“I lost him,” Osborne said.
“Where does he live?” Smith gripped his cane and felt for the double-barrelled pistol in his inside pocket.
Osborne nodded. “This way.” He led them through a succession of streets, with Smith barely glancing around as he ran. “That house there.”
Smith checked his pistol. “I’m going inside,” he said. “You can accompany me, wait outside, or return to whatever you were doing. The choice is yours.”
Without waiting for a reply, Smith strode to Havering’s home, a two-storied brick-built terraced house at the end of stylish Ann Street. Five stone steps led to the panelled front door, which he found locked.
“A fine building for a dock foreman,” Smith told himself, “unless Baltimore wages are higher than in London.” He picked the lock without difficulty, slid inside
