In
consideration of so constricted a form as a short story,
only two grades of reader intelligence can be reckoned
upon; the Clever, and the Dull. In the preparation of a
mystery story of this kind, it is often helpful for the
sake of clarity to set down a list something as follows:
The
Obvious Suspect–(to throw off the Dull Reader).
The
Middle Suspect–(Actual Criminal).
The
Buried Suspect–(to throw off the Clever Reader).
The
longer detective novel or novelette, however, should be
built with five levels of suspicion for four grades of
reader mind. In this case, the table looks more like this:
The
Obvious Suspect–(for the Very Dull).
The
Less Obvious Suspect–(for the Dull).
The
Middle Suspect–(Actual Criminal).
The
Buried Suspect–(for the Clever).
The
Deeply Buried Suspect–(for the Very Clever).
It
will be seen that the same trio of suspected persons
appears in both lists, and that the Middle Suspect may just
as well be made the guilty man in the solution of the
novel-length work.
In the
longer piece, five levels of suspicion would only be the
minimum. But more than five seems inexpedient, since a greater number of
intentionally manufactured suspects will increase the
confusion of minor characters. The
case-hardened reader of detective stories may be trusted to
suspect everyone in the narrative without any deliberate
implication on the part of the writer.
Continuing
the example above, Editor Jones dies, very painfully. A man
is seen running away from the spot, say, with a knife in
his hand. He is apprehended, found to be an individual
known to have borne a grudge against the late editor. With
the chart filled out in blank before you, you enter this
character’s name after the heading “Obvious Suspect.”
The
police view the body, the coroner appears. A friend of Editor
Jones turns up, plainly broken up by the death. Perhaps you
have him admit that he was near the spot by chance, but
permit him to show that the murder would mean nothing but
loss to him. If he is your actual criminal, you enter him
after “Middle Suspect.” Then, as your tastes dictate, the
super sleuth with his Watson, or the young District
attorney, or the newspaper reporter arrives, and picks up
the subtle clue which you have thoughtfully deposited near
the corpse.
It is
difficult not to be trite in the discussion of clues. The
burned cigar butt, the handkerchief smelling faintly of
musk, the finger-printed pistol, have all been worn thin to
transparency. But you will find that an actual
consideration of the murder, by you, of a real Editor
Jones, will offer better things than these for your use.
Thus
the story unrolls. Bit by bit, and always in the most
casual fashion, you produce the scraps of evidence upon
which the final solution is to be based, dropped in among
other facts which are red herrings dragged across the
trail. Here is where your superior knowledge helps you, for
you are well aware of what is coming, and so realize what
is significant and what is red herring, while the reader
must sort out what he believes to be important without the
advantage of fore-knowledge.
In
passing, I have found it convenient to keep a list of the
misleading occurrences on a separate sheet. For all these
must be explained, during the narrative or at its
conclusion.
It is
useful, occasionally, in this game of outwitting the gentle
reader, to put the detective character somewhere in the
scheme of suspected persons. Either he or the deceased,
through a hint of possible suicide, may very well be jotted
down as the “Deeply Buried Suspect.” At some point in the
action it is advisable to have the actual criminal
suspected, and then apparently cleared on a motive or
opportunity alibi which looks unshakeable until ultimately
proved false.
Opinions
differ widely as to the amount of blood which should be
splashed around the walls and carpets. Personally, I agree
with the contention that one murder, or two at the most,
should suffice for either short story or novel-length
mystery. Each subsequent killing, it seems to me, detracts further
from the effect of the first, but that is a matter of
individual taste.
And in
the last analysis, the whole conduct of this game of
“murder for profit” is a matter of individual taste, how
you play it, within the compass of the rules sketched above,
and even, of course, whether or not you choose to play it
at all.
It is
a game, a good game, and the author has the more
interesting side of the board. He is quite willing to say
keenly, as he puts a sheet in his typewriter and moves
forward his first pawn: “Checkmate to the better player!”
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