Drake watched him until he turned the corner, still smiling a bit. He’d have helped the old man regardless, but in this particular case, helping him could help Drake too. He angled a glance across the street to make sure their exchange had been out of sight of the tiny window in the warehouse’s door and, satisfied, jogged over and pounded on it.

Within a few seconds, the creaking door swung open, revealing a man with a cap pulled low over his eyes. “Sí?”

“Sorry to bother you.” Careful to keep an expression of mild concern on his face, Drake gestured to the street. “My uncle Pietro—his dog slipped away from him. Perhaps you heard him calling to him? Barto?”

There was enough shift in the bloke’s eyes to prove he was familiar with Pietro and Barto. “Barto? But he’s such a good dog!”

“He is.” And Drake hated to malign him. “I don’t know what has come over him. But he ran around the back of your building here, and then I lost him. I think he may have slipped under that door in the back. Could I check?”

“Of course!” The bloke opened the door and waved him in, searching the street behind him. “Where is your uncle? Does he need to come in, to rest?”

“Ah.” Drake motioned to the corner he’d turned. “I got him settled with a cigar. He will be all right until I return with Barto.”

The guard chuckled. “I imagine. Go, go. Find the dog. I’m afraid I must stay here at my post, or I would help you.”

“No matter, I’m sure I’ll find him soon enough. Gracias.” Victory singing through his veins, Drake hurried down the short corridor that blocked the warehouse proper from this door. He whistled and called for Barto as he went, darting one look over his shoulder to make sure the helpful guard really was staying at his post.

All clear. Drake muttered a prayer of thanksgiving and jogged into the cavernous, dim space.

Inside were crates of various sizes. Equipment. Shelves. The light coming in through the grimy windows was barely sufficient to show him anything, so he withdrew a small electric torch from his pocket and got down to business.

“Barto!” he called again for good measure as he moved along one row of wooden crates. He switched his light on and shined it on the black words stamped onto the wood. This stack, apparently, was grain. He shook his head at the sheer volume of it. All this grain sitting here, and yet Pietro would probably go to bed hungry tonight. The owners of these warehouses and shipping ventures were getting rich from the war, while the average worker was all but starving.