Harvey Turpin, Private Investigator, in “The Spirits of the Woods”
Nova Loncastre, 1922
“Why’s it always a dash for the shadows?” Harvey Turpin, Private Investigator, mused under his breath, his sharp eyes sweeping the cramped quarters. “Even if, in this case, that dash is merely symbolic?”
Who is Harvey Turpin, Private Investigator, you ask? Well, dear reader, let me shed some light. Picture your quintessential 1920s noir detective—sharp, rugged, and with a heart of gold. Now, here’s the expected twist: Harvey’s got a bit of a dance with the bottle. For the gritty details, dive into his latest escapade, “Harvey Turpin, Private Investigator, in ‘The Dark Labyrinth.’” But beware! It’s a tale so steeped in shadows I sometimes wonder if it’s a Harvey tale or just a dark fable with his name slapped on. And what’s the unexpected twist? Me! The omniscient narrator! Also, where can you uncover this and all his past exploits? Right in my very own Substack (GiovaniCesconetto.Substack.com). Now, let’s plunge into our narrative...
Harvey paced the room, deliberate steps tracing out a steady rhythm. There was no excess here, no room for opulence. Just a hard floor, a rickety table and two chairs, a stove barely holding on, and a bathroom so small you’d need to step out to change your mind.
“Hell, maybe the streets got the upper hand on this joint,” Harvey muttered, casting his gaze around. “Least out there, you get to see a hint of daylight.”
The “kitchen,” if you could call it that in such tight quarters, revealed a jumble of well-used pots and pans, speaking to a life of makeshift meals.
“Can’t whip up much on the pavement, that’s for sure,” Harvey observed, his tone rueful. “Can’t outrun the chill either. Inside’s grim, but outside’s bleaker.”
Moving through, he slipped into the bedroom. Someone had made a hasty exit, but not before tidying up the remnants, folding them neatly on the right side of the bed. Another few strides brought Harvey to the bathroom’s threshold. It was a dim, chilly space with no promise of hot water. Yet, it held an unexpected cleanliness.
With the beam of his flashlight, the PI took his time inspecting the sink and then the shower. There lingered a dampness, a tale of someone’s hurried ablutions.
“Cleaner than my own haunt. No trace of soap scum nor the whisper of a whisker,” Harvey mused, a wry grin playing on his lips. “Seems like a tidy crime scene if crooks had the wit to leave no trace. Fortunately, that never happens. Otherwise, I’d be out o’job,” he laughed at his own joke.
Ah, the classic writer’s conundrum. You see, what may tickle one’s funny bone in the confines of one’s own mind often falls a tad flat once it hits the page. It’s a quirk of the creative process, dear reader. We’ve all been there, haven’t we? The quirks and quibbles that come with a life dedicated to wordsmithing. But fear not, for it’s all part of the grand tapestry of storytelling. Onward we go!
Stepping back into the main space, Harvey took one final sweep of the scene. He’d seen it all, every inch of this cramped abode. He scratched his head, then turned his attention to the kettle. Water filled the battered vessel, the stove igniting with a determined flicker. As the water began its slow ascent to boil, Harvey spoke to himself, glancing over his notes.
“Alright then. We got ourselves a runner, a slick one. Strong, sharp, senses a tail and knows when to bolt,” Harvey sighed, his breath forming a mist in the chill air. “An outsider, no doubt. Handy with tools of the trade, he knows just where to strike. Offed his boss, clean as a whistle. Poor soul never knew his time was up. No sadist, this one.”
Ah, here we find Harvey in a bit of a linguistic pickle. You see, dear reader, in this bygone era, the nuances of gender inclusivity weren’t quite in vogue. Our beloved PI, caught in the tangles of time, defaults to the familiar “he” and “him.” But fret not, for we’ve evolved since then, haven’t we? A nod to progress, if you will. We now recognize the significance of gender-neutral pronouns, a simple but profound stride toward inclusivity. So, let’s journey forth, enlightened and aware, and enjoy that being an insensitive idiot is a thing of the past...
His words hung in the cold, dense air, Harvey’s eyes focused and keen, a hunter sizing up his prey.
“Still, he’s a killer,” Harvey muttered, the kettle’s shrill cry signalling the boiling point. He rose, silencing the stove, and lingered momentarily in the cramped space. “Wish you were here. Would’ve made things a sight simpler,” he murmured before shutting the door behind him and ascending the ladder into the biting night.
“Any progress?” queried the man at the door.
Harvey’s response was a solemn shake of the head.
“Told you, he’s vanished. Cleared out yesterday. Oddest thing I ever saw. Fled like the devil himself was at his heels. Yet, moved slower than a funeral procession.”
Well, well, well, look at that! I, ever the trickster, trying to keep you on your toes. Truth be told, Harvey had this one figured out from the get-go. But who could resist a bit of linguistic mischief? After all, it’s the perfect opportunity to sneak in a sly commentary on the importance of gender-inclusive language. And just between us, dear reader, I think I just had an idea... Bear with me; trust the plot.
“He headed for the woods?” Harvey inquired.
“Vanished with the setting sun,” the man gestured towards the horizon.
“Good thing I came prepared, eh?” Harvey’s hand snagged his bag from the snow-laden ground.
“Prepared enough, you reckon?”
“One way to find out,” Harvey retorted, striding away from the man and toward the distant expanse.
That’d be a great way of ending a chapter, but that’s not a novel; it’s a short story. So, no chapters. The problem with being a novel writer trying to author short stories is that I fall into traps due to being used to another form. Good thing I have this tool here to help me.
The cold clawed at Harvey’s lungs, the frosty air a relentless assailant, as he pushed through the snow. It wasn’t just the biting chill that seared but the acrid bite of smoke, a hidden adversary in the frigid landscape, unbeknownst to the PI.
Ah, the plot thickens! Harvey’s in the dark, just like you, dear reader. But mark my words, this little detail will rear its head down the line. Keep it tucked away in your mental filing cabinet for future reference. Trust me, it’s gonna matter!
After an hour’s trudge, Harvey paused, settling into the snow. His surroundings told a story of laborious toil—a barren field dotted with the remnants of felled trees. The snow, once pristine, bore witness to the detritus of industry, a mosaic of leaves, branches, and stains. Footprints, both man-made and arboreal, formed a tapestry of progress. Logging, a winter endeavour, relied on the snow’s complicity, but it was no perfect accomplice. The river offered some respite, but it was no panacea. The fresh timber still required the sweat of human endeavour.
Yet, Harvey saw none of this. Weariness, the biting cold, and numbing exhaustion obscured the scene. His focus remained resolute—hunting a killer. Defying his instincts, urging retreat to a warm office, and the solace of potent spirits, Harvey’s gaze held steady. He sought not to admire the industry of men working in tandem but to decipher the fugitive’s trail.
Time passed, and Harvey’s seasoned instincts eventually unearthed a vital clue—an intentional disarray, a calculated attempt to conceal. It was a mess not of nature’s making but a cunning ploy to mask one’s tracks. Rising, Harvey took a steadying breath, the effort punctuated by a cough. He cursed fate and followed the artful chaos.
“How far have you come?” Harvey mused, scouting for a sheltered spot. “Two days on foot and no sign of you,” the PI lamented internally. He bristled at the thought of his quarry gaining a week’s lead. “Can’t be, started just five days past. And I’m no slouch at my trade.”
Also, that’s a short story. Hence, time jump.
“So, how far you got?” Harvey’s voice cut through the frosty air as he sought a suitable resting spot along the now desolate trail.
The PI raised his tent with cautious precision, vigilant for any sign of danger, be it man or beast. The full moon cast a pallid glow, struggling to pierce the density of the forest, a perfect shroud for ambush. Scarcely a stump marred the landscape, and the river gleamed like liquid silver, defying its usual guise of timber-laden flow. The air bore an easier breath, even as Harvey’s lungs still lodged their complaints, dulled by the relentless pursuit.
Yet, Harvey remained blind to these details. He was no savant tracker, having gleaned just enough during his army days to get by, and no more. With each passing moment, away from the familiar crutch of his daily libations, his temper flared. He was a man on a mission, one he vowed to see through, even if it meant being consumed by the very quest.
All of this to say, he had no time for the metamorphosis that had transpired around him—the shift from chaos, grime, and haze to a sanctified serenity where purity reigned supreme.
Ah, I’m taking a detour from the usual here, eh? I have a penchant for letting the characters’ voices do the heavy lifting but look at this: suddenly, I’m a full-blown nature enthusiast describing every bit of detail I can. Is this a clue, a red herring, or just a change of scenery? Keep your eyes peeled for what’s around the corner.
He attempted to keep one eye open as he sought fitful reprieve, a week’s toil etched across his weary frame. The cold, though unwelcome, extended an invitation to rest, one Harvey could not deny. Each morning dawned with a jolt, a promise to himself not to surrender so wholly to slumber the following night—a pledge he failed to uphold.
This was not his sole transgression, for each sunrise bore a fresh vow to apprehend the elusive murderer. Yet, the quarry remained ever elusive, dancing just beyond Harvey’s grasp. Still, he sensed he drew nearer. The trail grew warmer, the concealment of tracks more haphazard. At intervals, no pretense of cover remained—a clear indication that the quarry knew Harvey was close, too close to masking their path.
“Today’s the day,” Harvey murmured, a daily invocation.
Well, isn’t that the story of life? We march forward, making our best guesses, hoping we’ll eventually stumble upon the right path. But in this tale, our dear protagonist hasn’t quite hit the mark. Not yet, anyway. Keep those pages turning; let’s see where this journey leads.
After days of relentless pursuit, Harvey arrived at a crossroads of his resolve. He had traversed distances that eclipsed any prior journey. And yet, as the trail grew ever more recent, doubt began to insinuate itself into the PI’s thoughts. Was his quarry toying with him, feigning proximity to fuel Harvey’s relentless pursuit? Frustration surged within him, an undercurrent beneath the overwhelming cold. It lacked the bite of the city’s chill, tempered by the absence of factory smoke. Even the oppressive silence of solitude couldn’t deter Harvey; every dropped pin would resound like a bell.
“I’ve come too damn far to turn back,” Harvey affirmed as he did each morning. Even on the eleventh day, when he stirred to wakefulness, he rested yet abruptly startled. This time, however, it was his own bound hands and the icy blade that seized his attention.
Is our dear Harvey facing an untimely exit from this narrative? Are we about to witness a grim demise for our beloved, albeit somewhat cantankerous, PI? Well, let’s not kid ourselves. We’ve been around the block enough times to know how this script usually plays out. The hero, anti-hero, or whatever you’d like to label our dear Harvey will find a way to come out on top. And why wouldn’t he? His name’s right there in the title... all titles! So, let’s not dabble in needless suspense.
“You’re aware I could’ve taken you without a peep, right?” the murderer intoned.
Harvey’s response was a slow, measured nod, a tentative motion to avoid the blade’s bite.
The fugitive lowered the knife, locking eyes with Harvey. “Why do you suppose I didn’t?”
Throughout his investigation, Harvey had come to discern certain facets of his quarry—his flowing locks, calm demeanour, and aptitude for nature, including the art of taking a life. What eluded him was the subtly feminine aspect that underscored the lethal threat.
“You’ve something to impart,” Harvey observed, his breath a whisper of newfound hope.
“Close,” the fugitive conceded. “But it ain’t me with the tale to tell. It’s the other way ’round.”
The PI found himself adrift in a sea of uncertainty. The conversation could have taken a million turns, but this unexpected path left Harvey disoriented. It was a rare occasion for him not to see every angle. After all, he was the cream of the crop, with an eye for the hidden that surpassed all others.
“You’re not living up to your reputation, Mr. Harvey Turpin,” the fugitive’s voice carried a tone that struck Harvey as oddly familiar, a trace of his mother’s caring cadence.
Harvey was taken aback, “You know who I am?”
The fugitive’s scoff echoed through the tense air, “Of course I do. I chose you.”
And there it is, the plot twist we all secretly saw coming, but let’s not pretend we’re not thrilled about it. After all, what’s a story without a good twist to keep us on our toes? It’s like adding a sprinkle of excitement to an otherwise mundane day. So, let’s buckle up and see where this unexpected turn takes us.
Something emanated from the murderer, an unexpected tenderness in his words. The killer spoke to Harvey with a warmth akin to a mother’s touch.
“A part of me wanted nothing to do with it. He just wanted the job done and to be gone. But that’s not me. I need to ensure our message hits home. I believe in discourse. I believe we can all come together through conversation...”
“Like the talk you had with Mr. Dunsmuir?” Harvey interjected.
Frustration tinged the fugitive’s sigh, “You mention his name, but mine remains unsaid. Worse, I fear you might be too blinded to see the truth.”
“You’re a murderer. A brute! You don’t deserve a name! You don’t deserve anything but a cell,” Harvey’s anger surged, the open expanse around him a stark reminder of wartime. He was weary and chilled, his craving for a drink clawing at him. He was humbled, for he was meant to be the best, yet he hadn’t seen the killer approaching nor the glaring truth before him. Harvey yearned for resolution, even if it meant meeting his end.
“He believed it was in vain. But I disagreed. I told him that no one is beyond redemption. I said the journey would open your eyes because you see what others don’t,” their tears flowed, and they rose, “but I should have known better. He’s a man. You’re a man. You both speak a secret language of violence that I can’t fathom. I’m so, so sorry.”
“Were you sorry when you took his life?”
“I was. I am. All life is sacred. Even those who fail to see it,” they wept while slashing through Harvey’s tent. “I said the message wouldn’t resonate this way. Violence is never the answer. But he insisted he knew better,” they paused, a rueful chuckle escaping, “How foolish I was. I should never have listened.”
“Why do you speak as if there was another? Why do you behave like a mother shielding her child?” Harvey’s questions tumbled forth, desperation clawing at him.
“You’ll either see or you won’t,” they stated. “I could elucidate, but understanding might elude you.”
“Then end it! Finish me here and now! You preached the sanctity of life. Yet, you snuffed one out weeks ago, and now you’ll leave me defenceless in the snow!”
“I won’t. Walk to the river. There, you’ll find a canoe with provisions and a knife. You can use the canoe to return and the knife to free yourself. Or you could cut loose and continue the chase without your shelter. You’ll never find me,” Harvey knew the truth in those words. The fugitive intended for him to follow, leaving just enough clues to lead him. But there’d be no traceable path now. “The choice is yours. I hope, in the end, you’ll understand why I did what I did.”
As the fugitive began to drift away, Harvey sensed a silence so profound it felt ethereal. Without pause, he sprinted toward the river. There, he severed his bonds, and before resuming his pursuit, he surveyed his surroundings.
The landscape was a pristine canvas, untouched and divine. The cold was no longer a biting adversary; it was an embrace. The crisp air pulsed with life, and the overwhelming stillness quelled Harvey’s every ember of rage. For the first time in memory, he felt peace. There was no thirst for spirits, no desire for smoke. Harvey was content.
And then, he understood.
Well, dear reader, did you catch the underlying message there? I certainly hope so, or else I might as well hang up my hat as your trusty narrator. But fear not, for I have faith in your astute perception... more than I have in my storytelling skills.
With that revelation came a smile tinged with sorrow—a smile born of surrender, where hope had met its end.
Harvey climbed into the canoe, peacefully choosing to return to his turmoils.
Drinking, investigating, and solving.
Rinse and repeat.