Harvey Turpin, Private Investigator
Nova Loncastre, 1924
Harvey Turpin wallowed in misery, a ceaseless cascade of shadows the past few weeks. The Private Investigator found himself adrift in the desolation of a caseless existence since his last case—pursuing the murder of a wealthy youth that, upon the final act, revealed itself not as a homicide but a saga spun by a duplicitous ingenue. Harvey, now ensnared in the coils of his solitude, sought solace in the amber embrace of intoxication, a habitual descent into the abyss each time a puzzle found its solution. It was the monotonous cadence of his life—a symphony of drinking, investigating, and solving. Rinse and repeat.
By the way, the P.I.’s glass could use some rinsing, but we’re not here to discuss his lack of cleaning habits. No, we’re here to tell a story that you know how it begins, how it will evolve, and how it will end. After all, aren’t all noir stories the same?
“I need a case!” Harvey’s voice, a gravelly rasp, echoed through the dimly lit office, punctuating the heavy silence. His fist, weathered and worn, collided with the table’s surface, a thunderous declaration of his desperation.
The vacant whiskey bottle, a hollow witness to Harvey’s futile search for purpose, tumbled from the cluttered table to the unforgiving floor. The glass, teetering on the precipice of a shattering demise, would have followed suit if the P.I. hadn’t intervened with a speed that defied his usual inebriated sluggishness. One might question the agility of this overweight, booze-soaked investigator, but the amber nectar still clung to the glass.
In a fluid motion, Harvey drained the remnants of his liquid ally. A perfunctory knock echoed through the room, disrupting the melancholy solitude. Just as he readied himself to hurl the glass to the ground, a concoction of frustration and scarcity fuelling his rage, an unexpected interruption barged through the door.
Needless to say, it was a femme fatale with a new case. After all, if it weren’t, there’d be no story.
The blonde dame draped herself in scarlet satin, a hue that whispered danger and allure. A scent, a concoction of expensive perfume and the distinct aroma of wealth clung to her like a phantom of opulence. Yet, her presence in the dingy office stood out like a diamond in a coal mine. Smudged mascara adorned her eyes, a silent testament to the clandestine turmoil beneath her composed exterior—a delicate veneer cracking under the weight of concealed tears.
Harvey didn’t know his life was mere fiction created by someone else with deadlines—yet?—but he knew when a new case had just entered his office. After all, most of his cases had started with a rich blonde woman in a red dress entering his office. And more importantly, most of his cases ended similarly: with a somewhat happy ending. Will this be like the others? When I was writing, I had no idea. Now, I’m editing, and I can assure you: it was a pale imitation.
“Help me, please,” implored the blonde, her crimson gown a stark contrast against the muted hues of Harvey’s world. In moments prior, words had stumbled from Harvey’s lips like a drunkard’s stagger, but now he stood transformed, a veneer of respectability settling upon him like the smoke in a jazz-filled speakeasy. Should the dame keep her distance, she’d remain blissfully unaware of the whiskey coursing through his veins.
Gallantly, the P.I. extended an invitation, offering the plushness of a chair, a meagre oasis in the sea of dilapidation that was his office.
“How may I be of service?” He inquired, guiding her to the seat while he retreated to the other side of the worn but stunning desk. This piece, a relic of Harvey’s lineage, spoke of the only legacy the Turping family possessed—a testament to bygone grandeur.
A delicate tissue extended toward her, a courtesy from the seasoned investigator. She accepted it with a tentative grace, yet its pristine whiteness remained untouched. Fear clung to her as if the fragility of her makeup mirrored a more profound vulnerability she dared not reveal.
She was afraid because, as you all may imagine, the woman hides a secret Harvey will uncover during his investigation.
“Please, tell...”
The blond interrupted Harvey with her story.
After all, this story can only have a max of (roughly) 4,000 words, which doesn’t leave much space for world and character building; it’s one or the other.
“My name is Blake...”
Think Blake Lively, although the name came after searching for “femme fatale names.”
“...and someone murdered my husband last night,” Blake uttered, her voice a sombre melody devoid of tears. Harvey, seasoned in the art of reading people, dissected Blake’s every nuance as she unveiled the news. His gut, that primal compass forged in the fires of countless investigations, howled with the certainty that shadows lurked beneath the surface.
“Why not trot to the bulls with this?” Harvey probed, his gaze never leaving Blake’s face.
“I can’t,” she replied, a tearless sorrow clinging to her like the scent of trouble on a moonlit street.
“Why the hesitance?” Harvey persisted.
In response, the golden-haired dame, her makeup a testament to clandestine struggles, shut her eyes. It was as if, in that brief moment of darkness, she sought fortitude to unravel the grim yarn she was about to spin.
In reality, she was merely rehearsing her story one last time.
“You see, I got a hunch the flatfoots are in on this one,” Blake spilled in a torrent of confession. It was as if the truth held a chill too bone-deep to reveal gradually, demanding to be laid bare all at once. No more tiptoeing around the shadows; she chose a plunge into the heart of the dark pool.
The fragrance of Blake’s sweet perfume lingered faintly in the air, overpowered by the stench of impending turmoil. Harvey, a gumshoe marred by a checkered past with the boys in blue, caught wind of trouble like a hound on the scent. The history between the P.I. and the coppers was etched in ugly lines, a tale tattooed on the underbelly of noir nights.
As in all noir stories, and as in all noir stories, the investigator is also a war veteran with PTSD; wouldn’t it be nice to say that’s a problem from the past?
Harvey grasped the questions swirling in the aftermath of Blake’s revelation. Yet, fear clawed at him—not the cold dread of an investigation’s shadows but the visceral dread of the police’s retribution, a punishment dealt out in dark alleys and dimly lit precinct corridors.
“Spill it, sweetheart. Why’d the flatfeet snuff out your old man?”
Blake fixed her gaze into the depths of Harvey’s eyes, a gaze that harboured secrets and shadows. “Because my husband is... was Bryan Reynolds.”
Yes, Bryan Reynolds. Since we’re down this path, let’s go down hard.
A hushed tension lingered in the room as Harvey’s inquisitive gaze fixed upon Blake, their silence an unspoken agreement to unravel the enigma veiled in her tears.
“So, spill it, sweetheart. How’d you stumble upon the lifeless husk?” Harvey’s gravelly voice cut through the still air, his chair creaking as he leaned into the conversation.
Blake’s eyes, brimming with unshed tears, narrated a tale of a routine disrupted.
“Every morning, I rise before the sun kisses the sky. Bryan, he can’t stand the sight of me bare-faced, so I put on makeup before he wakes,” a solitary tear escaped her gaze, a harbinger of deeper sorrows.
Harvey’s thoughts danced with suspicion, “The dame’s playing a tune, and I’m trying to catch the rhythm.”
“You found him cold and stiff. Just the two of you?”
Blake, her eyes downcast, concealed a subtle smirk beneath her sorrowful facade, “Yes.”
Harvey leaned back, fingers tapping an impatient rhythm on the worn armrest, “Any strange noises in the night?”
The room hung in a transient quiet, Blake’s feigned grief a shadow cast upon the dimly lit office. Harvey, however, sensed the undercurrents, the unspoken truths whispering in the dance between shadows and secrets.
“Maybe someone tiptoeing around?” Harvey pressed.
Blake lifted her eyes, masking her true emotions, “No, not a sound.”
Harvey’s instincts were screaming, but there were so many, and they were so loud he couldn’t understand what they were trying to say.
That’s some inventive imagery right here.
Before Harvey could press further, Blake interjected with a revelation as sharp as the blade of a switchblade.
“Oh, something slipped my mind. Last night was different,” she cast a gaze beyond Harvey as if peering into the shadows of the past. “As I mentioned, Bryan, he can’t stand the sight of me bare-faced, so I put on makeup before he wakes. Not only that, I’m usually up before him and turn in after him. But his business has its own rules. Sometimes, he pulls an all-nighter at the office. When that happens, he gives me a ring to let me know I can start my beauty sleep because he’ll be sleeping at the grindstone. Last night, that happened,” Her tone carried a mixture of shock and self-blame as if she should’ve unravelled the mystery sooner.
Harvey’s lips curled into a knowing smile. The pieces were sliding into place, “Yet, you still woke up beside him,” he mused, the gears of deduction turning in his mind. “First time that happened?”
Blake, confusion etched across her features, nodded hesitantly, “Yeah... first time.”
Harvey’s fingers traced the faint outline of stubble on his chin. The case was unveiling itself like the pages of a sultry novel. “Well, ain’t that a twist,” he muttered, eyes narrowing in recognition of a familiar pattern. He’d danced this dance before, and he knew the rhythm well.
That’s funny and somewhat ironic because even the mastermind behind the story doesn’t know how it’ll unfold since, unlike the protagonist, that’s his first case.
“How much sand’s left in the hourglass before the stiffs start piling in?” Harvey’s voice cut through the thick air; his gaze locked onto the dame in red.
Her eyes flicked to the dainty timepiece clinging to her wrist like a secret, “Got about half an hour if Lady Luck’s sharing a smoke.”
Harvey’s mind clicked like a loaded revolver. “What’s the sprint time from here to the house?”
“Ten minutes.”
Without a second’s hesitation, Harvey sprang from his perch, coat billowing like the cape of a midnight crusader and hat yanked low over his eyes, “Move it, sweetheart. Clock’s ticking, and we ain’t got time for a leisurely stroll.”
The duo bolted, each footfall echoing through the night. It was the inaugural waltz for Blake, catching a whiff of Harvey’s liquid courage while Harvey, for the first time, sensed the silk of Blake’s skin brushing against his own. She wore an air of indifference, but Harvey was knee-deep in the river of anything but.
Harvey and Blake tore through the city, hurtling towards the Reynolds abode with the urgency of a ticking bomb. Their cars devoured the asphalt, engines growling like caged beasts.
In a mere eight minutes, they screeched to a halt outside the looming mansion. Harvey skillfully parked while Blake, perched in the passenger seat, waited to slip past the gates. No one challenged her; a mere glance from Blake held sway over those who knew better than to question her. Every worker under Mr. Reynolds knew the score, recognizing the silhouette of Harvey Turpin—no ordinary man but the city’s most renowned P.I. The collective hush among them spoke volumes—something colossal was afoot.
“Body’s still under wraps... for now,” Harvey murmured as he strode into the mansion, Blake trailing behind, “Otherwise, this joint would be tighter than a drum.”
A sly grin crept across Blake’s face, a revelation of understanding. For the first time, she glimpsed why Harvey Turpin was more than a name, “We got lucky.”
It’s not luck; it’s the word limit.
“Lead the way. Time’s scarce,” Harvey commanded.
Off-duty, Harvey was discontented, insecure, and inebriated. Yet, on the prowl for a case...
Blake eased the door open just enough to grant passage. Despite the empty corridor, caution lingered. Harvey forged ahead, Blake in tow, the door sealing shut behind them. Her ear pressed against the door, straining for any telltale sounds. Silence reigned. A soft exhale of relief escaped her lips. Turning to face the room, preserved in the same state she’d left it before the visit to Harvey’s office, Blake found the lone divergence in the figure of Harvey.
The scent-of-whiskey detective hovered over Bryan Reynolds’ lifeless form, immersed in meticulous note-taking. Blake treaded lightly towards him; Harvey’s focus on the deceased husband was so intent she hesitated to break his concentration.
Actually, she was trying to get close enough to read the notes without Harvey noticing what she was doing. But Harvey was on a case, and as such, nothing got past him.
As Blake started to decipher the scrawled letters, he snapped the notebook shut and turned toward her, inquiring, “Do you reckon someone paid a visit? Is this crime scene compromised?”
Harvey’s celerity caught Blake off guard. One moment, she started to delve into the notebook’s secrets; the next, the P.I. resumed his questioning.
“That’s the allure, isn’t it? People underestimate you at first, but then you work your magic, and everything changes. I must admit, I’m impressed. You played the part well enough to deceive me,” ruminated Blake to no other than herself.
“No,” Blake responded, a shade uncertain if she genuinely grasped the query.
“And notice anything absent?”
Blake surveyed the room. Now was her time to shine as an adept actress.
“Nothing comes to mind,” she replied, feigning a search for a phantom presence. “Could it have been a robbery?”
“I can’t say for certain. But if something’s amiss, my mind may lean toward a heist,” Harvey dissembled.
Not that he knows the answer for sure; if he knew, the story would end here. Why drag the reader if he could explain everything already?
Blake had drilled that act tirelessly. It was her spotlight, her chance to break free by diverting Harvey’s focus elsewhere. Like a magician, she needed to captivate Harvey’s attention with one hand while the real sleight of hand occurred with the other.
“Hold on,” she interrupted, fixing her gaze on a painting. “This ain’t right. I mean, look,” Blake beckoned Harvey over, “it’s all askew. Leaning too far to the left.”
Got it? It’s not “right” because it’s too much to the left... Sorry! And, yeah, there’ll be a safe behind the painting.
Without hesitation, Harvey acted. He shifted the painting aside, unveiling the safe. The safe wasn’t gaping wide; it stood slightly ajar, revealing evidence of unauthorized access.
The detective yanked the door fully open, only to find the safe barren. He pivoted towards Blake, demanding, “What the hell did your old man stash in here?”
“I don’t know. Bryan never let me in on the secret!” Blake’s eyes welled with a tearless sorrow. “All I know is what he spilled.”
“And what did he spill?” Harvey restrained the urge to unleash his frustration upon her.
“That whatever he tucked away in that safe was his most prized possession.”
Harvey’s mind raced through a myriad of possibilities, but the truth remained elusive.
If he’d focused more on the sentimental and less on the monetary value, the P.I. would’ve solved the case much faster. But Harvey is from another time, so he’d have to go through all the steps before thinking about the correct answer. And even when he discovers what it was, he’ll fail to understand why everything happened because of that small thing. Maybe in the future, he’ll understand. Now, that’s an idea for the last book of a collection of ten books focused on the character.
“You swear you don’t know what...”
But Harvey’s question hung in the air, a mystery left incomplete, disrupted by the sudden entrance of a maid. She glanced at Harvey, who had a firm grip on Blake, a storm brewing in his eyes, and then her gaze fell upon Mr. Reynolds’ lifeless form. The scream that erupted from her throat was the best she could muster. Amidst her cries, Harvey released Blake with a muttered curse.
Ten heartbeats later, three formidable men materialized. Harvey, now puffing on a cigarette, watched as Blake rushed to the maid’s side, desperately seeking refuge. The trio assessed the grim scene, and upon laying eyes on the deceased, they readied themselves to pounce on Harvey.
As fists launched into the air, one of the men accused, “So, this is your play, Turpin? You off ’em, then point fingers elsewhere?”
Enraged but outnumbered, Harvey chose silence, deflecting blows as best as possible. Before long, reinforcements flooded the room. Blake and the maid had vanished from sight. The onslaught ceased upon the arrival of Mr. Reynolds’ right-hand man. Harvey, now bleeding profusely onto the opulent carpet, sat up.
“Well, well, well,” Danielle Totti drawled as he surveyed the chaos. “Harvey Turpin. To what do we owe the honour?”
Harvey, gingerly retrieving another cigarette from his pocket, began to smoke, rising slowly and deliberately. The men surrounding him tensed, fingers twitching near triggers, suspecting he might reach for a gun. Neither Harvey nor Totti intervened to prevent a potential hail of bullets. Totti, keen to witness Harvey’s move, needed to gauge his mettle against the family.
As he stood, Harvey gestured towards Mr. Reynolds. Without concealing a smirk, Totti directed his gaze at the fallen boss. “Was it you?”
Harvey maintained his silence.
“I figured,” the right-hand man declared, then signalled to the men, “Leave us.”
The assembly of men hesitated, not because they suspected Harvey as the perpetrator; everyone in that room knew the investigator. Some were his drinking comrades, others clients from cases gone by, and one even shared a Christmas in Harvey’s home. Their pause wasn’t a testament to distrust in him but born from the vacuum left by Mr. Reynolds’ demise. Following Totti’s command would implicitly hand over leadership to him, and in that room of ambition, everyone harboured desires for power.
Totti, prepared to bellow his directive once more, was abruptly silenced by the distant wail of approaching police sirens. Anger etched across his face, he turned to Harvey, feeling betrayed. While he was confident the investigator wouldn’t have killed Mr. Reynolds, involving the authorities was a breach of an unspoken code.
“What did you do?” Totti’s fury seethed. Betrayal lingered in his voice, a sense of disbelief that Harvey would stoop so low.
“Come on, you know I’m smarter than that. Odds are the cops will pat you all on the back, offering me a week’s stay in the joint with sparse meals,” Harvey’s thoughts drifted to who might have orchestrated this trap, “Blake? If she wanted the police, she’d have gone straight to them. The maid? Would she act without orders? Someone set a snare, and I walked right into it.”
“I hope you’re speaking the truth,” Totti threatened.
“You all know I am.”
Agreement rippled through the room—every soul except Totti, whose nod remained conspicuously absent.
Enters Harvey’s besties: the cops.
“All right, all right, all right, what do we have here?”
Blake, Reynolds, Totti, why not a little McConaughey?
The bedroom echoed emptiness. As the clamour of footsteps hurried downstairs to conceal whatever secrets needed hiding before the impending police intrusion, only Totti, Harvey, and the lifeless form of Mr. Reynolds lingered in the room. Though Harvey still bore the marks of a recent scuffle, Totti had granted him a brief reprieve in the bathroom for a makeshift cleanse.
“O’Keeffe, what brings the chief of police to this neck of the woods?” Totti inquired, attempting to mirror the intimidation once wielded by Mr. Reynolds.
“Someone dialled us up,” the cop dismissed Totti, his tone dismissive. “Now, every time there’s a stiff, there you are.” He directed his question to Harvey, wielding suspicion like a baton. “Why is that?”
“People know I’m better at this than you are,” Harvey retorted with a grin.
O’Keeffe swung his baton into Harvey’s midsection. As the investigator doubled over, gasping for breath, the cop leaned in and murmured, “Finally nabbed you.”
“What do we have here?” O’Keeffe strolled over to the bed. After a cursory examination of the deceased, he declared, “Looks cut and dry. Our detective here was attempting to craft another case for himself. The missus and the maid stumbled upon him mid-escape. He went for the wife and forgot about the maid. She phoned us. But you,” he levelled a gaze at Totti, “got to him first.”
“That’s...”
“Sure you want to take that route?”
Harvey maintained his silence; he knew prison awaited him, and words wouldn’t alter that fate.
“Today’s a good day,” O’Keeffe commented while handcuffing Harvey. “Best of luck,” he directed toward Totti.
Totti tried to mask his anxiety, but the “good luck” wish hinted at the impending struggle. With Mr. Reynolds gone, even the law would vie for the spoils. Totti acknowledged he lacked the means to prevail, so he chose flight, leaving the past behind without a backward glance.
There should be a whole scene of Harvey in jail here, but no planning means running out of words too quickly. So, pretend you read about the P.I. getting beaten, tortured, and going days without food and sleep. Also, know that he was thinking about the case and almost solved everything—only one missing piece.
“Harvey, they cut you loose,” a cop declared.
Harvey might have dismissed it as another ruse if not for the lugubrious cast on his face. “Appreciate it,” he muttered, summoning every ounce of resolve to distance himself from that wretched pit.
Traversing the city’s grimy streets, Harvey returned to the office. The door creaked open, revealing a dishevelled room with files scattered like autumn leaves. There, perched on his chair, legs nonchalantly propped on the desk, was Blake.
“Quite the leisurely stroll,” she quipped.
“I had to make a quick stop,” Harvey replied, brandishing a half-drained whisky bottle.
“Is that how you commemorate freedom?”
“No,” he mused, taking a measured sip, “That’s how I mourn solving a case.”
Wow, that was excellent writing! Four thousand words and only two lines worth remembering; no wonder it’s all self-publishing around here...
Harvey eased into the chair that still bore the lingering warmth of Blake’s presence. A deliberate sip of whisky hung in the air as he took a moment to assess the room. “I saw it... I saw it all,” he said, the words emerging like smoke rings.
Blake, now robbed of words, met his gaze, awaiting the unravelling of the enigma.
“Solving a mystery is more than just stitching the pieces together. It’s about digging into the why, the meat of the matter,” Harvey continued, the whisky in his hand becoming both confession and communion.
His eyes, seasoned with the shadows of countless revelations, held Blake’s gaze. “The bloodstain on Reynolds’ pillow, lips painted red in death. Poison. A slow dance with demise. You knew, you heard, yet you chose silence. A wager, I’d guess, that he’d choke if you turned him just right. But alone, you couldn’t erase the trace. That’s where the maid entered the stage. A symphony orchestrated for the cops, painting a damning masterpiece. You made sure they’d dance to your tune, enough evidence to send the family to the gallows.”
Blake’s stoicism cracked, tears tracing paths down her cheeks.
“The question that claws at me is the why. Why tear down a criminal with an iron fist? Despite his illicit pursuits, Reynolds maintained a semblance of order in the chaos. No wars, no strife. Moreover, he loved you genuinely. He didn’t spend nights with another woman; he toiled for you...”
“Will you tell the cops?” Blake interjected, her fear palpable.
“Only if you unveil the why,” Harvey asserted, sensing the need for a truth he couldn’t uncover alone.
A passport flew across the table, landing in Harvey’s grasp. Unfolding it, the pieces of the puzzle fell into place.
“He wasn’t a saint,” Blake confessed. “The city believed him to be, but he was the invisible devil, the one masked in shadows.”
“When did you realize?” Harvey inquired.
“I always knew.”
“Why didn’t you act sooner? I would’ve helped you.”
“No one believed me. Not you, not anyone,” Blake’s tears bore the weight of an untold burden.
“Go,” Harvey conceded, his promise echoing in the stillness of the room. “I won’t breathe a word.”
A smile graced Blake’s lips as she rose, kissed Harvey on the forehead, and vanished into the night.
Yes, that’s the end. The passport was in the safe, but why had Blake not stolen it before? And the maid, who is she to the femme fatale? And what did Bryan do to her? If only I had more words...
The amber liquid danced in the glass, a silent companion to Harvey’s contemplation as Blake faded into the night. The question lingered like smoke in a dimly lit room, haunting him in the aftermath of the unravelling mystery. “Would I have tread the same path in her worn-out shoes?” he muttered to the whisky, a confidante for a weary detective.
In the muted glow of his office, Harvey, the relentless investigator, dissected the query, letting each passing second etch its response on the canvas of his thoughts. The hands of the clock ticked away, measuring the heartbeat of the room as the P.I. delved into the recesses of his moral code.
Half an hour, a span that echoed with the distant echoes of footsteps in a deserted alley. The detective, a silhouette against Venetian blinds, finally whispered his verdict, “I wouldn’t.” The words hung in the air, a declaration etched in the nuanced language of shadows.
The remaining contents of the bottle embraced solitude, the burn echoing the sombre melody of contemplation. A requiem for choices made and paths diverged. In the quiet aftermath, Harvey, the architect of truths, embarked on the sacred journey of mourning, the whisky-fuelled sacrament to bid farewell to a case that had unravelled the tapestry of secrets.
Drinking, investigating, solving.
Rinse and repeat.