Murder at The ABA
Darius Just investigates a murder at an ABA convention, while Asimov playfully interjects, creating a meta-mystery exploring authorship and storytelling.
Imagine, if you will, a book that opens its covers not just to a mystery waiting to be solved, but also to a fascinating conversation with its very creator. Isaac Asimov’s Murder at the ABA, also known as Authorized Murder, is precisely this kind of literary adventure. It is not merely a detective story but a playful, self-referential experiment, a work where Asimov himself steps into the narrative, acting as a kind of guiding, sometimes mischievous, authorial presence. This blend of a classic whodunit structure with a unique metatextual playfulness sets it apart from typical mystery novels, marking it as distinctly Asimovian in its intellectual curiosity, even as it diverges from his usual style.
The story begins with what appears to be a straightforward setup: Darius Just, a New York writer known for his charisma and flair more than his literary depth, is attending the annual convention of the American Booksellers Association (ABA) in New York City. Amidst the vibrant chaos of publishers, authors, agents, and enthusiastic fans, Darius is confronted with shocking news: his young protégé, Giles Devore, a rising star in popular fiction, has been found dead in his hotel room. The official word from the police is that it was an accident—an unfortunate fall in the bathroom. Yet, Darius Just, with his keen instincts and theatrical nature, finds this explanation too convenient, too neat. He knows Giles, understands his habits, anxieties, and the growing tensions in his life, and something about the situation simply doesn’t sit right with him. Thus, propelled by his journalist’s instincts and his love for the spotlight, Darius takes it upon himself to investigate.
However, this is where the narrative takes its distinctive turn. The book is far from a standard police procedural. Asimov immediately frames the story with delightful disruptions, appearing directly within the book as himself. He offers running commentary, notes, and footnotes, often engaging in a lively dialogue with Darius Just’s narration. The traditional barrier between the reader and the story, often called the “fourth wall,” isn't simply broken; it’s intricately woven into the very fabric of the text. This allows you, the reader, to experience not only the unfolding mystery but also the lively banter between the fictional storyteller, Darius, and his actual creator, Asimov. Asimov freely comments on the story’s pacing, discusses common narrative tropes, and even critiques Darius’s investigative methods. This constant literary exchange infuses the book with a deeper, meta-mystery: it’s not just about uncovering who killed Giles Devore, but also a profound exploration of what a mystery novel truly is and the extent to which an author can, or should, intervene in their own creation.
As Darius delves into the world of the convention—exploring its busy panels, crowded hallways, and endless signings—he encounters a vibrant array of characters. There are authors brimming with ego, editors guarding secrets, and fans consumed by their obsessions. Slowly, the various motives for Giles Devore’s death begin to emerge. It becomes clear that Giles was not universally beloved; he had significant professional rivalries, intricate personal entanglements, and secrets of his own that could threaten others. More than one person stood to gain from his sudden disappearance. Darius, despite his charm and boisterous nature, is not your typical hard-boiled detective. He is impulsive, passionate, and frequently sidetracked by his own musings and observations. Yet, it is precisely these qualities that make him an ideal protagonist for this particular kind of story. The core of this mystery isn't the painstaking grind of detection; it’s a much broader inquiry into understanding human behavior, the complex web of motives, and the driving force of ambition—themes that Asimov consistently explored in both his fiction and nonfiction works.
As clues gradually accumulate, Darius begins to focus on Giles’s manuscript-in-progress, suspecting it might hold a controversial secret or a damning revelation. Whispers of plagiarism, hints of blackmail, and the possibility that Giles was on the verge of exposing someone powerful within the close-knit literary world all begin to surface. These interwoven narrative layers provide Asimov with a brilliant opportunity to satirize the publishing industry itself. He playfully pokes fun at its many vanities, its rigid hierarchies, and its often overwhelming commercialism. Throughout this entire process, Asimov’s voice is a constant, humorous presence. He questions Darius’s choices, suggests alternative ways to build suspense, and even engages in mock arguments over the placement of chapter breaks. This provides readers with a rare and genuinely humorous insight into the writing process itself, allowing us to watch a fictional world being built and unravelled while its creator actively debates its construction in real-time.
Eventually, the diverse threads of clues begin to converge. A character who initially seemed minor comes to the forefront, and the circumstances surrounding Giles’s death are reinterpreted with new understanding. The mystery reaches its resolution, not with a dramatic, violent confrontation, but through a thoughtful conversation—an unraveling of intricate motives and precise methods that prioritizes psychology over brute force. Darius Just, always the showman, delivers his final revelation with his characteristic flair, focusing on understanding rather than vengeance.
Yet, while the solution to the crime is satisfying, the novel’s true delight lies in its complex, layered narrative. It functions simultaneously as a compelling whodunit and as a profound commentary on the very genre of whodunits. It is both a detailed character study of Darius Just and a daring structural experiment in narrative. Asimov masterfully uses the framework of a murder mystery not just to entertain his readers, but to delve into the fundamental nature of writing, the concept of authorship, and the elusive idea of narrative control.
In terms of its literary style, Murder at the ABA notably departs from Asimov’s more typical, often sparse prose. This book features more extensive dialogue, deeper introspection, and certainly more digression. However, these digressions are not flaws; they are precisely the point of the entire exercise. The reader is not simply engaged in solving a crime; they are invited to wander through a bustling convention of minds—minds that are real, fictional, critical, and commercial. The ABA convention itself becomes a powerful metaphor for the publishing world: a noisy, multi-layered environment filled with moments of brilliance alongside rampant ego. Darius Just, in many ways, serves as a compelling reflection of Asimov himself—a man who deeply loves ideas, cherishes language, and is never afraid to step directly into a story to guide its direction. While Darius might differ from Asimov in temperament, they share a profound intellectual curiosity and a genuine delight in unraveling the complex motivations that drive human behavior.
Ultimately, Murder at the ABA stands as Asimov's heartfelt homage to the art of storytelling. He expertly allows the reader to see the intricate gears inside the clock while still accurately telling the time. He extends an invitation to readers, encouraging them not only to enjoy the puzzle of the mystery but also to actively question how such a puzzle is constructed. In doing so, he crafts a mystery that is as much about the very craft of fiction as it is about solving a crime. It might not be the most tightly plotted of his many books, nor is it the most suspenseful in a conventional sense. But it is undeniably among his most playful and deeply reflective works. For devoted fans of Asimov, it presents a rare and enjoyable opportunity to observe the master both at work and at play, meticulously dissecting a genre he clearly respects, even as he gleefully tweaks its established conventions. And for anyone seeking a mystery delivered with a knowing wink, Murder at the ABA offers both genuine amusement and profound insight. It serves as a witty reminder that behind every compelling story, there isn't just a killer to be found—there is always a writer, too.
