As soon as the greasy morsel hit his stomach, he knew the duck was poisoned. His dark eyes widened with shock. One hand over his mouth, he made a dive for the bathroom.
After he had emptied the contents of his stomach-mostly stomach acid-into the toilet bowl, and his vision had begun to clear, he heard Chiun's voice, calm but interested.
"You did not know the duck was poisoned."
"Of course I didn't!" Remo snapped, wiping his mouth with the back of his thick wrist.
"Unless this was clever subterfuge to lull my newfound suspicions," Chiun continued thoughtfully, stroking his wispy beard.
"Then why'd you pull the duck from between my teeth?"
Silence. The pause lengthened. Remo got off his knees, which were rubbery from the aftereffects of the shock to his highly attuned nervous system-and Chiun answered.
"Because I did not wish to be burdened with the disposal of your worthless round-eyed carcass."
And the Master of Sinanju swept from the room. Soon, the sounds of broadcast-quality British voices once again filled the apartment.
Remo moved swiftly into the living room and did something that had gotten untold hotel bellhops, apartment house superintendents, telephone repairmen, and other rude persons maimed or killed more effectively than if they'd stumbled across an organized crime summit in progress.
He switched off one of Chiun's soaps and stepped before the dark screen, blocking it.
Chiun's facial hair trembled. His eyes narrowed until they resembled the seams on old walnut shells.
"I bought the duck from the Japanese supermarket at the foot of the hill," Remo said in a dead-level voice.
Chiun looked up, his expression stiff, like that of a death mask.
"Consorting with Japanese," he said in a monotone. He shook his aged head. "It is no wonder you have gone astray."
"I can prove it!" Remo said heatedly. "I have the receipt, and the plastic wrapping off the duck. You know how long it takes to wash the aftertaste of plastic wrapping off fresh duck?"
"About as long as it takes to wash virulent poison and other evidence of foul play," Chiun said pointedly.
"Thank you, Jessica Fletcher," Remo said acidly. "Would you like to see the wrapper?"
"No. It has obviously been tampered with. It is a pink salmon."
Remo blinked. "Say again?"
"One of those mystery things," sniffed Chiun.
Remo, taken aback, gave this some thought. "You mean a red herring?" he asked at last.
"It is possible," Chiun said vaguely. "For although I speak excellent English, my American is not as fluent. No doubt it is the fault of certain officious persons who continually tamper with the tongue."
"I'm more interested in knowing who tampered with that damned duck."
"Ah. So now you cast blame on the poor innocent duck."
"No, I don't. But since you and I almost ended up like dead ducks as well, don't you think we should look into this?"
"Why?"
"Because the Japanese supermarket is the only place for miles around here that carries decent rice."
The Master of Sinanju absorbed this observation. His be-wrinkled visage alternately twitched and smoothed, as the inchoate expressions vied to dominate it.
Firm resolve won. Chiun came to his feet and said, "Lead me to this place."
The Hinomaru Japanese Supermarket claimed to stock no foods or goods that were not imported from the islands of Japan. Its signs were exclusively in Japanese. Any person who spoke only English would have been lost in its well-stocked rows. Even the prices were in yen, although the dollar was welcome.
Non-Japanese were not barred from the Hinomaru Supermarket-that would have been illegal-but neither were they made to feel welcome.
So when Remo and Chiun entered the establishment and demanded to speak to the manager, they were pointedly ignored.
This rudeness lasted as long as it took for the Master of Sinanju to insert the head of a stock clerk into the gaping mouth of a deep-sea bass that was stacked in an ice-lined cedar counter in the seafood section.
When the stock clerk's muffled cries attracted the manager's attention, Remo grabbed him by his white shirt front.
"Speak English?" he asked.
"Yes. Naturarry."
"Great. I bought a duck here today." He held up the wrapper. "Where did this come from?"
"We do not serr these," the manager said, a little too quickly for Remo's liking.
"My ass," said Remo.
"I knew it," said Chiun. "You are in galoots together."
"That's 'cahoots,' " corrected Remo.
"Thank you for admitting your guilt."
"If you'll just use your nose, you'll smell the heady aroma of ruddy duck wafting through the deep-sea bass," Remo said pointedly.
Whatever retort the Master of Sinanju had been about to make was never offered. Instead he began to sniff furiously, then flew into a back room, where two stock boys were busy re-crating shrink-wrapped duckling corpses.
Chiun scattered them with a flurry of upraised arms, and fell upon the crates. He sliced a package open with a long fingernail and extracted a headless duck carcass. He sniffed it all around and said, "Poisoned." He dropped the duck from his tapered fingers.
Turning on the flustered manager, who along with Remo had followed him into the room, Chiun demanded, "From whence comes this carrion?"
"Japan," said the manager instantly. He nodded his head like one of those glass birds that constantly bob for water.
"You lie!" screamed Chiun, with such vehemence that Remo momentarily dropped the limp, bloodied wrapper he had been carrying. He snatched it up with a backhand gesture, one eye on the Master of Sinanju as he hectored the suddenly trembling Japanese.