The Case of the Poisoned Eclairs: A Masao Masuto Mystery by Howard Fast Page A

three of you spend the night here, and that no one leave the house tomorrow until I see you.”
    â€œAnd when will that be?”
    â€œSome time tomorrow afternoon, I hope.”
    â€œI have a luncheon date and a hairdresser appointment,” Mitzie Fuller said, “not to mention a date that I broke tonight and put off until tomorrow.”
    â€œI hope you’ll be able to keep your date. I suggest you cancel the luncheon and the hairdresser appointment.”
    â€œWho’s going to scragg me at Tony Cooper’s?”
    â€œStop it, Mitzie,” Nancy said. “He’s deadly serious.”
    â€œCan you put up Detective Beckman? I want him to stay here tonight.”
    â€œIf I have to give him my own bed,” Laura said. “Right now, the only men in the world who interest me are oversized policemen. But must I have that uniformed policeman standing outside my door?”
    â€œHe’ll leave,” Masuto told her. “Detective Beckman can take care of anything that might come up.”
    Beckman walked with him to the front door. “Well?” he asked.
    â€œIt takes shape. Not too clearly, but at least it begins to take on some shape,” Masuto said.
    â€œYou wouldn’t like to tell me about it? Because for me it don’t have any shape at all.”
    â€œNot yet.”
    â€œThe house is wired with an alarm system,” Beckman said. “The downstairs windows are locked. For that matter, so are those upstairs. The place is air conditioned. You don’t mind if I get some sleep?”
    â€œNot at all.”
    â€œYou’re all heart, Masao. When can I leave this place?”
    â€œSome time tomorrow.”
    â€œWhen?”
    â€œWhen I’ve picked up that murderous bastard.”

The Zen Master
    It was just past one o’clock in the morning when Masuto pulled his car into the driveway of his house in Culver City. He closed the car door softly and turned the key in the lock of the kitchen door just as softly. The light was on in the kitchen, and on the kitchen table a note that said, “If you are hungry, there are things in the refrigerator.” It was neither a friendly nor an unfriendly note. There was no greeting and no word of affection.
    As quietly as he had entered the house, Masuto undressed in the bathroom, and then he slid into bed next to Kati, who appeared to be asleep. One session had apparently changed her. On other nights, she would somehow have managed to remain awake and have a hot drink and hot food waiting for him. Tonight, nothing.
    He stretched out in bed and was just beginning to drift off when the sleeping Kati said, “Were they pretty?”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œThe four women you spent the evening with.”
    â€œThere were only three,” he told her unfeelingly. “One was killed.”
    â€œOh, no!”
    â€œI’m sorry, Kati. It happened.” He regretted that he had flung this at her. There was no reason to tell her.
    â€œOh, I’m so sorry. And I was so angry at you.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œNot really angry. Only because I’m aware of the inequality of things.”
    â€œYes. The consciousness-raising session.”
    â€œYou told me to go.”
    â€œOh, yes. Yes. I wanted you to go.” He was very sleepy.
    â€œI heard a lecture by Sono Akio.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd Marta Suzuki. Not your Zen Suzuki. They are not even related. I asked.”
    â€œYes, I’m sure you did.”
    â€œThey both spoke about the condition of women in Japan. We think of Japan as a modern industrial country, but the women are still enslaved there. They have no rights and no equality.”
    â€œWe don’t live in Japan,” Masuto muttered. “We live in California.”
    â€œYou are not even interested. There is your basic, beginning point of it all. The man has no interest in what the woman thinks or does. But she, on the other hand, is supposed