“’Allo, Archie,” she replied, slipping into an East End accent.

“Now, no need to put on the act with me,” he said.

“You called me Mary Elizabeth McTague,” she said. “That’s ’ow she talks, innit?”

“Yeah, let me talk to Sparks, then.”

“Sparks here, Archie,” said Iris, switching to her own voice. “How are you?”

“I find myself free for the evening,” he said. “I was wondering if you’d be interested in stepping out.”

“I’d love to,” said Iris, “but my sinuses are under siege. I wouldn’t be much for company, and I suspect I look all red and blotchy.”

“Oh dear, oh dear,” he said. “’Ave you eaten yet?”

“I have not. I just came back from the library.”

“Sounds exhausting. But I’m a slow reader.”

“Now who’s putting on an act? How is it that you’re free tonight, an established gang-leader like yourself? Shouldn’t you be out leading the gang? Pilfering and pillaging and the like?”

“The benefit of leading the gang is I get to delegate the larcenies to my ’umble employees,” said Archie. “So if I feel like taking the night off, ’oos to say otherwise?”

“Far be it from me to criticise,” said Iris. “Unfortunately, I must confine myself to quarters and inhale steam. Thanks for thinking of me.”

“You know I’m a sucker for damsels in distress,” said Archie. “You ’old tight, old girl. Our planes are in the air.”

“Planes? What planes?” asked Iris, but the connection had been severed.

She removed her makeup, then put a fresh kettle on. She picked up her copy of The Fifth Man, the latest Manning Coles book, kicked her shoes off, and curled up on the couch. She knew Cyril Coles, who was half the writing team behind the books, from his work for British Intelligence during the war. The books were nonsensical espionage adventures, but light reading with enough genuine pieces of spycraft scattered throughout to keep her from dismissing them out of hand. She had just got to a minor revelation when there was a knock on her door.

“Planes,” she said to herself.

She got up and padded over to peer through the peephole. A grinning Archie stood in the hallway.

“What on earth?” she exclaimed as she opened the door.

“’Ome remedies,” he said, holding up a pair of paper bags. “May I come in?”

“You may,” she said, stepping aside.

Archie Spelling had a prizefighter’s build and a heartbreaker’s face, marred only by a nose that had been broken by both left-and right-handed punches, if its topography was anything to go by. Iris never asked what happened to the providers of the punches. Knowing Archie, he either bought them a drink after or left them in bloody piles in some alleyway. Possibly both.

There was something odd about him, she thought. Wait—

“You’re wearing a suit!” she said.

“I always wear a suit,” he said.

“No, a normal suit. You’re not spivved up.”

Indeed, he was clad in a light gray three-piece, with a narrow tie and a proper fedora. She was used to seeing him in something loud, with chalk stripes and a kipper tie. But now he could pass for a banker, albeit one with a history of getting his nose broken.