Harvey Turpin, Private Investigator, in “The Twist of Fate”
Nova Loncastre, 1924
“You must help me!”
Harvey Turpin, Private Investigator, will help, but it won’t end well for him. If you’re curious, read “Beneath the Gas Mask.” Otherwise, stick around to uncover a new tale from Harvey—the classical 1920s PI who drinks and smokes too much but has a golden heart, always solves the case and lives his life by a simple mantra, “drinking, investigating, and solving. Rinse and repeat.” Let’s you and me, the reader and the omniscient narrator, uncover this tale of deception together! And afterwards, read the other instalments: GiovaniCesconetto.substack.com.
Robert Buffort, husband to a woman with secrets in her eyes, had vanished. His disappearances weren’t unheard of; he’d often slip away for a day or two. But this time, a week had crawled by with no word. Mary Buffort initially welcomed the quiet, relishing the peace his absence brought.
Mary decided to act the day she found her purse as empty as her marriage. She marched to the bank, only to be met with disdainful eyes and patronizing smiles, “Money’s a man’s job, Mrs. Buffort. We can’t just hand it out for shopping sprees.”
Desperation nudged her towards the police station, where uniformed men shrugged off her worries: “He’ll be back. Just needs some air.”
With nowhere else to turn, Mary found Harvey Turpin’s name in the yellow pages. She poured out her troubles in his dimly lit office, the air thick with the scent of stale smoke and alcohol. Harvey, a man who’d seen too many Roberts in his work: men marked by vice, their loyalty wavered like a flickering gaslight, and their fidelity was lost in a haze of smoke and whiskey. The city’s underbelly knew them well, too—familiar faces in dim speakeasies, ghosts in the moonlit alleys.
You know, the standard 1920s “good man.” The kind of good men you no longer find in this woke society.
“I’ll start at The Blind Tiger. With some luck, he’ll be there.”
Mary nodded and left the office. As she headed home, Harvey prepared to dive into the city’s underbelly, his so-called summer cottage, where shadows and secrets intertwined.
What I just did is called “making a long story short.” Why make a long story short? Because this is a short story!
Harvey slipped into The Blind Tiger, his senses sharp, his motives clear. He wasn’t here for the allure of free booze.
Read “The Blind Tiger” to understand it.
He was hunting for Robert Buffort!
The Blind Tiger was the city’s heartbeat, where desires were fulfilled, vices indulged, and secrets whispered over clinking glasses, rigged games, and dancing spectacles.
Harvey’s eyes scanned the room, hoping to spot Buffort among the throngs of revellers. But the man was nowhere to be found. Harvey sauntered to the bar, where One-Eyed Bill polished glasses with a methodical rhythm. Despite the moniker, Bill had both eyes fully functional; his nickname was earned from his uncanny ability to see trouble before it even materialized.
“Damn it, Bill. If Buffort were here, I’d wrap this up quickly. Save me the legwork and the headache.”
Bill kept polishing his glasses, observing in silence.
“Seen anyone matching this description?” Harvey asked, his voice low. “About my height, thin, a taste for gambling and women?”
Bill’s gaze swept the room. “I see twenty of them just at the bar. Head to the tables and the stage, and you’ll find more.”
Harvey chuckled, “Smart ass.”
“But yeah, I’ve seen him around,” Bill admitted. “He’s a peculiar one if I’m being honest.”
Harvey arched an eyebrow.
“He likes to talk big,” Bill continued, wiping down the counter with a rag that had seen better days. “But not like the usual blowhards. This guy talks big before he’s even touched a drop. Always going on about how powerful he is. The thing is, he’s not. If he were, I’d know his name. Still, when he talks, the room goes quiet.”
A picture was forming in Harvey’s mind, and it was painted in dark hues. “What’s he been saying?”
Bill leaned in, “Last time he was here, he said he found a way to become important. He claimed he’d have real power the next time folks heard his name.”
“Interesting,” Harvey murmured, his mind racing. “What do you think he meant by that?”
“I think he’s planning on offing someone. Someone big. Someone important. Someone from our side of the tracks.”
Harvey’s gut tightened. A guy like Robert Buffort, who could make others listen to his delusions, invariably believed his lies.
“Am I too late?” Harvey asked, the question heavy between them.
“To stop the beginning? Probably. To prevent the end? No.”
Harvey met Bill’s gaze. “How can you be so sure?”
Bill’s stare was unwavering, cutting through the smoky air. “You know.”
Harvey scoffed, a resigned smile playing on his lips. He did know. All too well.
“Alright, Bill,” Harvey said, pushing back from the bar. “Time to stir the pot.”
With that, he plunged back into the speakeasy’s murky depths, ready to untangle the mess that Robert Buffort had woven.
“See you on the other side,” One-Eyed Bill said, but Harvey was already lost in thought, kilometres away in his mind.
“If I were a man like Robert...” Harvey mused to himself.
Harvey was like Robert, minus the gambling and cheating, the lies, and the rotten heart. So, Harvey was nothing like Robert aside from liking to drink a bit too much. But it was the prohibition, and everyone had PTSD from the war; everyone drank a bit too much.
“Where would I go?”
The Blind Tiger stretched before him. Harvey moved deeper into the den. The gaming tables flickered with the intensity of men caught in the thrall of dice and cards. Robert might have been there to celebrate a win or bemoan a loss but not to weave his tales.
“Not here.”
The stage drew his gaze, a beacon in the smoky gloom. “Yes, that makes sense.” The bar was the first stop, where patrons fuelled their courage for the night. Then, the tables, hoping luck would favour them enough to settle their debts and still afford a bouquet for the wife. The girls were the final stop.
The lights illuminated the girls in all their glory, but the audience was shrouded in darkness. The perfect place for a man like Robert to spin his grandiose lies, to hold court in the shadows.
Harvey’s seasoned eyes adjusted, piercing the dim veil. He knew how to find what others missed. This was Harvey’s domain, a world where every hidden glance and murmured word was a clue.
He scanned the crowd, his instincts finely tuned. Somewhere in the murky depths, Robert Buffort had left his mark. Harvey just had to find the trail. He took a deep breath, letting the thick, sweet smell of cheap perfume and tobacco fill his lungs. The night was young, and he had work to do.
Harvey pushed further into the dark, ready to find Robert Buffort. He wouldn’t stay hidden for long. Not in Harvey Turpin’s city.
Harvey’s eyes settled on a cluster of men who seemed more preoccupied with their murmured conversations than the show. They were adrift without direction.
“Gentlemen, mind if I join you?” Harvey didn’t wait for an answer, dragging a chair to the head of their round table.
Even a round table has a head when someone commands respect.
The men shifted uncomfortably, glancing at each other. That seat belonged to Robert. But Harvey exuded a quiet menace. He lit a cigarette, letting the smoke curl lazily through the air as he fixed each man with a steely gaze.
“Your pal Robert is about to get a one-way ticket to the morgue,” Harvey said. “Someone’s paying me to care for him, so here I am. Which one of you wants to spill the beans?”
Shock rippled through the group. They were caught between loyalty to Robert and the undeniable authority of the man before them. Robert’s charm was gone, replaced by Harvey’s raw power. They were drunk, confused, and out of their depth.
Harvey leaned in, the ember of his cigarette casting an eerie glow. “Let me make it simple. Robert’s playing a dangerous game, and he’s gonna lose. Help me find him, or you’ll be counting bodies by dawn. Starting with yours.”
The threat hung in the air, heavy and undeniable.
When none of them spoke, his patience snapped. In a swift, practiced motion, he grabbed the nearest man by the collar and began to drag him toward the exit.
The man’s friends surged to their feet, ready to brawl, but the security at The Blind Tiger moved faster. Like hawks descending on prey, they clamped down on the men, hustling them outside behind Harvey. The Rat, the establishment’s owner, watched the spectacle with a bemused expression.
“I prefer when you come here and rob me,” the Rat remarked.
“Me too,” Harvey muttered, not breaking stride. He glanced back once long enough to exchange a knowing look with One-Eyed. The bartender’s face remained impassive, but the glint in his eye told Harvey he was enjoying the show.
Outside, under the flickering neon sign of The Blind Tiger, Harvey released his grip. The goons, having done their job, took a step back. “I’ll take it from here,” Harvey said. “Get yourselves a drink on my tab.”
One of the security men chuckled. “Always a pleasure, Harvey.”
Harvey turned his attention to the three men before him. “I’ll ask just once more. Who’s he targeting?”
A voice behind him answered, “Harvey Turpin.”
Harvey spun around just in time to see the fist coming, but it was too late to dodge it. The world spun as he crumpled to the ground, consciousness slipping away. His last sight before darkness claimed him was a happy family: Robert Buffort and Mary.
Plot twist! However, if you read “Beneath the Gas Mask,” you knew that was coming. Hopefully, you didn’t see how it was coming.
Harvey came to with a pounding—courtesy of Robert’s fists. Patience wasn’t Robert’s virtue; he’d taken it upon himself to rouse Harvey with a flurry of blows.
“Bound to a chair, hands tied behind my back,” Harvey thought, keeping his eyes slit, assessing the situation. “Amateur.” The scene was familiar—a dark, echoing space. Robert’s friends were absent; they’d be jeering if they were here. It was just Robert and him.
“Wake up! Wake up!”
Harvey resisted the urge to respond, piecing together the clues instead. The acoustics suggested a large, empty room. A warehouse, perhaps. He flexed his fingers, testing the bindings. Rope, not too tight.
Robert’s mantra continued, “Wake up! Wake up!”
Harvey’s thoughts drifted to Mary. Only she knew he’d be at The Blind Tiger. “Did she set me up, or did Robert coerce her?” He needed more information before making his move.
The game had begun, and Harvey was already several moves ahead.
Harvey’s eyes flickered open, a sly grin playing on his battered face as he effortlessly sidestepped the next punch aimed his way. “I’m awake. What’re your other two wishes?” His words dripped with defiance, punctuated by the crimson stain of blood.
Robert froze. Fear crossed his face. Harvey’s agility defied belief. In Robert’s world, such feats were reserved for fiction. But there Harvey stood, a living testament to the unexpected. It took Robert a moment to regain his composure, but it was too late—Harvey had already seized the psychological upper hand.
With a nervous chuckle, Robert composed himself. “That’s the infamous Harvey Turpin, alright! It’s an honour to meet you. You’re a legend. And soon, I’ll be one too.”
Spitting a mouthful of blood onto the floor, Harvey’s gaze remained steady. He didn’t need to ask questions; he knew Robert’s ego would be his downfall.
Mary hovered on the fringes as Robert launched his monologue, torn between fear and loyalty. Harvey watched her, a pang of sympathy stirring within him. She was no villain, just a pawn in Robert’s derailed game.
Robert’s voice cracked with emotion, “My parents always told me I was destined for greatness, but I’ve spent my life chasing shadows. I wasn’t the best student or the bravest soldier. I failed at every turn until I found my calling. Society’s rules—they don’t apply to me. I’m built for something greater.”
Harvey listened, his expression unreadable. Behind Robert’s grandiose words lay a desperate man grasping a twisted vision of power and glory.
Harvey resisted the urge to demand Robert cut to the chase. After years on the force and as a PI, he was weary of the self-righteous prattle of men like Robert, convinced of their uniqueness and entitlement. But he held his tongue. All he needed was time and words.
“Society likes to fancy itself as righteous. But it’s all a façade!” Robert’s words tumbled out in a torrent. “I learned dealing in stocks. You familiar with them, Harvey? Promises of wealth. And I, well, I’m quite the persuader. Selling hope’s my forte. But I was too good, and soon, I felt stagnant. Unchallenged. How can a man fulfill his potential without a challenge? To become the man my parents envisioned, I needed more. Much more! That’s when it hit me. Moonshine—the most dangerous trade there is. But to enter that world, I must prove my worth. Show them I’m as ruthless and powerful as them. And that’s where you come in, Harvey. I know of your dealings with the Rat and that he despises it. I’ll solve his problem by eliminating you,” Robert’s words dripping with sinister glee. “But not just any elimination. I’ll make it slow. Painful. I’ll break you, Harvey Turpin—the toughest bastard in these parts. And she,” Robert gestured toward Mary, “she’ll bear witness. She’ll immortalize my triumph!”
Robert’s lips twitched with the beginnings of a laugh, but Harvey silenced him with his commanding voice. “Impressive scheme you’ve cooked up. Truly. And calling him the Rat to his face? That’s a bold move that might earn you some respect,” Harvey remarked, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “But before you make your name, allow me to tell my tale...”
But alas, dear reader, if you wish to uncover Harvey’s tale and witness the resolution of this intrigue, you must delve into“Beneath the Gas Mask.”
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.
Drinking, investigating, and solving.
Rinse and repeat.