The Fall

by Sean Moynihan

  The man quickly recovered, and he again approached Falconer slowly, waving the large knife threateningly in front of him. Falconer stepped backwards and tried to find an opening through which to strike a hard blow, but the man was adept with the knife and allowed no opportunities.

  “Who the hell are you people?!” Falconer shouted over the noise of the steam engines and the great paddle wheel revolving just feet away from them. “Who sent you here?”

  “You’ll never know, cop!” the man replied loudly with a grin. “You and the lady will be at the bottom of the river!”

  “You’re coming into Mulberry Street!” Falconer yelled. “You’ve got some explaining to do!”

  “Oh, really?!” the man yelled. “Who’s gonna’ make me?!”

  He then lunged at Falconer and swung the knife directly at his neck, but Falconer parried the thrust and struck the man hard in the face with the back of his hand, sending him backwards against the railing. Falconer quickly grabbed his arms and struggled with him closely against the railing while the huge paddle wheel rolled menacingly a few feet away.

  The man tried to push Falconer off, but Falconer was stronger and managed to bend the man’s upper torso backwards over the railing, ever closer to the paddle wheel. The man raised the knife one last time despite Falconer’s hard grip on his arm, and the man grimaced with rage and desperation, growling like a caged beast.

  “Give it up!” Falconer yelled. “Drop the knife!”

  The man looked up at Falconer as he bent backwards over the railing towards the churning wheel. “Go to hell, Falconer!” he sneered, wrenching his hand free and ramming the knife directly at Falconer’s neck.

  The blow missed, however, as Falconer was able to duck, and the man’s inertia caused him to twist around where he stood, such that he was now facing the paddle wheel. Falconer reached down quickly to the man’s belt, grabbed it solidly, and lifted him up and over the railing as the man looked back with a pained look on his face.

  “You first!” Falconer yelled.

  Then, with a hard shove, he threw the man over the railing and down into the swirling waters where the paddle wheel churned, moving the great boat down the river. The man screamed in agony momentarily and then Falconer saw him disappear for a couple of seconds only to see him reappear all tangled up in the wheel’s paddles as it moved around and around.

  The man hung awkwardly in the metal and wood structure as it moved quickly past Falconer’s gaze and down to the water again, and he saw the man like this, a rag doll caught unmercifully in the unyielding movements of the great machinery, until, after several revolutions, the body disappeared, lost somewhere in the boat’s bubbling wake, and Falconer turned where he stood and decided on his next move.

  36

  Falconer stepped carefully out into the passageway with his recovered revolver at the ready. He peered to his right and saw several people standing over someone, so he ran down to find out what was wrong. Stepping through the small crowd, he saw Goldman kneeling before Waidler, who was bleeding from his shoulder.

  “James,” Falconer said. “What happened? Are you hurt bad?”

  “Sorry, boss,” Waidler said. “I took a knife wound after two suspects grabbed Miss Goldman here. It’ll be all right.”

  “He’s right,” Goldman said, dabbing at the wound with a handkerchief. “I’m also a trained nurse, you know, and this is just a slight wound—not too deep and nothing to be alarmed about, thank goodness.”

  “Well, I’m sorry about this, James,” Falconer said. “If it helps any, the older one is now floating behind us after he had an accident with the paddle wheel.”

  Goldman turned and looked up at Falconer. “You killed the man?” she asked him. “Really—was that necessary?”

  “I’m sorry if it upsets you,” he replied, “but at the time, I didn’t really have many options when he was trying to gouge my neck with a buck knife.”

  “I see,” she said, turning back to Waidler’s wound. “I suppose men like those don’t leave one any choice.”

  “There’s still one left on the boat,” Falconer said. “We’ve got to locate him.”

  “Too late,” Waidler said. “Passengers reported that they saw a young guy run up to the railing and jump off. Sounds like he thought he’d try to make it to shore rather than stick around here.”

  “I see,” Falconer said. “Well, even so, we need to get away from everyone for the rest of the trip—can’t afford any more risks.”

  A crew member who looked like an officer suddenly made his way through the crowd and came upon them. “What the devil happened here?” he asked. “People said they heard shots.”

  “We’re with New York police,” Falconer said, showing the officer his badge. “We’re escorting this young woman down to the city, and unfortunately, a band of thugs is after her. I won’t go into why, but rest assured, they’ve jumped the boat and fled, so your boat is safe. We’re going to need a safe place to stay for the rest of the trip, though. Can you help us?”

  “Certainly, certainly,” the officer said, glancing down at Waidler. “And we’ll get your man’s wound here looked at, too. Come along with me to the bow and we’ll get you situated.”

  “Thanks,” Falconer said. “And I’ve got another man who took a blow to the head over in the lounge, and there’s a crew member hurt in the engine room. They’ll need help, too.”

  “Understood,” the officer said. “Shall we now?”

  Falconer then reached down and helped Waidler to his feet, and with Goldman’s assistance, they slowly made their way through the gawking passengers and followed the officer forward to the lounge as the steamboat continued its journey down the Hudson River towards New York City.

  Part II

  Mulberry Street Headquarters

  Tuesday, August 9, 1892

  37

  “Well, that’s quite a tale,” Byrnes said grimly as he stood before Falconer and Halloran in his office on the second floor of police headquarters. Nearby stood Clubber Williams and Chief Inspector Steers, both also apparently dumbfounded by Falconer’s recitation just moments earlier of his dangerous journey with Goldman up to Cohoes and the Mohawk River and back in the past few days.

  “I suppose I don’t blame you for rustling her quickly out of the city,” Byrnes continued, “given the events over the past several days. It’s clear someone wants her eliminated, although who that could be beats me—Lord knows many people despise the woman. You did the right thing trying to protect her until you could figure it out, although we cannot forget that she is still a prime suspect in the Frick assassination attempt with Berkman.”

  “Understood, sir,” Falconer said.

  “And how is your man, Waidler?” the superintendent asked. “Not too serious, you say?”

  “No, fortunately not, sir. Just a slight knife wound. I think he’ll be back on duty very soon.”

  “Well, that is fortunate, indeed,” Byrnes said, lighting a cigar at his desk. “He’s a good man. Very dedicated—like his brother, Sergeant Waidler, over at the academy. Both top-notch men.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, what to do from here?” Byrnes asked. “Any suggestions?”

  “I think I’ll need to stay with Miss Goldman for now given the extreme threat posed to her,” Falconer replied. “I know it presents some difficulties with the investigation of the Frick shooting, but we can’t just leave her out there in the cold—I think she’d be dead within the week.”

  “I would agree with you there, but unfortunately, we can’t order her to stay with you and your men.”

  “Actually, sir,” Steers interjected, “we just received a note that she’s left the building and has disappeared into the streets with some of her Red friends, it appears.”

  “What’s that?” Falconer asked incredulously.

  “Well,�
�� Byrnes said, “looks like she just up and left. Without any thanks, it appears—can you imagine that?”

  Falconer stood still and wasn’t sure what to say. Why had she just left knowing that she had a target on her back? Why risk her life so openly after all that had happened?

  “I suppose you can track her down, though,” Byrnes said. “You always seem to find your man—or woman, in this case. Do what you can do to shadow her, even if she apparently doesn’t want the protection. You might just fall upon her attempted assassins and crack the case—and find evidence against her in the Frick matter while you’re at it. Do what you can.”

  “Yes, sir,” Falconer answered, and then he nodded to Halloran and they both turned to leave.

  “Oh, Falconer?” Byrnes said suddenly.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Your British inspector friend, Penwill, is back on a case here with a representative of the French police, Inspector Houllier. But I believe you’re aware of that?”

  “I am, sir.”

  “I know you’re stretched thin already with this Goldman business, but I told him that you’d offer support, as you are able. All right?”

  “Yes, sir. Will do.”

  “Thank you, and welcome back.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Falconer replied, and then he strolled out of the office with Halloran right behind.

  38

  Penwill stood with Houllier and New York City police detective sergeant Frank Corsi in the waiting room outside vice-presidential candidate Whitelaw Reid’s office high up in the New York Tribune Building on Park Row. Reid, the owner of the Tribune, had returned to his plush haven on the eighth floor after completing his three-year ambassadorship to France in March, but there was little time for relaxing now, as he was in the middle of a busy campaign season and was about to head out to more Republican Party gatherings in the Midwest.

  The door to Reid’s office opened and a man stepped out and approached the detectives. “Gentlemen,” he said politely, “Ambassador Reid will see you now.”

  “Thank you,” Corsi said, and the three detectives followed the aide through the doorway. Inside, Penwill saw Reid get up out of his large, leather chair and walk around an impressive, oak desk to greet them. He was tall and slender, perhaps in his mid-fifties, and had wisps of gray in his hair that was parted down the middle, and a full mustache.

  As Reid moved closer to the men, Penwill noticed his dark blue eyes and found them rather arresting, as if they could freeze a man in place with a sudden glare. “Gentlemen,” Reid said, “it’s not often that I am requested to meet with police detectives. What can I do for you?”

  “Yes, thank you for receiving us, Ambassador Reid,” Corsi said. “I’m Detective Sergeant Corsi from the Central Detective Bureau, and this is Inspector Penwill from Scotland Yard’s Special Branch, and Inspector Houllier from the French Surete. They are here in our country working with my department on a special assignment.”

  “Special assignment?” Reid said. “What sort of special assignment?”

  “If I may?” Penwill interjected. “Ambassador Reid, you are familiar with the recently executed French anarchist bomber, Ravachol?”

  “Yes, I am,” Reid said. “He was on the loose during my last days in France, then was finally caught right after I had left.”

  “Yes, you are correct there, sir,” Penwill said.

  “So, what do I have to do with this man, Ravachol, Inspector Penwill?” Reid asked.

  “Well, perhaps nothing, but we are here just in case, concerning your own personal safety.”

  “Personal safety? But as you mentioned, Ravachol is dead—executed last month. How can he affect my personal safety?”

  “He can’t, of course, but one of his acolytes might be able to, I’m afraid.”

  “Acolytes? You mean to say this Ravachol had followers who would like to take up his mantle, as it were?”

  “Yes, and we have a belief that one of them—a Theodule Meunier—might be in this city now bent on committing further acts of destruction.”

  “And…I might be a target.”

  “Yes, perhaps, given that you were the United States’ official representative in France for the past three years. But it’s just a hunch at this point, which brings us to this visit. Do you mind if we ask you just a few questions?”

  “No, not at all, gentlemen,” Reid said, walking back to his chair behind the desk. “Please, have a seat.”

  “Thank you, ambassador,” Penwill said, motioning for Houllier and Corsi to join him in taking a chair in front of the desk. “Do you recall having any role in the investigation and prosecution of Ravachol? Any influence at all?”

  “No, no, I don’t believe so,” Reid said. “That was an internal affair for France’s Ministry of Justice to handle. I was involved largely with our own foreign relations with the French government, of course—treaties, trade agreements, that sort of thing.”

  “I understand, but could there have been any sort of minor contact with the Ravachol case, even if seemingly brief and insignificant?”

  Reid sat back in his chair and appeared lost in thought for a moment, then he turned back to the detectives. “I’m sorry, gentlemen,” he said. “I just don’t believe I had any role in that whole thing. And, as I mentioned, the prosecution only occurred after I had already left, so I don’t see why this Meunier individual would have anything against me.”

  “Yes, yes, of course, ambassador,” Penwill said. “Like I said, it was only a hunch, and we wanted to follow through on it—you understand.”

  “I do,” Reid said, getting up out of his chair, “and I thank you all for looking into this. One can’t be too careful these days, you know.”

  “Indeed,” Penwill said, getting up, as well, as Houllier and Corsi followed suit. “Well, then, good afternoon, sir.”

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen. My aide will see you out.”

  “Oh, ambassador,” Penwill said, turning back to Reid suddenly, “although it appears that Meunier would not have any reason to seek you out, I should nonetheless recommend that you stay vigilant and alert your men to his possible presence—just in case.”

  “I shall do that, inspector,” Reid said, “but I can assure you that I’ve dealt with worse threats in my day. I was the only war correspondent present in the field for the full three days of Shiloh back in sixty-two. I think the Rebel charges against Grant’s lines were a bit more dangerous than this Meunier character.”

  “Yes, I should think so,” Penwill said. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” Reid replied.

  Penwill, Corsi, and Houllier then followed the ambassador’s aide out to the waiting room and headed for the elevators leading down to the first floor.

  Friday, August 12, 1892

  39

  Halloran nudged Falconer as they watched Goldman hug a young man outside the Zum Groben Michel tavern on 5th Street before entering the place with him. It was late and the two men had been following her throughout the evening.

  “So, who is that guy?” Halloran asked as they stood concealed behind the corner of an apartment house down the street from the tavern.

  “His name is Aronstam,” Falconer replied quietly. “Modest Aronstam—a Russian. He’s a so-called artist and longtime companion of Goldman and Berkman. Some say he and Goldman even got married at one point, but who knows? What we do know is that there are rumors that he’s actually in Pittsburgh right now trying to finish what Berkman failed to do—kill Frick—so we’re going to keep him company for a bit.”

  “In Pittsburgh?” Halloran asked confusedly. “But he’s here. Why would people think he’s in Pittsburgh trying to kill Frick?”

  “Because he was. We had some detectives tailing him in the days following Berkman’s assassination attempt, and he went to Pittsburgh, but he must have gotten cold fe
et because he came back quickly. But he’s been good at covering his tracks—even today the papers were talking about how he might still be in Pittsburgh.”

  “Do you think he’s in on it and really tried to get Frick?”

  “I don’t know, but it is concerning enough that he traveled to Pittsburgh right after the shooting. So now we have to keep an eye on him and Goldman—and watch out for her damned personal safety, too, of course.”

  “It’s odd that it’s been quiet for several days and there haven’t been any attacks against her.”

  “Yeah, but that won’t last. I’m more concerned about that mysterious group than about Aronstam or Goldman doing something up in Pittsburgh. Those bastards will be back, and Goldman’s just walking around like there’s nothing to it and she can give her anarchist lectures whenever she wants. Crazy lady.”

  “So, what do we do?”

  “Let’s pay Miss Goldman and Aronstam a visit, shall we? Let’s go inside.”

  Falconer then strode off towards the tavern and Halloran quickly followed at his heels.

  40

  Falconer led Halloran into the tavern and then stopped just inside the entrance. As usual, it was filled with many men and women speaking loudly in German or Yiddish and drinking hefty glasses of beer. Smoke wafted through the main barroom and no one appeared to notice the two policemen at first. Falconer nodded at Halloran and then strode purposefully into the room, looking towards the back. Walking by several tables packed with patrons, he spotted Goldman speaking with eight or nine companions at her favorite table against the back wall. He kept walking and ignored the stares of the various customers who were finally looking up from their chairs. With Halloran close behind, he walked a few more steps and then finally stopped at Goldman’s table, and she stopped talking mid-sentence and looked up at him with a frown. “Detective Sergeant Falconer,” she said, sitting back in her chair. “You’re visiting me again.”