Tabulated Clues

Tabulated Clues
From an old book on mysteries. This text is kind of funky and may be useless. It at least needs work and comments. 
A good device for the use of the Detective Story Writer is a listor catalog of clues, evidences, or suspects. A distinct tabulation serves to lay the conditions of the story clearly before the reader, and arouses his curiosity as to their meaning and consequences. Of 'course, if need be, the clues may be misleading; but if done properly, that, too, is a legitimate device. 
Wilkie Collins appreciated the use of this tabulation, and thus summed up the opening situation in "The Moonstone ":
"Follow me carefully, Betteredge; and count me off on your fingers, if it will help you, " says Mr. Franklin, with a certain pleasure in showing how clear-headed he could be, which reminded me wonderfully of old times when he was a boy. "Question the first: Was the Colonel's Diamond the object of a conspiracy in India? Question the second: Has the conspiracy followed the Colonel's Diamond to England? Question the third: Did the Colonel know the conspiracy followed the Diamond; and has he purposely left a legacy of trouble and danger to his sister, through the innocent medium of his sister's child?"
And much later in the story he again uses this device, purposely to mislead the reader:
"As to the person, or persons, by whom the crime was committed: It is known (1) that the Indians had an interest in possessing themselves of the Diamond. (2) It is at least probable that the man looking like an Indian, whom Octavius Guy saw at the window of the cab speaking to the man dressed like a mechanic, was one of the three
Hindoo conspirators. (3) It is certain that this same man, dressed like a mechanic, was seen keeping Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite in view allthrough the evening of the twenty-sixth, and was found in the bedroom (before Mr. Ablewhite was shown into it) under circumstances which lead to the suspicion that he was examining the room. (4) A morsel of torn gold thread was picked up in the bedroom, which persons expert in such matters declared to be of Indian manufacture, and to be a species of gold thread not known in England. (5) On the morning of the twenty-seventh, three men, answering to the description of the three Indians, were observed in lower Thames Street, were traced to the Tower Wharf, and were seen to leave London by the steamer bound for Rotterdam. 
" There is here moral, if not legal, evidence that the murder was committed by the Indians. "
Notice how cleverly he makes it seem certain that the crime was committed by the Indians. In a long and somewhat rambling tale like "The Moonstone, " a concise summary of evidence now and then is exceedingly effective. 
Anna Katharine Green frequently makes use of listed statistics. In "That Affair Next Door, " the heroine, who is doing detective work, makes a list, which is here given in part:
Having, as I thought, noticed some few facts in connection with it, from which conclusions might be drawn, I amused myself with jotting them down on the back of a disputed grocer's bill I happened to find in my pocket. 
Valueless as explaining this tragedy, being founded upon insufficient evidence, they may be interesting as showing the workings of my mind even at this early stage of the matter. They were drawn up under three heads. 
First, was the death of this young woman an accident? Second, was it a suicide?
Third, was it a murder?
Under the first head I wrote:
My reasons for not thinking it an accident:
1. If it had been an accident and she had pulled the cabinet over
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upon herself, she would have been found with her feet pointing towards the wall where the cabinet had stood. 
(But her feet were towards the door and her head under the cabinet). 
2. The decent, even precise, arrangement of the clothing about her feet, which precludes any theory involving accident. 
Under the second:
Reason for notthinkingit suicide:
She could not have been found in the position observed without having lain down on the floor while living and then pulled the shelves down upon herself. 
(A theory obviously too improbable to be considered. )
Under the third:
Reason for not thinking it murder, etc. , etc. 
One of the principals in "The Circular Staircase, " by Mary Roberts Rinehart, makes a similar list:
I made out a list of questions and possible answers, but I seemed only to be working around in a circle. I always ended where I began. The list was something like this:
Who had entered the house the night before the murder?
Thomas claimed it was Mr. Bailey, whom he had seen on the footpath, and who owned the pearl cuff-link. 
Why did Arnold Armstrong come back after he had left the house the night he was killed?
No answer. Was it on the mission Louise had mentioned? Who admitted him?
Gertrude said she had locked the east entry. There was no key on the dead man or in the door. He must have been admitted from within. 
Who had been locked in the clothes chute?
Someone unfamiliar with the house, evidently. Only two people missing from the household, Rosie and Gertrude. Rosie had been at the lodge. Therefore — but was it Gertrude? Might it not have been the mysterious intruder again?
In "The Holladay Case, " Mr. Burton E. Stevenson tells
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us that his detective "drew up a resumeof the case — to clear the atmosphere, as it were. It ran something like this:
March 13, Thursday — Holladay found murdered; daughter drives to Washington Square. 
March 14, Friday — Coroner's inquest; Miss Holladay released; mysterious note received. 
March 16, Sunday — Holladay buried. 
March 18, Tuesday — Will opened and probated. 
March 28, Friday — Miss Holladay returns from drive, bringing new maid with her and discharges old one. 
March 29, Saturday — Gives orders to open summer house. April I, Tuesday — Asks for 8100, 000. 
April 2, Wednesday — Gets it. 
April 3, Thursday — Leaves home ostensibly for Belair, in company with new maid. 
April 14, Monday — Butler reports her disappearance; Royce taken ill; I begin my search. 
There I stopped. The last entry brought me up to date. 
One of the cleverest lists, for the purpose of telling the story is one in "The Leavenworth Case, " by Anna Katharine Green:
Taking a piece of paper, I jotted down the leading causes of suspicion as follows:
Her late disagreement with her uncle, and evident estrangement from him, as testified to by Mr. Harwell. 
The mysterious disappearance of one of the servants of the house. 
The forcible accusation made by her cousin — overheard, however, only by Mr. Gryce and myself. 
Her equivocation in regard to the handkerchief found stained with pistol smut on the scene of the tragedy. 
Her refusal to speak in regard to the paper which she was supposed to have taken from Mr. Leavenworth's table immediately upon the removal of the body. 
The finding of the library key in her possession. 
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"A dark record, " I involuntarily decided, as I looked it over; but evenin doing so began jotting down on the other side of the sheet the following explanatory notes:
Disagreements and even estrangements between relatives are common. Cases where such disagreements and estrangements have led to crime, rare. 
The disappearance of Hannah points no more certainly in one direction than another. 
3. If Mary's private accusation of her cousin was forcible and convincing, her public declaration that she neither knew nor suspected who might be the author of this crime, was equally so. To be sure, the former possessed the advantage of being uttered spontaneously; but it was likewise true that it was spoken under momentary excitement, without foresight of the consequences, and possibly without due consideration of the facts. 
4, 5. An innocent man or woman, under the influence of terror, will often equivocate in regard to matters that seem to criminate them. 
Here much of the problem is dearly stated in the first half
of the list, and the working out of the solution is definitely indicated in the second part. 
Listed suggestions are more useful in books than in shortstories; for in the former the complexities of the plot are more likely to need occasional rounding up and recalling to view. 
2. Worn-out Devices
A trite and greatly worn device is the watch that stopped presumably when the crime was committed. 
Here is a typical use of this incident quoted from R. Ottolengui's "The Crime of the Century":
"Ifound Mr. Mom's watch under the bed, where it must have been knocked from the dressing-table. The fall had caused it to stop, and the hands indicated seven minutes of two, agreeing with the time during which the watchman testifies that young Mora was at home. "
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"Yes, " said Mr. Mitchel, "but do not go too fast. The watch may have run down. It is uncommon for a good watch to stop, merely because it falls to the floor. "
" Both of your points are good, in theory, " replied the detective. " But neither applies in this instance. If a watch runs down, it cannot be started again without winding. By merely shaking this one I set it going, and to make assurance doubly sure, I let it run for an hour, when it was still keeping time. Next, though it be true that most watches would not be so easily stopped, this one, for some reason, is very sensitive to a blow. I tried the experiment of pushing it from the table to the floor, and at every attempt I found that it would cease its movement. "
This idea of a stopped watch is so obvious that it led authors at once to the idea of purposely stopping a watch with the intent of leading the detective and the reader astray. In fact, this was done as long ago as in Gaboriau's "Crime of Orcival, " where Lecoq, finding a clock which has been overturned in the struggle between the victim and his assassin, purposely turns the hands some four hours backward. 
This device has been used so often that the astute reader now disregards the evidence of the stopped watch in fiction. But still the clock or watch may play an important part in the plot, if managed with any degree of originality. 
In " The Quests of Paul Beck " the device is well used:
Mr. Beck looked at the German with manifest admiration. "Forgive me for mentioning it. You would have made a first-classdetective if you hadn't gone into another line of business. I should have told you that the evidence of the watch had been faked. "
"Faked?" queried the other, with a blank look on his face. 
"Oh! I see. Being a German, of course you don't understand our slang phrases. I examined the watch, and found that though the glass had been violently broken, the dial was not even scratched. The spring had been snapped, not by the blow but by overwinding. 
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It was pretty plain to me the murderer had done the trick. He first put the hands on to half-past eight and then broke the spring, and so made his alibi. He got the watch to perjure itself. Neat, wasn't it?"
The German merely grunted. He was plainly impressed by the devilish ingenuity of the murderer. 
In "The Whispering Man, " by Henry Kitchell Webster, a large office clock seen in a mirror, makes twenty minutes before twelve appear to be twenty minutes after twelve, which leads to worth-while complications, and proves a clever device. 
In Brander Matthews' story, "The Twinkling of an Eye, " a clock is used to conceal and manipulate a camera for the purposes of detection. 
Any such original application of commonplace material is worth-while in detective fiction. 
Another manceuvre that has lost its grip on the attention of the trained reader, is the clumsily-upset table. 
In "The Reigate Puzzle, " Dr. Watson tells us: "Near the foot of the bed stood a dish of oranges and a carafe of water. As we passed it, Holmes, to my unutterable astonishment, leaned over in front of me and deliberately knocked the whole thing over. The glass smashed into a thousand pieces and the fruit rolled about into every corner of the room. "You've done it now, Watson, " said he, coolly. "A pretty mess you've made of the carpet. "
This incident was effective and of importance as Conan Doyle used it, but it has since been done so often as to have lost its power to surprise. 
A hackneyed misleading device is that of high words between a victim and a suspect. In Chekhov's Russian story, 
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"The Safety Match, " the author thus tries to cast suspicion on the valet. 
" The master's valet, your worship, " answered Ephraim. "Who else could it be? He's a rascal, your worship! He's a drunkard and a blackguard, the like of which Heaven should not permit! He always took the master his vodka and put the master to bed. Who else could it be? And I also venture to point out to your worship, he once boasted at the public-house that he would kill the master!"
This idea was right enough when first used; but experience has taught the modern reader that the one who threatens, or boasts an intent to kill never does so. The man who is overheard quarrelling with the victim just before his death is never by any chance the criminal in Fiction. 
Whispered words is a legitimate though slightly overworked way of preserving the secret. One character whispers to another something the reader is not allowed to overhear. This rouses the eavesdropping instinct latent in every human mind, and the reader scans the pages in endeavor to learn that whispered message. 
But attentive reading of the best detective stories will soonest teach a writer what devices may be used effectively, and what not. It is a matter of taste, originality and cleverness. Even a trite device may be used with a new turn or twist and prove of great value. 
Perhaps the longest roll of hackneyed devices in one book is found in "That Mainwaring Affair, " by A. M. Barbour. 
This is a most excellent and interesting story and of exceedingly good construction. The surprise is perfect and the plot original, but old and time-worn devices are repeatedly used. It includes the return of a long-lost brother, supposed to have been shipwrecked years before; stolen family jewels; a miss
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ing will; a twin brother; a birthmark identification; an illegitimate son of a designing housekeeper; a suspected prime vate secretary; whispered words conveying the secret; a dragged lake; and innumerable disguises. All of these are justifiable, but a writer will do well to strike out on more original lines. 
3. The Use of Disguise
Disguise is not so much employed now as in former years when Lecoq was young. And the general public is now more keen to see through false whiskers than in the old days when Vidocq made his fame. Both these celebrated detectives were experts in the art of disguise. To quote from Vidocq's Memoirs:
At last, by dint of much effort of memory, I recalled to mind one Germain, alias "the Captain, " who had been an intimate acquaintance of Noel's, and although our similarity was very slight, yet I determined on personating him. Germain, as well as myself, had often escaped from the Bagnes, and that was the only point of resemblance between us; he was about my age, but a smaller-framed man; he had dark brown hair, mine was light; he was thin, and I tolerably stout; his complexion was sallow, and mine fair, with a very clear skin; besides, Germain had an excessively long nose, took a vast deal of snuff which, begriming his nostrils outside, and stuffing them up within, gave him a peculiarly nasal tone of voice. I had much to do in personating Germain; but the difficulty did not deter me; my hair, cut a lamode des Bagnes, was dyed black, as well as my beard, after it had attained a growth of eight days; to embrown my countenance I washed it with white walnut liquor; and to perfect the imitation, I garnished my upper lip thickly with a kind of coffee grounds, which I plastered on by means of gum-arabic, and thus became as nasal in my twang as Germain himself. My feet were doctored with equal care; I made blisters on them by rubbing in a certain composition, of which I had obtained the receipt at Brest. 
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I also made the marks of the fetters; and when all my toilet was finished, dressed myself in the suitable garb. I had neglected nothing which could complete the metamorphosis, —neither the shoes nor the marks of those horrid letters G. A. L. The costume was perfect. "
 
"If I were your lieutenant, and wanted to take Vidocq, " replied I, "I would contrive that he should not escape me. "
"You! Oh yes, you and everybody! He is always completely armed. You know they said that he fired twice at Delrue and Carpentier; and that is not all, for he can change himself into a bundle of hay whenever he likes. "
"A bundle of hay!" cried I, surprised at the novel endowment assigned to me. "A bundle of hay! How?"
"Yes, sir; my father pursued him one day, and at the moment he laid his hand upon his collar, he found that he only held a handful of hay. He did not only say it, but all the brigade saw the bundle of hay, which was burnt in the barrackyard. "
Lecoq also depends largely on disguises for his successes. He says himself:
"A detective who is worth his salt can give an actor any amount of lessons. Since last year I have been studying the art of disguising my face, and I can at my desire become short or tall, dark or fair, a perfect gentleman, or the vilest scoundrel that hangs about the outskirts of the suburbs. "
And in "File No. 113" we are told:
His amazement gave so singular an expression to his face that M. Lecoq could not restrain a smile. "Then it was you!" continued the bewildered detective; "you were the stout gentleman at whom I stared, so as to impress his appearance upon my mind, and I never recognized you! You would make a superb actor, my chief, if you would go on the stage; but I was disguised too — very well disguised. "
" Very poorly disguised: it is only just to you that I should let you know what a failure it was, Fanferlot. Do you think that a huge beard and a blouse are a sufficient transformation? The eye is the thing to be changed the eye! The art lies in being able to change the eye. That is the secret. " This theory of disguise explained why
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the lynx-eyed Lecoq never appeared at the Prefecture of Police without his gold spectacles. 
"You can't swear to that, because no one can boast of knowing the real face of M. Lecoq. It is one thing today, and another tomorrow; sometimes he is a dark man, sometimes a fair one, sometimes quite young, and then an octogenarian. Why, at times he even deceives me. I begin to talk to a stranger — bah! it turns out to be M. Lecoq! Anybody on the face of the earth might be he. If I were told that you were he, I should say ' Very likely it is so. ' Ah! he can convert himself into any form he pleases. He is a wonderful man!"
Of modern fictive detectives, few use disguise to great extent, with the exception perhaps of Frederic Larsan in the books of Gaston Leroux. So punctilious was this French detective in the details of his disguise, that his young opponent himself admitted that Larsan's disguises were impenetrable. 
"And Old Bob?" I asked. 
"No, dear boy, no!" scoffed Rouletabille, almost angrily. "Not he, either. You have noticed that he wears a wig, I suppose. Well, I assure you that when Larsan wears a wig, it will fit him!"
And so perfectly did Larsan's wigs fit him, as well as all the other details of his disguise, that he assumed the personality of anyone at will, without fear of discovery. 
Sherlock Holmes often assumed disguise, but Conan Doyle does not make a strong point of it, relying not so much on physical appearances as on acute mentality. 
4. Other "Properties"
A pet device is the discovery of a torn bit of paper containing part of a written communication. The writing is usually readable, but incomprehensible for want of context. 
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This is very bunglingly done by Vidocq, who finds a torn scrap of an envelope with these words on it:
A Monsieur Rao 
Marchand de vins, bar 
Roche
Cli
and after much effort, mental and otherwise, he thus solved the enigma:
The torn address was, in my estimation, an enigma, which must first be solved; and, to effect this, I racked my brains day and night, and at last felt satisfied, that excepting the name (respecting which I had but few doubts) the perfect address would run thus:
A Monsieur 
Marchand de vies, 
Barriere Rochechouart. 
Chaussee de Clignancourt. 
But, better managed, a torn bit of paper is helpful in rousing the reader's curiosity and there are few authors who have not utilized it. 
Conan Doyle goes farther, in using what seems to be part of a woman's name, "Rache, " but is really a whole word in German. 
Anna Katharine Green gives an original twist to this old idea in her title, "One of My Sons. " In truth, this phrase, found on a bit of paper and pointing directly to the criminal, was really part of the line, "None of my Sons. " It may be seen at a glance how the intent and the evidence of this line are purposely contradictory. 
The detective story is essentially dramatic, and therefore picturesque incidents and sensational situations are not only
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permissible, but advisable. The trained reader has learned to expect them. But unless they can be novel or original, there must be a skillful handling of the old devices. 
Likewise, there are certain stage properties with the use of which the author should be entirely familiar, and which he should be able to employ with grace and skill. 
The Weapon, the Papers, the Jewels, the Safe, the Alibi, are all his rightful belongings. So, too, the Lens, the Desk Blotter, the Waste Basket, the Cabman, the Deserted Wing, the Inquest, and the Mistaken Identity, — all are his, to manipulate at his pleasure. 
If he can afford to ignore such as these, and use The Monkey's Paw, or The Speckled Band, so much the better for his originality. 
CHAPTER XVII
FALSE DEVICES
Several false notions which have been so often exploited as to command belief, the young writer should strive to correct. 
r. The "Trace" Fallacy
One hackneyed statement, though of great value to a fiction detective, is far from being true. This is the assertion that it is impossible for a human being to go into a room for any purpose and out again without leaving trace of his presence. Sherlock Holmes insists on this, and says, on one occasion:
"My good Hoplgins, I have investigated many crimes, but I have never yet seen one which was committed by a flying creature. As long as the criminal remains upon two legs so long must there be some indentation, some abrasion, some trifling displacement which can be detected by the scientific searcher. It is incredible that this blood-bespattered room contained no trace which could have aided us. I understand, however, from the inquest that there were some objects which you failed to overlook?"
And Mary E. Wilkins in her fine detective story, "The Long Arm, " makes the same impressive statement:
" I have a theory that it is impossible for any human being to enter any house, and commit in it a deed of this kind, and not leave behind traces which are the known quantities in an algebraic equation to those who can use them. "
Ninety-nine times out of a hundred anyone can go into a room, stay for a time and come out again, and leave abso
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lutely no trace of his presence there. A practical test, or a series of them will convince anyone of this. Let your criminal or your innocent suspect leave as many traces and clues as you will, but don't allow your detective to assert that this is inevitable. 
2. The Destructionof Evidence
Another useful but false notion is the great difficulty that the criminal experiences in getting rid of his blood-stained garments or other incriminating impedimenta. If he endeavors to burn them, or throw them in the river or ashbarrel, they come back with feline certainty. Now it is not so difficult to destroy or conceal material successfully, and all that is necessary in this regard is to make the proceedings of your criminal natural and not forced. But let the destruction or concealment be done with common sense, and at least an elementary knowledge of your subject. 
One of the most absurd incidents of destruction is the burning of large packets of papers. A case in point is found in "The Adventure of Milverton, " where we are told:
With perfect coolness Holmes slipped across to the safe, filled his two arms with bundles of letters, and poured them all into the fire. Again and again he did it, until the safe was empty. 
Someone turned the handle and beat upon the outside of the door. Holmes looked swiftly round. The letter which had been the messenger of death for Milverton lay, all mottled with his blood, upon the table. Holmes tossed it in among the blazing papers. Then he drew the key from the outer door, passed through after me, and locked it on the outside. " This way, Watson, " said he, " we can scale the garden wall in this direction. "
Although we are told that it was "a good fire" that was burning in the fireplace, nothing short of a crematory furnace
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could have continued to burn when these letters were thrown upon it. Remember that Holmes "filled his two arms with bundles of letters and poured them all into the fire. " "Again and again he did this, " until he must have had, by a conservative estimate, some hundreds of letters. Anyone who has tried to burn even three or four letters without unfolding their pages knows the result. As a matter of fact, when Holmes departed, leaving those letters lying on the fire, very few of them could have been greatly injured. 
If papers must be burned, as is sometimes the case, let them be unfolded and each sheet crumpled a little, and then give sufficient time to the operation. If this is not possible, omit the incident. How often a will or a deed has been "tossed into the grate and reduced to ashes at once. " A folded paper of four or five thicknesses obstinately refuses to burn, except around the edges, and these instantaneous holocausts rouse only amusement in the mind of the common-sense reader. 
3. False Hypotheses
Another entirely false notion is that "Murder will out. " As to the real fact of this matter, Arthur C. Train, in his admirable work, "Courts, Criminals and the Camorra, " asserts that the prisoners tried for murder are only a mere fraction of those who commit the crime. 
In the stories of Luther Trant, we are informed "that for ninety-three out of Everyone hundred homicides no one is ever punished, " and in "The Scales of Justice, " George L. Knapp tells us, "If you'd cut out the proverbs and stick to the evidence, you'd find out that about one murder in six comes to light enough to get the murderer convicted. " Then
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too, Samuel N. Gardenhire asserts that " thousands of murders are never found out. Given a doctor, a lack of motive and a good chance, and detection may be laughed at. "
But though the authors quoted understand this, scores of other Detective Story writers persist in standing by the old adage. 
Again the beliefs that "a murderer is involuntarily drawn back to the scene of his crime, " and that "a murderer can't help talking of his crime to somebody, " are the basis of many false situations. These hypotheses may be used as working arguments, if desired, but should not be quoted as universal laws. 
Another false notion inherent in the average citizen is, that a bystander is forbidden by law to touch the body of a murdered man before the arrival of the coroner. There never was any such law, is not now, and probably never will be. The citizen who is of an inquiring turn of mind has a perfect right to examine dead bodies he runs across in the course of his travels, to move the remains and even search the pockets of the deceased, provided, of course, that his motives are honest. That is all that is necessary. 
4. Errors of Fact and of Inference
Aside from these false and erroneous notions which are common, let the writer of detective fiction be careful to avoid absolute mistakes, paradoxes, or anachronisms. In this class of story, accuracy and logic are imperative, and nothing can excuse carelessness in descriptive details or sequential happenings. 
Our greatest and best writers have been caught napping in
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this respect, and though we can forgive it when Homer nods, it is not excusable in a tyro. 
To take one of the most flagrant errors, let us look at a page in Poe's "The Mystery of Marie Roget. "
If the clothing and the condition of the clothing of the drowned girl had been hastily or superficially described, it would not be so surprising. But Poe, with his wonderful "minuteness of detail which does not leave a pin or a button unnoted, " makes this absurd statement:
The clothing was much torn and otherwise disordered. In the outer garment, a slit, about a foot wide, had been torn upward from the bottom hem to the waist, but not torn off. It was woundthree times around the waist, and secured by a sort of hitch in the back. 
Assuming the young girl to have a waist measure, outside her clothing, of at least twenty inches, simple arithmetic shows us that that strip "torn upward, " "wound three times around the waist, " "and secured by a sort of hitch in the back" (said " hitch " being enough to serve as a loop or handle), must have been at least seventy-two inches long. Therefore, as Marie Roget's skirt from hem to waist measured six feet, the young lady herself must have been nearly nine feet tall!
Other details of this extraordinary young woman's costume are also absurd to a rational mind, but perhaps Poe's genius did not include millinery. 
However, Poe was often careless, even in important matters. The idea that supports the story of "The Purloined Letter, " is so very good that it is a pity to have such an absurd contradiction as this creep in:
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"At length my eyes, in going the circuit of the room, fell upon a trumpery filigree card-rack of pasteboard, that hung dangling by a dirty blue ribbon from a little brass knob just beneath the middle of the mantel-piece. In this rack, which had three or four compartments, were five or six visiting cards and a solitary letter. This last was much soiled and crumpled. It was torn nearly in two, across the middle — as if a design, in the first instance, to tear it entirely up as worthless, had been altered, or stayed in the second. It had
a large black seal, bearing the D cipher very conspicuously, 
and was addressed, in a diminutive female hand, to D , the
Minister, himself. It was thrust carelessly, and even, as it seemed, contemptuously, into one of the upper divisions of the rack. "
It is not probable that any eccentricity on the part of the writer of the missive resulted in having the seal and the address on the same side of the letter; it is more likely a slip of Poe's fertile pen. 
The well-known impossible condition mentioned in "The Raven, " where the lamp-light streams over the bird and casts his shadow on the floor, while the bird himself is sitting on a bust over the door, can perhaps be explained by a transom and a hall light. But one rarely places a bust in front of a transom, as it would mean decreased efficiency for both, and we prefer to think this another of Poe's slips of attention. 
From Poe's "The Oblong Box, " we quote this description:
The box in question was, as I say, oblong. It was about six feet in length by two and a half in breadth; — I observed it attentively, and like to be precise. Now this shape was peculiar; and no sooner had I seen it, than I took credit to myself for the accuracy of my guessing. I had reached the conclusion, it will be remembered, that the extra baggage of my friend, the artist, would prove to be pictures, or at least a picture; for I knew he had been for several weeks in conference with Nicolino; and now here was a box which, from its shape, could possibly contain nothing in the world but a copy of
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Leonardo's "Last Supper;" and a copy of this very " Last Supper" done by Rubini the younger, at Florence, I had known for some time to be in the possession of Nicolino. This point, therefore, I considered as sufficiently settled. I chuckled excessively when I thought of my acumen. 
As the box was really a coffin, containing a dead body, it seems scarcely possible that it could look like a flat picture! At any rate, a coffin could notbe mistaken for a box, "which from its shape, could possibly contain nothing but a copy of "The Last Supper. " It would need several superimposed pictures to fill a box of that shape. 
Sir Conan Doyle is exceedingly careful in the logic of his details; and, except for rapidly burning papers in bulk, he makes few definite slips. Occasionally, however, he forgets what he has previously said about Sherlock Holmes' mental characteristics. But perhaps the reason is that instead of stepping into the pages of "A Study in Scarlet" a fully rounded and developed figure, Sherlock Holmes, during the first four or five years of his career as a public character, was in a constant state of evolution. It would be no easy matter for his creator to explain away certain striking inconsistencies of statement. For example, in an early chapter of "A Study in Scarlet, " Watson tries to fathom the intentions of his reticent roommate by making a list of Holmes' curious accomplishments and limitations. His knowledge of literature was put down as "nil. " "Of contemporary literature, philosophy, and politics, he appeared to know next to nothing. Upon my quoting Thomas Carlyle, he inquired in the naivest way who he might be and what he had done. " This is rather definite Yet in "The Sign of the Four, " the very next book, we are shown Sherlock Holmes advising Watson to read Winwood
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Reade's "The Martyrdom of Man, " citing French aphorisms, quoting Goethe in the original German, referring to Jean Paul in reference to Carlyle, reverting once more to Winwood Reade, and finally winding up with another bit of Goethe. In "The Adventure of the Red-Headed League, " he quoted from Gustave Flaubert's correspondence with George Sand, and in "A Case of Identity" he makes use of a quotation from the Persian Hafiz, who, he asserts, has as much sense and as much knowledge of the world as the Latin Horace. 
In "The House Opposite" by Elizabeth Kent, the heroine is greatly embarrassed for lack of funds, and makes the definite statement that she has not enough money to carry her from New York to Bar Harbor. But almost in the next paragraph she states that she has some shopping to do, and she finds this is a good opportunity. 
These slips are unnecessary; and though not heinous offences, they cause the reader to lose confidence in his author. 
Again, some statements, while barely possible, are too improbable for ready belief. In Gaboriau's "The Widow Lerouge, " we read this:
Old Tabaret examined with extreme care the dead woman's finger-nails; and, using infinite precaution, he even extracted from behind them several small particles of kid. The largest of these pieces was not above the twenty-fifth part of an inch in length; but all the same their color was easily distinguishable. 
We can scarcely imagine human finger-nails scraping off sufficient lavender kid from an assailant's gloves to serve as evidence, and we doubt if it could be proved possible by practical experiment. Though original and picturesque clues
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are desirable, yet care should be taken to have them carry the weight of common sense. . 
5. The Use of Illustrative Plans
A very annoying error often met, is putting the plans in the book too late. By plans, we mean, the architectural sketch showing the rooms of the house or the arrangement of the grounds, with an X "where the body was found. "
In general, it is wise not to have a plan necessary to the understanding of the story. But some plots cannot be clearly understood without a plan. In such a case, have the diagram well and simply drawn, with as few lines as possible, and no unnecessary details. Moreover, present the plan at the beginning of the story. It is a most frequent error to insert the plan long after the situation has been fully described and the reader has pictured the entire scene for himself in his own mind. Then comes the plan, and it not infrequently turns his mental picture topsy-turvy. In a short-story it is less absolutely necessary, but in a book it is important to introduce the plan at the very first. 
In "Hand and Ring, " by Anna Katharine Green, the intricacies of the plot necessitate two plans; one of the house where the crime is committed, and another of the neighboring town and country. The first of these plans appears on page 17o and the other on page 364. Both should have been given when the scenes they represent were first brought into the story. 
In "The Leavenworth Case" by Anna Katharine Green, the plan of the house is given on page 8, and thereby allows the reader to start with a correct mental picture of the scene of the crime. 
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"The Mystery of the Yellow Room" and "The Perfume of the Lady in Black, " both by Gaston Leroux, require definite and somewhat elaborate plans. These are beautifully drawn, and occur in the book exactly at the time they are needed. 
6. The Locked and Barred Room
A situation greatly beloved of mystery-mongers is a crime committed in a room so locked and barred that there is apparently no possible ingress. 
This was the case in Poe's "The Murders in the Rue Morgue, " and the later explanation of how the intruder entered is simple, ingenious, and satisfactory. But since then, hundreds of stories have been written around a crime committed in a sealed room, with solutions of varying interest. 
The plot is usually the same. The barred doors necessitate a forcible breaking in to discover the crime. Then, owing to the fact of the locks and bars, the dead man found in the room is adjudged a suicide. But, of course, later developments prove it to be murder and finally disclose how the murderer could get in and out and yet leave everything bolted on the inside. 
Often a secret passage is the solution, but this is trite; and to invent a cleverer explanation is the aim of the ambitious author. Gaston Leroux succeeded perfectly, in his "Mystery of the Yellow Room, " and few authors can touch the simple subtlety of his idea. 
Zangwill went at the matter deliberately. To quote from the introduction to "Big Bow Mystery":
"For a long time before the book was written I said to
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myself that no mystery-monger had ever murdered a man in a room to which there was no possible access. The puzzle was scarcely propounded ere the solution flew up and the idea lay stored in my mind till years later. "
This particular problem and its solution, in Zangwill's hands, is a masterpiece; and though incidentally in his book he tells of many suggested solutions, none compares with his own in simple though daring ingenuity. 
A writer does well to use this always arrestive plot, if he have some new and interesting explanation to offer.
category:Writing techniques