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“Are you with the police?”

Ollie shook his head. “You don’t know me, but I ask that what I’m about to tell you remains confidential.”

“Now I’m intrigued.”

The tension in Ollie softened a bit. This gentleman was far more agreeable than Burlington. “Something of mine was stolen by the thief who stole from you.”

“And you know this how?”

“Because he signed his work.”

Mr. Martin scratched his brow. “Oh, really? What did he write?”

“Bollocks.”

Mr. Martin pulled his head back and dropped his hands to his side. “That’s correct. That’s what I found, too. What did he steal from you?”

Ollie hesitated. “I’d rather not say.”

“Have you gone to the police?”

“No.” Ollie shook his head. “And I’m trying to avoid them at all costs.”

Mr. Martin shifted as he considered all of this. “What do you want to know?”

“Why did the Signature Swindler go from jewelry to paintings?”

“I have no idea. In fact, the police didn’t even believe me at first.” Mr. Martin stared off into the distance as he probably recalled that day.

“I had just clocked in for the day when I noticed one of our paintings were missing, the Fragonard. I made sure that it hadn’t been brought to conservation, and then we took inventory of the museum to discover the other missing paintings.

I was sure it was because of a seasoned art thief, as there was nothing indicating hesitation.

He hadn’t taken down a painting and then decided to leave it for something smaller, for example.

He’d known exactly what he’d wanted. Like you said, the Signature Swindler had never gone after paintings before, so even though I did think of him, it didn’t make sense.

But I still had to report the theft to police, who, after questioning me extensively, confirmed it was the first art heist for the Signature Swindler. ”

“How big were the paintings?”

“Oh, about…” Mr. Martin separated his hands about four feet apart. That was significantly larger than Dantes’s missing painting.

“And there were three of them that size?” Ollie was struggling to believe this.

Mr. Martin shrugged. “About that same size, yes.”

This was quite surprising to Ollie. It must have been incredibly difficult to get a painting that size out without notice, much less three of them. “Any idea how he got in or out?”

“He got in through a window,” Mr. Martin explained. “Smashed the pane, reached in, and unlocked it that way.”

“And that’s how he got out, too?”

“That’s what everyone assumes.”

“And the police have no idea who he is?”

Mr. Martin shook his head. “The investigator was furious when he came to the scene. Said the Signature Swindler is slick. There’s never been any trace of anything left behind, no clue to his identity.

No sightings, no hair, not a misplaced glove or popped button.

Nothing except his calligraphed Bollocks signature, that is.

I do have to say, the man must have quite a sense of humor. I’ll give him that at least.”

“If I told you the Signature Swindler is an Irishman, would that make anyone stand out to you?”

Mr. Martin’s eyebrows pulled together severely. “How do you know he’s an Irishman?”

Ollie didn’t reply.

The other man let out a long sigh. “No, that doesn’t narrow it down, unfortunately.”

“No one working at the museum fits that description?”

Mr. Martin shook his head.

Ollie asked a few more basic questions but didn’t learn anything else that would be helpful. Once Mr. Martin had gone back into Burlington’s house, Ollie left. As soon as they were out of view from Burlington’s windows, Evelyn appeared at his side.

“No luck for us.” Evelyn looked up at him, a pretty, curious face framed by the hat he had bought her.

He nearly told her how beautiful she looked, but Victor and his grandparents came to mind, squashing it.

“Unfortunately, no,” Ollie replied, adjusting the brim of his top hat to lower it again. He made sure his frock collar still stood. “Did you hear everything he said?” He took a right turn at the corner with a destination in mind.

“I did.” Evelyn followed. “I was hoping we would learn something helpful from him. But we didn’t.”

“Unfortunately, no, we did not. Though I thought it was curious the thief stole three large paintings. How could he have done that without catching attention? He seemed to be a loner, but maybe he’s working with someone else, or he manipulated people to inadvertently help him like he did with us.

Dantes’s painting fit under his cape, but the three from the Bethnal Green Museum wouldn’t have. ”

“That stuck out to me, too.” Evelyn followed as he made another turn. They were now in an area busier than Burlington’s neighborhood. “It seems pretty clear, though, that he tried going after something big and well known, perhaps expecting to get more out of it.”

“Or to cause an uproar?”

“Perhaps. It must have been difficult to get multiple large paintings to his destination without notice and thus with my museum, he chose something smaller to transport easier.”

An idea crossed Ollie’s mind. “You think he’s doing shady business selling the paintings?”

Evelyn glanced up as they walked by a doorway with a man passed out in it. “What else would he do with them? It’s why he stole jewelry for those first few years, isn’t it? Why would the motive change, just because he decided to change his target?”

“I don’t know,” Ollie admitted. He found the tram stop he was looking for and waited. Not a moment later, it arrived. He climbed in, and Evelyn followed.

The tram was desolate except for a few night-shift workers and one man asleep in the back. Because their voices would be overheard here, neither spoke for the duration of the ride. Finally, they reached the stop Ollie watched for.

They emerged in a very busy part of London and Evelyn continued the conversation where they had left off. “Do you have any theories about the thief’s motives, Ollie?”

He stopped walking. “You’re asking for my theory?”

“Yes, of course.”

This took him aback. He wasn’t a smart man, and he didn’t understand why Evelyn would want to know his thoughts. He looked around. They should have only been a block away now. “I’m not sure. Isn’t money always the motive of a thief to some degree?”

“Wait, where are we?” Evelyn was looking around, too. “This isn’t your neighborhood.”

“No, it’s Bethnal Green.”

Evelyn gave him a questioning look.

Ollie started walking again. He wasn’t quite sure yet what he wanted to accomplish here. He didn’t have a destination, not really, other than the museum. It wasn’t open, so they couldn’t go in, but he hoped that being in the area of the first museum theft would lead to a clue.

Bethnal Green was a very poor area of London, and most of the residents who had jobs were weavers or had some tie to that industry. The people they passed were ragged, their faces weary and tired after years, sometimes decades, of wearing their bodies out for meager wages.

Evelyn seemed to be taking in the area with interest. Though she was in an ill-fitting blue dress, people still took a vague interest in them as they walked by. Ollie expected her to be timid with fear, but she was, in actuality, absorbed by her surroundings.

“Mr. Martin wasn’t much help,” Ollie said as they crossed a street with several others. “I figured since we were already out, we may as well come here.”

“This time of night?” Evelyn asked.

They waited until a mule with a rickety, old cart ambled by. “It’s as good a time as any.”

“What are you looking for?”

“I’m not sure.”

As he and Evelyn made it to the other side of the street, a filthy, shoeless child popped out from an alleyway. “Oi! Mister, you got any coin?”

“Not a good time, lad,” Ollie replied. He wouldn’t have minded tossing the child some coin, but at this time of night, it risked attracting attention. Dangerous attention.

The child kept following them. “You look like you can afford it.”

Evelyn kept quiet, watching the scene unfold. Ollie took another turn. Just ahead was the Bethnal Green Museum. “Can’t, lad. Got to be somewhere.”

“Where, the whore house?”

Evelyn made a choking sound. The child laughed.

Ollie dismissed the boy and, apparently giving up on them, the boy ran on ahead.

“I’m surprised by you,” Evelyn said once the child was out of earshot.

Ollie glanced down to her. “Why?”

“I would not have expected you to turn the boy down.”

Ollie quickly looked around to make sure no one listened in. “Flashing coin at this hour would not be wise. Best we keep our heads down, get where we’re going, and leave.”

“Still surprises me you thought coming here late at night was a good idea.”

“As long as you keep your head on straight and mind your own business, no one will bother you.”

“All right,” Evelyn conceded. But not a moment later, they heard a child crying out for help.

Evelyn grasped Ollie’s upper arm with worry.

“Oh, Ollie, it’s that boy again!” She pointed about twenty feet in front of them.

The boy who had been asking for coin had his hand stuck under a door handle at a building up ahead.

He was writhing and kept crying out, “Help me! Help!”

Evelyn rushed over to the child. “Oh my goodness! Are you hurt?” She began to fuss.

Ollie, however, knew better and instead of helping the child began looking around their surroundings. Sensing movement, his eyes stopped at a spot across the street. Behind grungy, dented rubbish bins, the head of another boy popped up, as if he were about to sneak out of his hiding place.

Ollie shot a withering look to the child, who seemed surprised to be discovered and promptly sprinted away.

Ollie turned back around to find Evelyn still fussing over the crying boy. “You are quite the little actor.” Ollie crossed his arms and gave the boy a bemused look.

The boy immediately stopped the act and looked back over his shoulder with a frown.