Sam Spade

All I could think of was a girl on a cigarette package, thereby confining my operations to Turkey.

But this opened new doors.

The first, the most obvious, and ultimately the correct choice was a floppy nightclub known to the town's well-heeled party folk as the Vale of Cashmere.

It was dark when I got there, but the front doors hadn't opened yet.

Around at the side, an alley led up to the trade entrance, next to which stood a huge, wedge-shaped character with a swarthy complexion marred by a scar down one cheek.

And to make him even more Oppenheimish, he was wrapped in a black, tent-sized opera cloak.

I nodded politely, he spat, and I went inside.

The Vale of Kashmir is a sumptuous bistro, even on ordinary nights, and this night was obviously to be more than ordinary.

The table across the end of the floor was banquet-sized.

The place was hung with Kashmiri flags.

And the picture of an old man who looked familiar was hung from the middle of one wall.

Now, Major D was talking to an important-looking gent near the long table, and I walked over to them, pausing only to note one of the dancing girls practicing in a corner in her Shalamar-type costume.

Felt like I was close to home.

Andy Curry.

You understand?

Not too hard, yes, Excellency.

The florist will be here promptly with the flowers.

I trust you will be prepared to take care of it.

Excuse me, General.

My name is Spain.