Harvey Turpin, Private Investigator, in “The Visitor in the Mist”
Nova Loncastre, 1924
In the dimly lit office of Harvey Turpin, Private Investigator, the air hung heavy with the scent of stale cigarette smoke and the faint aroma of whiskey. The room was shrouded in shadows, save for the dim glow of a solitary desk lamp casting eerie flickers across the worn wooden furniture.
Harvey sat slouched behind his desk, his trench coat draped carelessly over the back of his chair. His weathered fedora pulled low over his brow, cast a shadow across his rugged features. With a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, he absently swirled a glass of amber liquid in his hand, the ice cubes clinking softly against the sides.
He hadn’t seen a decent case cross his desk since the last one. Ever since he’d cracked the last one, the days had blurred together in a haze of smoke and liquor. It was a familiar pattern for Harvey—a relentless cycle of chasing leads, drowning his frustrations in alcohol, and ultimately emerging victorious against the odds. Drinking, investigating, and solving. Rinse and repeat. But lately, the victories felt hollow, the thrill of the chase dulled by the weight of solitude.
If you haven’t had a chance to read his past cases, you’re not alone. It’s only available in my newsletter (GiovaniCesconetto.Substack.com), which hasn’t hit bestseller status yet. The story follows Harvey Turpin, a classic 1920s noir detective who drinks and smokes too much. He may put up a tough exterior, but he has a heart of gold and always solves the case. What sets this story apart and adds a unique twist to the familiar cliché—or is it a trope?—it’s me, the omniscient narrator! Let’s see what I can brew this time.
As he took a long drag from his cigarette, the bitter taste of nicotine mingling with the smoky tang of whiskey, Harvey couldn’t shake the gnawing sense of restlessness that gnawed at his insides. In the dim recesses of his mind, he knew the case would come along eventually, but until then, he had created a purgatory for himself—trapped in a never-ending cycle of waiting and wanting, with nothing to do but drown his sorrows in the bottom of a glass.
Yes, “the” case. It’ll make sense. Trust me.
With a grunt of frustration, the PI lurched forward, his knuckles white as they clenched the edge of his desk. His muscles tensed, coiling like a spring ready to snap as he fought the urge to unleash his fury upon the inanimate wood before him. Every fibre of his being screamed for action, for purpose, for the adrenaline rush of a new case to sink his teeth into.
But before he could unleash his pent-up aggression upon the unsuspecting furniture, the creak of the office door shattered the suffocating silence. A sliver of light sliced through the dim interior, casting a spotlight on the figure that stood in the doorway—a vision in red amidst the murky shadows.
A blonde femme fatale, her crimson dress clinging to her curves like a second skin, sauntered into the room with an air of confidence that belied the uncertainty in her eyes. Behind her, a shadow flitted across the threshold, disappearing into the darkness as quickly as it had appeared.
Harvey’s gaze narrowed, his steely eyes fixated on the woman before him. She didn’t belong in his dingy office; that much was certain. Yet there was something familiar about her, a nagging sense of recognition that tugged at the corners of his mind. The case had arrived.
“I was wondering when you’d pay me a visit,” Harvey growled, his voice a low rumble reverberating through the cramped space. His body remained coiled like a spring, poised for action despite the tension that radiated from his every pore.
“The cops?” The woman’s voice sliced through the smoky air like a switchblade, her words laced with a bitterness born of frustration and disdain. She paced the room, her footsteps echoing off the cracked linoleum floor as she cast a wary glance over her shoulder. “They’re about as useful as a broken clock in a house of mirrors.”
Her words hung heavy in the air, the silence that followed pregnant with unspoken truths and simmering resentment. In the dim light of the office, her face was a mask of defiance, the set of her jaw a testament to her determination to seek justice outside the confines of the law.
Please cut me some slack. I have a limited word count to tell the story. Trust the narrative. Embrace the gaps.
“The detective’s got dreams of climbing the political ladder, aiming for that district attorney’s seat,” the woman’s voice cut through the smoke-filled room, her words tinged with bitterness and a simmering rage that threatened to spill over. She paced the worn floorboards, her steps quick and purposeful, as if each one brought her closer to some elusive truth. “But the DA? He’s set his sights even higher—he’s got his eye on the mayor’s office. And the mayor? Well, he’s got grander ambitions. He’s gunning for the governorship. So they are framing the first coloured person they found to have a quick resolution so everyone can climb the ladder.”
A hundred years later, we still can’t say that bias, bad policing, disrespectful language, and racism aren’t a factor in society. I guess the more things change, the more they stay the same…
Her words hung in the air like a cloud of cigarette smoke, thick and suffocating. The weight of her accusation settled over the room like a shroud, the injustice of it all palpable in the dim light. She fought to keep her composure, her voice cracking with the strain of suppressed emotion.
“Find my boy!” Her words were a desperate plea, a cry torn from the depths of a mother’s shattered heart. Her eyes, pools of anguish and determination, bore into mine with an intensity that chilled me to the bone. “I refuse to believe he’s nothing but another body floating in the river!”
Her voice wavered, betraying the raw emotion bubbling beneath the surface. It was the kind of anguish that etches lines into a person’s soul, leaving scars that never fully heal. Yet, amidst the pain, there was a flicker of defiance, a refusal to accept the cruel hand fate had dealt her.
The story became intense quite rapidly, eh?
“I’ll do everything in my power to assist you, Mrs. Lane,” Harvey’s voice was steady, his gaze unwavering as he met hers. In the dim light of the office, his sincerity shone like a beacon amidst the shadows, a glimmer of hope in a world steeped in darkness.
Her eyes, wide with desperation, searched his face for reassurance. In them, he saw not just hope but a flicker of something more profound—a stubborn refusal to accept the worst. “You don’t believe he’s gone, do you?” Her words were barely a whisper, but they hung heavy in the air, pregnant with the weight of her grief.
“No, Mrs. Lane, I don’t,” Harvey’s response was firm, his voice a low rumble that resonated with conviction. He held her gaze, his own eyes reflecting the resolve that burned within him like a flame in the night.
And then, without warning, she was in his arms, her body pressed against his in a desperate embrace. It was a gesture he had experienced countless times before, yet each time, it left him feeling unsettled, a knot of conflicting emotions tightening in his chest.
He blamed her perfume for the intoxicating rush that flooded his senses, but deep down, he knew the truth—it was the feeling of being her saviour, her last hope, that left him reeling. Despite knowing better, he couldn’t help but revel in the role fate had cast him in—the hero of her story.
“Can we trust what the papers are saying?” Harvey’s question hung in the air like the smoke from his ever-present cigarette, a subtle reminder of the murky truth lurking behind the headlines. He released Mrs. Lane from his embrace, the warmth of her touch fading like a fleeting dream as he stepped back, his expression guarded.
He attempted to mask the flicker of satisfaction that danced in his eyes, the faint curve of his lips betraying the thrill of being cast as the hero once more. But try as he might, the facade crumbled beneath the weight of his own pride, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth despite his best efforts to suppress it.
He’d obviously fail to feel like the hero because he’s the main character, and the title has his name. All the titles have his name. The first one is “Harvey Turpin, Private Investigator,” and all others are “Harvey Turpin, Private Investigator, in...” Like this one, “Harvey Turpin, Private Investigator, in ‘The Visitor in the Mist’”.
In the dim light of the office, Harvey’s features were etched in shadow, the lines of his face hardened by years of chasing shadows and unravelling mysteries. Yet, for a fleeting moment, there was a glimmer of something softer in his eyes—a hint of vulnerability beneath the stoic facade, a reminder that even the most hardened of men longed for a taste of glory.
“Until they slapped the cuffs on him,” Mrs. Lane’s words were weighted with the burden of uncertainty, her voice a weary echo in the dimly lit room. Harvey’s response was a resigned exhale, a weary sigh that hung in the air like the smoke from his cigarette.
He had anticipated her admission, the inevitable confirmation of his suspicions. With a sense of grim determination, he knew there was only one thing to do—solve the case and unearth the truth buried beneath layers of deceit and betrayal.
I guess that’s two things. No wonder I’m a writer and not a NASA engineer.
In the shadows, his silhouette was a stark contrast to the flickering glow of the streetlight outside, his form a testament to the relentless pursuit of justice that defined his existence. With a nod of grim acceptance, he silently vowed to confront the darkness head-on, to shine a light on the secrets that lurked in the shadows.
“I’ll handle the matter, Mrs. Lane,” Harvey declared, his words as steely as the glint in his eye. “But when it comes time to settle accounts, who’s footing the bill? You or your husband?”
Mrs. Lane faltered, caught off guard by the unexpected turn in the conversation. Before she could muster a response, Harvey pressed on, his tone unyielding.
“Or perhaps,” he added, a hint of irony colouring his words, “the tab falls on the one you’re so eager to see returned.”
Oh, plot twist!
“You’ve stumbled into quite the unfortunate situation,” Harvey mused, his voice low and gravelly as he circled the worn expanse of his great-grandfather’s desk. It stood as the lone bastion of elegance amidst the clutter of his dingy office, a relic of a bygone era.
He paused, his gaze lingering on the polished wood as if searching for answers hidden within its grain. “I’d barely closed the lid on my last case when whispers of yours began to drift through the city’s underbelly,” he continued, his words measured and deliberate. “So, begrudgingly, I set aside my liquid comforts and decided to take a gamble. I knew, sooner or later, fate would lead your troubles straight to my door.”
Harvey may not know he’s just a character, but he’s aware that every high-profile case, sooner or later, finds him. If he were religious, he’d say it was divine intervention. But because he’s not, he thinks it’s because he’s a damn good investigator—which isn’t that far from the truth.
Mrs. Lane’s silence enveloped the room, a palpable tension hanging heavy in the air as she regarded Harvey with a mixture of admiration and trepidation. The pudgy PI stood before her, an unlikely hero shrouded in the haze of cigarette smoke that permeated his office. Despite his unassuming appearance, there was a quiet confidence in his demeanour that belied his outward appearance.
“I wasted no time,” Harvey declared, his words cutting through the silence like a knife. His smile, tinged with a hint of satisfaction, illuminated the dimly lit room. “The night the whispers reached my ears, I was already on the trail. And it’s a good thing I was. The same night, the mist rolled in, shrouding your misdeeds in secrecy.”
Mrs. Lane’s emotions churned within her like a tempest, a whirlwind of fear and uncertainty threatening to engulf her. She longed to flee, to escape the piercing gaze of the man before her. But as indecision gripped her heart, she found herself paralyzed, unable to move or speak.
At that moment, surrounded by the suffocating weight of her own guilt, Mrs. Lane realized that she was trapped—caught in the web of lies she and her husband had spun, with no way out but to face the consequences of their actions.
“The mist,” Harvey drawled, his voice a low rumble that echoed in the dimly lit room, “it’s a curious thing, Mrs. Lane. It blankets the city like a shroud, concealing the sins of the night beneath its cloak.”
He paused, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the air. “But the mist is more than just a weather phenomenon,” he continued, his gaze piercing through the swirling tendrils of smoke that danced around him. “It’s a harbinger of secrets, a silent witness to the deeds done in the shadows.”
As he spoke, the room seemed to grow darker, the oppressive atmosphere pressing down on them like a heavyweight. “So you see, Mrs. Lane,” Harvey concluded, his voice a whisper that barely carried across the space between them, “the mist is important because…”
It’s in the title, but I’m sure I’ll concoct a better excuse that serves the story.
“...it means the night was thick with moisture, the kind that seeps into your bones and leaves you chilled to the marrow,” Harvey explained, his voice a low murmur that filled the cramped office. “And that’s when you and your husband pulled off a clever trick for a couple of rookies.”
He paced the room, his footsteps echoing off the peeling wallpaper. “You thought you were clever, using the damp soil to create a trail from the window to the woods,” he continued, his eyes glinting with a steely resolve. “But you made one fatal mistake—you forgot that all the ground was soaked through, leaving behind a telltale trail that led straight back to your doorstep.”
So, better than simply having Harvey state, “The mist is important because it’s in the title,” eh?
As he spoke, the truth hung heavy in the air, casting a pall over the room. Harvey’s words were a damning indictment, a reminder that even the most cunning criminals were no match for his keen eye and relentless determination.
One of Mrs. Lane’s trembling hands rose to cover her quivering lips while the other brushed away the tears that threatened to spill from her haunted eyes. Meanwhile, Harvey continued his methodical circuit around the desk; his footsteps measured and deliberate in the dimly lit room.
“When the moon hung high, the world slept, or so I believed,” Harvey’s voice cut through the heavy silence like a razor, each word dripping with accusation. “I witnessed your clandestine activities unfold beneath the cloak of darkness. I saw you and your husband slip from the confines of your estate, burdened with some dark secret. And in the stillness of the woods, I heard the plaintive cry of an innocent soul.”
A cold smile tugged at the corners of Harvey’s lips as he recounted his discovery, his eyes ablaze with a fierce determination. “From that moment, I delved into the depths of your deception,” he continued, his tone as sharp as shattered glass. “And what I unearthed was a tangled web of lies and deceit, woven to conceal the truth of your debts.”
Mrs. Lane opened her mouth to speak, but Harvey was quick to interject, his gaze piercing as he confronted her head-on. “If redemption is what you seek, then confession is your only salvation,” he declared, his voice as cold and unforgiving as the depths of the river. With a casual gesture, he poured himself a glass of amber liquid, the sound of whisky splashing against the glass the only interruption in the heavy silence.
“So, Mrs. Lane,” Harvey’s words hung in the air like a guillotine blade, each syllable heavy with finality. “To whom shall I send the bill? To you? Your husband? Or perhaps to the child whose innocence you’ve traded to pay off your sins?”
Mrs. Lane turned around without saying a word. What do you say when your life is over?
Do you see what I did there? I have no idea what one says when one’s life is over, so I used my ignorance in my favour to write a beautiful line. Ignorance is bliss, apparently. Also, how self-confident do you have to be to go to the best PI in town and think you can fool him? Especially when you are committing your first crime! Jeez! They aren’t the smartest of the bunch, eh?
Harvey savoured the burn of whisky as Mrs. Lane retreated into the shadows, her figure fading like a wisp of smoke in the night. At the doorway, her husband lingered, a spectre in the dim light, awaiting her departure with a stoic resolve that mirrored Harvey’s own.
A faint smile played across Harvey’s lips, though it went unnoticed by the man at the door as if it were a phantom of some bygone era. With a nod of acknowledgment, Harvey watched in silence as the couple disappeared into the darkness, leaving behind only the echo of their footsteps on the worn floorboards.
With a heavy sigh, Harvey settled into his chair, the weight of his recent victories pressing down on him like a leaden cloak. It was a familiar ritual, this dance with despair, a melancholy waltz that haunted him in the quiet hours of the night.
But tonight, the sorrow felt deeper, the loss more profound. For while Harvey had closed the books on two cases, only one had yielded the coin he so desperately needed. And in the unforgiving world of a private investigator, victories were measured not in justice served but in bills paid.
Do you feel cheated because I skipped the investigation and went directly to the solution? I could blame the editor, but that’d be unfair! I’m the only one responsible for it. I always knew I only had a limited word count, and I still chose to write a crime story. Maybe someday I’ll learn my lesson… Maybe…
The amber liquid slid down Harvey’s throat like liquid fire, its warmth spreading through him like a comforting embrace. As he savoured the taste of the whisky, memories flooded his mind like a relentless tide, pulling him back to moments long past.
He thought of his most recent case, its twists and turns still fresh in his mind, a testament to his skill and tenacity as a detective. But beyond that, he was drawn deeper into the labyrinth of his own past—to the cases that had shaped him, the battles fought on the streets and in the shadows.
Yet, even as he sought to drown out the echoes of his past with each swallow, they only grew louder, more insistent. It was as if the whisky itself were a conduit to his memories, a key to unlocking the secrets buried deep within his soul.
With each sip, he delved further into the recesses of his mind, confronting demons long forgotten and truths he had buried beneath layers of whiskey-soaked regret. And in that moment, he realized that perhaps he didn’t drink to forget but to remember—to confront the ghosts that haunted him and find solace in the shadows of his own history.
Drinking, investigating, and solving.
Rinse and repeat.