The Fall

by Sean Moynihan

  “Indeed, I am, detective,” she replied. “Lead the way.”

  “We’ll go downstairs and exit through a back door to avoid anyone noticing us,” he said. “We’ll take a cab up to Grand Central and take a train upstate.”

  “How far upstate?” she asked. “You obviously know that I have family in Rochester and lived there for a time.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of that,” he said. “We’re not going near that far. We’re headed to a town on the Mohawk River called Cohoes. It’s a little bit past Albany.”

  “I see,” she said. “Well, much as I hate to leave the city, I also recognize that those were real bullets tonight, and that they were aimed for me. So, I am yours for concealing.”

  “All right, then,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  20

  Falconer led Goldman into the expansive, roofed Grand Central train shed at 42nd Street and 4th Avenue with two tickets for Cohoes in his hand. He looked at her at his side to make sure that she was still covering up most of her face with a thin shawl, then he motioned for her to head down a concrete walkway with him to the train that was slated to depart shortly for points upstate.

  Normally, the enormous glass panels held in place high overhead in the roof by a system of wrought iron lattice work would allow plentiful sunlight in to drape travelers as they waited for the trains. At this late hour, however, the place was only partially lit by a series of gas lamps, and Falconer hoped that the lack of sunlight would allow them to better avoid detection as they entered the train.

  Walking up to one of the several cars that were attached to the powerful steam engine at the front, the two of them stopped in front of a purser and Falconer handed him their tickets. The man uttered a casual “Thank you” and pointed the way for them to enter the car. Moving inside, Falconer motioned for Goldman to head to the back of the car and take a seat against a window. “It’s best to stay back here,” he said to her quietly.

  They sat in silence for several minutes as other passengers boarded and took their seats. Then, Goldman turned to him. “You know,” she said, “it’s really very fascinating, detective. For two weeks you and your men have been following me, a target in your little investigation following Berkman’s attentat in Pittsburgh. I was the bad guy—the prey to your predator. And now it appears that I’ve become the prey to someone else, and you have switched hats to being my protector. I don’t quite know how that all happened so quickly, but it’s happened. Odd….”

  “I suppose so,” Falconer said. “Maybe now you won’t treat me quite so harshly.”

  “Perhaps, detective,” she said. “Perhaps. But rest assured, when this little adventure is over and you are once again sent to sneak around behind my back and those of my comrades, you will become the enemy once again. Don’t think that we’re getting friendly or anything.”

  “I wouldn’t think of it,” he replied quietly, and then he felt the train finally shudder and start to move slowly out of the enormous train shed towards the thundering Great Falls of the Mohawk 160 miles away.

  21

  The Sun

  New York

  Sunday, August 7, 1892

  RAVACHOL’S AVENGERS

  The Man Who Blew Up the Very Restaurant Believed to be On His Way Here

  Paris, Aug. 6—The police have seized a placard, evidently issued by Anarchists, and urging the extermination of the Judge and jury that sent Ravachol to the guillotine. Several dangerous Anarchists, who had come to Paris with the intention of avenging Ravachol by blowing up simultaneously several public buildings, have been arrested within the last few days. The police have been earnestly searching for Joseph Meunier, the Anarchist known as Ravachol’s avenger, and who is believed to have caused the fatal explosion at the Very restaurant.

  A man named Bricon was arrested at Havre while trying to throw himself under the wheels of a heavy cart. He gave information which led to an energetic search being made for Meunier and Francois. These men were in London, and officers were dispatched to arrest and extradite them. In spite of the fullest assistance given by the London police, the Anarchists slipped through the fingers of the Frenchmen.

  It is believed that they have gone to America, as they were traced as far as Liverpool.

  Penwill looked up from his newspaper and turned to Houllier, sipping some tea next to him in the dining room of the Grand Central Hotel on Broadway, just blocks away from Police Headquarters on Mulberry Street. “Look here, chum,” he said. “The paper mentions Meunier coming to America.”

  Houllier took the paper and scanned the page for a moment, his dark brow furrowing. “Ah,” he finally said. “So now it is out in the open and he will be on guard, as it were, my friend.”

  “I agree,” Penwill said, taking back the newspaper. “He will certainly hear of the newspapers talking about his travels and will be even more vigilant—which makes our job that much harder.”

  “C’est vrai, mon ami,” Houllier said. “But not an impossible task. This man is unique with a noticeable limp due to the extraordinary curvature of his back—the hunchback. He will stick out in a crowd, inspector, and then we just need to get word of this and fly upon him. I am confident that we will bring him to justice. You and me together.”

  “Agreed, Prosper,” Penwill said. “Meanwhile, when the professor gets here, we will mine him for ideas. He’s really a very knowledgeable chap and has a good intuition for the next right step in an investigation.”

  “Yes, I can see that,” Houllier said. “The man obviously has an exceptional mind and a knack for thinking what the criminal is thinking. His expertise is most welcome.”

  “Ah, speak of the devil,” Penwill said, looking beyond Houllier’s shoulder to the approaching figure of Professor Eli Levine. “Glad you could make it, professor.”

  “I was glad to be invited for lunch,” Levine said cheerily as he took a seat at the table.

  “Bonjour, professeur,” Houllier said. “Very nice to see you again.”

  “And same to you, Inspector Houllier,” Levine said.

  “We’ve actually just seen a little story about Meunier in today’s newspaper, professor,” Penwill said. “Here, take a look. It says he’s likely on his way here having last been seen in the port city of Liverpool with his accomplice, Jean-Pierre Francois.”

  “Ah,” Levine said, scanning the news story. “So, your theory finds even greater credence in the newspapers.”

  “Indeed,” Penwill said. “But, of course, even anarchists read the papers, I’m afraid. So Meunier will likely be aware that he’s being tracked here now.”

  “So it appears,” Levine said.

  “What we’ve got to do now, professor,” Penwill said, “is figure out what he’s trying to destroy here—his intended target.”

  “Yes, absolutely,” Levine said.

  Penwill opened his mouth to speak, but then a waiter suddenly approached and asked if the three men wished to give their lunch orders. After they had done so, he returned to the subject at hand. “As I was saying, we feel that Meunier will hit a target here, but we have no idea what that target is. A government office? A hotel like this one? A particular person?”

  “Do you have thoughts on this puzzle, professor?” Houllier asked.

  “Well,” Levine began, “Meunier is an acolyte of the executed Ravachol. He is utterly devoted to the man, and to his memory. He even tried to gain revenge on behalf of Ravachol by blowing up the café that was the cause of his leader’s capture. Thus, he is animated by feelings of retribution and pure revenge, as the newspaper has referred to him: ‘Ravachol’s Avenger.’ So, what does this tell us, gentlemen? Well, it at least points us in the right direction. Meunier is seeking to harm someone or something that is tied directly to Ravachol’s downfall.”

  “But what could that be, professor?” Houllier asked. “We are, after all, in America, not France. Wh
at did the U.S. have to do with Ravachol’s capture and execution? Rien, gentlemen. Nothing.”

  “That may be so, inspector,” Levine said, “but I can’t help feeling that Meunier feels unsated—like he has failed in his quest to truly avenge his prophet’s government-sanctioned killing and he wants another try at it.”

  “I agree, professor,” Penwill said, “and something tells me that it will be bigger than just one little café. We need to search for an event or a gathering that will take place here in the city and that would be an enticing target for Meunier. Professor, is there anything unique about this time of the year in the city, or unique about the country in general this year?”

  Levine rubbed his beard and took a few moments to think. Then he turned back to the two men. “Well, something that is unusual this year is, of course, the presidential election. We are only three months from Election Day, and it is a presidential election—Harrison, the incumbent, for the Republicans, and Cleveland, the former president, for the Democrats. It’s a big news story, of course.”

  “Yes, that’s true,” Penwill said. “So, a presidential assassination attempt, perhaps? Do you think that’s what Meunier’s aim is?”

  “It would certainly be in line with what radical anarchists would do,” Levine answered.

  “But still,” Houllier interjected, “this is just one man who would be attacked. And how is one of these candidates associated with the French State and the execution of Ravachol? I don’t believe either of these men is particularly tied to my country.”

  “I believe you are right, inspector,” Penwill said. “They might be running for the highest office in this land, but what had they to do with Ravachol’s prosecution and execution? Professor?”

  “I must admit that I, too, am not aware of any particular tie to the French government that either of these men have,” Levine said. “But then...”

  “Professor?” Penwill said.

  “Well, maybe it’s not any tie that a presidential candidate has to your country, Inspector Houllier,” Levine said. “Instead, it’s a tie that a vice-presidential candidate has.”

  “Vice-presidential candidate, you say?” Penwill said. “What do you mean, professor?”

  “As I recall, gentlemen,” Levine explained, “Whitelaw Reid, the current running mate of President Harrison, was Ambassador to France until just this past March. Were you aware of that, Inspector Houllier?”

  “That name actually sounds quite familiar, professor,” Houllier replied. “He is the newspaperman who became your ambassador to our country a few years ago, I believe. Correct?”

  “Correct, inspector,” Levine said, “and he is now running with Harrison on the Republican ticket. If he perchance had any dealings with your country concerning Ravachol, he would make a logical target of your Meunier.”

  “You’re bloody well correct there, professor,” Penwill said. “Good god, you might have struck something.”

  “What we now must do,” Levine said, “is figure out if Reid did, in fact, figure in the prosecution of Ravachol in anyway.”

  “En effet, gentlemen,” Houllier said, as the waiter approached with some drinks and set them on the table. “We shall look into this Mister Reid and his time in Paris. But first, my cognac.”

  He raised his glass to his two companions. “To the capture of Meunier!”

  22

  Falconer stood next to a window inside the remote, rustic cabin and raised its dark curtain slightly to peer outside into the darkness. He and Goldman had reached the town of Cohoes just before noon and had trudged to the cabin on the far side of town where it lay deep inside some woods along the wide Mohawk River. On the way, they had stopped at a mercantile store to get some supplies and then had settled into the small, three-room cabin for a stay that was open-ended. After unpacking, they had shared a spartan dinner of beef with potatoes, and now, in the darkness of evening, Falconer stood watch at the window while Goldman read by candlelight near the hot stove.

  “Why are you still standing there, detective?” she suddenly asked him, putting her book down on a small table by her chair. “You have been looking out that window for over an hour now, and perhaps it’s time you took a break.”

  “I have to keep a lookout for any movement out there,” he said taciturnly. “There’s no telling if someone followed us on the train.”

  “Really?” she asked incredulously. “Do you honestly think that these people, whoever they are, somehow got wind of our movements and secretly followed us up here? That sounds rather preposterous.”

  “Maybe,” he answered, “but I can’t take any chances. These people seem very determined, Miss Goldman.”

  “Well, have it your way, then,” she said, “but eventually, you’ll have to sleep.”

  “That’s where you come in,” he said. “I’ll stand watch until 4:00 am while you sleep, and then I’ll wake you to take over. Agreed?”

  “Certainly,” she replied. “But I still cannot believe that I’m actually hiding out in the woods with a police detective—a man who represents all that is corrupt and insidious about society. Imagine that—me.”

  “I’m sorry I make you feel that way,” he said with a hint of sarcasm.

  “But really, it’s rather odd,” she continued. “You appear to me to be a man of character, and yet you align yourself with forces of persecution and tyranny.”

  “Persecution and tyranny?” he said. “I’m not sure where you get those terms when you speak of the police.”

  “Ha!” she exclaimed. “Are you saying that the police are not tyrannical or despotic in their friendly relations with the powerful and rich who step on the throats of the weak? You must be joking.”

  “I’m not really sure what you’re talking about,” he responded calmly. “I’m just a police detective sergeant doing my job, that’s all.”

  “You are a part of the problem,” she said, “despite your obvious strengths. In doing your ‘job,’ you are, in fact, being complicit with the forces of domination over the working class.”

  “Oh, really?” he said. “Please tell me how I’m complicit.”

  “You are the muscle of the government and of the powerful, moneyed interests that really control society,” she said. “You are their billy club, as it were. Without you, they would not be able to control the masses so much.”

  “So, solving crimes and running bad guys into the jug are actually helping out the rich barons and hurting the little people?” he asked, turning to her. “Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Yes, indeed,” she replied, “when you clearly aim your crime fighting skills disproportionately at the poor and the weak, as you and your fellow bullies do.”

  “Disproportionally at the poor and the weak?” he said. “What’s this you’re saying?”

  “Well, it’s no secret that there are vastly greater numbers of prisoners in the Tombs and Sing Sing who are poor, uneducated, and struggling to survive. Not so many of the robber barons appear to be in there, though, it seems.”

  Falconer chuckled momentarily in exasperation, then spoke again. “Lady, I don’t know where you get your ideas, but they’re crazy as a loon. All I do is find the suspects and arrest them if I have the evidence, whether they’re a bum on the Bowery or the richest toad in the puddle. It doesn’t matter to me, and if most of the bad eggs in jail are poor guys, well, they put themselves there and it’s probably because it’s the no-account losers on the streets who are committing the most crimes.”

  “‘No-account losers?’” she said, getting angry. “Spoken like a true capitalist pig. You have shown your true colors, detective.”

  “At least I don’t give these irresponsible criminals a pass, like you do,” he retorted.

  “What?” she asked. “A pass? What do mean by that?”

  “Well, like your pal, Berkman,” he said. “You don’t think
he did anything wrong, do you? He just walked into an office and shot a guy a couple of times—almost killed him—and now you give fancy speeches in his defense, saying that he was put upon and it was the old rich guy who was wrong and deserved it. Some responsible citizen you are.”

  “He did deserve it!” she said, her voice rising. “Shooting Frick was an act of attentat, a brave gesture on behalf of untold thousands who suffer at the hands of a wicked tyrant who exploits the suffering workers to line his own pockets and those of his shareholders with cash. But you’re too blind to see that.”

  “As far as I can tell,” Falconer said, “your pal shot a guy who was defenseless in his office, and that’s against the law. And we enforce the laws in this country, miss. I’m not sure if they do where you come from, but here, we do.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked sharply.

  “What?” he muttered, looking out the window.

  “Where I come from?” she said. “What are you saying? That I don’t belong here in the United States, like you do?”

  “I didn’t say that,” he answered.

  “Not in so many words,” she said, “but that’s what you meant. I know what you’re really saying. I represent the ‘other’ who has come to your shores and has infested the cities with disease, grime, and unpleasant ideas.”

  “Well, now you’ve really gone bughouse,” he said.

  “Not really, detective,” she said. “I know what you and your native-born citizens feel about us who have come from other countries and other societies. It’s not hard to discern your true feelings towards us.”

  “I don’t give a damn where you come from,” he said. “Just please abide by the laws and don’t make mischief, if that’s not too much to ask.”

  “I’m done with you,” she said, returning to her book. “Just get me back to New York as quickly as you can, and I’ll part ways with you—with my thanks for your assistance, of course.”