Let’s Start a Gumshoe Revival - #39 – PLUS, LIBRARY MONTH BEGINS!

STORY: "Zigzags of Treachery" by Dashiell Hammett

FROM: DASHIELL HAMMETT: CRIME STORIES & OTHER WRITINGS (The Library of America, 2001)

BASICALLY: Classic detective fiction. The narrator, an unnamed Continental Op, uses a combination of diligence, smarts, and guts to get proof of a doctor's suicide before his sickly widow--falsely accused of murdering him--dies in police custody.

The other day, with the indoor summer air warm and unmoving, and the late afternoon sunlight streaming in through the high windows, and the few fragments of conversation muted by the walls of dusty books, I wandered the Fiction shelves of my local public library. I was searching for something, though I couldn't have said exactly what. Listlessly, I picked up this novel and that one, finding titles I've always meant to read sooner or later, but nothing struck my fancy. One book had always been fascinating when it wasn't in front of me, but exceedingly dull whenever, like now, I held it in my hands. Another reminded me of someone I'm doggedly not thinking about for the time being. What I really wanted was a book that would thwap me upside the soul in absolutely delicious irresistibility—something light, but still solid and meaningful. Something that would make me feel better about life, but without resorting to treacle. I've read a couple of really great novels recently, and I'm almost through another round of the Alice books, and I've actually started what promises to be another very good read, but something still was wanting.

Alas for me, I was unable to locate this mythical high-flown ineffable idea of a novel. Instead, what I kept finding were short story collections.

Winding my way through the rows, I piled volume after volume of stories into the crook of my arm, wondering what the hell I was going to do with them all. I do already have an entire groaning shelf-ful of books of short stories, you know. Plus, the blog is my best excuse yet for acquiring more books. But it seemed like such a pity—here were stories of all sorts, many of which I knew zilch about, let alone whether I wanted to go to the trouble of owning the books they were in. And that is how, then and there, YoOHS's celebration of Library Month was born!

But waitaminute, a disclaimer first: I actually have no idea how long Library Month will last. Might be two weeks, might be six. Let this fill you with a proper sense of carefree adventure rather than, say, annoyance. The duration depends on what I find to read and how long I want to keep going without breaking back into the books I already own and pretty much that means it's anyone's guess. I'm a Ouija-style reader—I can try and plan out my reading all I want, but it's fruitless; wherever the spirit/psychotic break takes me next is where I am compelled to go. I don't control this stuff, people. Truthfully, I don't know how others manage those impressive TBR piles and organized reading goals. But anyway, I couldn't very well name this the Library Event To Last An Arbitrary and Unpredictable Period of Time, could I?

So, I hereby dedicate a month-ish to singing the praises of public libraries in general and my library in particular and we'll get to more of that with the Next! Episode! Of! Year Of One Hundred Stories!

And oh yeah, did you want to actually hear about story #39?

Okay then. I happily oblige. This story's so much fun—though, with a name like "Zigzags of Treachery," I think it's contractually required to be cool. Over the years, I've read a decent number of novels and stories containing Raymond Chandler's version of the hard-boiled detective, but Dashiell Hammett (whose name is rather harder to spell than you'd think) is very different. With Chandler, everything is steeped in nostalgia and gin and passion and sorrow. Cynicism wars with romantic illusion in a baroque world of decay. It's heady and poetic stuff. While I wouldn't want to draw too many conclusions from reading just one story, Hammett clearly goes in another direction. His unnamed narrator is dispassionate, clinical, logical. The crime is a puzzle to be solved, a knot to unravel. Emotional reactions are consciously rejected. In that sense, maybe there's more of a kinship with that Victorian favorite, Sherlock Holmes.

But one of the things I really liked about "Zigzags of Treachery" is how Hammett uses his first-person narrator. In Sherlock Holmes, mysteries are solved supposedly through the application of logic, but really through inscrutable, almost otherworldly calculations that take place in a the mind of a singular genius, and are revealed to the audience only as they become understood by the narrator, Dr. Watson. Hammett's story, on the other hand, lets us see directly into the mind of the detective. The emphasis is not on genius, but on method: "[S]uch results as I get are usually the fruits of patience, industry, and unimaginative plugging, helped out now and then, maybe, by a little luck." We see the Continental Op narrator spend hours waiting for a suspect to leave her apartment, and we see him choose a suit that's just shabby enough but not too shabby to blend in to a particular set of people, and we even get the benefit of his own guesses about the case's outcome—though, as he says, "I don't gamble too much on my guesses." Even though there are still plenty of unrealistic/impossible elements in "Zigzags," as there are in pretty much every mystery I've ever read, the narrator's voice helps carry the whole thing off as plausible.

I could talk about a lot of other aspects of this story, but, yikes—this entry might go on forever. An analysis of the ticking clock aspect, in particular, could reveal some juicy writerly secrets. I will say that Hammett's use of a time limit is good though imperfect (even if I love how he ties it into characterization)—but I really want to make the argument that you, my fellow aspiring writer-friends, should read stories like this one even if you're not remotely into detective fiction. They are useful as all get-out, and here's why: a detective story is something that can be understood right off the bat. Its purpose is always clear because its purpose is always the same—to create a sense of mystery that pulls the reader along until the secrets are revealed at the very last minute. As such, it's a wonderful tool for thinking about how to use particular techniques.

"Zigzags of Treachery" is a veritable textbook of ideas for distracting a reader's attention, inserting a ticking clock, upping the stakes for the protagonist, including details that lend a powerful sense of realism, and grounding a piece of fiction in a particular place. And it's got its flaws—particularly, the long-ass ludicrously detailed criminal confession that takes place near the end, but also the artificiality of the ticking clock and most especially the whirlwind trampling of the basic civil rights of every single suspect the narrator comes into contact with. But that's fine. Like many works of this genre, "Zigzags" is an entertaining story that's still simple and imperfect enough to break down into its component parts and learn from.

Of course, you could also just read it for the fun of it.

What a Dainty Spider’s Web - #33

STORY:  “The Landlady” by Roald Dahl

FROM:  KISS KISS (Dell, 1961)

BASICALLY:  Fresh off the train from London, a young man about to start work at his first job is seeking lodgings, but becomes ensnared by the motherly owner of a too-good-to-be-true bed and breakfast.

I guess I'd classify this as a mild suspense story. I might also throw the word murder in there even if it is kind of a spoiler, but here's the thing. I don't read much mystery/suspense, and I'm no expert at guessing endings—but even to me, early on, it was clear that the fresh-faced protagonist of this story was headed for his doom. The book's packaging probably helped create some assumptions going in, some sense of dark doings, but most of the feeling comes from Dahl's own setup. You have seventeen-year-old Billy Weaver, whose youth and gee-whiz inexperience are emphasized. The night's "air was deadly cold and the wind was like a flat blade of ice on his cheeks." The streets are empty, and then Billy notices this bed and breakfast so abruptly it's almost magical. And everything about it, from the dachshund curled up before the fire to the extremely low rent mentioned by the toothache-sweet landlady, conspires to make it irresistible to Billy.

At this point in the story, it's clear that something is off. It's just all too too. So twee and delightful you could just puke! It's clear to the reader, even if Billy just blunders his way past it. There's even an explicit moment of almost-supernatural inveigling as Billy decides he's going to check out the pub before settling on this cozy little bed and breakfast, but then finds himself "compelled" by mysterious forces to turn back.

If the story had been written more recently, I would expect this blatant setup to be undermined somehow. Sure, it's a bit of an inversion of classical tropes to put a little old lady up to villainous acts, but within the story's own logic, it doesn't come as a surprise. She's too perfect, a fact that Dahl emphasizes rather than obscures. In this postmodern age of literature, the reader's expectations become part of a narrative—for many writers (Italo Calvino, for example, or Donald Barthelme, or Lydia Davis) the fun lies in turning those expectations on their heads. But Dahl, at least in this story, isn't operating on that level. He sets out to tell a straightforward, suspenseful story about a young man who never suspects that he's been ensnared by an evil being. And that's exactly what he delivers.

Strangely enough, this is yet another story that was first published in The New Yorker. (See here and here for my ever-evolving opinion of that magazine.) It doesn't feel like a New Yorker story in the least, but maybe things were different in the fifties. I wonder if, in its day, "The Landlady" would have seemed edgier to the common reader. Maybe to those for whom zombies, vampires, and CSI weren't a part of mainstream pop culture, Dahl's spooky tale would have come across as grim and macabre and dark. I mean, for me, it still does all those things, but in the same way that A Series of Unfortunate Events does—its darkness doesn't really scare, but still kind satisfies the desire for something creepy. Just, in a really, really mild way.

So mild, in fact, that the story might almost fail—were it not for the fact that every single sentence is basically as faultless as sentences can be. And not only are the sentences themselves perfectly simple and perfectly phrased, but they are placed in such an order and with such a rhythm that they unspool the story with a perfect pace. (If you're curious, you should google the story and take a look for yourself. I'd love to know what you think.) The thing that's great about this story is that even though you know what's in store for poor Billy, Dahl still raises a powerful curiosity about how everything's going to go down. If the place is so preternaturally nicenice, how is Billy going to die?

That's the carrot that Dahl dangles before his reader every step of the way. From the moment the reader ascertains what naïve Billy cannot—that this bed and breakfast is not what it seems—they become invested in the story's outcome. So Dahl draws this out by showing Billy's gradually dawning suspicions. Not suspicions, even; Billy doesn't ever quite catch on to what's happening to him. But he starts asking questions about the previous tenants who've signed the guest book, and even if he won't live long enough to figure out what it all means, the reader hangs onto every word, waiting for the grisly fate that's sure to come.

“Undrinking Butlers & Unflirting Housemaids of Metal” - #26

STORY: "The Invisible Man" by G.K. Chesterton – Another short story you can find online easily. Maybe I should be reading more stories published this century?

FROM: THE ANNOTATED INNOCENCE OF FATHER BROWN, edited by Martin Gardner (Dover, 1998) – Story originally appeared in 1911.

BASICALLY: A far-fetched mystery in which a young man (named Angus) tries to help his romantic rival catch another romantic rival (this one EVIL) in the act of leaving threatening messages all over the place. Angus enlists the help of a reformed-criminal-turned-private-investigator (named Flambeau) who is being visited by the unimpressive-but-observant Father Brown. They do solve the mystery--too bad the first romantic rival still gets butchered. Oh well!

Leave it to me to unknowingly seek out the one "metaphysical detective story" that contains robots. Of course, Chesterton's Edwardian robot is a vaguely imagined "clockwork invention for doing all the housework by machinery," and inspired, as annotator Martin Gardner notes, by "L. Frank Baum's Tik-Tok of Oz except it was headless." These so-called robots turn out to be only minimally important to the story, merely the successful invention with which Angus' first romantic rival—a diminutive man named Isidore Smythe—recently gained his independent fortune. (I suppose they're a possible red herring, too—part of me, I must admit, hoped the Robot Butler Had Dunnit. But it was not to be.) Honestly, robots seem completely out of place and fairly ridiculous in this otherwise plain Edwardian setting. Of course, because I am me, they still kind of made me like the story more. (I mean, if nothing else, I appreciate that once upon a time Genre Conventions were not quite so rigidly defined and enforced as they are now.)

In his fascinating and helpful Introduction (which you can read here, yay Google Books), Martin Gardner explains that 

Father Brown stories obviously belong to the classical tradition of mysteries in which the reader is challenged to solve a puzzle. The story is a game between reader and writer. The author tries to play fair, yet at the same time surprise readers with a simple solution that they could have guessed but did not. Like so many Sherlockian plots, and those of Agatha Christie and other great masters of the puzzle genre, the plots of Father Brown tend to be enormously improbable. Indeed, improbable is an understatement. 

He then goes on to detail the ways in which current detective shows and movies (current as of 1985, anyway), with their car chases, bare-knuckles boxing, and bimbos, are just as fantastical in their own right. And he's got a point. What seems realistic to one generation is the cheesiest claptrap artifice to the next… isn't it kind of strange that it ever seemed realistic?

But that's the sleight-of-hand of entertainment in whatever medium—it succeeds based on a verisimilitude that is entirely manufactured. For the writer of fiction, that's both enormously freeing (since you can, in theory, make anyone believe anything) and burdensome (since it means there's no objective measure—the slightest irregularity can inadvertently puncture the fictional dream).

This quote by James Wood (spotted on the Tin House Books Blog) seems to apply here: 

I think that novels tend to fail not when the characters are not vivid or deep enough, but when the novel in question has failed to teach us how to adapt to its conventions, has failed to manage a specific hunger for its own characters, its own reality level. 

Let that sink in. Genre, literary, whatever kind of fiction—and heck, nonfiction too—it all comes down to the degree to which the writer has managed a hunger in the reader for itself and its characters.

In "The Invisible Man," Chesterton's management is clunky at best. I'm baffled by Gardner's note that "This is perhaps the best known, most anthologized of all Father Brown stories." Father Brown doesn't even show up until twelve pages in. Before that, we get Angus (who, as I far as I know, is not a recurring or otherwise significant Chesterton character) peering in at a sweets-shop window, entering and proposing to a pretty shopgirl he barely knows, then her long tale of the two men (ugly! and loafers!) who already spontaneously asked her to marry them, and how they went away to seek their fortunes which they already had but she ;lajksdfa;ljwhocares… It really goes on for quite awhile.

Should I excuse this as some kind of generational thing? If I expect a mystery story to dash out of the starting gate like a hopped-up greyhound, it's got to be because of genre conventions, right? In 1911, maybe a guy was free to write his romance-slash-mystery with a little bit of AWESOMEROBOTS thrown in for color. Maybe he didn't have to plunge right into murder, but could take his time and weave a little story about some people inveigled in curious circumstances.

Except that Chesterton's own subplots, which dominate the first two-thirds of the story, don't appear to interest even him. After the first of Angus' romantic rivals is killed, and then the second is caught and shown to be the killer (how he got away with it—not who he is—is supposed to be the story's clever reveal, so that's not really a spoiler), Chesterton dispenses with the love story he spent pages and pages setting up with this unevocative sentence: 

John Turnbull Angus went back to the lady at the shop, with whom that imprudent young man contrives to be extremely comfortable. 

---.  Uh, great.

So it's not that Chesterton was mixing different elements in some unorthodox way. It's more that he doesn't seem to have gone back once he reached the end to make sure that it still had something to do with his beginning. I cannot hunger for the reality level of "The Invisible Man" because it isn't sure, itself, of its level. Some wise editing could have made this a much stronger story. Gardner mentions several times that Chesterton wrote the Father Brown stories for money and that they do not represent his finest writing and I get that. It's probably even truer today that most people making a living off their writing can't afford to be too fussy about it when deadlines and cashmoney are involved. I'm also not immune to being charmed by the quaint weirdness of these stories, in spite of their flaws. So it is with everything we read as writers—we are always taking stock on what to steal, what to love, what to discard, and what to improve upon.