Harvey Turpin, Private Investigator, in “Beneath the Gas Mask”
Quintinus, 1918
Harvey Turpin, First Lieutenant...
Wait, what? Isn’t the correct Harvey Turpin, Private Investigator? The typical 1920s PI with a rugged interior but a heart of gold who lives his life by drinking, investigating, and solving—rinse and repeat? It’s not the 1920s, so how could he be a stereotypical 1920s private eye? And who are you? Don’t fret, dear reader! This time around, I decided to explore a bit of the past of our beloved Private Investigator. And regarding my identity, I’m the plot twist of this tale—hopefully not the only one! I’m the omniscient narrator. The one who writes the story and breaks the fourth wall when something is nice, or my writing abilities fall short. Also, it’s funny how some questions show you’re an avid Harvey Turpin reader (GiovaniCesconetto.Substack.com) while others make you look like a first-timer... It doesn’t matter! Shall we, together, meet the young Harvey Turpin?
Silent, I stood amidst the cacophony of impending chaos. My journey to this hellish landscape began when my homeland cast aside its neutrality, beckoning its sons to take up arms. Once, I patrolled the streets as a lawman, confronting the dregs of society with a steadfast resolve. Little did I know that such trials were mere child’s play compared to the horrors awaiting me on the battlefield.
The spectre of war had driven me to seek solace in the embrace of alcohol and tobacco, feebles antidotes to the relentless onslaught of memories both waking and slumbering. Two days had passed since I bore witness to the raw savagery of loss, a baptism of blood that left an indelible mark upon my soul. The war, with its unyielding grip, plunged me into a maelstrom of violence and despair, where nightmares took shape in the twisted forms of fallen comrades and shattered innocence.
In the eerie calm before the storm, I was enveloped in surreal tranquillity, a fleeting respite from the impending carnage. Amidst the frenetic preparations of men and machines, I savoured a moment of fleeting serenity.
With trembling hands, I reached for the canteen, the promise of moonshine offering a reprieve from the gnawing dread that threatened to consume me whole. The acrid scent of burning tobacco mingled with the metallic tang of fear as I lit a cigarette with trembling fingers.
But such moments of solace were short-lived. The earth trembled beneath my feet as the heavens rained down a symphony of destruction, the relentless barrage of artillery fire heralding the dawn of yet another bloody chapter in the annals of history.
The bombardment was the biggest of the war so far. Some 1,600 guns were deployed (1,044 field guns, 593 heavy guns, and howitzers), firing almost 1,000,000 shells over a short period, including more than 30,000 mustard gas shells.
That’s a real World War I battle. Which one? Well, remember your Latin classes and translate the city’s name.
Veiled in the suffocating embrace of my gas mask, I awaited the call to action with a heart heavy with foreboding. When the order finally came, I propelled myself forward with a desperation born of necessity, each footfall a testament to the gravity of the task. As the symphony of gunfire erupted around me, I sprinted towards the fray with a fervour bordering on madness.
The shriek of bullets tearing through the air failed to elicit so much as a tremor of fear within my soul. While my comrades cowered and sought refuge in the earth below, I pressed forward with a resolve honed by the crucible of countless battles past. The sting of lead had become a familiar companion, its bite no longer capable of eliciting so much as a flinch from my weathered frame.
Though reason dictated that cries of terror would fall upon deaf ears amidst the chaos of war, I could not silence the primal urge within me. And so, with each laboured breath, I unleashed a cacophony of anguish upon the wind, a desperate plea to the gods of war to spare me from the impending doom that loomed ever closer.
Vaulting over freshly dug graves and fallen comrades alike, I propelled myself toward the heart of the maelstrom, my path illuminated by the sickly glow of burning embers and the twisted forms of the fallen. It was in that moment, amidst the din of battle and the stench of death that clung to the air like a shroud, that I realized the extent to which I had become estranged from my humanity.
No longer was I merely Harvey Turpin, a man of flesh and blood bound by the frailty of mortality. In the crucible of war, I had been transformed into something different, a spectre of death and destruction whose fate was inexorably intertwined with the fate of nations.
With every squeeze of the trigger, I propelled myself into the heart of the fray, a relentless force of nature amidst the chaos of battle. When the last round was spent, I cast aside my rifle with a contemptuous flick of the wrist, seizing my pistol in a desperate bid for survival. And when even that faithful companion fell silent, I drew my knife with grim resolve, the cold steel glinting in the dim light of the trenches.
Beneath the stifling embrace of my gas mask, the very air itself seemed to constrict around me, threatening to suffocate me with each laboured breath. The noxious fumes of mustard gas hung heavy in the air, a foul miasma that seared the lungs and stung the eyes. But amidst the suffocating haze, the fires of adrenaline burned bright, coursing through my veins with a primal fury that defied all reason.
There was no room for hesitation or doubt in the crucible of war, only the relentless drive to survive at any cost. With every thrust of the blade and every pull of the trigger—dead people don’t need their loaded guns—I plunged deeper into the heart of darkness, a harbinger of death and destruction in human form.
I cannot say how many lives I extinguished that day nor the countless skirmishes that followed. In the merciless crucible of trench warfare, there was no time for reflection or remorse, only the grim calculus of survival. You stab, you shoot, you spill blood, and you do not look back, for to dwell on the carnage is to invite madness.
In the end, only one truth mattered: I survived. Amidst the sea of carnage and despair, I emerged unscathed, a solitary figure amidst the wreckage of a world gone mad. And in that moment, I knew that I was no longer Harvey Turpin; I was Death incarnate, a grim reaper stalking the blood-soaked fields of battle with impunity.
I beheld sights that would haunt the darkest recesses of the human soul, bearing witness to the depths of depravity that humankind is capable of. Amidst the crucible of war, I confronted the very essence of humanity’s darkest impulses, a relentless onslaught of violence and despair that threatened to consume me whole. Yet, through it all, I endured.
Still, I stand here today, a solitary sentinel amidst the wreckage of a world torn asunder by the ravages of conflict. For, in truth, the trials of society pale in comparison to the horrors of war. The machinations of men may seek to ensnare me, but I remain steadfast in the face of adversity, for I have weathered the storm and survived.
Nova Loncastre, 1924
Wait, what? And phew! I found another plot twist that isn’t me.
“So do your worst, you sorry excuse for a human being,” Harvey spat through gritted teeth, his words dripping with contempt. Bound to the chair, his face was a mask of defiance, his eyes burning with an unyielding resolve. “Threaten me, play your little games. But know this: none of it frightens me because I had good dreams scarier than you two,” he taunted, his voice tinged with the cold steel of experience while his face was unrecognizable. He took a beat, and everyone could tell who the winner was.
Spoiler alert: It wasn’t Harvey.
The assailants exchanged wary glances, a flicker of uncertainty crossing their faces. Yet Harvey remained unyielding, his bravado a shield against the looming spectre of death. “If you’re going to kill me, then do it,” he challenged, his voice low and steady. “But know that you won’t break me. I’ll take my secrets to the grave,” his voice hinted at a hidden truth.
As the tension in the room reached its boiling point, Harvey seized the opportunity to turn the tables. With a swift, practiced motion, he freed himself from his restraints, his movements fluid and precise. In an instant, he became the hunter, his assailants the hunted.
Tying someone’s hands behind their back is a rookie mistake! Because you can’t see what they’re doing. Or so I was told.
With a deadly grace, Harvey launched himself at his would-be captors, his fists a blur of motion. The element of surprise was on his side, and before they could react, he had disarmed the man.
In a final, decisive move, Harvey turned the blade on its owner, his hand steady and his aim true. With a sickening thud, the assailant fell to the ground, his lifeblood staining the floor.
As the echoes of the struggle faded into the darkness, Harvey stood with the woman, two solitary figures in a world of shadows. He hadn’t told his story to entertain his captors; he had told it to secure his freedom. And now, as he surveyed the scene before him, he knew he had emerged victorious again.
“Now, my dear,” Harvey began, his low, gravelly rumble voice reverberating through the dimly lit room. His eyes bore into the femme fatale’s with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine. But before he could utter another word, she moved with lightning speed, her hand darting to the concealed weapon at her side.
The crack of gunfire echoed in the cramped confines of the shed as she pressed the cold steel barrel to her temple, her finger tightening on the trigger without hesitation. As the acrid scent of gunpowder filled the air, Harvey watched in grim silence as her lifeless body crumpled to the ground, a crimson blossom blooming upon the floorboards.
Her partner, a shadowy figure lurking in the periphery, followed suit, the report of the gunshot mingling with the hollow echoes of his companion’s demise. In an instant, the room was plunged into a silence broken only by the soft patter of rain against the tin roof above.
With a wry smile playing at the corners of his lips, Harvey surveyed the scene before him, the moment’s weight settling heavily upon his shoulders. “Seems like it’s true what they say,” he murmured to himself, his voice tinged with a bitter irony. “Better to die than to pay your debts.”
With a grimace of pain contorting his features, Harvey adjusted his jacket, a testament to his resilience in the face of adversity. Thoughts of respite at The Blind Tiger whispered sweet promises to his weary mind, though duty held him in its unyielding grip. There were debts to be settled, and three individuals awaited his visit. And so, with a heart heavy with burdens and bones aching with the weight of the past, he ventured forth into the enveloping darkness of the night, leaving behind echoes of bygone tales.
Why is the Blind Tiger the cheapest option? Well, you should read “Harvey Turpin, Private Investigator, in ‘The Blind Tiger.’” And if you want to know how Harvey ended up tied to a chair. Well, you’ll have to wait for the ninth installment of Harvey’s adventures—I just hope not to take my time to write it and forget all the seeds I laid here.
Drinking, investigating, and solving.
Rinse and repeat.