Hard Times

If there is one year I wouldn't want to relive in the future, it would probably be 2021. The deaths of dear friends and numerous casualties among my near and dear ones owing to COVID-19, some recurring health issues (both physical and mental)—this year, the losses have been too many to count and bear.

By November, I thought I had left all of these behind, but then came the calling of a new job and, with it, the shift to a new city that left me severely ill. Settling at a new place and figuring out the logistics of my new workplace also took up a fair amount of time, as a result of which I wasn't able to pay any attention, whatsoever, to this blog for a month-and-a-half.

Amidst all these hardships, I suppose I owe a debt of gratitude to one of the most hilarious parodic one-shot mystery manga I have had the pleasure of reading which brightened many a dull and dreary evening. Kumeta Kōji's Shitauke Tantei Nokori Kasuhiro (The Cases of Contract Detective Nokori Kasuhiro: Foreign Student in a Locked Room) was the first entry in a collaboration series between art magazines Mephisto and Magazine on the theme of 'locked rooms'. Kōji is well known for his work on Sayonara, Zetsubou-Sensei, a manga series with a suicidal teacher as the protagonist (and his 'students' as the cast), known for its whimsical absurdism, running gags, dark humour, literary references as well as the eccentric analysis of Japanese society and culture.

Kōji's brand of morbid humour and his use of running gags are made evident in this one-shot manga at the very outset of Shitauke Tantei Nokori Kasuhiro. Kasuhiro Nokori is introduced as a contract detective who takes up cases that are simply too 'annoying' for other well-known detectives such as Conan, Kindaichi and Sherdock to solve. It is his assistant Shiyori Jigo who accepts the case the great Nokori will solve within 20-odd pages. From here on, Kōji pokes fun at crime fiction tropes and conventions in side-splitting fashion. To achieve this, Kōji 'elevates' the tropes and conventions to ridiculous, parodic extremes. For instance, in the narration of Kasuhiro's achievements, Shiyori mentions 'legendary' cases which Kasuhiro has solved by (i) making a hundred round trips of the same train route, (ii) adopting a De Niro-like approach and losing 20 kilograms of weight to solve an incident that happened via an opening too narrow for anyone to pass through, and (iii) diving into a barrel of grated yam that left the detective filling itchy for the following two months. Then, there's the introduction of the stock inspector character, who rules everything as a suicide and is thus named 'suicide officer' Shintarou Mizukara.

Perhaps, even more ludicrous is the setting of the locked room. Surely, it has to go into the annals of crime fiction as the largest locked room—a square, five-kilometre-by-five-kilometre room where the victim, the suspect, the witness and the murder weapon lying at each of the four corners of this gigantic room. At this point, Nokori starts to realise why the other detectives may have given up on this case (there's a hidden meaning to this, though, and things are not what they may seem at first glance), and indeed, it is possible for one to feel sorry for the detective having to travel to each corner and back, multiple times, to connect the threads of information gleaned from the respective corners. But Kōji never lets go of his sense of humour, and the way he portrays the deduction scenes, especially how a 'runner's high' helps solve the case, will more likely leave you doubled up in laughter than feeling sorry.

Ladies and gentlemen, the world's largest literary locked room, courtesy Kumeta Kōji and Shitauke Tantei Nokori Kasuhiro

But, laughs aside, Shitauke Tantei Nokori Kasuhiro is an extremely competent mystery with a killer ending, even though it may seem to come slightly out of left field. Admittedly, the clueing and background information are a bit lacking, but there's only that much you can do within 20 pages. These shortcomings are more than compensated by the first-class deception and misdirection that leads directly into the devastating ending which hits the reader like a ton of bricks. What impresses me most about this one-shot is that nearly all the visual elements (the settings, the characters, the material evidences) that are so ruthlessly parodied also hide sinister meanings and implications behind their apparently ludicrous presence. One can sense Kōji's love and faithfulness towards the parody and crime genres, and it is to his immense credit that he is able to successfully merge the two in such a packed space. Ultimately, he pulls off a sensational and brilliant subversion of the locked room sub-genre using the duality of the synergistic elements he portrays—one where the mystery 'inside' the room matters little in comparison to what's happened 'outside' the room, even though the clues to realise the 'outside' events are all locked 'inside' the massive room.

In the last page, Kōji mentions that he would have loved to make this into a series, but this one-shot already seems to be the last chapter. A lost opportunity, I am sure, for us crime-fiction lovers, but I can sense a kind of resonance between my blog's plight and Kōji's unfulfilled manga series featuring the eccentric Kasuhiro Nokori. Moving forward, I am not sure how regular I will be with my writing on this blog, but as long as fulfilling reads such as Shitauke Tantei Nokori Kasuhiro come to my notice, there is always hope. Never say never, as they say.

Treasure Island

I have an unusually soft spot for mysteries and murders set in islands, and have been fortunate enough to have read and watched some of the best on offer—Shetland (based on Ann Cleeves' Jimmy Pérez books) and Agatha Christie's And Then There Were None come to mind. Japanese authors, in particular, have mastered the art of delivering pitch-perfect island mysteries that utilise the unique environs to perfection—Yukito Ayatsuji's Jukkakukan no Shinsou Kaiteiban (translated into English as The Decagon House Murders), Seishi Yokomizo's Gokumon-tō (Prison Gate Island) or any of the several Kindaichi Shōnen no Jikenbo tales set on isles are only a few that promise a rollicking good time.

Ayatsuji's 1987 novel The Decagon House Murders, a wonderfully original take on the Christie classic And Then There Were None, was a watershed moment in the annals of crime fiction writing in Japan. In it, Ayatsuji lays the foundations of what would later come to be known as the shin honkaku (new orthodox) school of mystery writing—a sub-genre that would, soon enough, lure amateur writers away from crafting social mysteries and later earn a legion of devoted fans whose admiration remains unsullied to this day. Early on in this book, one of the characters articulates what would essentially become a clarion call to future writers of this school. It is worth quoting in its entirety, especially as it aptly describes what the shin honkaku school stands for:

"In my opinion, mystery fiction is, at its core, a kind of intellectual puzzle. An exciting game of reasoning in the form of a novel. A game between the reader and the great detective, or the reader and the author. Nothing more or less than that.

So enough gritty social realism please. A female office worker is murdered in a one-bedroom apartment and, after wearing out the soles of his shoes through a painstaking investigation, the police detective finally arrests the victim's boss, who turns out to be her illicit lover. No more of that! No more of the corruption and secret dealings of the political world, no more tragedies brought forth by the stress of modern society and suchlike. What mystery novels need are—some might call me old-fashioned—a great detective, a mansion, a shady cast of residents, bloody murders, impossible crimes and never-before-seen tricks played by the murderer. Call it my castle in the sky, but I'm happy as long as I can enjoy such a world. But always in an intellectual manner."

In ways both good and bad, the essence of this lengthy, almost Queensian declaration is rendered faithfully in Alice Arisugawa's 1989 work, Kotō Pazuru (literally, Koto Puzzle, translated into English in 2016 with the title of The Moai Island Puzzle). Just like its predecessor (The Decagon House Murders), The Moai Island Puzzle also has a university club of mystery fiction aficionados visiting a remote island that is soon cut off from the mainland by a raging storm, just as the island's residents start getting knocked off one by one. Three members of the Eito University Mystery Club—the narrator Alice, the sleuth Jirō Egami and the club's only female recruit Maria Arima—visit Kashikijima on Maria's invitation to indulge in treasure hunting. Kashikijima is a strange island—not only is it unusually shaped (it looks like a horseshoe magnet), it also has some 25 ominous moai statues looming large over the landscape. These statues also happen to be the focal point of the mysterious treasure—Maria's grandfather hid a large cache of diamonds worth a fortune somewhere on the island with the only hint being the statues and the directions they faced. It is this seemingly unsolved mystery that Jirō and his friends wish to crack now.

There exist only two residences on Kakushijima, one each on the two poles of this horseshoe magnet island. The larger one, Panorama Villa, is hosting a gathering of Maria's extended family members at the time of the mystery club's arrival, while the smaller Happy Fish Villa is home to a moderately successful artist (also one of Maria's relatives) who visits it from time to time. To travel from one to the other, one either needs to take a boat across the bay separating the two, or cover the distance on foot or bicycle courtesy of a road that takes one through the long arc of the island. Both villas soon witness impossible crimes in the midst of a storm. Will  Jirō and his friends be able to solve the puzzle of the treasure as well as that of the three murders that seem to have links with Maria's past and one of her now deceased relatives?

At first glance, this synopsis seems very attractive, but I'll start with the negatives here. The mystery surrounding the treasure, which lends itself to the title, is overlong and clearly overstays its welcome. Excessively laborious in its execution, one plods through this portion in weary anticipation of what they will find at the end of it all. Unfortunately, the puzzle of the statues 'evolves' too much for its own good—one definitely needs to be aware of a certain stream of knowledge to solve this puzzle, and even then, it's quite a stretch to reach the correct conclusion. Perhaps, even more damningly, the payoff is too little for all the struggle one undergoes, making for an extremely poor adventure trip—[SPOILER ALERT] turns out the mystery has already been solved before the arrival of our protagonists, and then, the puzzle and the developments surrounding them essentially become a footnote in the motive behind the cases. Not fair at all, one would say, considering that nearly a 100 pages are devoted to this puzzle and its unravelling!

The first murder also happens pretty late into the novel, but it is the conversations between the (mostly dislikeable) characters preceding it and the way they are portrayed that proceeds to suck all the life away here. There is too much unnatural stiffness in the nature of the dialogue in this section—as though the characters too are eagerly waiting for something to happen to them and that they can't wait any longer to reach the heart of the text. The plot and the puzzles demand that the characters act in certain ways—and they do so, regardless of how unnatural, forced and even unrealistic it may all seem. While such a treatment on Arisugawa's part clearly establishes the primacy of the plot and the puzzles over characterisation, a more competent balancing act would have gone a long way in making it palatable without leaving an unpleasant aftertaste.

The novel really starts shining once the murders are committed. The Moai Island Puzzle is, at its best, a tribute to Queensian and Holmesian aesthetics in the mystery novel—and thankfully, the work provides many instances to showcase both. The Holmesian trait of eliminating all that's impossible and positing whatever remains as the truth is evident in the many discussions between Jirō and his friends where hypotheses are presented and possibilities discounted by all three members of the Eito University Mystery Club, with Jirō acting as the most perceptive and discerning of the lot. And as Sōji Shimada astutely points out in his introduction to the novel, Jirō graduates from being a disinterested, bland, Queensian puzzle maniac to a more proactive Holmes-like figure who definitely acts heroically in a certain aspect towards the end of the novel. If only such a nuanced treatment could have been meted out to the rest of the characters ...

Anyway, the novel does one better when doffing its hat to Ellery Queen. Chains of deduction are built upon minutely detailed timetables drawn by the investigators and very singular observations of particular items and events—[SPOILER ALERT] a boat rown across the bay at a particular time, a light travelling between the two villas at the dead of night, a cycle tyre-mark and a piece of cloth found at particular parts of the island, among others—and linking them all into a linear, cohesive and definitive narrative. The novel is a perfect lesson in crafting chains of logical reasoning on singular observations, clues and items of evidence and also demonstrates why the author needn't 'deceive' readers with a gamut of randomly scattered, possibly relevant clues and/or too many red herrings. It plays it very straight with the dying message too, which just requires one to understand what's 'not present' to properly interpret it.

For those deeply vested in the world of Japanese crime novels, The Moai Island Puzzle can be considered to be mandatory reading. Personally, I find it a most instructive work that provides a fascinating glimpse into the highs and lows of shin honkaku plotting within the space of some 250-odd pages (notwithstanding the fact that it would have benefitted a lot if its length had been reduced by a third). Two different kinds of puzzles are presented in the work with conflicting treatments—one that the authors should aspire to, another they should avoid if they do not want to leave readers feeling short-changed. This, in itself, makes for a very strange balancing act—but one that should perhaps not be attempted at all. 

(This post was published on the Scroll website with the following title: How a Japanese island mystery novel replicated the Ellery Queen and Sherlock Holmes brand of mystery)

Everyone Knows Who Killed Roger Ackroyd

When Agatha Christie's The Murder of Roger Ackroyd was published in 1926, it featured a twist so sensational for its time that it shocked even the most seasoned readers. If ever there was a work that, at face value, so blatantly upended one of the cardinal rules of crime fiction back then, it is this one.

Roger Ackroyd appears: The first UK edition

Today, the trope of the unreliable narrator is one of the most clichéd in fiction—a device you can spot coming a mile off, whenever there's reasonable doubt to suspect that it's been introduced. However, for authors, it is a far trickier prospect to execute successfully than many may be led to believe initially. In particular, Christie's treatment of the trope in The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, is all about subtlety. After all, this is not a case of a central character simply spouting outrageous lies and later getting exposed. The genius of The Murder of Roger Ackroyd lies in the culprit's expertise in managing and controlling the flow and revelation of information as he deems fit—he may be reticent and picky about what strands of information he chooses to expose judiciously and cunningly, but never does he lie outright.

How, then, does one adapt a work whose virtues have become all too familiar to the audience and still keep it fresh? It's not an easy task, as is evidenced by the failure of David Suchet's Poirot (2000) in doing justice to The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. In its quest to present something new to the viewers and mark itself as something very different from Christie's work, this particular TV episode does away with all the key features that made the novel such a landmark one in the first place. Character roles are changed drastically, events are inexcusably altered, and to cap it all off, the conclusion fails to pack the desired punch.

However, Japanese author, screenwriter and director Kōki Mitani's adaptation of The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, titled Kuroido Goroshi (2018), succeeds where Suchet's fails. Among literary circles, Mitani is popular and much beloved for his mystery and comedy works, one of which is the excellent TV series, Furuhata Ninzaburō (1994–2006)—in many ways, the Japanese version of Richard Levinson and William Link's legendary inverted mystery series, Columbo. All of his trademarks are also present, in varying degrees, in Kuroido Goroshi—a TV special that offers some clues on how to adapt a tricky work such as The Murder of Roger Ackroyd correctly and proficiently.

As is the case with Furuhata Ninzaburō, one can sense Mitani's love and respect for the source material in Kuroido Goroshi. Instead of 1920s countryside England, one is transported to the picturesque village of Tonosato in 1952 Japan—a setting that most reminds me of fictional Midsomer (in Midsomer Murders) with its gossipy villagers and sleepy manors and cottages sheltering dark secrets. The adaptation is very faithful to the novel and the events that transpire henceforth should therefore be familiar to most readers who are acquainted with Christie's book. Additionally, Mitani gives a few distinctive touches—strengthening the portrayal of characters, making the motives behind their actions meatier and making it more difficult to guess whodunnit, making subtle changes to the timeline of events, more foreshadowing, introducing characters that would make sense in a Japanese setting, among others—that significantly contribute to the lasting legacy of the work.

The film opens with an interaction between Takeru Suguro (the Hercule Poirot equivalent) and Dr Heisuke Shiba (Dr Sheppard's character) in Tonosato village (similar to King's Abbot). Heisuke happens to be the only practicing doctor in the village who, on the side, has been writing a manuscript investigating the circumstances of the death of Rokusuke Kuroido, one of the notable personages in the village and a close acquaintance of Heisuke. It is through the pages of Heisuke's manuscript (that is handed over to Takeru in the opening few minutes of the film) that we see the film's narrative unfold as well. This narrative-within-a-narrative treatment, along with the help of a clever shifting timeline, allows Mitani to portray one of the most difficult aspects fairly well (but not flawlessly—things get a wee bit muddled towards the end).   

Rokusuke's murder happened in mysterious circumstances after a family dinner to which Dr Shiba had also been invited. Later, Takeru is called in to solve the mystery by Rokusuke's niece Hanako, while Heisuke, who was completely unaware of Takeru's reputation as a meitantei (great detective) at this time, becomes his Watson. The TV special reconstructs the events of the novel without skipping on too many details—Heisuke being invited to Rokusuke's study for a secret conversation with the secret remaining unsaid, a lot of curious incidents involving the other occupants of the house around the estimated time of murder, a rather small but strange change in the arrangement of a particular piece of furniture at the site of crime (Rokusuke's study) which is then reverted to normal, a mysterious phone call to the doctor's house that leads to the corpse's discovery in the first place and the suspicion ultimately falling on Rokusuke's stepson Haruo are exact replicas of what happens in the book. 

Roger Ackroyd dies again, this time as Rokusuke Kuroido

All of this sounds rather heavy and foreboding. Moreover, there are too many innocuous, inconsequential distractions all cluttered roughly around the same time as the murder that threaten to take one's attention away from the central plot. But, in Mitani's hands, these turn out to be the perfect spots to bring in comic relief. No doubt, the comedy and parodic elements are sometimes laid on a bit too thick for my taste, but segments such as the absconding Haruo's reappearance in the village before the shocked sister of Haruo, the childish tantrums of Rokusuke's spoilt sister, the village police inspector indulging in a bit of fanboyish admiration of the famous ex-detective Takeru and Rokusuke's overeager secretary completing every sentence and observation of the inspector (before the latter has the chance to do so) much to his annoyance genuinely strive to put a smile on one's face. The revelations are also done in a lighthearted manner, resulting in a special that competently balances a serious investigation with comic storytelling, barring some excesses. 

Still, Mitani shines brightest when he puts sombre touches on his portrayal of events and characters. This becomes all too evident during the conclusion when, despite all his eccentric mannerisms, Takeru is finally dispel all the chicanery and the facades to reveal the true nature of the case. We are then left with the culprit all to himself contemplating suicide, his thoughts serving as an epilogue to the episode and the manuscript with which it opens. The extra-layered motive behind the culprit's necessary actions lends Mitani's adaptation a human quality easy to empathise with, which is completely absent in Christie's original. The final fates of the doctor and, especially, his ebullient, gossipy sister leave one in a reflective, poignant, even mournful, mood in sharp contrast to all the humour and adrenaline-pumping fun experienced during Takeru's deductions.

The way the story unfolds also lends itself to a comparison with another manor mystery (an adaptation of another book, by the way) I had watched and reviewed some months ago—Akuma ga Kitarite Fue wo Fuku. This Kosuke Kindaichi mystery unravels in real time (barring a few flashbacks), with the telltale clues, conversations observations and the reasoning leading to the deductions all laid bare before the reader, before the grand deduction leads the detective to reveal the even deeper mystery of 'what really happened' which even the culprit wasn't aware of. There's little by way of distractions and the focus on the core mystery is really intense leaving little else to the imagination. Kuroido Goroshi, on the other hand, transitions from the past to the present within the pages of a manuscript presenting a mix of limited first-person and third-person perspectives. Side plots abound in plenty, most of which are tied to the main storyline with the flimsiest of threads, but which, at times, threaten to steal all the limelight for themselves. The main trick is a neat one, involving a nice bit of deception involving [SPOILERS AHEAD] a dictaphone, a telephone call, and a strategically placed chair and pile of books, the combined effect of all these evidences successfully leading the investigators to wrongfully estimate the time of death. 

But, the real charm of Kuroido Goroshi lies in its depiction of the battle of wits between the culprit and the meitantei. Unlike Akuma ga Kitarite Fue wo Fuku, Kuroido Goroshi does not exactly show the ace detective's thinking (or rather, his little grey cells in action). Even though the clues leading to said thoughts are all presented in order, there's a jump between their presentation and the accurate inference during the deduction scene. Like many of the audience members, one is surprised and left to wonder how Takeru chanced upon the exact interpretation of said clues to deliver a remarkably correct inference. Seen in isolation, it can be quite frustrating and seen as not quite fair to the reader. But, when one keeps in mind the overarching theme of the novel and this adaptation, this treatment makes sense and is, in fact, deliberate. As mentioned previously, the main theme of both the novel and this adaptation is that of deceiving readers and viewers through cleverly concealing information, revealing the bare minimum, and never by outright lying. And since the excessively modest culprit chooses to be courteously evasive throughout and reveals only bits and pieces about his participation in the events and his thoughts on the investigation, so does Takeru. Takeru needs to beat the culprit at his own game—and so, he never reveals his ways of thinking and reasoning to even his closest associates or the viewers. Not surprisingly, this explains the jump between observation and deduction (which mostly happens off-screen) as not even the author of the manuscript is privy to these details in the first place. It is a very effective ploy befitting of the master detective, which goes on to surprise and draw the real culprit out of his shell who finally 'confesses' to his wrongdoing and his underestimation of Takeru in the end.

Takeru Suguro: Japan's Hercule Poirot

Kuroido Goroshi is not the only TV special where Mitani has showcased his brilliance in adapting the Dame's works. Prior to this, he adapted Murder on the Orient Express (in 2015) as a two-episode TV drama special featuring Takeru Suguro. While the first episode shows the events of the novel unchanged, the second is a splendid imagination and portrayal of how the perpetrators were going about their lives and daily duties in the lead-up to the murder on the train—a completely new perspective and behind-the-scenes look entirely absent in the novel. And after Kuroido Goroshi, he has also adapted Appointment with Death (Shi to no Yakusoku, 2021) which I am yet to see. Seen as a tribute to one of Christie's iconic works or as a standalone TV special in its own right, Kuroido Goroshi is deserving of several rewatches. One hopes that the same is true of the rest of Mitani's Christie-based output. Whatever may be the case, based on my fervid enjoyment of Kuroido Goroshi and my currently skyrocketing expectations, I plan to write more on Mitani's works, as and when I come across them.

Back to School

"Who killed Cock Robin?

I, said the Sparrow ... "

—Yoichi Takato quoting the English nursery rhyme "Who Killed Cock Robin" in "Gokumon Juku Satsujin Jiken"

Among longtime fans, "Gokumon Juku Satsujin Jiken" (Prison Prep School Murder Case) is considered to be one of the best (if not the best) offerings from the Kindaichi series. There are several worthy reasons for this preference—a devilish performance by the sleuth's nemesis, tricks that are simple in their foundation but sophisticated in their execution, the thematic nature of the serial killings and the slow, deliberate build-up to the settings that make each of the events possible. But perhaps, the most significantly unique quality is that this majestic story arc—in a series reputed for repeatedly setting up impossible/quasi-impossible crimes and locked room murders—does not feature a single incident that can be considered (technically) to belong to either of the two categories aforementioned.

The story, the brainchild of the writer–artist duo of Seimaru Amagi and Fumiya Satō, was faithfully adapted as episodes 10–14 of the first season of Kindaichi Shōnen no Jikenbo Returns (2014). After another disastrous performance in his school examinations, Hajime Kindaichi is forced by his 'childhood friend' Miyuki Nanase to come to Gokumon Juku, a prep school as famous for the results it produces as it is notorious for its excessively stringent regulations—the reason why it is also called Hell's Gate Prep School. Right on cue, the cruel machinations of Kindaichi's eternal nemesis, Yoichi Takato, are laid bare early on, when an examinee is killed in the school as soon as Kindaichi and his friends step into its halls to enroll—a crafty piece of business involving something called the magician's select (or the magician's choice). A tense standoff ensues between the mastermind and the detectives when Takato appears before Kindaichi, Nanase, police superintendent Kengo Akechi and police inspector Isamu Kenmochi to dramatically throw down the gauntlet and dare them to prevent his plot from succeeding. It is against this backdrop that Kindaichi and Nanase (with Takato and Akechi, both disguised as teachers, in tow) decide to attend the prep camp that the school is organising in prison-like facilities deep within forested mountains.

The first victim

The importance of the first two, slowly-paced episodes cannot be understated. They lay down the rules by which this game is to be played. The strict and extremely specific rules concerning the diet of the students, their study schedules, the class schedules, the limited paraphernalia of things students can carry with them during the trip and norms governing the conduct of examinations may seem to be excessive and comical, but all of these specifications are used to devastating effect by the perpetrators later on in the story. There's also a fair amount of foreshadowing and clueing in these episodes—for instance, the part which shows a bus travelling in a tunnel under neon light en route to the prep camp location is an important clue that goes on to solve a vital and wonderful bit of misdirection in the last episode. Above all, "Gokumon Juku Satsujin Jiken" shines best when it sets up this atmosphere of extreme unease when you are aware that terrible things are afoot but you don't have the slightest idea what exactly they are. The second episode in particular, where not a single murder happens, excels in creating this heavy, brooding and disconcerting atmosphere of perpetual unease. Against the backdrop of seemingly normal classes in session, a number of students mysteriously vanish, but the viewers aren't exactly shown what happens; instead, the scene simply segues into another ordinary classroom scene where the seeds of some other disturbing occurrence are being laid—all cogs in the wheel of a monstrous plot hatched by the dastardly Takato.

As the main antagonist of the series, Takato's moniker of "The Puppeteer from Hell" is well deserved and closely resembles the criminal organisation Pluto, the main villain of Tantei Gakuen Q (Detective School Q), another series on which Amagi and Satō worked. Takato's role is that of a criminal consultant extraordinaire—manipulating the feelings of impressionable people who are looking to seek revenge, organising intricate criminal plans, providing people with the requisite blueprints and tools for the plan's success and then disposing of any loose links should the plan be thwarted. In this story, the blueprint and tools Takato provides his two co-conspirators are for themed murders (mitate satsujin), the most well-known example of which is probably Agatha Christie's The A. B. C. Murders. In "Gokumon Juku Satsujin Jiken", the murders in the study camp are made to mirror the topics of discussion during classes and examinations. One of the student's is found burnt, thereby replicating a chemistry class lecture on spontaneous combustion; another is found dead in a bamboo thicket, associating itself with a literature class on the Japanese folktale, The Tale of the Bamboo Cutter; a third student is wrapped up in a double-helix spiral after her death—a throwback to an examination on the topic of DNA which she had completed; the fourth casualty is hanged to death, much like the protagonist of Fyodor Dostoevsky's Demons, the subject of another assessment where the student murdered was accused of cheating. And much like The A. B. C. Murders, the purpose of resorting to themed murders is to hide and disguise. But unlike The A. B. C. Murders, where the alphabetical killings were orchestrated to hide the actual target of the whole spree, in "Gokumon Juku Satsujin Jiken", mitate satsujin is used for a far more damning purpose: to shield and hide a vital, glaring flaw in the execution of the perpetrators from prying eyes—something that ultimately costs one of them their life.

The double helix claims a victim

After the sinister build-up in the entirety of the second episode and the first half of the third episode, the body count (a total of eight, if one counts the one in the past and the post-denouement casualty) suddenly ratchets up from the second half of the third episode onwards. The conundrums presented are simple ones—how can so many murders have occurred in the two buildings of the study camp (the Sunlight Mansion and the Moonlight Mansion) at a time when classes and/or lunch hours were in session in both locations separated by miles of forests, a tough-to-navigate road with only a rapidly flowing stream connecting the two? And how come these bodies are surfacing, hours after their death, in such rapid succession? The answers to both questions lead one to marvel at the intricate groundwork laid in the previous episodes and the ample visual foreshadowing employed. There are numerous factors at play here, many of which hark back to the 'rules of the game' introduced before—the architecture of both buildings including the 'sealed-off' portions of one of them and how their floor plans 'fit together like pieces of a puzzle', the complicated but effective scheduling and division of classes and eating/recreation hours in both locations, the true purpose of the extremely limited but 'healthy' food items, the real motive behind limiting the things students can keep during to a bare minimum, two very daring, rope-led nighttime walks through a dense forest that 'mislead' students and teachers alike to a different location only to take them back to where they started after the second walk (after all the mischief has been done) and lastly, an optical phenomena that tricks the people and compliments the misdirection employed during the nighttime walk exceedingly well. What's even more surprising is the number of flaws and holes in this seemingly perfect, multilayered plan that are revealed by Akechi and Kindaichi in the denouement. Going by the variety of tricks employed and the level of deception achieved, too many cooks indeed spoil the broth—just not in the way you would usually expect.

"Gokumon Juku Satsujin Jiken" is not without its share of flaws, however. The sustained focus on the brilliant howdunnit angle results in the motive fading into the background. One of the faults with revealing the motive through flashbacks here is that you will not be able to figure out whodunnit by approaching the case from the motive alone. Even though one gets to know that another student of Gokumon Juku had died in the past, the hints linking it to the present case and the parties concerned are too vague for one to concretely identify the people who were most affected by the past incident. Even the whodunnit reveal leaves something to be desired. One of the students is forcibly made the scapegoat in a unsubtle, heavy-handed way only for them to pointlessly 'commit suicide'. And while one of the actual co-conspirators is revealed through a rigorous chain of logic and deduction, the second culprit is mainly unmasked through a somewhat unsatisfactory method of 'filling the dots' where it is found that one of the victims is revealed to have died unbelievably just before he was able to finish the stroke that would have led him to complete a dying message that would have directly named said culprit. Games of luck and chance in a story of logic and reasoning? Nah, not my cup of tea.

Possessed by Dostoevsky's Demons

"Gokumon Juku Satsujin Jiken" is an amusing case-study for me in some ways. Its sheer brilliance in a few specific aspects threatens to run away with it all, until the flaws surface and weigh it down. Ironically, the genius nature of the plot and the mechanics shines a starker, uglier light on the weaknesses in the execution of the whodunnit and the motive-related revelations, making the comparative imbalance seem more glaring and apparent than it would in a mediocre, by-the-numbers story. None of these drawbacks, however, takes anything away from the majestic and ambitious nature and scope of the groundwork and build-up the story employs, which are, frankly speaking, simply unparalleled. 

Astronomy Domine

"Jupiter and Saturn, Oberon, Miranda and Titania

Neptune, Titan, stars can frighten." 

—Pink Floyd, "Astronomy Domine"

Discussions on crime fiction manga and anime generally tend to veer towards Detective Conan or the Kindaichi series, but there are several others that deserve their fair share of the spotlight as well. Motohiro Katou's Q.E.D. series (1997–2015) is an excellent case in point, often providing a refreshing alternative to the genre leaders, Conan and Kindaichi.

What these three series have in common is the type of protagonist—a prodigious boy detective put in a comically absurd situation. Detective Conan has high-school detective Shinichi Kudo shrink into a pint-sized primary-schooler who nevertheless retains much of the intellect of his older form. The Kindaichi series has Hajime Kindaichi, a happy-go-lucky school-going teenager who always manages to get sucked into life-threatening locked room mysteries and impossible crimes. Much in the same vein, Q.E.D. has Sou Touma, a 16-year-old M. I. T.-graduate who left behind his thesis work to come to Japan and experience life as a normal (but somewhat aloof) high-school student. Unfortunately for him, he is often bullied into solving cases by his outgoing friend, Kana Mizuhara, the daughter of a local police officer who also jokingly backs up her 'threats' with a show of her immense strength and rather violent tendencies.

While the choice of such protagonists (for these serious, exemplary mystery works) may seem quite strange for an outside reader, teenage/boy detectives have been a popular phenomena in Japan ever since the time of Edogawa Rampo's Shōnen Tantei-dan. Seen in this light, it makes sense for mangakas to rely on such a tried-and-tested trope to boost visibility, while the fantastic (one may say, scarcely credible) situations these youngsters are put in go on to lure in more readers. Another important reason for such a choice of protagonist is the fact that these series fall under the shounen manga bracket whose main audience consists of young teenagers in middle or high school—the reason why manga artists and creators may feel the need to make their main characters relatable to a young readership.

Be that as it may, this is probably the only similarity between Q.E.D. and its companions. Q.E.D. fundamentally differs from its competition in the puzzles it presents and the way in which it approaches mystery storytelling. For one, it is very much focused on science and philosophy—especially the more complex and obscure concepts (hey, Touma's M. I. T. credentials can't just be for nothing!)—and both the scientific and philosophical elements are often central to the story, plot-wise or thematically. They are used for comic effects as well—and the sight of Touma (on multiple occasions) trying to explain complicated theories, in the simplest of ways, to a lazy Mizuhara who happens to be extremely curious and then refuses to see the point of it all deserves more than a single chuckle. Many of the stories are grounded in history, archaeology, astronomy and other specialised fields of knowledge, giving Katou the opportunity to provide his theories on contentious, long-debated topics. In this respect, it superficially resembles Master Keaton (given the gamut of esoteric subjects both of the works explore), but then again, the way Q. E. D. approaches its matter is very different from the treatment dished out in Master Keaton.

Each volume of Q. E. D. consists of two complete stories with nothing spilling over to another volume. What this effectively ensures is that the stories are much more compact than those in Detective Conan or the Kindaichi series (which usually devote 6 to 10 chapters for a particular mystery). Q. E. D. strikes a fine balance between comic storytelling and portraying scenes with adequate gravitas and pathos as and when the situation demands. There's a light, airy feel to the narratives that also leaves room for character development, which is in sharp contrast to the heavy, overlaid and overbearing atmosphere of the Detective Conan and Kindaichi stories. At the same time, plot developments can pack quite the punch, resulting in stories one is not likely to forget soon.

I was drawn to Q. E. D. after reading the story called "The Fading of Star Map" in volume 3 of the series. For me, it still stands out as the quintessential Q. E. D. story showcasing the elements that make this series unique. On a remote, snow-capped mountain stands a lonely, abandoned star observatory. In its early days, it would have made for quite the sight, but sadly, its days are now numbered. Changing times and a new ski resort in its surroundings ensure that it will have to be demolished so that it poses no danger to skiing enthusiasts passing through the region. However, there's an issue—the founder of the observatory, Fukutaro Tsukishima, has been missing for 25 years. A state-appointed investigator therefore summons Tsukishima's existing relatives (his sons, a granddaughter and his brother-in-law) to figure out his legal successor and beneficiary, the one who will bear the expenses of the demolition.

Into this austere gathering steps in Touma and Mizuhara, both of whom got lost from their school-trip group at the resort in the midst of a blizzard. The curious visitors start exploring the observatory (which is shown to still be perfectly operational), when they suddenly stumble upon the charred, skeletal remains of a long-deceased person inside a gigantic telescope. The mysteries only multiply with conversations around the sketchy history of Tsukishima and his family (some even consider him to be his wife's murderer—a view that will later prove to have major ramifications). What really happened to Tsukishima? Did he really kill his wife? If not, how did she really die? What is the mystery behind the portrait of the dog found in the observatory? And if that isn't enough, add to this the murder of Tsukishima's brother-in-law, who is found hanging outside the bathroom window the following morning. Touma really has his task cut out for him this time around.

Boy, does he come up aces with the solutions to all the mysteries (present and past) and how! "The Fading of Star Map" is, at its heart, an extremely capable, tightly-plotted architectural mystery. As Touma explains, the directions of the wind at definite times of the day, the rotation of the upper part of the observatory corresponding to the movement of certain stars under watch and the rotation (in the opposite direction) of the telescope itself are integral to solving the mystery and also serve as tell-tale clues pinpointing the identity of the culprit. It can all be a bit too technical for some, but if ever there was a case where a patient, step-by-step, close reading and understanding rewarded readers handsomely, it is this one. 

The corpse in the telescope is discovered

But what really elevates this mystery is how the remaining clues (the dog portrait, for instance) and the information gleaned from the conversations and interactions between the characters tie into a neat whole to reveal a tragic backstory of astronomical proportions. The series of misunderstandings that lie at the heart of the murder cases, both present and past, are all cleverly foreshadowed. There is a scathing indictment of the lies that adults tell impressionable children, but what's really heartbreaking to notice is the misguiding effect it has on the culprit in this instance (one's heart goes out to them) that leads him to commit unforgivable acts separated by several years. In that respect, this is perhaps, one of those 'had-I-but-known' mysteries, but this time, the tragedy is that it is from the perspective of the murderer, in the sense that had they been aware of the deception by X individual, they would never have stooped so low to commit these deeds, nor would they have been driven to kill their own self at the end of it all.

It is perhaps fitting that "The Fading of Star Map" reminds me most of Keikichi Osaka's lighthouse stories in The Ginza Ghost, where the operation of the lighthouse and its scientific explanation are integral to solving the tragic events in both stories. And much like its illustrious predecessors, "The Fading of Star Map" is a worthy addition to the honkaku/shin honkaku hall of fame.

The Devil May Care

Observing the similarities between four unlikely, disparate works of crime fiction—Edogawa Rampo's Nisen doka (Two-Sen Copper Coin, 1923) and Agatha Christie's The Murder of Roger Ackroyd (1926) on one hand and Rampo's Inju (The Devil in the Shadow, 1928) and Dashiell Hammett's The Maltese Falcon (1930) on the other—Sari Kawana states that these commonalities "question the myth of direct influence in that occasionally what appears to be the result of direct influence is in fact the consequence of the permutation of similar generic rules." She goes on to say, " ... the sequence of events suggests that Rampo and Christie detected the same generic convention and decided to permute it in the same way, making a conscious choice to exploit the naivete of such an assumption and using it to entertain readers" and that " ... the case of Rampo and Christie calls for a new way of looking at various formalist literatures and cross-cultural literary inspiration and encourages the willingness to go beyond the existent hierarchy of influence and de-emphasize originality and priority."

Concerning Rampo and Hammett, Kawana states the following: " ... the striking similarity between Hammett's and Rampo's works should be viewed as evidence potentially pointing to at least two theories. From the standpoint of social history, it can serve as another piece of evidence potentially what critics Yoshimi Shun'ya and Harry D. Harootunian have called sekai dojisei (global simultaneity), the emergence of a global culture to which the United States, Europe, and Japan belonged.

Another more formalist explanation would be that Hammett and Rampo, both students of the formulas and techniques of detective fiction, arrived at the same conclusion via different paths. ... "

The truth, when it comes to the evolution of Japanese crime fiction, perhaps lies somewhere in between. While the theory of global simultaneity holds firm, especially during the Inter-War period, there's also no denying that Japanese crime-fiction authors did, unabashedly, look to the West for influence and even inspiration after World War II. Seishi Yokomizo, long considered a doyen of crime fiction in the Japanese literary world, perfectly illustrates this in The Honjin Murders, where the unnamed narrator tries to think of any western counterparts to the case he is about to introduce to the readers—John Dickson Carr's The Plague Court Murders, Gaston Leroux's The Mystery of the Yellow Chamber, S. S. Van Dine's Canary Murder Case and Kennel Murder Case, Royal Scarlett's Murder among the Angells, among others. But, he then concludes that this case is not at all similar to these illustrious works—an admission that suggests that The Honjin Murders is not a plagiarised work. Yokomizo then presents a work that is uniquely Japanese in essence, but which curiously enough "neither declares nor refutes its uniqueness"—an observation made evident by the narrator's comment that the culprit may have read the aforementioned books and used their elements to their advantage. 

The fact that Yokomizo openly admits to his inspirations (the narrator, in the end, says that they learnt to deceive the readers by taking hints from Agatha Christie's works) hints at a new way of dealing with the originality/unoriginality debate that rages on even today in the world of crime fiction. In the book, Yokomizo merely uses some tricks (they would have been common and popular knowledge among crime-fiction aficionados at that time) to explore new avenues and to further develop his own plot. It is a stratagem fraught with risks (especially when it comes to the degree to which you can 'borrow' and 'be inspired' in such a way), but for a self-respecting, clever writer, such an approach can be useful.

For the observant reader, on the other hand, pinpointing these unconventional points of intersection between works separated by space and time can be instructive. Moreover, with the benefit of hindsight and a retrospective lens, one is likely to come across more instances of twinning in detective fiction, many of which can be completely accidental. For instance, one wouldn't usually speak of Carr's The Crooked Hinge (1938) and Yokomizo's Akuma ga Kitarite Fue wo Fuku (The Devil Comes Playing His Flute, 1951–1953) in the same breath. And yet, the 'similarities' between the two definitely deserve a closer look.

Automatons, Satanism, The Tichborne Claimant, The Titanic, Witchcraft

At the core of the devilish proceedings in Carr's The Crooked Hinge lies an impersonation inspired by the infamous Tichborne case in the 1870s, where an Australian butcher by the name of Arthur Orton unsuccessfully tried to lay claim to the Tichborne baronetcy impersonating the deceased Roger Tichborne, after the other heir (Alfred Tichborne) had passed away. In Carr's work, the peace and quiet of a Kentish village is broken with the arrival of a certain Patrick Gore, who claims to be the true inheritor of Farnleigh Close, an ancient mansion currently occupied by Sir John Farleigh (a title Gore also lays claim to), his wife Molly, their butler Knowles and a small housekeeping stuff.

As was the case with Arthur Orton and Roger Tichborne, the intriguing bit is that Gore and Farnleigh do not resemble each other at all in their facial looks. However, during the inquest to determine the legimitacy of the real Sir Farnleigh, it transpires that both 'claimants' are privy to facts that only the real deal would know. And really wild facts they are: turns out there was a 'role-reversal' on the sinking Titanic that was carried out so successfully that no party on either side of the Atlantic was able to notice the deception—'Patrick Gore' landed in a circus troupe in America after being rescued from the Titanic while 'Sir John Farnleigh' inherited the mansion and married his childhood sweetheart. It is in the midst of a break in these proceedings that the current occupant of the mansion, Sir John Farnleigh, has his throat slashed and is found floating in a pool surrounded on all sides by a five-feet border of sand and thick hedges that block its view. It is witnessed by three separate people all of whom claim to have seen no one in Farnleigh's vicinity. At the same time, a thumbograph recording the fingerprints of both Farnleigh and Gore is stolen from the library.

At this point, in comes Dr Fell after being apprised of the developments. Things start moving at a feverish pace henceforth, and Carr lays it very thick, especially with the atmosphere which is menacing, infernal and has a touch of Death Watch (an earlier Dr Fell novel) to it. An automaton suddenly brought to life, the Golden Hag (modelled after Maelzel's Chess Player), scares the living hell out of a housekeeper and then tumbles down the stairs from the topmost floor almost killing Dr Fell. Rumours of satanism and witchcraft start making the rounds, and the damaged automaton later reappears at the doorstep of a neighbour, also managing to 'orchestrate' the unsuccessful shooting of a bullet at one of the characters. Dr Fell, however, plays his own game, managing to unravel the truth and also present a false, exaggerated solution to lure the weak link (surprise, surprise, it's the butler!) into making a confession of what really happened and his role in it all.

Probably, only an imagination as fertile as Carr's could have come up with a plot that manages to tie together elements as far removed from each other as automatons, the Titanic, the Tichborne Claimant, witchcraft and Satanism.  Regretfully, though, this is one of those efforts where the individual components outshine the sum and combined effect of all of the parts. There are many incredibly attractive plot threads that end on disappointing notes. The fake Patrick Gore's (and in turn, Carr's) explanation of the operation of the automaton, for instance, has often been considered to be dodgy and suspect, especially as it seems to echo Edgar Allan Poe's mistaken ideas on how the Maelzel Chess Player actually functioned. More importantly, the conclusion makes the very addition of the automaton feel cheap, almost like a cop-out—especially as it only exists to scare a character from accidentally making a discovery the significance of which they may not even realise, while the automaton's second appearance feels worse than an afterthought, and is incredibly childish and damning for the perpetrators given their 'satanic' credentials. The digressions on witchcraft, illusionist practices, Satanism sometimes feel too contrived and overwhelm the central narrative too much in the name of atmosphere—all of which are effectively rendered null and void by the killer's epistolary admission to Dr Fell. 

I am equally torn about the solution to the murder of Sir John Farnleigh. I absolutely love the completely-bonkers, didn't-see-it-coming aspect to it, especially as it plays upon our perceptions of height and how one can 'disguise' themselves taking advantage of these perceptions. At the same time, it comes across as a convenient deus ex machina without sufficient clueing prior to its revelation—and even with the clues observed by Dr Fell, it will be quite the stretch for you to identify the exact contraption used (or not) to make the illusion possible. And even though I find the reason to how three witnesses were cheated satisfactory (if not a bit too dependent on luck), there's one major problem with the solution. It fails to help me envision how the culprit escaped from the pond without leaving any print whatsoever on the five-feet border of sand surrounding it on all sides. That must have been a miraculous achievement, given what the killer suffered from. And as they say, in crime fiction, even miracles need to have a rational basis. Sadly, I could find none in this case in which these prints could have been a dead giveaway and a major setback for the culprit early on.

Japanese Nobility, Seances, The Devil, The Teigin Incident, Three-Fingered Clues

Much like The Crooked Hinge, Yokomizo's Akuma ga Kitarite Fue wo Fuku has a real-life incident in its backdrop—the 1948 Teigin case, in which a person masquerading as a public health official poisoned 16 employees of the Imperial Bank in Toshima, Tokyo by telling them that he was inoculating them against an outbreak of dysentery. Twelve people died as a result, while the killer made off with 16,000 yen.

As with The Crooked Hinge, impersonation plays a critical role in this work as well—here, in the form of a strong facial resemblance between two important characters. Apparently, Yokomizo was inspired to write the novel when a fellow writer confessed that his face closely resembled that of the alleged culprit, going by the killer's composite picture released by the police. For his part, Yokomizo kept most of this setting intact, only replacing the bank with a jewellery store called Tengindo.

To read the novel though, one needs to have a thorough grasp of Japanese as it hasn't been translated yet. The best you can probably do, if you are unable to read the book, is to watch a 2018 adaptation (a TV special) by NHK, a Japanese broadcasting agency (this shoddy print exists on YouTube). Side note: this is only one of the several adaptations over the decades; I personally prefer the late 1970s episodes (with Ikko Furuya in the lead), a subbed version of which once used to come up on  YouTube, but alas, that's gone.

Hidetaka Yoshioka as Kindaichi

Anyway... Master sleuth Kosuke Kindaichi receives a most unusual request from one Mineko Tsubaki: to investigate the death of her father, Viscount Tsubaki, and to find out if he is actually deceased or not. As it turns out, a few months ago, acting on an anonymous tip-off, the police took the Viscount into their custody on suspicion of having committed murders and an enormous robbery at the Tengindo jewellery store in Tokyo. He is eventually released; strangely enough, he soon commits suicide, but not before cryptically warning his daughter (both verbally and in a note) that 'the shame is too much for him to bear', that 'in the Tsubaki mansion, the devil resides', and that 'the devil comes, playing his flute'. He spends his last few days playing the eerie tunes of his last composition on his flute. The spark for Mineko's visit to Kindaichi, however, is the fact that a few days ago, the mistress of the mansion (Mineko's mother, Akiko) and a servant (Mishima Totaro) both claimed to have seen the deceased viscount in a packed theatre. Kindaichi thus finds himself invited to a seance (to be conducted at the behest of Akiko) at the Tsubaki mansion, where the participants will try to communicate with the deceased patriarch.

If this foreboding atmosphere reeks of the devil (in essence, almost reminiscent of the inquest scene at Farnleigh Close in The Crooked Hinge), it's a fitting one. For, the seance, aided by two blackouts, literally summons the symbol of the devil on the table where it is being conducted! At the same time, the sinister tones of Viscount Tsubaki's float into the seance room, sending everyone into a frenzy. And all this is only the beginning of an extremely complicated case, as, the very next morning, Mineko's uncle (Count Tamamushi) is found murdered inside the locked seance room.

At the scene of the seance

Both in The Crooked Hinge and in Akuma ga Kitarite Fue wo Fuku, readers and viewers are assailed by the sense that most of the characters are floundering in fathomless darkness, in the sense that they are unable to truly get a grip on whatever's happening around them. But, in the latter's case, the real 'heart of darkness' concealed by layers and years of deception and depravity is sufficient to drive any sane person truly insane. This dark, depressing potential is supposedly never fully realised in the novel (which ends on a hopeful note), but the 2018 adaptation is more than happy to emphasise these elements in the extreme, especially with the wholesale changes it makes in the long concluding stretch, and will you leave you feeling absolutely hollow at the end of it all (for a comprehensive list of the differences between the novel and this adaptation, head over here).

Things happen in this TV special, and a lot of them too—more murders, including one far from Tokyo that has a direct bearing on the case, a lot of past history for which Kindaichi has to travel elsewhere, a disappearing flute case, a part of the Tengindo loot suddenly reappearing, words disappearing from a stone lantern (the equivalent to the automaton incident in The Crooked Hinge, in my opinion), among others. But this is not an action movie by any stretch of the imagination—on the contrary, most of it consists of Kindaichi striking up conversations with people that later provide valuable insights into the case.

Still, the clues are littered throughout the episode in a way that never leaves you bored. For example,  linguistic differences—the subtle difference in the way common words are pronounced in different regional dialects (facts Kindaichi gleans while conversing with people)—help the ace detective figure out whodunnit. It is also a great example of how a single word and its correct interpretation can completely turn a mystery on its head. Above all, rarely will one come across such a glaring, in-your-face dying message that remains so cunningly hidden till the end—Viscount Tsubaki's last musical score that Kindaichi comes to understand, at the very end, would have helped him realise who the perpetrator was at the very beginning and thereby prevent all the murders. Tragic indeed.

Unlike The Crooked Hinge, none of these diverse elements are irrelevant to the central mysteries. There's a synergy between all the events (something that is lacking somewhat in The Crooked Hinge) that makes for a linear, intense storyline. And this adaptation focuses most on the motive aspect, with a nearly hour-long conclusion. The locked room is explained in a matter of minutes (not counting the false solution proposed in the opening stretch), demonstrated in a comic, matter-of-fact way, and so is the explanation of how the devil's symbol appeared on the seance table (a clever switching identical-looking, 'twin' statues at an opportune moment). Kindaichi himself points out that he would not be able to come to the truth as long as he thought about 'how' or 'why', he needed to know 'what': what really happened in Count Tamamushi's villa in Kobe during the summer of that year long ago?

Kindaichi visits the stone lantern at the site of Count Tamamushi's ruined summer palace in Kobe. The devil was born here

The incident (or incidents) at the heart of the affair is truly horrific (nauseating would be an understatement) and, aided by complicated happenings later on, adequately explains why the relations between nearly all of the characters are so insanely complicated, frankly unbelievable (in this aspect, it resembles Victorian-era novels with long, intricate family trees). There are two aspects to this that I particularly like. One is that the motive directly ties in with the themes Yokomizo explores in his work: namely, the sheer depravity of the Japanese nobility, the bottomless depths of this depravity, the nobility's fraught relations with the lower classes and the detrimental effects of this relation, as well as the ways in which World War II acted as the great leveller that erased Japanese aristocracy and brought them to the level of commoners.   

The second aspect I admire is that not even the culprit is aware of the exact 'what' that motivates and guides his revenge against the Tsubaki family and its full implications. It is the misguided nature of his life and his actions that adds a tragic edge to the already overwhelming darkness (as if that alone wasn't enough). One will find it within themselves to sympathise with this devilish criminal drowning in the blood of people for the longest time without respite. This outburst of sympathy is also due, in large part, to the superb portrayal of Kindaichi who comes across as this pathos-inducing, gentle detective who hesitates and tries his best to conceal the devastating truth to those who would be affected by it the most, only to reveal it which then precipitates the last tragedy, denying the detective any form of solace. 

As Kindaichi remarks several times during his deduction, "In a person's quest to know everything, he tends to lose sight of the truth." It is a fitting epithet, indeed, for this adaptation.

***

This has turned into quite the long rant on what I essentially started on a whim and some surface-level thinking on two works I encountered a few months ago. It also probably explains why it reads quite disjointed and on rereading it, I am no longer sure that I have adequately achieved what I set out to. However, this is an exercise I am willing to continue. So, expect more of such comparative studies of 'detective twins'—hopefully, with better and well-thought out selections.

A Note on Crime Fiction Publishers

For better or for worse, global crime fiction has, in recent years, become increasingly synonymous with thrillers (psychological or otherwise)—a sub-genre that focuses largely on shock value and action set-pieces to attract readers, while the mystery element itself may be subdued or muted. There are exceptions, of course, and there's really no rule that states thrillers cannot have a solid mystery quotient as well. But, should you be on the lookout for modern mysteries with memorable instances of analytical, rational deduction, you are not likely to find them with the frequency you might have expected a century ago.

What's equally true, however, is the fact that the decade has seen a renewed interest in unearthing and republishing little-known titles and classics from years past. It's an unenviable position for a crime fiction aficionado—to be able to enjoy the best the genre has to offer from eras old and new. And rarely has it been easier (and harder, at the same time) to find a niche for yourself in the vast world of crime fiction.

If you, like me, prefer page-turners and little-known gems going back several decades, there's good reason to be excited. A number of publishing houses have been reprinting these lost or forgotten works—and, in the process, are doing yeoman's service in chronicling and telling the story of the evolution of this much-loved genre. While this is, by no means, an exhaustive list, here are a few publishing houses and imprints that deserve a mention:

• Pushkin Vertigo: In the five years since its inception, this imprint under Pushkin Press has been making all the right noises. The nearly three dozen titles it has published so far represents the best of both contemporary and classic crime fiction from around the world. Immensely global in its outlook, the Pushkin Vertigo collection features writing from Argentina, France and Italy to Australia, Japan and Russia. The books also showcase the diverse charms and topics the genre encompasses—from puzzle plot, cosy mysteries and psychological and literary thrillers to historical crime fiction and ones that have more social, realistic underpinnings. One of the things that I would love to see from Pushkin Vertigo though is an introduction to the works they publish—with its addition, I believe the series can be a wonderful entry point into the genre for the uninitiated.
• Locked Room International: Publisher and translator John Pugmire's brainchild, Locked Room International (LRI), will probably appeal to a specific subset of crime fiction fans. As the name rather obviously suggests, LRI publishes obscure gems in the world of locked room and impossible crime mysteries. Having carved a name for themselves with their series, in translation, of Paul Halter's works, LRI's collection, so far, has centred predominantly on Japanese and French mysteries. Highly recommended for those who care for the mystery more than the name or pedigree of its author. While there's definite scope for improvement in the copyediting and proofreading departments, the detailed footnotes and the informative introductions that provide the relevant contexts into the authors, their works (as a whole) and the book in question should make it worthwhile, if you can go that extra bit with your budget.
• Detective Club Crime Classics: Striking, pulpish book jackets steal the limelight for this set of hardbacks published by HarperCollins Publishers. The line of books (apparently, a resurrection of an old, pre-1930 Collins list) with a wonderfully old-school feel to them are reprints of crime fiction classics from France, the US and England. Featured authors include pioneering old-timers such as Anthony Berkeley Cox, E. C. Bentley, Wilkie Collins, Philip Macdonald, Hugh Conway, John Rhode. Edgar Wallace, Gaston Leroux, Anna Katherine Green, Émile Gaboriau, among many others.
• British Library Crime Classics: The resurgence of interest in the Golden Age of Detective Fiction owes much to the efforts of organisations such as the British Library. Its publishing arm brings out the British Library Crime Classics, a series of forgotten British crime books from the aforementioned period that has revived interest in the contributions of lesser-known authors (such as Anthony Rolls, John Bude, Mavis Doriel Hay, E. C. R. Lorac, Mary Kelly, Margot Bennett, among others). These selections from the British Library's enormous collection are a true treasure trove for students of the genre—and you should not also miss out on the several fascinatingly themed short-story anthologies curated and edited by Martin Edwards, the president of the Detection Club. And similar to the Detective Club Crime Classics, the richly illustrated covers of the British Library Crime Classics books are a sight to behold.
• American Mystery Classics: In some ways, American Mystery Classics is the American equivalent of British Library Crime Classics. The line of books, personally selected by respected scholar and editor Otto Penzler, consist of reissues of classics from the annals of American mystery fiction, many of which had long gone out of print. The collection is shining a long-awaited light on authors such as Mary Roberts Rinehart, Dorothy B. Hughes, Anthony Boucher, Vincent Starrett, Todd Downing, Craig Rice, and many more.
• Ananda Publishers: Crime fiction in Bengali has a long history, stretching back more than a century. You may be familiar with Sharadindu Bandyopadhyay's Byomkesh Bakshi or Satyajit Ray's Feluda series, but these are merely the most popular among the scores of titles that were (in many cases) written by individual writers throughout the 20th century. As with its evolution elsewhere, crime fiction in Bengali was a derivative of the form that developed in Britain and the US but later came unto its own, using and building upon the very rules that governed their inspirations abroad. For those interested in exploring most of what Bengali crime fiction has to offer, they probably wouldn't need to look any further than Ananda Publishers, a publishing giant in Bengali literature. Your quest will be made easier by the fact that Ananda Publishers brings out anthologies in several volumes that cover the entire body of an author's work, which means that you don't need to go hunting for individual novels.

The best part of all this is that this list barely scratches the tip of the iceberg. Notable exclusions here include Vintage's collection of crime titles (the complete set of Margery Allingham's books and Cecil Day-Lewis' Nigel Strangeways series, for instance), Picador and Pan Macmillan (whose catalogues include the likes of Andrea Camilleri and Walter Mosley) and Mysterious Press (another offering from Penzler that has previously republished the works of authors such as Brett Halliday and the excellent Christianna Brand). Then, there are publishers that rarely come to our notice unless expressly pointed out. One such example is Dean Street Press, which has been painstakingly republishing the works of authors such as Christopher Bush, Brian Flynn, Annie Haynes and Anne Morice (all of whom were once popular but have since been largely ignored), thereby rescuing them from oblivion.

As mentioned earlier, this is not a go-to list—and the fact that several other options exist just goes to show that finding the right crime fiction book for yourself can be quite a challenging task. In such a scenario, it always helps to know where exactly you need to look to find what you want. I hope that this write-up has been a small guide in that regard.

Above all, what I am most eager to find out are the efforts crime fiction publishers will take to bring the genre to a new era altogether—one that looks as much to the past as it does to the present and future.

The Kwaidan of Keikichi Ōsaka

In her seminal work, Murder Most Modern: Detective Fiction and Japanese Culture, Sari Kawana quotes author and essayist Yumeno Kyūsaku from the latter's 1935 essay. Kyūsaku employs an unusual, pathological metaphor in that work to explain what detective fiction is:

"Detective fiction is like the serum for diptheria. Injecting a patient with the antidiptheria serum works like a miracle. I hear that this remedy kills the disease without fail. Yet, even though we have the treatment, the etiological cause for diptheria has not yet been found. We have not been able to identify it even with the incredible power of modern medicine. The cure has been found, but the cause has not. It is as if the verdict for a crime has been rendered, but the accused is still on the loose. It is a nonsensical situation. [Although we know that detective fiction is popular], the identity of its charm too remains at large. To decipher the psychology that desires detective fiction is utter nonsense itself: detective fiction is nonsense, humor, adventure, grotesque, mystery ... it is all of these things and more."

Undiagnosed and uncured diseases, disorders and ailments (of the soul, mind, body and society) also persist throughout The Ginza Ghost, a translated collection of short stories from short-lived author Keikichi Ōsaka: tradition and modernity, filaria, infidelity and other complications in love relationships, mental disorders, exploitation of nature and more. In 1930s Japan, Ōsaka was one of the founding and leading lights of the honkaku school of mystery writing (a subject I have touched upon in my previous blogpost), hailed by Edogawa Rampo for his "profound mastery of the intelligent detective story." Unfortunately, he passed away tragically during World War II—and over the next few decades, his works remained largely forgotten. It is only due to the efforts of later honkaku practitioners such as Tetsuya Ayukawa that they started seeing the light of day once more. In fact, Ayukawa would reportedly express his frustration and rage at the fact that Ōsaka's "pure, honkaku short stories" had been neglected in the first place.

I must say, for a honkaku collection, the stories are worth much more than the puzzles they present. There's a fascinating, almost unreal, bizarreness in most of the tales that hints towards deeper-lying unease, malaise and pessimism which, in turn, threaten to undo whatever little positivity and fulfillment you can glean from seeing a puzzle solved. And in my opinion, the stories are best read in light of the erstwhile social contexts, of which author Taku Ashibe provides aplenty in his detailed introduction to the book. 

The first story, "The Hangman of the Department Store" (1932) introduces readers to one of Ōsaka's many detectives, Kyosuke Aoyama. The scene of crime is an alley beside a department store—one of the many products of a modernising, urban Japan in the time between the two World Wars and a space that was not only a locale "where tradition butted up against modernity, or high culture encountered low" but also one of the "contact zones where the firm lines separating the quotidian, bourgeois realities of daily life from the realm of dreams and unconscious desires terrifyingly blurred and disappeared" (as translator Seth Jacobowitz mentions in his note in The Edogawa Rampo Reader). Here, a man is discovered with telltale signs of violent strangulation and an expensive pearl necklace beside him. With this find, the store no longer remains a space for entertainment and consumer culture, it also becomes a vessel for the eerie and the grotesque, because, by all accounts, it turns out to be impossible for anyone inside or outside the store to have committed the crime. The logical conclusion Aoyama comes to has a disconcertingly illogical taste to it, but more scarily, it depicts humans as not being in control of their fates or even the outcomes of what they consider to be their surest actions. Perhaps, this also serves as an ominous portent for a Japanese society in flux, not sure of the direction to pursue in its quest for modernity.

In "The Phantasm of the Stone Wall" (1935), one is witness to a timely illusion.  On a hot, uncomfortable summer afternoon, a woman is murdered outside a traditional Japanese house with a stone-walled boundary. Her shrieks bring a stranger and a postman to the scene, who witness two identically built men in white yukatas flee in the immediate aftermath and turn a corner into a blind alley. The stranger pursues the two figures, but to his surprise, he meets a salesman who says that no one entered the alley all this while. Eventually, suspects emerge when footprints and fingerprints are discovered that implicate twin brothers living in the house outside which the crime occurred. But, to the witnesses, these seem to be red herrings to throw the police off the track. Detective Aoyama discovers the elementary truth which, in all honesty, really belongs to a physics textbook more than anything else (a mirage-like phenomenon due to excessive heating of the air). But what really elevates the story is Ōsaka's expert handling of the story's atmosphere, and the addition of the planted evidence that lends an extra layer of misdirection to what may seem to be an excessively fair and simple story when seen through modern lens.

"The Mourning Locomotive" (1934) raises the bizarreness quotient to the extreme. Sample these diverse threads for a puzzler: workers at a factory having to repeatedly clean the remains of pigs from the wheels of the same locomotive engine, repeated thefts at a farm in an adjoining town, a strange girl in a funeral shop suffering from a debilitating disease and her relationship with her father and an engine driver who visits the shop occasionally. Ōsaka manages to tie all these elements in a singular narrative where the truth is almost outlandish but should also tug at your heartstrings. In the end, the resolution becomes a footnote to the heavy, pathos-inducing themes explored here: the devastating effects of suffering from diseases and extreme penury, the absurd extents to which parents can be driven by filial love and the harrowing, tragic consequences of forbidden love and other 'indescribable feelings' not being expressed. I may not agree with Ashibe's contention that this is a 'crimeless tale', but I do realise why many would consider this to be Ōsaka's masterpiece.

Ōsaka uses the same combination of the bizarre and the heartwrenching to a chilling degree in "The Monster of the Lighthouse" (1935)—a story which seems to have a distinct primal appeal. Another of Ōsaka's sleuths, Saburo Azumaya, also the director of a marine laboratory, is called to a lonely lighthouse—the site of a monstrous, 'supernatural' incident. One of the lighthouse keepers has been found battered to death with a rock that also manages to damage the top of the lighthouse and its essential equipment. There's blood all over the lighthouse, but what's even more baffling is the admission by the other lighthouse keeper, supposedly a man of science, that he first heard an infernal cry followed by the sight of a red, ghostly, octopus-like creature jumping into the sea. The discovery of a blood-stained hatchet and a long rope finally clues Azumaya to what really happened, but once again, the human element to the story overshadows everything else from this point on. While the presentation of the tragic backstory and motives may be a tad bit unfair to the reader, they are central to the narrative and further developments. What happened to the other lighthouse keeper's daughter? What was the cry all about? How and why did a believer of science come to espouse superstitions and ghosts? How did the cape and the lighthouse become erratic and a graveyard for the ships in the first place? Just like the previous story, the answer to these interconnected questions leads Ōsaka to ponder on and explore heftier themes as the story unfolds tragically with a twist you are not likely to see coming: the pitfalls of an insular, isolated, excessively strict parenthood, the results of pure, innocent love turning bitter and sour, the boundaries between sanity and insanity and the obscure, visceral, unpredictable nature of the primaeval emotions that regulate these boundaries.

"The Phantom Ghost" (posthumously published in 1947) is an odd one. It bears resemblances to older Japanese tales that portray vengeful spirits of women and wives inflicting pain or seeking retribution for the wrongs committed by men and husbands—stories such as Yotsuya Kaidan or The Peony Lantern (mentioned in this story) for instance. Here, a scholar dies after being haunted by the spectral figure of his ex-wife who took her own life after being divorced by the scholar on the charge of infidelity. But, the way a rational link is made to explain the otherworldly apparition the scholar sees and the mystery of his death comes across as too abrupt and rushed. Not even an improvised bit of gender role-play (appropriate for the time in which it is set) and ruminations on topics such as the innocence and purity of relationships (as well as its perceptions) and the lengths to which people can go to protect or prove it, and the strict, almost feudal, codes that constituted honour in that age can save this one. Definitely one of the weaker efforts.

By this time, it should be evident that besides excelling in creating atmosphere, Ōsaka also uses what would, in usual circumstances, be normal environs to set up incredible, extraordinary scenarios which are ultimately solved rationally. He sets his stories against a wide variety of backdrops—department stores, locomotive factories, lighthouses, mines, asylums and many others. "The Mesmerising Light" (1936) is no different. It starts in a most vivid, thriller-ish way: a car winds haphazardly up a mountain road closed on both ends by toll gates but then mysteriously disappears. On to the scene arrives, quite coincidentally, an attorney Taiji Otsuki, another of Ōsaka's investigators, who soon gets embroiled in a police investigation in the matter. Meanwhile, a murder incident far away may have links with the car's disappearance, but the decisive clue that reveals the culprit is a bit too elementary for my taste. When it comes to the core mystery of the car's disappearance, though, the explanation resembles "The Phantasm of the Stone Wall" in that here too a freak optical illusion (again, one you may have encountered in school textbooks) is at play. It would seem that Ōsaka really liked to tease readers with these settings that made the impossible possible without human intervention.

If I had to pick my favourite from the collection, it would be "The Cold Night's Clearing" (1936). The book blurb mentions the stories as having "an unreal, almost hallucinatory quality to them"—and this tale is possibly the best example. Tragedy strikes the family of an English teacher on Christmas Eve against the backdrop of a cold night's clearing—a meteorological phenomena in the very cold days of winter during which skies remain overcast during the day, then miraculously clear up at night. In the absence of the teacher, his wife and her nephew are found violently beaten to death with an iron poker, while their child is nowhere to be seen. The teacher's best friend and one of his students find ski tracks leading away from the house into an empty field where they grow fainter and fainter until they completely disappear, as if both adult and child had been spirited away—the classic 'footprints in the snow' problem with the added caveat that unlike shoeprints, it is difficult to know which direction people are headed towards, by looking at ski tracks. The resolution to the case is a great example of why it is important to make the right interpretation of visual clues (out of many probable ones), especially at the start of a chain of deductive reasoning. Thematically, this is familiar ground for Ōsaka who once again shows his preoccupation with exploring the fickle nature of human relationships and the thin line between sanity and insanity that allows a person to switch between the two almost instinctively. Above all, there's a funereal brilliance to this classically modern tale of a simple man who falls into hell which is further enhanced by its bleak, unforgiving atmosphere. Not recommended as a Christmas read unless forgiveness doesn't happen to be your cup of tea.

In "The Three Madmen" (1936), we are introduced to three inmates of a private mental institution which has clearly seen better days. There's an ambience of decline and decay in the institution, the eeriness and loneliness of which is only broken by the unique but harmless tics of each of the three occupants. However, the attitude of the hospital's director and other authorities towards the three leaves much to be desired and runs the risk of exacerbating the patients' conditions. Things come to a head soon enough, and a body (apparently, of the director) is found with a hole in its head and its brains missing. The three inmates are found missing on the institute's grounds, but two of them are traced at different locations, while the remains of the third are found by the rail tracks after being run over by a train. But, greed and 'disguised' intentions (involving the clever realisation of the 'fancies' of madmen) are at the bottom of the case here. The inversion of perspectives and roles that Ōsaka employs here challenges people's conventional notions of sanity and insanity and invites readers to ponder on the following question: who is the one that is really (criminally) insane here?

"The Guardian of the Lighthouse" (1936) forms an interesting counterpoint to the other lighthouse story in this collection ("The Monster of the Lighthouse"). Both stories feature unthinkable acts committed by central characters. But whereas in "The Monster of the Lighthouse", the actions of said character imperil the lighthouse and the ships and sailors it serves, the ultimate sacrifices made by the central figure in the midst of a raging storm save the lighthouse and those dependent on it from impending doom. A grotesque, tragic fate awaits this character, but that is offset by the undeniably noble and heroic tone of this story of a boy who is dutiful to an extreme fault.

Greed takes centrestage in "The Demon in the Mine" (1937), set in a mine with nearly non-existent safety standards. A death occurs, following which other miners also die in closed tunnels—supposedly the action of the spirit of the first miner who died. Similar to "The Three Madmen", behind the claustrophobic atmosphere in the mine's tunnels are the 'disguised' intentions of a supervisor that turns fatally stifling for the innocent. This "locked room" story set in the backdrop of nature explores how human and corporate greed spare none—be it fellow beings or natural resources, all are 'sacrificed' at its ruthless, unfeeling, devilish altar. Fittingly enough, the story ends with the mine's collapse.

After the heavy feel of the preceding stories, "The Hungry Letter-Box" (1939) feels like a breath of fresh air. A thinly-veiled detective-cum-spy story, the tale shows Ōsaka's mastery over romance and comedy genres—genres he took to after crime fiction took a hit after the onset of World War II. The story of a young, lovesick barber who goes on an 'adventure' to find the letter for his beloved that disappeared along with the post box in which it was posted has a chirpy, humorous feel to it. It has a nifty trick at its heart and a decidedly happy ending too. A refreshing change, indeed.

In some ways, the concluding, titular story, "The Ginza Ghost" (1936) brings this collection full circle. For one, it is set in a tobacco shop in Tokyo's Ginza, an entertainment area both in the past and the present, forever situated in the crossroads between tradition and modernity—bringing back to mind the department store of the first story. A crime in a tobacco shop is witnessed by the waitresses of a bar on the other side of the road. The striking pattern of the kimono worn by the assailant allows them to identify the culprit quickly, and soon, two bodies are discovered in the shop. However, once the medical examination is completed, the people and the investigators are shocked to know that the person they had considered to be the killer had died some time before the victim. The bartender of the bar, however, has a different take on the situation. And once again, an optical phenomenon (you may have encountered this one not just in textbooks but also in other series such as Detective Conan or The Case Files of Young Kindaichi) has taken place unbeknownst to the witnesses, baffling them. But it does not evade the sharp-sighted bartender who is acquainted with it on a regular basis—and it is he who brings the case to an elegant close by demonstrating, first-hand, what actually happened.

In tributes, Ōsaka has been described as an author whose "dreams were made out of tricks and logic". That may well be true, but it only shows a part of the whole picture. Considering this collection to be representative of Ōsaka's entire oeuvre, I think he shines best when he seamlessly blends his tricks with deeper philosophical meditations on the puzzling nature of human existence itself—and, as is evident from most of these stories, he undoubtedly harbours a pessimistic outlook to this larger conundrum. Kyūsaku may have posited a 'serum' to a disease as a likely, if not illogical, metaphor for detective fiction, but Ōsaka doesn't even afford that hope. His investigations into the various diseases and ailments of a society in an indeterminate flux provide no easy, curative answers—the narratives often end in tragically fatal manners, and the act of detection comes as no relief to this overshadowing problem, especially as it is unable to prevent these outcomes.

(This post was published on the Scroll website with the following title: How Keikichi Ōsaka blended crime with philosophical meditations on the puzzling nature of existence)