Not so the crime story. I’ve always seen crime stories as different altogether from mysteries. Crime stories, in my point of view, are stories in which the writer all along reveals the clues to the reader. Of course, the writer reveals the red herrings as well. Both are presented in their absolute fullness. In other words, a glittering object drawn out of a pond by the detective in a crime novel would have been identified at once as a ring, and if there were engraved initials upon it, the reader would at once know what they were. That a salesman had been on the dead man’s property peddling Dictaphones would also be discovered openly and in the fullness of time. What would occur post any discovery of anything at all is a discussion, a meditation, a reflection, or an argument, the subject being the clue or the red herring that had been discovered, uncovered, unearthed, or tripped over.
The art of the crime story derives from exactly that point: the discussion, meditation, reflection, or argument. For it is here that the writer must position the reader to believe the wrong thing. Thus the reader knows from the get-go every single thing the investigator knows or learns. The reader is also present as the investigator and her cohorts try to work out how their piece of information fits or does not fit into the overall puzzle of the crime. Not a single thing is withheld from the reader. And if the crime story is beautifully constructed and artfully written, the reader remains in the dark until the end.
Both approaches to this form of literature are perfectly legitimate. One is generally more lighthearted than the other. One is grittier and possesses more social commentary. Both can be a pleasure to read. But make no mistake: they are very different creatures indeed.
The short story is a tough form to select when a writer wishes to deal either with mystery or with crime. The main stricture is one of length. It’s a difficult proposition for the author to lay out both crime and resolution to crime if the author also wishes to play absolutely fair with the reader. Generally one has to cut a corner here or there. One has to make a decision about each fundamental of the writing craft:
How much of a setting can a writer employ? Setting in a crime novel especially often functions as a virtual character.
Which of the many viewpoints available to her will best serve the writer’s intent in the story?
How much attitude can be conveyed within the point of view chosen?
Can suspense be developed?
Can suspicion fall on more than one character?
Is there enough time for atmosphere and tone, for any kind of theme, to be developed, for clues to be planted, for the inclusion of red herrings to mislead the reader?
A novella would allow for all of this, but unfortunately, a short story must fight to stay short. This makes things difficult and often results in some elements of the craft being given decidedly short shrift.
In this collection, what I’ve tried to do is first of all to include both mystery stories and crime stories, the latter being more challenging to find because of fairness to the reader. Since a short story cannot possibly contain every element that I’ve already mentioned as belonging within a longer work, I’ve looked for stories that best reflect at least one of those elements.
Thus, what you’ll find in this volume are stories that demonstrate a mastery of plotting; stories that compel you to keep turning the pages because of plot and because of setting; stories that wield suspense like a sword; stories of people getting their comeuppance; stories that utilize superb point of view; stories that plumb one particular and unfortunate attribute of a character. You will read the traditional hard-boiled detective story; you will also read the literary crime story. You’ll see the screws of madness or misunderstanding or avarice tighten upon characters; you’ll read endings that you foresaw from the first and endings that perfectly surprise you.
Each story was chosen, then, because it reflects at least one of the elements that constitute fine writing within the genre. One of the stories was chosen because, with remarkable wit and discipline, it actually reflects them all. I’m not going to tell you which story it is, though.
That’s a mystery you’ll have to work out on your own.
ELIZABETH GEORGE
Megan Abbott
The Little Men
From Bibliomysteries
At night, the sounds from the canyon shifted and changed. The bungalow seemed to lift itself with every echo and the walls were breathing. Panting.
Just after two, she’d wake, her eyes stinging, as if someone had waved a flashlight across them.
And then she’d hear the noise.
Every night.
The tapping noise, like a small animal trapped behind the wall.
That was what it reminded her of. Like when she was a girl, and that possum got caught in the crawlspace. For weeks they just heard scratching. They only found it when the walls started to smell.
It’s not the little men, she told herself. It’s not.
And then she’d hear a whimper and startle herself. Because it was her whimper and she was so frightened.
I’m not afraid I’m not I’m not
It had begun four months ago, the day Penny first set foot in the Canyon Arms. The chocolate and pink bungalows, the high arched windows and French doors, the tiled courtyard, cosseted on all sides by eucalyptus, pepper, and olive trees, miniature date palms — it was like a dream of a place, not a place itself.
This is what it was supposed to be, she thought.
The Hollywood she’d always imagined, the Hollywood of her childhood imagination, assembled from newsreels: Kay Francis in silver lamé and Clark Gable driving down Sunset in his Duesenberg, everyone beautiful and everything possible.
That world, if it ever really existed, was long gone by the time she’d arrived on that Greyhound a half-dozen years ago. It had been swallowed up by the clatter and color of 1953 Hollywood, with its swooping motel roofs and the shiny glare of its hamburger stands and drive-ins, and its descending smog, which made her throat burn at night. Sometimes she could barely breathe.
But here in this tucked-away courtyard, deep in Beachwood Canyon, it was as if that Old Hollywood still lingered, even bloomed. The smell of apricot hovered, the hush and echoes of the canyons soothed. You couldn’t hear a horn honk, a brake squeal. Only the distant ting-ting of window chimes somewhere. One might imagine a peignoired Norma Shearer drifting through the rounded doorway of one of the bungalows, cocktail shaker in hand.
“It’s perfect,” Penny whispered, her heels tapping on the Mexican tiles. “I’ll take it.”
“That’s fine,” said the landlady, Mrs. Stahl, placing Penny’s cashier’s check in the drooping pocket of her satin housecoat and handing her the key ring, heavy in her palm.
The scent, thick with pollen and dew, was enough to make you dizzy with longing.
And so close to the Hollywood sign, visible from every vantage, which had to mean something.