At dusk there had been fighting in the streets of the city. Chanting Hindus had roamed the bazaars in groups, the knife hilts clutched tightly in lean brown fists under the soiled dhotis. Not far from the Great Eastern Hotel, a Moslem had yelled curses at such a group. They had gone after him, to be met by a splashing stream of gasoline that was then ignited by a thrown torch. The bodies lay charred in the gutter, waiting for the slow trucks that would cover the city in the grey and stinking dawn.

Khan Haidari forced himself to relax in the corner of the big sedan. He was comforted by the wide shoulders of his two Sikh drivers and by the bulge of the loaded Webley in the side pocket of his jacket. He had grown wise in the ways of the fighting during the last month. He knew that the early hours of the evening were hours of false peace. At dusk and at midnight the fighting would be at its worst. Khan Haidari knew that he was a bold and clever man. How many other Hindus, born of low caste in the bazaar section of Bangalore could boast that they had fought their way up to wealth and security? He pondered that after all it had been simple. The first hundred rupees had been stolen. Other thieves spent their gains. Not Khan Haidari. He had loaned it out at high interest, assuring collection with the reputed quickness of his knife.

As the money pyramided, he had bought land. With the profits of the sale of the land during war time, he had bought into the Calcutta firm of Pershad and Jafri. Now it was Pershad, Jafri and Haidari. He smiled sleekly as he thought of the warehouses stuffed with fine export merchandise from Kashmir, of the three shops � shuttered now � where polite clerks removed tourist rupees with the deftness of long practice. A long way for a low caste boy from Bangalore to travel.

He felt a thrill of excitement as he realized that the night�s work might remove Yusuf Jafri, the Moslem. Then the firm would be Pershad and Haidari. Possibly later it would be the firm of Haidari.

The big car purred quietly through the almost deserted streets. Khan Haidari rubbed his plump hands together, making a whispering sound in the back of the car. People had learned to stay off the night streets of the great city.

It was a bad time for a firm to be made up of two Hindus and a Moslem. He knew that he and Jutala Pershad could manage the business more carefully and more profitably if the slim and temperamental Yusuf Jafri were out of the picture. And Khan Haidari intended to make use of the turmoil in Calcutta to remove an unwanted partner. Who would speak of another dead Moslem? Even as influential a Moslem as Yusuf Jafri. Thinking of Jafri, Khan Haidari sneered. Jafri had been trained as an artist. He was not a man of business. A slim, nervous, yellowed man of unpredictable stubbornness.

Three nights before, Khan Haidari had made final plans with Jutala Pershad. At first it had been rather difficult to convince Pershad that it would be well to kill Yusuf Jafri. But Khan Haidari had convinced him. It was absurd to expect Jutala Pershad to take an active part in the assassination. Pershad was a man of enormous fatness, and of a blackness that indicated a strain of African in his Hindu bloodstream. He moved with the utmost difficulty, but his mind was nimble. Khan Haidari had painted such a skilfull picture of the increased profits to result from the death of Yusuf Jafri that Pershad�s eyes, sunken deep in the black surrounding fat had glowed with avarice. It was easy to lead men through their greed.

It had been planned and it was thought best that Khan Haidari and Jutala Pershad avoid each other�s company until the killing of Yusuf Jafri had been accomplished.

The plan itself was most simple. Khan Haidari had merely to go to Yusuf Jafri�s home and tell of overhearing a Hindu plan to sack the home and kill Jafri. He lived alone with his servants. Haidari would then offer to take Yusuf Jafri to a place of safety. Once back out in the car, rolling through the darkened streets, Khan Haidari would make a sudden thrust with the knife which he knew so well how to use. Yusuf Jafri�s body would be picked from the streets at dawn and placed in one of the massive lorries. The two drivers were well bribed. They would say nothing.

Khan Haidari slid out to the edge of his seat as the black car rolled through the gates into the compound of Yusuf Jafri�s home. No sliver of light showed through the massive scaled windows.

Accompanied by one of the drivers, Khan Haidari walked to the great door set into the stone wall of the building and rapped sharply with the signal he had arranged over the telephone with Yusuf Jafri.

Khan Haidari stood in the night, feeling the thud of his pulse. The big driver shifted uneasily. The door opened a crack and then closed. They heard a chain being unfastened, and the door swung open a few feet. Khan Haidari stepped quickly inside, murmuring to the driver to wait in the car. The door slammed shut behind him, and Khan Haidari walked through the dim hall to the lighted room beyond.

It was a room decorated and lighted in the Western fashion, with rugs, couches, prints. Yusuf Jafri wore a brocaded dressing gown. He stood up from one of the couches, smiling gently and hurried over to greet Khan Haidari.

�Greetings, my partner. It is kind of you to come and see me.�

He led Khan Haidari over to a touch and they sat, facing each other. �These are evil times in the city,� Jafri said.

�Very evil. Your people and mine, the Moslems and the Hindus find this a good time to quarrel over ancient frictions. It is the ultimate in foolishness, in stupidity.�

Yusuf Jafri looked at him with a warm smile. �It is good for a Moslem to hear such words from the lips of a Hindu, even if you are my partner. I trust that Jutala Pershad�s thoughts are akin to yours.�

�I�m certain of it. Our association and our friendship is above all of this racial fanaticism. Jutala Pershad and I are your friends. Nothing can change that.�

�In these times friendship is more precious than jewels.� Jafri�s lean yellow face was sad. �With my brothers killed on every street of the city. It is said that thirty thousand Moslems have died violently � and about seven thousand Hindus. The Moslems are badly outnumbered.�

�There will be an end to it, my brother.�

�But why did you wish to see me alone? What was it that you couldn�t speak of over the telephone?�

Khan Haidari leaned closer and lowered his voice. �By chance I heard of a new plot on the part of a strong Hindu group. They intend to sack and burn the homes of the wealthy Moslem merchants of the city. And soon. I heard your name mentioned and I have come to warn and help you.�

Yusuf Jafri stroked his lean chin with sensitive fingertips. �It is kind of you to warn me, but they would have great difficulty here. The walls are of stone with heavy doors and shutters. I have a dozen armed servants who will fight to the death.�

�They have a hundred.�

�How did you wish to help?�

�The streets are quiet note. My car with two strong guards is outside: I can take you out of Calcutta, to a safe place where you can wait until the disorder is over.�

�If it is ever over,� Jafri muttered. He turned bland eyes to Khan Haidari. �I do not have the words to tell you what I think of this offer of yours.�

�And I do not have the words to tell you what it means to me to have you come with me. It is of the greatest importance.�

�I am afraid that I cannot run, my brother. I will stay here.�

Haidari groaned inwardly. He knew that the first plan had failed, that no words could force Yusuf Jafri to change his mind. But there would be other plans, other ways. It was merely a delay. Jafri was a stupid, insolent, artistic Moslem pig who would soon be dead in a Calcutta gutter. If not tonight, then the next night, or the next. The troubles would last long enough. He fought to keep his expression friendly and realized that Yusuf Jafri was speaking. �...and, my brother, when I heard that you were braving the dangers of the streets at night to pay me a visit, I ordered that a gift be prepared for you as token of my regard for your friendship.�

Yusuf Jafri clapped his hands sharply and a servant came in with a nicely wrapped box, carrying it on a silver tray. He presented the tray to Khan Haidari with a polite bow. Haidari took the box and placed it in his lap.

�Thank you. A gift was unnecessary. It was my duty to warn you. If you do not wish to take my advice...�

�I am certain that your advice was well intended, my brother. But I cannot run. Please open the gilt so that I may enjoy your appreciation.�

Haidari felt a sudden surge of friendliness for this generous man, but he stifled it quickly. There could be no friendship for a pie dog of a Moslem. �But that would be improper. I shall open it later.�

Yusuf Jafri smiled and said. �The times change. What was improper yesterday is a custom tomorrow. Please open it.�

Always Khan Haidari had the instincts of a greedy child about gifts. He started to unwrap the package carefully, wondering what could be in it. As the outer layer of paper was removed, he grew more excited, and his hands trembled. Yusuf Jafri was chatting away � something about having had another visitor. Inside the box was a layer of tissue paper. Khan Haidari lifted it and peered down into the box at two freshly severed hands of amazing fatness and odd blackness of hue. The house was silent, except for the distant buzzing of Yusuf Jafri�s voice.

Yusuf Jafri was saying softly, �...to express my thanks for your offer of quick death in the streets of Calcutta.�

Khan Haidari bounded up, screaming a curse remembered from his boyhood in Bangalore. At the door he met three of Yusuf Jafri�s servants � each one wearing the blind and sullen look of men who have been ordered to kill.