The Fall

by Sean Moynihan

  “Well, you just stick close this here detective,” he said. “He’ll get you home safe, I’m sure.”

  “Indeed,” she said to him. “Good day to you, sir.”

  “So long now,” Lloyd said with a wave of his hand. “You folks stay safe.”

  Falconer then helped Goldman up out of the boat and down the dock to the shore, intent on securing two tickets’ passage to New York on the gleaming steamboat that bore the same city’s name.

  31

  Falconer walked out onto the bow deck of the paddle wheeler, New York, with Goldman by his side as the boat slowly began to move away from its moorings. The boat’s steam whistle erupted loudly behind them, seemingly filling the entire river valley with its anguished groan. Falconer looked around at the other people on the deck and turned to his companion. “Stay close to me,” he said. “There’s no guarantee that we managed to leave those men behind.”

  “I understand,” she said as she glanced furtively around the deck. “How long until we make New York, do you think?”

  “They say it typically takes eight hours or so, I’m afraid,” he replied. “But hopefully, we’ll be meeting some of my men at Bear Mountain later today. That will give us some reinforcements, just in case.”

  “And then, when we arrive back in New York?” she asked. “What then?”

  “Then we find whoever’s been responsible for this, and we send them to prison for the rest of their lives.”

  “I suppose if I were to agree with you,” she said, “I’d be a hypocrite, given that I’ve railed against my friend Berkman’s long prison sentence. But I can’t argue that these men don’t deserve some sort of long punishment. They are murderous brutes.”

  “Imagine that,” he said, looking down at her. “We actually agree on something.”

  “Yes, fascinating, isn’t it?”

  “Come on,” he said, gently touching her arm. “Let’s go find some quiet corner of the boat where we can stay out of view.”

  “That sounds fine to me,” she said. “Just as long as there’s enough light to read by—I managed to retain two of my books, believe it or not. Eight hours on a boat without reading material sounds like torture to me.”

  “I think we can arrange that. Let’s move towards the back.”

  32

  The elegant steamboat, New York, let out a series of loud toots from its steam whistle as it neared the dock at Bear Mountain. Falconer got up out of his seat in a corner of a small lounge located aft of the great paddle wheels on the main deck and turned to Goldman, who was reading intently by the electric lights fixed to the bulkheads. “Here we are finally,” he said. “Bear Mountain. Let’s go out and see if we can spot my men on the dock.”

  “Very well,” she said, closing her book. “It looks as though the sun is going down now.”

  “Yes, it is. Probably only another hour or two to New York.”

  They walked out of the lounge and onto the deck and found a spot on the railing where they could look down at all the people milling around on the dock. Soon, crewmates had extended a gangway for passengers to load and unload, and a steady train of people started to transfer to and from the shore. Falconer scanned the dock and finally saw the two policemen standing quietly in the back of the crowd. He motioned for them with a subtle waive of his hand, and Waidler responded by raising his hand to his cap. Falconer then motioned for them to join them on the boat and Waidler nodded again.

  Shortly thereafter, the two men walked up the gangway and handed their tickets to the waiting crewman, and then headed up a flight of stairs to where Falconer and Goldman were standing. Falconer greeted them quietly and led the group back inside to a quiet alcove away from the bustling crowd. “Glad to see you two made it,” he said.

  “Well, sounds like you’ve had quite an adventure,” Waidler said. “Any idea who these suspects are?”

  “None, unfortunately,” Falconer replied, “but we can’t take any chances. They’re armed and obviously very good at tailing us.”

  “You think they’re on this boat?” Waidler asked.

  “I’d doubt it,” Falconer replied, “but you never know with this group. They could be standing around here right under our noses, so keep your guns ready at all times. Any sign of mischief, shoot them. They’ve shown that they’re not messing around, so we won’t, either. Got it?”

  The two men nodded, and then Falconer pointed in the direction of the rear of the boat. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go try to be incognito in the back of the boat until we reach the city. Miss Goldman, this is Detective Waidler and Officer Halloran from our Detective Bureau. They’re going to help us get back to New York safely, so please listen to them at all times, all right?”

  “Good evening to you both, gentlemen,” Goldman said. “I guess you were investigating me with the detective here originally, but now due to unforeseen circumstances, you’re a part of my personal bodyguard. Very strange how things work out, isn’t it?”

  “Well,” Falconer said, “I guess strange is our business, so we can handle it. Shall we?”

  They then moved off down the passageway towards the rear of the boat as more loud whistles signaled the vessel’s impending departure from the darkening bend in the river called Bear Mountain.

  33

  The imposing steamboat chugged southwards down the Hudson River, which now lay draped in soft moonlight after the sun had finally set over the rolling mountains to the west. Falconer stood amongst a crowd of other passengers at a snack bar in the bow of the boat after having instructed Waidler and Halloran to stand watch over Goldman in the quiet, empty lounge near the stern. He ordered several coffees and pastries from the snack bar and then headed back to his companions.

  Walking carefully through the many passengers milling about the deck, he marveled at the steamboat’s impressive appearance and its ability to churn powerfully and quickly down the great river. The paddle wheelers were getting more and more ornate and were able to navigate the trip to and from Albany faster and faster, with speed records being broken every year, it seemed.

  He walked down a passageway to the stern and noted that passengers at this part of the boat became fewer and fewer, as most appeared to prefer to observe the passing shore from the windows and railings situated in the front section of the vessel. Stepping up to the entrance to the small lounge, he turned and almost dropped his small tray containing the snacks and coffees: Halloran lay face down on the floor before him and Goldman and Waidler were nowhere to be seen.

  34

  Falconer leaned over the prostrate Halloran and turned him over to see his face. The young officer appeared to be only dazed and was trying to speak.

  “What happened, Jimmy?” Falconer asked. “Where did Waidler and Goldman go?”

  Halloran blinked a few times, and then, after Falconer helped him up into a sitting position, he finally spoke, slowly at first, as if searching for his words: “Detective Waidler went out to make sure things were clear down the passageway, and then a couple of ship’s stewards came by and asked if we wanted anything to drink. I turned to Miss Goldman, and right then, I must have gotten hit from behind and things went black. Not sure what happened next.”

  “Stewards?” Falconer asked. “You sure about that?”

  “Well, that’s what they said they were, and they were dressed that way. I’m sorry, sir.”

  “It’s all right, Jimmy,” Falconer said, handing him a glass of water from the tray he had just been carrying. “You stay here, and I’ll go find them.”

  “Yes, sir,” Halloran said, taking a sip of the water.

  “Are you able to handle your weapon?”

  “I am, sir. Thanks.”

  “All right,” Falconer said, standing up and unholstering his revolver. “I’ll be back. And take no chances if they return when I’m gone. Shoot them, understand?”

 
“Yes, sir.”

  Falconer then ran out into the passageway and headed toward the boat’s stern. As he got closer to the very rear of the deck, he saw no one save for several passengers glancing out over the fantail. He turned and saw a stairway leading up to the boiler deck and decided to head up. Quickly ascending the stairs, he moved forward slowly through the passageway, keeping an eye out for sudden movement and listening for any sounds of a struggle. The noise of the huge boilers and steam engine nearby made it much harder to hear at this level, however, and he had to strain to hear anything beyond the steady whoosh-whoosh of the engines hurling the great boat through the waters below.

  Walking carefully past several surprised passengers, he glanced to his right and saw a large, red door with black, painted letters on it: NO ENTRY – ENGINE ROOM. Looking down, he saw that the door was slightly ajar. Moving closer to the door, he gently pushed it open, keeping his revolver cocked and at the ready in front of him.

  Peering inside, he saw an enormous two-story engine room enveloped with the overwhelming noise of the great steam engine churning just fifteen feet below him. He looked around for any engineers or stokers but strangely saw none. Walking farther into the space, he saw the great black boilers down below and the attached giant levers that were, in turn, attached to the thick axle, which moved the two, enormous drums inside the paddle boxes fixed to either side of the boat. As the powerful engine steadily turned these great, steel components together, he could see the huge paddle wheels revolving violently down through the waters of the Hudson, propelling the long steamboat quickly down the river.

  He decided to walk around the elevated walkway upon which he stood, as he felt something was amiss in this enormous cathedral of sound and machinery. Where were the engineers? Where was Waidler?

  As he carefully made his way around the walkway, he looked down at all the hidden places and crannies in which an assailant could lay in wait and wondered if Goldman and Waidler were, in fact, already dead out in the waters now, floating down the Hudson River like logs discarded from a riverside sawmill. If this were, in fact, true, he would not stop until he found the mysterious “stewards” that had attacked Halloran and had exacted retribution on them. He would not take them into custody, as he would be expected to do—he would kill them with a swift and unmerciful violence. This would be his penance to the dead, to those he had failed to protect.

  Something in his way suddenly interrupted his pained thoughts, and he squinted his eyes to get a closer look: a foot, appearing out from behind a large gear box down below. Quickly moving down a nearby stairway, he ran over to the gear box and saw an engineer lying unconscious on his back. Falconer knelt next to the man, who appeared to be in his fifties, and tried to rouse him. The man groaned slightly and then finally opened his eyes. “Are you all right?” Falconer asked him. “Can you speak?”

  The man just peered at Falconer and appeared to be trying to form coherent thoughts and words, but none came immediately. Falconer grabbed some rags resting on top of the gear box and placed them underneath the man’s head, and then spoke to him again: “Did you see anyone come into the engine room? What happened here?”

  The man then took a deep breath and spoke finally, in a faint whisper. “A couple of men came in here holding onto a woman,” he said. “She was struggling with them. I told them to let her go, and then they pointed their guns at me, so I put my hands up. They came down here and started mumbling to each other, something about how to get rid of her. Then some other guy came in pointing a gun at them and telling them to hand her over. Shots were fired, and I went for the lady, but one of them smacked me on the head. Not sure where they went.”

  “All right,” Falconer said. “You take it easy here, and I’ll get help to you.”

  He stood up and looked around the cavernous room and was about to head up the stairs when he heard a female voice yelling out angrily.

  Goldman.

  He looked above and saw the two men coming back into the engine room with Goldman resisting them violently. They were both dragging her forcefully into the space from the passageway, and she, in turn, was trying to wrench herself free. Falconer tried to make out what they were saying but the din from the engines muffled their words, and he could only hear angry utterances and shouted commands of some sort. He quietly moved backwards towards another stairway leading up to the attached walkway, and walked gingerly up it, getting his gun ready for use, if need be.

  At the top, he peered across the room and saw that the men were dragging Goldman closer to him, closer to the great, revolving paddle wheel that heaved around and around on the side of the boat. As they dragged her down the walkway, he then realized what they were about to do: they were going to throw her over the railing into the swirling chaos of the paddle wheel below, where her death would appear accidental, or perhaps the result of a suicide—tossed about violently in the powerful turns of the huge wheel and then left floating behind the great vessel like an old, torn, rag doll.

  Goldman screamed and ranted as the men dragged her closer and closer to the top of the wheel, which turned steadily just a yard or so from the walkway. Falconer thought of what to do, and, seeing a small supporting bulkhead coming out perpendicularly from the side of the boat nearby, he moved quickly behind it away from the sight of the men. Holding his revolver up near his shoulder, he peered around the bulkhead and saw them struggling with Goldman at the apex of the great wheel’s revolution through the waters below. Now he could make out words coming from the three of them.

  “No! Let me go!”

  “Get her damned arm, Sid! Hold her now!”

  “Help me! Help me! Someone!”

  “Push her up! Hurry! Throw her over!”

  “No! Help me!”

  Then, just as the two men managed to lift Goldman off her feet, Falconer sprang from his hiding place and ran directly at them.

  35

  Falconer could hear the clanking of his shoes on the walkway as he ran headlong towards the two men, who were now attempting to lift Goldman up and over the railing and down to where the great paddle wheel moved forcefully and violently into the churning waters below. He kept his revolver gripped tightly in his right hand but was concerned that a gunshot might hit Goldman instead, and thus, he intended to use it merely as a clubbing weapon.

  Just as the men were about to tip Goldman over to her certain death, he reached back with the gun and unleashed a hard blow against the head of the smaller man, who grunted and fell limply to the walkway. At the same time, Falconer grabbed Goldman by her jacket and pulled at her mightily, dragging both her and the larger assailant down to the walkway, too. As they fell together, Falconer’s gun was knocked out of his hand and it slid over the other side of the walkway to the floor of the engine room below. Looking back at the man, he saw a look of shock on his face, and then the man yelled out, “What the hell?!”

  The man quickly pulled out his own gun and started to level it at Falconer’s head, but Falconer deftly kicked it out of his hand, and it slid down the walkway. They both then got up to their feet as Goldman scurried away a few feet down the walkway. “Get out of here!” Falconer yelled at her. “Go back to the lounge!”

  Falconer kept his eye on the man as Goldman got to her feet and ran swiftly along the walkway. As she disappeared out the door, he directed his gaze back at the man and stepped forward towards him. The man then reached into his jacket, and, with a smile, pulled out a knife and waved it threateningly at him.

  Falconer raised his hands in front of him in a defensive posture and the two men hesitated. The man then swung out wildly with his knife several times, missing him by inches. Falconer waited for the next thrust, attempting to time it right, and when the man lunged again, Falconer ducked underneath his arm and grabbed it solidly with both of his hands, pushing the man backwards towards the railing.

  The two men struggled to gain an upper edge over the
other, grunting and straining against the railing, and when the man tried to strike Falconer in the face with his free left hand, Falconer leaned over and avoided the blow and simultaneously punched the man hard in the ribs, causing the man to yelp out in pain.

  Falconer then stepped back slightly and saw the smaller man moving now where he lay on the walkway. The larger man, still brandishing the knife, shouted out to his companion, urging him to get up. “Lance! Get up, boy! We got company!”

  Falconer saw the injured man look up and appear to realize finally what was happening, and then rise to a standing position, rubbing his head. He then slowly reached into his jacket with his other hand, and Falconer knew that he was moving for a weapon of some sort. Moving quickly upon him, Falconer grabbed his arm just as he was extracting a small revolver. The two struggled over the weapon, and, while it was pointing straight up in the air, it went off several times, with the sounds of the shots reverberating throughout the room despite the loudness of the steam engines rumbling below.

  Falconer wrenched the young man’s arm down to the railing and struck his hand hard, causing the man to yell out in pain and lose his grip on the weapon, which, like Falconer’s gun moments earlier, fell to the engine room floor. Falconer then kicked the young thug solidly in his ribs, and the man doubled over in pain and retreated several steps.

  The bigger man, still standing back with his knife, yelled at his young companion to converge on Falconer, but the stricken lad instead turned and fled down the walkway towards the door leading to the passageway. The bigger man yelled out in protest: “Lance, you get back here! You hear me?! Come back, you son of a bitch!”

  Falconer turned back to his remaining assailant, and they both started moving slowly in a small circle, as if probing for weaknesses and the right opportunity to strike. The man feinted some strikes several times, attempting to get Falconer off-balance, but Falconer didn’t take the bait, and then finally, when the man lunged directly at his torso, Falconer moved quickly backwards and kicked out at the knife. The man managed to keep hold of it, however, and he swung again wildly at Falconer’s face, missing it by inches.