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)

Locked and Loaded

It is not every day that you come across a set of stories exclusively based on unlocking locked room mysteries, impossible crimes and breaking unbreakable alibis.

Each of these scenarios are, individually, extremely challenging for most mystery authors—and they are, perhaps, best tackled alone. But what makes The Red Locked Room—a collection (in translation) of short stories from influential Japanese crime fiction author Tetsuya Ayukawa—special is that it manages to incorporate, with aplomb, all of the aforesaid elements to craft engrossing tales of crime and detection.

In his introduction to the book, author Taku Ashibe cites Ayukawa as one of the luminaries of the honkaku (literally, 'orthodox' or 'standard') mystery genre—a school of writing that strove to recreate 'classic fair-play mysteries' in Japanese settings with a more local flavour. Not surprisingly, therefore, Ayukawa seems to be particularly inspired, both in his choice of detectives and narratives, by John Dickson Carr and Freeman Wills Crofts.

The opening story, "The White Locked Room", is Ayukawa's take on the classic no-footprints-in-the-snow theme. A professor turns into a victim in a sealed house surrounded by snow, as a student of his watches helplessly as his mentor suddenly bleeds to death. The catch is, if the victim is truly innocent, then this is an impossible crime. Sounds familiar? Of course, it does

Seasoned readers will not miss the story's similarities with Carr's The Three Coffins. The way the story unfolds—the 'accidental' nature of the man's death, the timing of the snowfall and its role in 'obscuring' and 'revealing' puzzling footprints and the importance of the witness' actions in it all—reeks of Carr's masterpiece, but not quite. There's an ingenuity and precision to the solution, delivered in cryptic forecasts by the detective at key moments in the story, that does away with the superfluous, slightly unbelievable elements of Dr Fell's exposition in The Three Coffins. And while Ayukawa's detective, Ryūzō Hoshikage, is clearly based on Gideon Fell and/or Henry Merrivale, the scoreline here is evident: Ryūzō Hoshikage-1, Dr Fell/Henry Merrivale-0.

The following story, "Whose Body?", introduces us to Ayukawa's other sleuth, Chief Inspector Onitsura. He is modelled after Croft's character, Inspector Joseph French—and like him, Onitsura too specialises in cracking unbreakable alibis. "Whose Body?", one of the highlights of the collection, has Onitsura in charge of a sensational case that starts well before the first corpse surfaces. Murder weapons—a gun, an empty bottle of sulphuric acid and a rope—are sent anonymously to three seemingly unrelated people at random. It seems to be a prank till the first victim is found, shot by a revolver. Thereafter, the story advances, thriller-like, almost at a pulpish, breakneck speed—very unusual considering that it is set in the mould of a police procedural. More deaths follow, through strangulation and burning—and it would seem that the weapons sent were not pranks, but a foreshadowing of things to come. Yet, for all its pace, Ayukawa expertly deceives readers every step of the way with small touches. Every element, however small, matters from the very beginning—and you'll wonder what elementary part you have missed that has led you to be trapped in Ayukawa's illusionary trap. Is it the character traits of the people involved? Or is it a part of their conversation that you have overlooked? Is there any significance to the props and weapons used? Were you not able to keep track of the spaces in which the action unfolded? Was it too convoluted for you to figure out a correct timeline of events? Or were you unable to see through the confusion surrounding identities? Rarely do police procedurals even aspire to be this absorbing.

"The Blue Locked Room" is less ambitious in its conception and scope. On the other hand, it's a good example of how instinctive thoughts and actions (in comparison to premeditated ones) can also make for puzzling plots. The culprit makes effective use of the space and time at hand to kill a much-hated theatre personality and then arrange it in a way that makes it seem like a locked-room murder case with outside interference, But, even his machinations cannot fool the great Hoshikage who comes up with an answer that reinforces a central tenet in detective fiction: "When you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." All in all, a story that is, in equal parts, Christie-esque, Holmesian and Queensian.

"Death in Early Spring" features Onitsura at his alibi-cracking best. Ashibe singles out this story as an illustration of why Ayukawa was a master of both locked room mysteries and alibi deconstruction stories. For Ashibe, the story is also a validation of Ayukawa's belief that "an alibi is basically a locked room in time" and that "a locked room on the other hand is an alibi in space."

However, the real reason this story stands out for me is that it highlights the mystery genre's enduring love affair with travelling (short- and long-distance), the railways and timetables. Much in the tradition of Crofts' novels, and taking hints from The Cask in particular, "Death in Early Spring" has Onitsura solve a murder in an abandoned building where it is impossible for the only suspect to have been present at the time of the crime. The resolution is a validation of Onitsura's tedious but extremely meticulous style of investigation—he refers to timetables frequently and undertakes multiple train journeys (literally stepping in the shoes of both the victim and the culprit) to unravel the discrepancy of a role reversal and the source of deception that made the impossible possible.

Much like "The White Locked Room", "The Clown in the Tunnel" has an element of fortuitousness that dilutes, somewhat, the precise, premeditated nature of the plot. But the problem it poses is an interesting one—how does a man dressed as a clown disappear in the middle of a long, straight tunnel/passage watched on both ends after attacking people and killing one in a house full of musicians? The way the story pans out is Christie-like (you may notice, above all, a collusion between most of the characters), but Hoshikage's intervention once again shows the careful skill with which Ayukawa time and again interweaves and blurs the boundaries between 'locked rooms' and 'alibis' of time and space.

"The Five Clocks", a story Ayukawa apparently wrote at the behest of Edogawa Rampo (the father of Japanese crime fiction), has a most imaginative plot. It involves a man manufacturing his alibi using five different clocks in different locations, some set apart by quite a distance—and making a scapegoat out of his friend, who becomes the chief suspect in the process. Onitsura saves the day again. But, with analog clocks, the story is very much a relic of the past and a product of the age in which it was written. One wonders, however, if this daring trick can be replicated in this day and age of digital clocks and the Internet Standard Time. A challenge for future writers, perhaps?

The last story of this collection, "The Red Locked Room", is perhaps the most ambitious of the lot and involves the introduction of a dismembered body in an autopsy room with closed vents and no means of egress at the time it was brought in. Ayukawa is up to his usual tricks here, manipulating the reader's perceptions of time and space and making deceptive use of the props and tools in plain view, but something didn't quite click for me with this one. In parts, it all felt a bit too artificial, forced and careless for my taste.

Some occasional quibbles aside (the outdated, conservative and quite unnecessary socio-cultural commentary in certain sections, for instance), this is quite a competent selection of short stories that I see making it to other future mystery anthologies. As fans of the genre, we tend to harbour certain expectations while reading a work—the plot, the characterisation, the settings and the messages, for example—and we usually want all of these elements, of the correct quality, in the right measure for our complete enjoyment. However, there's a completely different kind of enjoyment to be had when one sees a master author devote their energy and thoughts in exploring, to the utmost, particular themes and aspects only—just as Ayukawa has done by stretching the limits of what's possible in the realms of locked room mysteries, impossible crimes and alibi-deconstruction stories. Which is to say, read and enjoy The Red Locked Room for the puzzles it presents and its celebration of the wonders of logical reasoning; do not expect to find much by way of compelling motives and well-defined characters in these stories—those are best left for another book.

(This post was published on the Scroll website with the following title: ‘The Red Locked Room’: How Tetsuya Ayukawa unlocks locked room mysteries)

They Do It with Mirrors

"A queer thing is a mirror; a picture frame that holds hundreds of different pictures, all vivid and all vanished for ever."
—Father Brown in "The Mirror of the Magistrate"

Mirrors, in literature, often serve dramatical, theatrical functions—that of exposing the vanity of characters, showing the true face of people or revealing a side to a person's nature (an alter ego, if you will) that was hitherto unknown. In crime fiction, however, these props are used for a different, more practical, purpose—cleverly used in the right circumstance, it allows culprits to mislead readers and investigators, allowing them to obtain an alibi, or even more, the means to establish their innocence.

There are a number of tools and tricks criminals employ to wriggle out of a tight situation and to cast suspicion on others. Altering clocks and manipulating the observer's perceptions of time. An alternate location (the real scene) identical, in all respects, to the perceived 'crime scene'—a spatial red herring, so to say. A mutual 'exchange of victims' between conspirators. Bribing witnesses or making use of a 'stand-in' to buy false testimony. Another character willingly or unwittingly covering up for and shielding the mastermind. Stories generally use one or a combination of these devices to further their own ends.

To this list, we must add the simple but effective tool called the mirror as a major player in the misdirection department. Used on its own, the mirror is, perhaps, not a tool to distort your perception of time; instead, it skews your spatial awareness. This is an especially effective trap for those who rely on their keen sense of sight—with a mirror around, nothing is quite what it seems and things that shouldn't be present in a particular place come into view. The best part about 'mirror magic' is its fleetingly permanent nature, used almost in an instant but having a long-lasting, illusionary effect on the eyes and minds of those witnessing it. The challenge lies, firstly, in the creation of the correct conditions for its effective use and then devising ways to break the illusion in a believable, decisive manner.

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In a previous post, I spoke about Detective Conan, one of the pillars of modern Japanese detective fiction. Predating it by two years is another ongoing crime manga and anime franchise that has had an equally lasting effect on the genre. Kindaichi Shōnen no Jikenbo (The Kindaichi Case Files or The Case Files of Young Kindaichi) started in 1992 as a chronicle of the adventures of 17-year-old high school student Hajime Kindaichi (introduced, non-canonically, as the grandson of Seishi Yokomizo's great detective Kosuke Kindaichi) who continuously gets embroiled in and solves impossible and locked-room crimes—a fate that even the 37-year-old Hajime hasn't been able to escape in the new seinen series, Kindaichi 37-sai no Jikenbo (The Case Files of 37-Year-Old Kindaichi). Apart from the sheer wealth and variety of impossible and locked-room crime scenarios devised by the authors, the series is famous for two other eccentricities—young Hajime's iconic catchphrase (unfortunately, no longer a staple) and the laughably cartoonish names Hajime bestows upon his opponents that would give Scooby Doo a run for its money.

The first three episodes of the first season of the anime, "Gakuen Nana Fushigi Satsujin Jiken" (The School's Seven Mysteries Murder Case), are set in Hajime's alma mater, Fudo High School. The story makes excellent use of urban legends and the 'forbidden', 'prohibited' areas in the school to deliver a mystery whose roots and motives are surprisingly dark for a young audience. The body count, both in the past and the present, is notoriously high—and death visits those who try to uncover the seven mysteries (especially those in the older school building) and the truth behind it all, courtesy of the 'After-School Magician'.

The After-School Magician enacts a bloody ritual

The centrepiece of the story is the 'execution' of a student that happens in the biology laboratory in the old building. Hajime and the others around him—all present in the new building at that time— are afforded only a glimpse of the scene but the impossibility of the crime strikes home when they find the doors and windows of the laboratory to be locked with no trace of the candles and other creepy ritualistic decorations they had seen. The old wire trick is found to be applicable for the windows but that soon turns out to be a red herring. More attempts to murder follow, and the case becomes a real puzzler in no time.

The elegance of the entire case lies in the use of a single mirror in brilliantly fitting surroundings in the first case. The conditions for employing a mirror are all there: long corridors in almost pitch-black darkness, the setup the culprit uses to direct the observers to exactly where he wants, the positional awareness of the culprit regarding the witnesses' viewing spot and what their linear line of sight will lead them to believe, an exceptional use of the advantages of the building's layout especially with its sharp corners and ultimately, the absolutely brief period of the view offered. 

These elements make for a stimulating setup, but I am also happy to note that it is resolved in a satisfying manner as well. What leads Hajime to unravel the deceit is a chance observation by his childhood friend Miyuki, hospitalised following an attack by the 'After-School Magician'. It is an innocent request, and believable too on her part—asking him to draw the curtain so that her eyes can be shielded from the blinding sun, reflected by a building with a glass exterior. But, it is also one of those genuine 'aha' moments that allows a precocious detective like Hajime to completely turn the case around on its head, while offering clarity and joy for the reader too. More brownie points for you if you managed to deduce what had happened, before this point.

When it comes to the resolution of mirror illusions, the same, unfortunately, cannot be said of a rather slow-paced Detective Conan story, "Konan Heiji no Suiri Majikku" (Conan and Heiji's Deduction Magic)—which is a shame because it presents an absolutely compelling, mouthwatering conundrum. After attending a magic show, Conan and his detective-rival Hattori Heiji, along with their girlfriends Ran and Kazuha, are invited by some magicians to the house of their mentor who disappeared 10 years ago. The girls are being given a tour of this house filled with tricks when, fittingly enough, a case occurs. The girls and their guide are in a narrow, dark corridor with rooms on either side when a blackout occurs. When the lights return a moment later, they are shocked to find the corpse of one of the magicians they had met earlier in the dead end of the passage, when the moment before there had been none. The solution is ingenious and makes good use of the magical nature of the house—two identical-looking passages at right angles to each other separated by a double-layered, thick door split in the middle with facing mirrors on the back side of both parts of the door. But, I am afraid that the way the detectives are clued on to this trick is quite the stretch—it relies on the girls observing, in an instant, the changing position of a vase's shadow before and after the incident, at a time when they must have been shaken and scared out of their wits.

The discovery of the magician's body in a dead-end corner—or is it?

In crime stories, when it comes to incorporating believable, optical, mirror-based illusions that do not stretch the limits of 'suspension of disbelief', I believe less is more. Too many mirrors do spoil the broth—as is the case in the Kindaichi story, "Majin Iseki Satsujin Jiken" (Demon God Site Murder Case) where an excessive number of mirrors intricately arranged in the lower floor of a mansion, deliberately smashed, seems extremely forced (even though it have been necessary) when the floor plan still exists and becomes too glaring a clue to decipher a cryptic cipher and discover the location of the treasure at the centre of all the incidents. 

Instead, an elegant simplicity can be incorporated by relying on natural optical phenomena made visible by a single mirror. This is evident in another story in the Kindaichi canon, "Kindaichi Fumi Yuukai Jiken" (Fumi Kindaichi Kidnapping Case), a compact case involving the kidnapping of Hajime's cousin, Fumi. Hajime relies on Fumi's descriptions, relayed unbeknownst to her captor, deduce her whereabouts but that is not enough to pinpoint the exact location even though four buildings, not exactly close to each other, become probable suspects. In a nice turn of events, ironically, it is Hajime's realisation of the 'impossibility' of Fumi's descriptions, and his awareness of the sun's position in each of the suspected locations and the presence of a certain building with glassy, mirrored exteriors that finally helps Hajime find the right location just in the nick of time. The modus operandi of the revelation has parallels to the hint the Miyuki unwittingly provides Hajime in the first story of the anime series, and is, therefore, a kind of in-series commentary and meta-tribute in its own right. For longstanding fans such as myself, these touches are, indeed, most rewarding and satisfying to spot.

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This has been quite a long, rambling post on some thoughts I have had over the past week on the use of certain tools in detective and crime fiction. In fact, the post turned out to be very different from what I had originally intended. I quite like the approach I took here, though—and, moving forward, apart from reviews, I will perhaps publish more write-ups that analyse the elements of the genre and the ways in which they function or are employed, both minutely as well as in a more generalised manner. After all, the genre owes a hefty debt to these elements that have made it so addictive in the first place.