A dizzying tale of lust, mystery, and murder—from a beloved Japanese crime fiction author and LGBT icon The Lady Killer leads a double life in Tokyo's shadowy underworld. By day, he is a devoted husband and hard worker; by night, he cruises cabaret bars and nightclubs in search of lonely single women to seduce. But now the hunter is being hunted, and in his wake lies a trail of gruesome murders. Who is the culprit? The answer lies tangled in a web of clues—and to find it, he must accept that nothing is what it seems.   The Lady Killer  pulls from author Masako Togawa’s vibrant personal life as a cabaret performer for Tokyo’s gay nightclub scene during the ‘50s and ‘60s. Throughout her writing career, Togawa continued to champion the LGBT community as a queer woman—sealing her reputation as one of Japan’s most prominent crime fiction authors and LGBT heroines. 'Full of subtly menacing tensions and sharp psychological insights, told in lean, sparsely ornamented style. This one is a must for the discerning reader.' -  Kirkus ‘Long established in Japan, [Togawa’s] books have benefited from sensitive translation to enjoy a well-deserved second life.’ —  Daily Mail 'The PD James of Japan.' -  Times Literary Supplement ‘There's a great and distinct timbre to this book … it certainly has the cleverness ultimately to keep a genre reader really satisfied.’ —  The Bookbag "Even when you think you know just where the book is headed… you don’t… Thoroughly enjoyable." —  David’s Book World Masako Togawa (1931-2016) was born in Tokyo. Her father died when she was young, and after leaving school she worked as a typist for some years, before stepping onto the stage as a cabaret performer in 1954. She soon began to write backstage during the breaks between her performances, and in 1962, her debut novel The Master Key was published, and won the Edogawa Rampo Prize. She went on to become a hugely successful crime writer, but continued to lead a colourful parallel life as a singer, actress, feminist, nightclub owner and gay icon. She died in 2016 at the age of 83. She was on the second floor of the bar, seated alone in a box seat and gazing down onto the first floor. Faintly, through the whirl of cigarette smoke, she could see a waiter in a white jacket standing by the door, a bartender rattling a cocktail shaker behind the counter below her. As for the other cus- tomers, they were all either seated at the counter or else in boxes on the first floor, almost invisible in the subdued lighting popular in such places. Upstairs where she was, there was another bar counter behind which a bartender was passing the time polishing glasses; at the corner of the counter, two young men sat face to face whispering to each other. Nobody was paying her any attention whatever. If they had, they would have probably thought that this girl, wearing no makeup and seeming to be no more than twenty, did not look at all like a typical bar customer. When she had entered a few minutes before, there had been an oddly disturbed look on her face. There were no vacant places on the ground floor, so she had made her way upstairs. As she climbed, the stairs beneath her feet seemed to rise and fall like waves; she floated on them, feeling hollow as a boat. All the chatter and music, the din of a busy bar, seemed to recede from her; she felt strangely alone in a world as black as pitch. She stretched forward and picked up her half-empty glass, draining its contents, the color of cold tea, in a gulp. This was her third glass of whiskey tonight, and the third she had drunk in all her life. The whiskey warmed her throat, and she began to feel light-headed. She stood up and went to the counter, taking care with each step not to reel or fall. The bartender looked up and, seeing the empty glass in her hand, smiled. “Some pace tonight!” She smiled back at him. It would cost her nothing to be pleasant to him, and besides, she had no idea of where she would go when she left the bar. “Ready for the fourth one? I’ll bring it over.” He pretended to note the drink on her bill, but in reality wrote nothing. She might as well have this one free. Giving him another sweet smile, she turned and went back to her table on the balcony. She suddenly felt more cheerful, thanks to this act of kindness, which she had noticed. I must give him a pack of cigarettes before I go, she thought. The bartender came over, deposited her drink and a fresh saucer of peanuts, and left her as silently as he had come. Once more, she was alone. When she closed her eyes, she saw clashing shades of red and green still, but fortunately the sharp metallic sound that had rung inside her head had abated. After a while, she heard music, but it was impossible for her to tell if the sounds came from outside or were merely in her head. She didn’t really care which was the case; drifting through her personal world, she beat time with the tips of her feet. One two three, one two three…