosion-proof lights, seven or eight long, heavy wooden crates were neatly stacked, bearing no crests.
Russell stepped forward and pried open the lid of one crate.
Inside, layers of thick oiled paper and straw were packed tightly. Beneath the moisture-proof oil paper lay brand-new Lee-Enfield military rifles, gleaming with a cold metallic lustre. Nearby sat two large crates of unfused nitroglycerin explosives.
"This is… really something else…" Russell couldn't help but click his tongue.
If this truly exploded in London, half of Scotland Yard's roof might be blown sky-high.
The biggest problem now was how to remove all of it.
After some thought, Russell once again opened the "Shop" and scanned the dazzling array of items.
In the end, he locked onto one particular product.
[TARDIS Storage Bag]: An ordinary-looking storage bag. Capacity: 5 cubic metres. Purchase cost: 1,000 Malicious Points. —Bigger on the inside than the outside!
A faint ghostly light passed by. In his hand appeared an ordinary-looking dark navy thick canvas pouch about the size of a potato sack.
Russell walked over to the first wooden crate filled with Lee-Enfield rifles and gripped the edge of the crate with one hand.
Although his physical strength far exceeded that of an ordinary person, even just talking about a crate full of weapons was heavy enough.
He opened the mouth of the canvas bag and slid it over the heavy wooden crate. The crate was at least two metres long and half a metre wide.
A miraculous sight unfolded.
The moment the irregular, enormous wooden crate touched the mouth of the bag, it sank in like an invisible ripple and smoothly slid into the canvas bag that was only one-tenth its size.
The bag that should have burst remained unchanged in appearance and felt just as light in his hand.
"Truly excellent."
Russell raised his brows in satisfaction and repeated the same operation, sweeping the remaining rifles and the two extremely dangerous crates of nitroglycerin explosives into the storage bag.
Of course, he did not take everything. He left a little behind.
Russell clapped his hands, tightly fastened the drawstring of the canvas bag, lightly tied it around his waist, and tossed a glowing shape at his feet.
With the matter settled, he brushed off his sleeves and left.
...
4:00 a.m., Morstan Storage Area, South Bank of London.
Unlike the filthy East End or the bustling West End, this vast flatland near the Thames was lined with giant warehouses that looked like steel beasts.
Warehouses No. 4 and No. 5 were registered under Philip Morstan's name and designated as the main raw-material storage hubs for the Eastern District textile factory.
In the wind and snow, sharp-eyed subordinates in black coats led several vicious dogs as they lazily patrolled around the warehouses.
"Boss is really something. In this freezing cold, he still increases the number of people just to guard these piles of rotten cotton tonight."
A scarred-faced man complained, stamping his frozen feet.
"Enough talking. Boss said that starting tomorrow, supply of goods to the East District will be completely stopped. If anything goes wrong, we'll all have to go feed the fish in the Thames."
Above their heads, at the eaves of the warehouse, a bat-like inverted figure already hung in front of the ventilation shutter.
Russell unlatched the shutter and silently slipped into Warehouse No. 4.
The warehouse was extremely spacious. High-quality raw cotton, mulberry silk, and dye barrels were tightly covered with waterproof tarpaulins, forming small hills.
Russell lightly landed in the gap between two of those hills and removed the TARDIS storage pouch from his waist.
He turned the bag inside out, opened it, and took out the boxes one after another, burying them deep inside the cotton and wrapping them securely.
In this situation, even Philip himself would notice nothing unusual—let alone Lestrade.
It looked like nothing more than an ordinary warehouse.
After finishing all preparations, Russell satisfiedly brushed the dust from his hands.
Everything was ready.
…
6:00 a.m., Albert Square.
By this time the sky had begun to brighten.
Russell yawned as he prepared to head to the final destination of tonight's operation.
He nimbly climbed the stairs and entered Lestrade's bedroom through the window.
At this moment Lestrade was still asleep; he still had two hours before work.
Russell walked to the bedside, looked down at the collapsed Lestrade, and took out a rifle bullet he had lightly taken from the wooden crates.
He pinched the cold brass bullet between his fingers and rhythmically tapped the solid wooden cabinet beside Lestrade's bed three times.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sharp sound of metal striking wood was especially conspicuous in the quiet morning.
"…Mmm… Who is it?"
Lestrade blearily opened his eyes. At that moment a familiar voice sounded right beside his ear.
"Good morning, Inspector Lestrade."
Lestrade's remaining drowsiness vanished in an instant.
"Moriarty!"
He suddenly opened his eyes wide and stared at the phantom thief in front of him in disbelief.
"Why are you here again? And at this hour… It's already six in the morning!"
He stared at Russell with wide eyes; that gaze was filled with a single unspoken sentence: How many more do you want?
"Be satisfied, Inspector. I haven't slept a wink all night."
Russell walked over to the desk and sat down familiarly.
"You heard about the strike in East London yesterday, right?"
"What, you're still interested in that?"
Lestrade asked with some interest.
"Malicious people incited the workers of Morstan Enterprises to strike, but in the end Miss Mary Morstan intervened and resolved the matter."
"But what if I told you that this matter is not finished yet?"
Russell said.
"Not finished?"
Lestrade sat up from under the covers, took a thick nightgown from the bedside, and threw it over himself. His brows were tightly furrowed.
"What do you mean? Was yesterday's strike only the beginning?"
"To be precise, yesterday was merely a failed test."
Russell clasped his hands on the desk, looking completely relaxed.
"Because the expected effect was not achieved, those hiding in the shadows decided to escalate the situation by more direct means. For example, by completely cutting off all raw material supplies to the Eastern District textile factory, forcing the workers into real unemployment and the panic of running out of food."
Upon hearing this, Lestrade's sleepy eyes completely cleared and his expression darkened in an instant.
"Cutting off supplies? At such a critical moment, who has the guts and ability to force more than a thousand assembly-line workers to stop working?"
"Of course, the person who controls the lifeline of the raw materials."
Russell spoke the name in a flat tone.
"Philip Morstan. Owner of Warehouses No. 4 and No. 5 in the South Bank warehouse district of London, and also a close relative of Miss Mary. It is said that he keeps a large number of black-gloved men to handle dirty work and strictly controls the flow of goods in the South Bank warehouses."
Hearing this, Lestrade pinched his sleep-deprived, aching brow.
"So what?"
he asked.
"What's the point of telling me this? Are you expecting Scotland Yard to intervene?"
"Why not?"
Russell said.
"I would like you to remember that Scotland Yard is a law-enforcement agency, not a mediator of aristocratic family disputes. A work stoppage caused by the cutting off of raw material supplies is one thing; a strike spontaneously organised by the workers is another. The latter Scotland Yard can intervene in; the former it cannot."
Lestrade said irritably.
"Philip has a hundred thugs, but their official identities are as clean as paper—every single one of them is a warehouse security guard with a formal contract. Furthermore, cutting off the supply of raw materials ultimately constitutes a commercial breach of contract. Unless someone is holding a knife to another person's throat, this matter falls under the jurisdiction of the civil judges of the Westminster courts. Why should I take men to seal his warehouses? Just because he is suspected of obstructing his niece's succession of the family business?"
Lestrade spoke with a dry mouth and irritably picked up last night's cold tea, taking a sip.
"I don't know why you're so concerned about Morstan family affairs, but in any case Scotland Yard has neither the room nor the leisure to intervene in this matter. If Miss Mary only has this little ability, she will sooner or later be swallowed whole by her wolf-like relatives."
Faced with Lestrade's almost bitter complaint, Russell did not argue. Instead he nodded firmly in agreement.
"Forcing intervention in someone else's business dispute without decisive evidence of a crime that threatens public safety is not something Scotland Yard should do."
Russell stood up and walked over to Lestrade.
He bent down slightly and gently placed the brass object he had been holding between his fingertips onto the table in front of Lestrade.
Tap.
"What is this?"
"A Christmas present."
Lestrade instinctively looked over, then suddenly frowned.
As an experienced officer, he did not even need to pick it up and examine it carefully; he immediately recognised its origin.
".303 calibre, military primer, fully jacketed…"
Lestrade suddenly raised his head and stared hard at the phantom thief who always brought him surprises.
"Lee-Enfield rifle bullets… Where the hell did you get these?!"
"Want to guess?"
Russell asked with a smile.
"Why do you think I wanted to talk to you about Philip Morstan and the South Bank warehouses?"
Lestrade's pupils suddenly contracted.
"Don't tell me…"
"Twenty crates."
Russell cut Lestrade off.
"Twenty crates of brand-new Lee-Enfield rifles, the factory oil still unwashed. And two large crates of nitroglycerin explosives that could blow the entire Scotland Yard and the adjacent Westminster Palace into the sky with the slightest impact. All hidden in that big warehouse, covered with thick cotton and waterproof cloth."
Bang!
Lestrade slammed the table and stood up, knocking over the chair behind him.
"Are they out of their mind?! Are that many weapons and high-performance explosives really hidden in the densely packed warehouses of the South Bank?!"
"I don't know. I just happened to pass by."
Russell shrugged.
"I don't think this matter should be settled in the Westminster courts anymore, do you?"
"Of course not! This is outright treason!"
Lestrade roared incoherently while hurriedly changing clothes.
Even if it looked as though he was being used as a chess piece by this man, after hearing those words he could not ignore everything.
Even if this whole affair had been fabricated, the weapons were real. Once the smuggling charge was confirmed, Philip Morstan would have no way to explain himself.
Moreover, his background was certainly unclean; raising so many black-gloved men was itself an unstable factor.
This was a good opportunity to dig it all out. Not a bad idea.
"You're practically a walking madman," Lestrade gritted his teeth and glared at him while stuffing his badge into his pocket.
"Not only are you using Scotland Yard as a chess piece, but if an explosion really happens on the South Bank, all of London will panic because of your framing!"
"Don't say such harsh things, Inspector. Those weapons are unnumbered black goods. Rather than letting them become a nuisance in the hands of smugglers, it's better to use them as a stepping stone for your year-end promotion, isn't it, Inspector?"
Russell shrugged.
"Furthermore, the fuses and the explosives are separated. As long as Scotland Yard officers don't play around with the nitroglycerin bottles while holding lit cigarettes, I guarantee London's morning will remain as peaceful as ever."
"You'd better pray that what you said is true!"
Lestrade grabbed the whistle on the desk, suddenly flung open the bedroom door, then turned back to look at Russell—
The window was wide open. Cold morning wind and snowflakes were blowing in.
And that ghostly thief had long since vanished without a trace.
"Damn you, Moriarty…"
Lestrade spat out a quiet curse and went downstairs.
…
Fifteen minutes later, a sharp whistle shattered the early-morning quiet of London.
When Philip Morstan hurriedly rushed to the warehouse, Scotland Yard officers were already coming and going. His subordinates were handcuffed and lined up against the wall.
"What the hell is going on?!"
He roared in fury, grabbed a young officer by the collar, and twisted his face with rage.
"What right do you have to restrain my people and search my warehouse?! Who authorised this?!"
As the invincible warehouse king of the South Bank Morstan family, he had never received such humiliating treatment.
Those thugs who were usually black gloves used to intimidate competitors were now handcuffed to the cold red-brick wall, looking like a flock of frozen quails, not daring to fart.
"Please unhand him, Mr. Morstan."
A cold, sharp voice came from the main gate of Warehouse No. 4.
Lestrade, wearing a heavy detective coat and military boots, stepped out from the shadows. His face was as dark as water.
Behind him followed two armed senior inspectors of Scotland Yard.
"The British Empire has granted Scotland Yard the authority to maintain order in London. We have received a reliable report from a citizen that this warehouse registered under your name is suspected of threatening national security. Therefore, Scotland Yard is now in control."
"Threatening public safety? What the hell are you talking about?!"
Philip released the young officer and strode toward Lestrade with an angry laugh, his finger almost poking the inspector's nose.
"Lestrade, don't think you can cause trouble here just because you're wearing a police uniform! I am preparing to send the highest-quality raw cotton and mulberry silk to the Eastern District textile factory! Do you know how much weight I lose every day when shipment is delayed? Even if a supervisor came, he would still have to show me proper respect!"
"Is that so?"
Lestrade completely ignored the powerless threats and sneered.
Normally he would have shown respect to such a wealthy and influential family.
But today he held ironclad evidence that could blow the entire Thames sky-high.
At that moment a police officer hurriedly ran out from deep inside the warehouse, holding a crowbar, his face as pale as paper.
Seeing the officer covered in cotton, Philip's expression darkened even further.
"What the hell did you do to my goods?!"
He glared at Lestrade.
"Do you know how much all that is worth?!"
Lestrade ignored him and simply looked at his subordinates.
"What did you find?"
"Reporting, Inspector!"
The officer first saluted, then looked at Philip.
"We found wooden crates hidden under the piles of raw cotton deep inside!"