Within the smoke-filled office, the insurance manager's bloodshot eyes lit up like a castaway spotting rescue. Curare shifted uneasily as the desperate man pumped his hand. "Bless you, Mr. Faulkner! You're our last hope against that cursed Robin!"

  Yvette catalogued the signs of distress—yellowed collar, ink-stained cuffs, the reek of cigars and stale coffee. This man had been marooned in his office for days, clinging to paperwork like flotsam.

  "The Baron's policy demands triple indemnity," the manager croaked. "Twenty-one thousand pounds! It'll sink us faster than a cannonball through a dinghy."

  Around them, the club members exchanged glances. Twenty-one thousand—enough to buy three Mayfair townhouses. No wonder this decent man resembled a tortured soul from Dante's circles.

  "Coppers found nothing?" Curare ventured.

  "Scotland Yard's finest spent three days taking tea with housemaids," the manager spat. "By the time they finish their crumpets, that painting'll be gracing some American robber baron's privy!"

  Yvette's question sliced through the cigar fog. "Why pin it on Robin? No witnesses, no traces—"

  "The blackguard leaves calling cards!" The manager's jowls quivered. "Cut-up newsprint glued like ransom notes, signed with that damned alias. Mocking verses about outwitting plodding policemen—the man's a peacocked-up devil!"

  As they crossed London's gaslit streets toward Scotland Yard, Yvette pondered the dual possibilities—mundane thief versus flamboyant trickster. Or something... other. The latter made her palm itch toward her concealed revolver.

  At the Yard, constables moved through fogbanks of paperwork. Testimony transcripts piled like autumn leaves—housemaids' timetables, footmen's alibis, cooks' market receipts. Nothing spoke of sorcery.

  She found Aubetroostered in a leatherbound office, spectral light from leaded windows etching his sharp features. "Mind Maze, eh?" His chuckle held no mirth. "Last year they published proofs that Westminster Abbey's Black Prince was moldy cheese. Almost caused a duel between the Archbishop and Prime Minister."

  Yvette smothered a smile. Leave it to bored intellectuals to unravel history's sacred cows. "They're manageable if you redirect their... enthusiasm."

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  "Like giving chess puzzles to rabid terriers?" Aubeter's smile faded. "No whispers of power at the crime scene. This reeks of mortal mischief—the flashy sort."

  At the rented Mayfair mansion, servants parted like the Red Sea before their investigative battalion. The absent Baron's parlor stood frozen—gilded frames gaping empty on damask walls, like sockets after eyes were plucked.

  Curare prowled, magnifier glinting. "No sign of forced entry. Either master locksmith or inside help."

  "Or both," Yvette murmured. Beyond the windows, London's golden haze softened the ruthless economics of real estate. Even foreign nobility balked at buying here. To steal from such a man required brass balls or death wishes.

  As dusk painted the room in crime scene shadows, the club members' voices rose in scholarly debate. Yvette leaned against a marble mantel, absently noting the faint outline where some ancestral Pedro face had glared for centuries. Gone now—spirited away by a phantom thief into London's hungry maw.

  Baron Pedro’s butler greeted the unexpected delegation from the Thinking Maze Club—designated "insurance assessors" for the occasion. Though taken aback by their numbers, he ushered them through the manor’s opulent halls.

  "The theft occurred here," the butler announced, gesturing to a lavishly appointed parlor. Every wall bore artworks save one, its naked surface studded with forlorn nails. "The thief’s note rested there," he added, indicating a side table.

  Yvette recalled the police’s evidence—anonymous cut-out letters from periodicals. Beside her, Strychnine adopted an investigator’s brusque manner: "Entry points? Locked windows? Footprints? Our liability hinges on whether negligence occurred."

  "Impossible!" The butler stiffened. "Every servant was cleaning the ground floor that evening. No mortal could’ve passed unseen!"

  Strychnine muttered to Oleander, whose study of police records confirmed no signs of forced entry.

  The club bifurcated—some interrogating servants, others hunting for the Gentleman Burglar's fabled infiltration artistry. Yvette drifted with Oleander’s faction through dust-shrouded guest chambers.

  In a disused room, her fingers traced greasy soot in a fireplace—oddly fresh. The rug bore a peculiar depression, as from a smuggled object.

  Their ascent to the attic revealed Oleander crowing beneath a dormer window. Scattered at his feet lay telltale paint scales—the golden hue of Titian’s stolen masterpiece.

  "Transport damage!" Oleander exulted. "The brute cracked tiles escaping!" The butler marveled at this "solution," while others combed the grounds fruitlessly for vanished traces.

  At twilight’s gathering, Oleander preened: "His tricks are exposed! Capture looms!"

  A contrarian voice muttered, "Chevalier’s disciple should’ve triumphed..."

  "Fate favors vigilance!" Oleander retorted. "Perhaps the Chevalier needs a rival—an English sleuth to match his wits."

  Yvette slipped away mid-celebration, her carriage veering west to Hampstead Heath.

  Ulysses received her in reptilian repose. Since Rat Island, unspoken questions hung between them—had he seen her mutation? Why did Albatross monitor him? Yet their dance of avoidance continued.

  "Another supernatural misadventure?" he drawled.

  "Am I truly such a magnet for the uncanny?" She proffered a paint-flecked handkerchief.

  The serpent uncoiled. "Conclusively."