the evidence. For thirty seconds his eyes ran this way and that. But then he smiled. They were probably his very own pots, he said, bold as brass. Only a few days before he left the village, his wife had complained of finding rat droppings in their hut. So he had asked her to cook a little rice, which he had divided between two pots, having swilled rat poison around them. In the morning the rice was gone. He had meant to throw away the contaminated pots, but Muttuhami shrugged. They must have been forgotten, kicked into a dark corner and left there.

My father said he felt nothing but admiration for the man. Under other circumstances Muttuhami would have made a great artist. His understanding of human nature,his insight into the workings of the mind. He knew very well that his enemy would be unable to resist that empty hut standing there like an invitation. And what would he have found inside? Why, two cooking pots in mint condition, overlooked in the commotion of leaving. The man must have been laughing, savouring his triumph when he took that booty home to his wife. They were probably still congratulating themselves when they squatted down to eat that evening. "And Muttuhami, forty miles away on the other side of the jungle, no doubt he was smiling too," said my father.