Second Visitor

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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.

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