This Italian jeu d’esprit has all the earmarks of a project conceived one boozy evening by two Dickens fans who had also read the standard titles in detective fiction. I can imagine one saying to the other: “Hey! Why not let all the great detectives of Europe and America try to decide what really happened to Edwin Drood?”

A cold-sober friend should have intervened at that moment, but, help having failed, the authors proceeded to concoct a very odd mixture, including a dose of science-fiction fantasy engineered by the Japanese, some cute observations about Italian traffic jams, a certain amount of simple sexism, and a final twist that will send any Wilkie Collins fan round the bend.

If none of that bothers you, if you find any and every discussion of “Edwin Drood” obsessively compelling, this may be the book for you.

As is supposedly well known to anyone who would consider reading this book, Charles Dickens died suddenly after completing only six numbers (that is, serially published sections of a novel) of “The Mystery of Edwin Drood.” Numerous attempts have been made to complete the work. Many of them have been published, including, Angus Wilson tells us in his highly intelligent introduction to the Penguin edition of “Edwin Drood,” efforts by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Sherlock Holmes and the spirits from beyond the grave with whom Conan Doyle was in touch. Perhaps Fruttero and Lucentini were inspired by this suggestion of spiritualism, since they allow Holmes, with the eager help of Hercule Poirot, to solve their crime using similar methods.

Dickens scholars may argue, as Wilson does, that there is no greater mystery about Edwin Drood’s disappearance within the first six installments than occurs in the first six installments of certain other Dickens novels. Nonetheless, there are enough mysterious aspects to Drood’s disappearance, to the villain’s character and to the obvious disguise of the presumed detective to encourage endless speculation about solutions. This version will join a notable body of literary attempts to resolve the Drood affair, but will not, I think, rank high in the list of possible endings.

Fruttero and Lucentini work it out this way: They bring every male detective they can think of to Rome to take part in an international forum, convened by the Japanese, on “the Completion of Unfinished or Fragmentary Works.” “Edwin Drood” is only one of six cases (including Schubert’s famous symphony) being so ardently concluded.

The six numbers of “Drood” are printed, for the reader, in their entirety. But since the detectives (ranging from Wilkie Collins’ Sargent Cuff to Philip Marlowe and Lew Archer, and including Dostoevski’s detective from “Crime and Punishment” as well as other oddly selected hawkeyes) can hardly be expected to sit around actually reading the Dickens’ chapters, they are allowed to ingest them by something the Japanese have developed called “subliminal imprinting,” at the rate of a number a minute: The detectives “sub-listen.” That Dickens would never have survived under such conditions of reading is no concern of the authors. If one adds to this melange theories about Near Eastern thuggery, related by the authors to the Rushdie case, and certain historical jokes about detectives and their creators, as well as the aforementioned comments on Roman traffic and the perils of sightseeing while subliminally sub-listening to Dickens--this sentence, like “The D. Case,” goes out of control.

It is unclear how many people not fulfilling academic assignments actually read Dickens these days, but for those who do, his art, his dazzling gifts of characterization by dialogue, his delight in extensive descriptions, in short his genius, does not readily lend itself to this sort of derring-do. Indeed, a tone of seriousness, however tongue-in-cheek the project, is essential and has, until now, been observed in any continuation of “Edwin Drood” or discussion of who might have done it.

“It,” of course, is the murder, or disappearance, or apparent murder and/or disappearance of Edwin Drood, nephew to the evil Jasper, fiance to Rosebud, beloved of Jasper, lover (unproclaimed) of Helena Landless, whose twin brother Neville is accused of the murder of Drood. There is a wealth, not to say a superfluity, of characters and motives, and few indications, though many hints, of where Dickens thought he was going with this heavily populated story. The very close twins, Helena and Neville Landless, are clearly the most original of Dickens’ creations in this novel, but all the possibilities inherent in their resemblance and subliminal communication is, oddly enough, ignored by the two Italian authors.

Why bring all these fictional detectives to Rome for a conference or forum? One can hardly imagine a rational answer, and the book gives little help in the matter. Marlowe and Archer do little but long for a drink; most of the others do nothing at all except submit to sub-listening, hold conversations with the driver of their sightseeing bus (who, of course, has views on the matter) and engage in sexual dalliance with the two women assigned to the “Drood” section of the international forum.

There is little parody and less detection. Holmes spends his time mainly in a trance. Poirot employs his little gray cells. Only the end, regrettable in the extreme, is original and, though the ethics of reviewing forbid its description here, nothing can prevent an admirer of Dickens and Wilkie Collins from calling it deplorable.

My suggestion, if this reminder of “The Mystery of Edwin Drood” inspires a reading of it, is to get the Penguin edition and read Angus Wilson’s excellent introduction after finishing the novel.

Leo X is supposed to have remarked that had God consulted him before embarking upon the creation he, Leo, would have recommended something less complex. I share the sentiment, and stop only to add that had Signors Fruttero and Lucentini invited Miss Marple to their convention, she would have dismissed the whole performance as an impossible fiction, and sent them all happily on their way with a great saving of time and energy. — Caroline Heilbrun for Los Angeles Times