Man in the Box

My previous experience of a Masahiro Imamura work was with the experimental and entertaining Death Among the Undead, which broke new ground with its inspired-but-flawed use of zombies in a closed-circle situation. With an overarching thread of bioterrorism, I had expected things to escalate even further in the series, deploying more bombastic, hybrid-mystery elements.

Colour me surprised, then, because the second entry in the series, Magan no Hako no Satsujin (2019; translated as Death Within the Evil Eye, 2022), delivers a traditionally plotted, classically styled murder mystery, with just a pinch of the supernatural. No zombies, no bioterrorism plot points in the events as they transpire in real time.

Death Within the Evil Eye starts with a sense of déjà vu—Yuzuru Hamura making an idle deduction on the food a girl is about to order at the university cafeteria. It's very identical to the Sherlock Holmes-skit-like beginning of Death Among the Undead; however, due to the events of the first novel, this time, Hamura has no one to share his deductions with. The absence of Kyōsuke Akechi is felt throughout the novel, lending poignancy to the narrative and influencing the character dynamics of our protagonists in a major way.

Into this gap steps Hiruko Kenzaki, from the same university as Hamura, with her own quirks—a notorious oversleeper, and an exceptionally competent detective when it comes to real-life cases but utterly incompetent when it comes to identifying narrative trickery in fictional works. She also has a tendency to naturally attract freakish incidents. The two members of the reborn Mystery Society initially discuss strategies to hunt down the Madarame Organisation, the perpetrator behind the events of the first novel, through some potential leads—including one where a letter prophesising the Lake Sabea bioterrorist attack had been sent to a monthly magazine. However, Kenzaki decides to go at it alone, having already employed a private sleuth to investigate the Madarame Organisation's past activities and locations where it was active. In one of the finer bits of the novel, Hamura picks up changes in Kenzaki's attitude and demeanour, and decides to put the Tanuma Detective Agency on her tail. And thus it is that the duo find themselves on a journey to explore a former lair of the organisation. Their destination? Magan district in I county of W district.

Hereafter, the novel follows a pattern that may be familiar to readers of the Kindaichi series. A journey to a remote village in the mountains, with mysterious co-passengers (who happen to be students) headed to the same destination. To reach said destination, our main cast meets more curious folks—a professor and his son, a biker, a journalist, a woman visiting a grave in the village—all of whom then trek by foot to The Box of the Evil Eye—a two-storeyed building with no windows that was once used by the Madarame Organisation as a research facility to experiment with precognition and prophetic abilities. The purpose of the trip? To meet Sakimi, the prophetess whose prophecies have all turned out to be true for half a century.

And soon, a bridge burns down—isolating the whole cast. Then, the prophetess states that four people—two men and two women—will die. Yes, a major portion of the novel does indeed recreate the atmosphere and elements of multiple stories in Seimaru Amagi's Kindaichi and Detective School Q series.

Imamura does well to vary the nature of incidents that claim lives and distort minds: earthquake and landslide, animal attack, poisoning, and shooting. The cast, including two clairvoyants, reacts to the crises in a more diverse manner, even though they are already trapped in the clutches of the prophecy, than seen in Death Among the Undead. All this leads to multiple layered situations—and there's a definite improvement in establishing the closed-circle, locked-geography situations, the susceptibility of the characters to the supernatural, and creating the alignment between these situations and the rationale behind the characters' responses to these situations, when compared to the previous work. Having said that, the work still suffers from a problem I had observed in Death Among the Undead: namely that it is too aware of its status as a mystery novel, and the characters act not naturally or in accordance with the circumstances, but according to the dictates of mystery fiction tropes. It's a glaring discrepancy that is evident even here: in section-after-section dedicated to minutely dissecting each impossible situation through conversations and exposition (none of which, though logically sound, really stand out for quality or effect), but rarely do we see any concerted action.

Imamura thus comes across as an ideas man, rather than a natural plotter. The core of the novel—prophecies influencing people's actions—is carried out in several permutations and combinations. However, it is the spontaneous mix of superstitiousness, opportunism, and faith combined with fear, that invariably leads to unpredictable situations. Indeed, as Kenzaki points out in her summary of the case:

"This case is clearly completely different from the sort of crimes we all know. Setting aside the matter of whether Ms. Sakimi and Toiro’s powers were real or not, it is clear that our fear of their powers—and in a way, our faith in their powers—has influenced all that has happened here.’  

     Their powers had not directly killed anybody, but people had died there, whether by a natural event, or by human hand. In one sense, it was a murder case just like any other. However, the issue was that, additionally, the existence of precognitive powers had influenced our rationale and reasoning.  

     ‘A closed circle situation, plus precognitive powers. I do not believe that the police, coming from outside, can ever truly comprehend the fear and mental pressure created by such a combination. As soon as we step outside of the Box, the curious logic which has manipulated us over the last two days will disappear, as if it had all been just an illusion. Which is why I wanted to put an end to it all, before our tiny universe is broken up.’"

It is, therefore, quite unfortunate that the rationale and reasoning of the characters is also ultimately influenced too much by mystery fiction tropes and their analysis, which exert even more influence in the critical moments than any act of prophecy or clairvoyance does. Loss of hope and mounting despair can be powerful tools for authors to utilise, but when done in an organic manner. On the other hand, when they are used simply to serve plot-based, narrative, or trope-based functions, they can come across as excessively forced, artificial, and devoid of appropriate expression of emotions—as is the case with Imamura's two novels.

It is also the reason why, in my opinion, Imamura shines best when he explores human themes rather than supernatural themes. The evolving, moe-coded, Holmes-Watson relationship and dynamic between Kenzaki and Hamura, the continued acknowledgement of Akechi's absence—these form oddly tender oases in these two novels that revel in stretching character motivations to the extreme, and continuously putting them through a grinder. Both novels, I also think, are best read in light of a common them: revenge. While it is played in a straightforward, more preordained, manner in Death Among the Undead, the circumstantial nature of things ensures that the revenge seen in Death Within the Evil Eye is anything but straightforward, even though it is dictated by the needs of an infallible prophecy. The subject of the prophecy ends up as a victim, not of a direct revenge but an indirect, perverted one—one that not only fails to reach the intended target of the original grudge, but also effectively destroys the life of the perpetrator and condemns them to a future of utter futility, trapped by the nature and demands of the very things they exploited. In fact, this is rooted in a very Japanese sensibility—and one seen all too frequently in works featuring Hajime Kindaichi and Kosuke Kindaichi.

These are some of the aspects I would ideally have liked Imamura to have explored more in Death Within the Evil Eye, rather than the incessant homages to crime fiction he keeps making throughout the novel. There seems to be a third entry in this series—but I look forward to its translation with a sense of cautious optimism, and not of unbridled enthusiasm.

A Matter of Inheritance

It is often said that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. But, how relevant is this adage for a genre such as crime fiction, where tropes abound and the charm, in many cases, lies in the variations of a common core idea or the diverse ways in which the works treat a particular, familiar theme? Is there a case to be made for a distinction between good and bad imitation in crime fiction? And, to what degree and what kind of imitation can be considered permissible in the first place?

This isn't the space for discussing the intricacies of Aristotlelian thought, but his contention that a poet is both a creator and imitator may serve as an important clue to the questions posed above. Unlike Plato, Aristotle does not consider poetry to be inferior to the 'ideal', especially as he posits imitation to be a human instinct via which people, particularly children, learn more about their surroundings and reality.

It's not quite in the same context, but a similar argument can be made in the case of crime fiction. After all, discerning readers are often able to point out the oddest commonalities between works separated by decades and countries. It is the reason why the genre is particularly prone to being categorised—in John Dickson Carr's The Hollow Man (1935), for instance, Dr Gideon Fell delivers a most memorable locked room lecture, where he lists the miscellaneous possible ways in which a near-perfect crime can be committed in normally impossible situations. The chapter would pave the way for contemporary and future authors to put forth their own theories in a manner similar to Carr's—Clayton Rawson's Death from a Top Hat (1938) and Abiko Takemaru's Shinsoban 8 no satsujin (1989, translated as The 8 Mansion Murders in 2018) come to mind. An even more commonplace example would be the classic 'no footprints' scenario—a trope that has seen numerous variants and received multiple treatments over the ages from authors as varied as Carr, Keikichi Ōsaka, Gosho Aoyama, Seimaru Amagi, Paul Halter, among others. Or, if one is looking for a more specific example, how about the mechanism used to murder Louise in Agatha Christie's Murder in Mesopotamia (1936)? A more modern treatment of the same trick can be found in episode 31 of the Detective Conan anime ("TV Station Murder case", an adaption of chapters 102 to 104 of the manga), set in a TV studio where the culprit uses a pistol instead of a block of stone.

What these examples illustrate is a cardinal advantage and privilege exercised by crime-fiction writers—that it is possible to be immensely creative while borrowing influences, cues and prompts from sources not their own. Or, rather, to use an Aristotlelian conception, it is possible to see and understand the genre as it is, as it was and as it is likely to be, through a study of the ways in which a core theme or trope (the 'ideal', so to say) has been addressed over time.

But, there's also a pitfall associated with mimesis. Once in a while, however, there comes an idea so unorthodox, immaculate and complete in its conception and execution that it is not easy at all to creatively imitate it. Any effort to borrow such inspired plots/tricks/settings without a similar inspired vision to take it in a new direction is more than likely to end in disaster. In this rarefied category, I would probably include the likes of Soji Shimada's The Tokyo Zodiac Murders and Masahiro Imamura's Shijinso no satsujin (2017, translated as Death Among the undead in 2021). Which is why, every year, during my annual Kindaichi Shounen no Jikenbo binge-reading and -watching phase, I remain ever perturbed by the presence of that exceptional anomaly called the "Ijinkan Village Murder Case"—a story that dared to copy and depict, in this entirety and most faithfully too, the central dismembering trick employed in The Tokyo Zodiac Murders. My observation, thus, on this unmitigated disaster of a storyline is limited to the following—what in the world was the mangaka thinking? I mean, there may have been a dozen different ways in which they could have employed the backgrounds, settings and plot to good effect without going the route of imitating, to the point of plagiarising, Shimada's creation. 

Usually, I need a palate-cleanser to rinse off the bitter aftertaste of labouring through the Ijinkan chapters. This year, my choice was the "Russian Dolls Murder Case" arc—and, as luck would have it, this happened right after I had completed reading Seishi Yokomizo's The Inugami Curse. Which may as well have been one of the happiest coincidences imaginable, for I now consider the "Russian Dolls Murder Case" to be a masterful and most innovative and subtle tribute to the essence and spirit of Yokomizo's original—one that borrows and subverts elements from The Inugami Curse for its own purposes.

***

Inugamike no Ichizoku (1950–1951, translated first as The Inugami Clan, retitled The Inugami Curse later) is one of the most famous and recognisable works of detective fiction both in Japan as well as the world outside—and for good reason. To me, it is a novel that can be sufficiently appreciated by both Western and Japanese audiences. Of course, Yokomizo pays homage to Western influences in his previous works such as The Honjin Murders, but the influences are much more visible here from the word go and in the way the plot progresses. In The Inugami Curse, you instantly have a setup that screams classic, Golden Age Detective Fiction even though it is used in a typically Japanese setting with a number of references to Japanese culture, mythology and contemporary events (World War II, for instance). But, at the heart of the book is the good ol' intergenerational struggle for inheritance between the members of a clan triggered by the provisions of an extremely complicated will left by a dying business mogul, Sahei Inugami. It's a trope common to detective fiction since the publication of Anna Katherine Green's The Leavenworth Case (1878).

What follows is an extremely well-paced and competent mystery that reads far less pulpish than other offerings such as The Honjin Murders and The Village of Eight Graves. The breakneck speed at which things happen in the other two novels is replaced here with pregnant pauses that somehow contrive to make the atmosphere far more foreboding and sinister than it otherwise would be. The body count may be paltry compared to that seen in The Village of Eight Graves, but when it delivers, The Inugami Curse does so in spades. And part of it has to do with the fact that the novel takes its own sweet time to build up to its own unique crescendos which are not disparate but are instead connected by a common thread—that of mitate satsujinjiken (themed murders), the framework and seeds of which Yokomizo painstakingly and admirably builds in the aforesaid will and then proceeds to scatter throughout his work.

Yokomizo also employs a host of familiar tricks and elements to enhance the mystery quotient—mistaken identities, missing and confusing fingerprints, the disfigured body of a war veteran, impersonations, a complex family tree with hidden relations still to be unearthed, among others. But, these are not used at random. It is all logically reasoned out at the end, but at the moments when they are used (in an incredibly timely fashion, one must add), they create this sensation of things being premeditated and plotted from one character's perspective with other developments, part of another person's plan, being outside the control and vision of the former person, all at the same time. These individual, yet co-dependent, plots intersect during the aforesaid, timely pregnant pauses and are masterfully hidden (but hinted at) from the reader—a ploy that serves to enhance the levels of suspense and foreboding, while also adequately conveying a sense of inevitability at the end of it all.

A still from Kon Ichikawa's 1976 film, The Inugami Family. Ichikawa would remake the same in 2006, this time titled as The Inugamis

What also strikes one is how visually enabling The Inugami Curse really is. The striking visual characteristics of some of the characters, the picturesque environs of Lake Nasu and some of the most stunning scenes and sequences surrounding the murders of some of the characters ensure that one will not forget the novel in a hurry. It is also one of the reasons why The Inugami Curse is one of the most widely-adapted works in Japanese media, with subsequent creators paying homage to its elements, plots, tropes and scenes in the form of manga, TV episodes, films (Kon Ichikawa's adaptations for instance), and more—either in the form of a plain adaptation, pastiches, or in the naming and visual descriptions of characters, or by subverting the usual Yokomizo-esque elements to create a unique work of its own. In fact, the far-reaching influence of the book and the movies can even be found in a mecha anime such as Neon Genesis Evangelion that recreates the iconic 'frozen lake' scene.

***

In the Kindaichi Shounen no Jikenbo canon, "Russian Dolls Murder Case" is one of the cleverer and subtler nods to The Inugami Curse. There are more obvious tributes to Kindaichi Sr. in this series of course, especially with regards to the visual depictions of characters—the "Hida Mechanical Mansion Murder Case" and the "Demon God Site Murder Case" come to mind. But, "Russian Dolls Murder Case" is far above such cursory gestures to its inspiration. 

For one, it recreates the classic inheritance-dispute scenario from The Inugami Curse and the plot is built along the lines of a mitate satsujinjiken as well. But, there are some key differences here. The 'family' in "Russian Dolls Murder Case" is not one formed by acrimonious blood relations; instead, they are brought together in an equally perverse manner as the relations of a famous author. The second point is the question of the will in this story arc. It is played in a relatively straightforward manner by Yokomizo, but here, there's an extra layer. The addition of a cryptic cipher that points to the location of the will gamefies the story and adds unpredictability and a ruthless battle royale-esque element to the proceedings, in which the characters are eliminated one by one in classic fashion. The cipher also ends up inverting the structure of the plot and the sequence of proceedings established in The Inugami Curse. In Yokomizo's work, all the murders, barring one, are carried out after the will is read. However, in "Russian Dolls Murder Case", all the murders take place before the true meaning of the cipher and by extension, the real location of the will, are discovered.

The Russian mansion in the "Russian Dolls Murders Case"

This subversion of key elements from The Inugami Curse, by first acknowledging them and then using them for its own ends, can be found throughout this story arc. 

• For instance, the main setting of Yokomizo's novel—that of a mansion surrounded by an enormous lake—is replicated here, expect that it is a Western-style mansion in comparison to the Japanese one seen in Yokomizo's. As with The Inugami Curse, however, the Russian mansion too plays a key role in the episodes of the story arc. 
• The Russian dolls, which lend themselves to the title of the story arc, are reminiscent of the Japanese doll-set at the scene of the first murder in The Inugami Curse. However, unlike the former, where the Japanese dolls form a part of only that set-up to advance only one particular element of the themed murders, the Russian dolls in the latter are present throughout and form a connecting thread to thematically link the murders, and play an integral role in the final solution of the cipher.
• Other neat tributes to The Inugami Curse are present throughout "Russian Dolls Murder Case". One of the characters, for instance, is named Inukai (literally, "dog guardian") a sly reference to the Inugamis (literally, "dog gods") in Yokomizo's work. There's also a beheading reminiscent of the first murder in The Inugami Curse—but here, it is not played straight and is instead used as a red herring to lure the culprit into a false sense of security and thereby force a confession from the person concerned. There's bodily disfigurement here as well—one of the characters has a significant scar on her face, but unlike Kiyo Inugami, it's hidden in a different manner. The character also doesn't survive till the end. Additionally, "Russian Dolls Murder Case" resembles yet another significant Yokomizo novel—Gokumon-tō (1947-1948, translated as Death on Gokumon Island)—in that the legacy and actions of a prominent deceased character orchestrate the actions of the rest of the cast from beyond the grave. Hell, the only thing missing from these episodes is something akin to the famous Lake Nasu scene in The Inugami Curse.

Messengers of doom: The Russian dolls in the "Russian Dolls Murder Case"

*** 

To return to a point I had made earlier, "Russian Dolls Murder Case" is everything that the "Ijinkan Village Murder Case" is not—and, in many ways, is the perfect antidote to cure the maladies of the latter. It feels almost surreal that both arcs, varying so much in their nuances and treatments, could be part of the same series. Additionally, one can well imagine Yokomizo appreciating and enjoying all that "Russian Dolls Murder Case" has to offer by itself and as an 'imitation' of his own work. After all, Yokomizo himself granted artists significant creative liberties when it came to adaptations of his own works. Incidentally, in my opinion, the comparative analysis of these supremely interesting works seems to speak much in favour of a study of the genre through an Aristotlelian lens. When cleverly and innovatively pulled off, 'imitations' rank no less than 'originals' in the world of crime fiction and therefore, should not be considered as inherently inferior and only worthy of being discarded solely due to that fact.

A Nosy Affair

When I first conceived of this blog, I imagined it to be a space where I would talk exclusively about Asian (in particular, Japanese) crime fiction. And while the first post is probably a sign that is no longer the case, much of what I plan to write here will be my thoughts and commentary on books, films and series (animated or otherwise) from said region.

I was introduced to Japanese crime fiction courtesy of a television channel called Hungama TV, which once aired 30 episodes of Detective Conan, dubbed in Hindi, over the course of two seasons. It was a curious choice to broadcast them on a channel meant primarily for kids—most Indian parents I have come across have extreme reservations on letting their children see anything that has blood and violence; Detective Conan has copious amounts of both.

Be that as it may, I remember being pretty amused at the sight of genius high-school detective Shinichi Kudo being turned into a kid (literally!) in the very first episode itself. This happens after Shinichi solves a murder case on a rollercoaster while on a date with his girlfriend Ran Mouri. He then overhears a suspicious conversation between a businessman and two men in black and tails them only to be ambushed by said men in black, which finally leads to the predicament mentioned earlier.

The kid Shinichi adopts the name of Edogawa Conan (a tribute to mystery authors Edogawa Rampo and—you guessed it—Arthur Conan Doyle) to protect those near and dear to him as well as uncover the (many) brains and the mastermind behind the nefarious Black Organisation (who are responsible for his plight) and bring them to justice. And to his credit, Shinichi (or Conan) certainly stands out in a world where every fourth or fifth character (friend or foe) turns out to be a sleuth in some form or the other (hey, you can never have enough detectives after all!).

Shinichi Kudo (left) and Edogawa Conan (right) from the early days of Detective Conan

Conan's quest continues to this day. Gosho Aoyama's Meitantei Conan (as Detective Conan is known in Japan) started back in 1994 as a manga series. Conan and company's adventures have now seen over 1,000 manga chapters, 1,000-plus anime episodes, over 20 animated films, several OVAs and television specials. The prolific nature and high standards achieved make it one of the longest-running, most beloved and acclaimed literary-fiction franchises all over the world.

In my early university days, though, when I was first able to appreciate the nuances of Aoyama sensei's work, I failed to see it as anything beyond a creative and faithful tribute to the past doyens of mystery fiction. This was especially true in the case of the first few volumes of the manga and the first 50-odd episodes of the animated series, where I could spot fun, sporting and subtle nods to your Conan Doyles, John Dickson Carrs and Ellery Queens, but not much else besides.

My opinion changed drastically, however, when I saw episode 52—an episode I still believe really helped the series stand out on its own and conveyed the message that it is a masterpiece like no other. This one-hour TV special, ominously titled "Kiri-tengu Densetsu Satsujin Jiken" (The Mist Goblin Legend Murder Case) (an adaptation of chapters 108–110 or volume 11, files 8–10, of the manga series) opens in a relatively peaceful fashion. Ran, Conan and Ran's father, the 'great detective' Kogoro Mouri, are watching cherry blossoms on the mountainside. As evening descends, they try to make their way back home—but as is often the case when Kogorou and travelling are involved, the trio manage to get themselves stranded and lost in the deep forest amidst pouring rain. They are, therefore, forced to take refuge in a temple, with a waterfall running past it, that Conan spots. In the Sandeiji temple, the group meets with the caretaker and head priest Tenei, a long- and sharp-nosed, suspicious-looking figure who agrees to accommodate them for the night for a hefty fee. They also come to know of the legend of the kiri-tengu (the mist goblin, a figure from Japanese folklore), who, in this story, is believed to kidnap young women and feast on their flesh after hanging them from trees.

The four Buddhist monks in training—Kannen, Tonnen, Mokunen and Shunen—take Conan, Kogoro and Ran on a tour of a temple. Here, Conan's attention is drawn to a small room with an extremely high ceiling, a window near the top and a gap near the bottom guarded by a door. On asking, they find out that the room is a 'training room' for monks who isolate themselves to observe penance after being punished. There's also talk of a certain 'incident' in the room some years ago, which seems to have been the handiwork of the kiri-tengu, but Tenei abruptly and angrily brings a halt to all discussions on the subject. All the characters pass restless nights—and the unease deepens further the following morning when the head priest is found hanging from a beam high up in the ceiling of the training room. It's as if the kiri-tengu itself had hung Tenei there—and when the police arrive, Conan and Kogoro learn that, two years ago, another monk Chunen had been found hanging from the very same beam in an identical fashion, a case the police had ruled out as suicide. Can Conan and Kogoro solve the mystery of both murders and unmask the kiri-tengu?

The dastardly kiri-tengu 'hangs' Tenei Oshou

Seasoned readers of Japanese detective fiction will probably realise that this somewhat long and elaborate setup screams 'Seishi Yokomizo' from the get-go. Elements from the works of this master of crime fiction are all here in this episode. A remote location? Check. A case with links to Japanese folklore? Yes. And just as a waterbody plays a major role in Yokomizo's The Honjin Murders (more precisely, the mechanism of a waterwheel on a nearby stream), here too, the waterfall adjoining the temple plays a very influential part here.

And yet, Conan solves the case not in the manner of a Kosuke Kindaichi (the detective from Yokomizo's series) but in his own characteristic way. The 'howdunnit' aspect of the story is a sheer delight, the solution to which will logically lead you to find out 'whodunnit'. It's all fair and above board too—what I like most about the culprit's plan is that it uses the natural features and the 'potential' of the 'training room' to maximum effect by using tools and tricks (none too fancy) that are present in the temple and won't leave you wondering, "Hmmm, how and from where could they have procured these tools in such a short time?" 

The main trick is a variation of one that I have seen executed successfully in a horizontal space (say, a crop field for instance) but never in a vertical space. It is quite unique, but never for a moment does it feel forced or that it does not belong or feels out of place in a setting such as a mountain temple. There is a meticulous yet commonsensical, DIY nature to the physics and dynamics of the tricks here, all of which are neatly tied up and explained in the end.

The episode plays it very fairly with the viewers as well. It invites them to completely immerse themselves in the story being told and pay particular attention to every conversation and scene in order to pick out the select clues that can solve the crime. By the time the deduction starts, you have in your possession all the information, visual and verbal, to unravel the mystery, even though you will probably need to exercise your imagination judiciously to get you started.

The kiri-tengu baffles Conan and the others

The most damning clue that specifically reveals the culprit is also presented in a most human manner. Quite refreshingly, this is not a case of the detectives intellectually outsmarting the criminal hands-down; neither is it an 'oversight' by the murderer. In the course of the episode, both the criminal and the detectives are evenly balanced and look for the same clue—it's just that the sleuths get to it and understand its significance faster than the criminal can hide or destroy it. Perhaps, the only 'unfairness' I can think of comes when the culprit falls into a trap in the first place by incorrectly guessing something that happened while they were busy preparing the scene of crime so elaborately.

In an episode that is a fair-play mystery on so many levels, it is perhaps a tad bit unfortunate that the tragic motive takes a backseat. But it's really a minor peeve, especially when one considers that the episode sets so many of the rules of the game for this series—ones that defined the series and stands it in good stead even today, nearly three decades after its start.

Lastly, there's something really fitting in the use of traditional cel animation in a series such as Detective Conan. The dark tones enhance the atmosphere and feel of the mysteries in the manga so much so that it becomes all the more easier to be invested in them—wouldn't you agree?