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smell, too. There were plush, elaborate materials from India and the Orient everywhere the eye fell: from the wall hangings to the carpets under one’s feet, and to the chairs one sat on. The furniture was of the finest carved mahogany, and exotic plants were dotted in every corner. And, as Singh stood there drinking in the beauty of that place, his nostrils were filled with aromas that brought to mind the temples back home.
    It wasn’t long before the proprietor, a portly Arab with a large mole on his left cheek and mischief in his yellowing eyes, sidled up to Singh with barely a swish of his golden aba. He outstretched his sausage-fingered hands and beamed a smile of crooked teeth.
    ‘Ah, a guest from the jewel that is India. Come, enter. I am Jalal Al-din Bahar and I bid you welcome.’
    Singh nodded and stepped further into the foyer. His feet immediately sank into the thick carpet. He looked up to see, lounging on the chairs dotted about the room, about ten women in various stages of undress.
    ‘You seek the pleasures of the house, my friend?’ Jalal Al-din Bahar whispered, as the women rose to their feet and approached the tall, handsome Indian.
    They were high-class prostitutes from all corners of the globe – Europe, Africa, Asia and the Far East. As they gathered around Singh they began to giggle, stroking his thick, black beard, his arms and his chest, and cooing over his strength and form.
    ‘No, sahib, regretfully. I seek my officer.’
    The Arab’s charm melted away instantly. He clapped his hands angrily and the girls sulkily slipped away, back to their chairs, and their coquettish stares and whispered conversations.
    ‘I know of no officers here,’ Jalal Al-din Bahar said curtly. ‘Please leave.’ He made for the door, but Singh remained where he was.
    ‘Tall and fair. An Australian officer with a bullet hole in the chest of his tunic, and … unusual eyes …’ Singh mimed the description of Lock while he spoke, and pulled a gold coin from his pocket. He held it out to the Arab.
    Jalal Al-din Bahar glared at Singh for a moment before snatching the coin from his grasp.
    ‘He is upstairs, second room on the left.’
    Then the Arab turned and scuttled away to the far side of the foyer, and exited through a doorway that was screened by an elaborately beaded curtain.
    Singh watched him go, and his eyes fell upon an attractive, slender African girl reclining nearby. He grinned at her, then made his way to thefoot of the thickly carpeted stairs. As he climbed, passing beautiful and intricately decorated tapestries that adorned the walls, he kept glancing back at the girl. Her dark, hypnotic eyes followed his ascent all the way to the landing at the top. Singh stopped and looked back down at the lounge. The African girl was no longer looking at him. A bald, plump British officer with a beetroot complexion had just come in from the street and, with a swish of the beaded curtain, Jalal Al-din Bahar had appeared again. Singh watched as the girls gathered around the blushing general, giggling as the Arab went through his salesman routine.
    Singh turned away and walked along the corridor. It was lined with more tapestries and the occasional heavy, studded oak door. When he neared the first door, he stopped and listened. Muffled grunting was coming from the other side. He smiled and moved on to the second door. As with the first, he stopped and listened. There was no sound from the room beyond. He tried the handle. It was unlocked, so he pushed the door open and entered.
    The room inside was again decorated to a high standard of decadence. An opulent, dark Persian rug covered the polished oak floorboards and ran all the way over to a large wooden-slatted window that was open at the far end of the room. Next to the window was a dressing table adorned with perfume bottles, brushes and all the things that a woman uses to enhance her beauty. There was also a bowl of fruit and a plate with a half-eaten loaf of