The Fall

by Sean Moynihan

  “Miss Goldman,” he said, doffing his bowler.

  “Is it to try to find more evidence against me in the Frick matter?” she asked. “Or to protect me against my own assassins perhaps?”

  “Both, I’d say. Any sign of your tormentors lately?”

  “No, actually. Perhaps they’ve given up and found more consequential persons to eliminate.”

  “I’d doubt that. Something tells me they still place great importance on you, but they’re lying back and waiting.”

  “For what?”

  “For the right moment. I’m sorry to be so pessimistic, but you saw how hard they tried to get you upstate.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Are you taking precautions, I hope?”

  “I have many friends who would like to protect me. Like Mister Aronstam here.” She nodded towards the swarthy young man sitting quietly next to her with a scowl on his face.

  “Yes, Mister Aronstam,” Falconer said, looking at him. “I heard that he’s actually supposed to be up in Pittsburgh right now—even the newspapers are saying that. Funny how he appears right here, in the flesh.”

  “Well, we’re not responsible for the foolish drivel that the newspapers put out there,” Goldman said. “If they can’t do their jobs right, it’s not our problem.”

  “So, how was it up in Pittsburgh a couple of weeks ago, Mister Aronstam?” Falconer asked. But Aronstam remained mute, and only glared more intently at Falconer.

  “What’s the matter?” Falconer continued. “Cat got your tongue?”

  The young man then shoved his chair backwards and stood up angrily, with his fists clenched at his sides.

  “Now, now, Modest,” Goldman said, touching his arm and trying to calm him. “There’s no need to get upset. Detective Sergeant Falconer didn’t mean anything—he’s just not very artful with his words.”

  “Right,” Falconer said. “I’m no orator like Miss Goldman here. I only catch criminals and assassins—and their accomplices, too, of course.”

  “Please sit down, Modest,” Goldman said to the young man who was still standing and peering straight at Falconer across the table. “The detective sergeant and his man were just leaving now, I’m sure.”

  “I heard you were a bit of a hothead, Aronstam,” Falconer said teasingly. “Pushing guys around if they got in the way of your anarchist friends here…being quite the tough guy. I wonder…do you want to step outside with me right now? Is that it? I wouldn’t be acting in the role of a police detective, of course. We’ll just say it’s two men dealing with each other in their own way. Is that what you’d like, friend?”

  “Detective sergeant, please,” Goldman said, raising her voice. “You are acting entirely inappropriately, and I would ask you to leave us now. Please.”

  For several seconds, no one at the table spoke, and then finally Falconer looked at Goldman.

  “Certainly,” he said. “I only hope that Mister Aronstam here is ready for them when they come for you. Good evening.”

  He then signaled for Halloran to move back towards the bar’s entrance and they both turned and made their way out through the crowd. Stepping outside, Halloran turned to Falconer and spoke: “You think that guy Aronstam went up to Pittsburgh to finish the job, detective sergeant?”

  “I do, Jimmy. I do. Let’s stay on Goldman, though. I can’t believe those killers we encountered up north have given up on her, as she says. They’re going to strike soon.”

  “Yes, sir, understood,” Halloran stated.

  Falconer then turned and started walking up the street, and Halloran went with him at his side as the moon cast a glow on the dark, empty street.

  Monday, August 22, 1892

  41

  The dark-haired visitor to the city quietly tailed his subject by about fifty yards as they slowly ambled their way down 14th Street with a crowd of other pedestrians. Approaching the intersection with 3d Street, he saw his young quarry stop suddenly and look to his right at the building adjoining the large 14th Street Theater that stood mid-block like a colossal Roman structure from ancient times. The theater—with its large, front portico supported by four, sturdy, Corinthian columns, and its triangular pediment higher up that sported a tympanum inlaid with detailed relief sculptures of Roman figures—dwarfed the other buildings on the block and currently advertised a play: “A Flag of Truce,” by William Haworth.

  The crafty spy stood back at a distance as the younger man stepped up to the front entrance of the five-story structure next to the theater and walked inside. By its signage, the building housed a publishing firm on the lower floors—“Taylor’s Publishing Co.”—but it appeared to rent out apartments on its higher floors.

  The dark-haired man walked down the sidewalk to the building, limping slightly, and stepped inside to see where the object of his surveillance had gone. There was no sign of him amidst the various people milling around inside the publishing shop, but he could hear voices above and the sound of footsteps slowly ascending the staircase. He smiled and nodded to one of the firm’s clerks and then moved over to the stairs. Walking up, he heard the voices getting louder as he approached the top floor. Reaching the last step, he moved over to a door that was closed and heard some of the discussion occurring behind it: “Am I able to take possession tomorrow?” a man said with a French accent. Then came the reply, presumably from the host and lessor: “Yes, of course, sir—the gas fixture has been installed and it’s just about ready for you. How about eight o’clock this evening?” The lessee with the French accent agreed heartily. “Tres bien,” he said. “Thank you so much. I will be here at eight.”

  The interloper outside the door then quickly moved to the stairs and descended to the first floor, smiling again at the clerk as he exited to the street and walked away.

  So…taking accommodations here. How perfect. But how to do the job? One cannot simply throw a stick of dynamite into a window on a floor so high up like one can at a street café in Paris. No. How to manage it up on the fifth floor? But wait—the man mentioned a gas fixture being installed. Yes…I have heard of such explosions. A proper gas leak lit by a candle at night would do the trick. And it would seem like just a terrible accident—a gas leak that no one could have foreseen…

  He turned in his tracks and walked quickly back to the building, searching for an alleyway to its rear, where an access point to a back stairway would certainly be found.

  42

  Falconer sat down in a booth already occupied by Penwill, Levine, and Houllier at Brackley’s Tavern near the Mulberry Street police headquarters. It was evening, and the men had agreed to meet to discuss the possibility that Meunier—if he had ever been in New York City—had now left and moved on to targets unknown.

  “Ah, Falconer,” Penwill said, “right on time, I see. How are things, my friend?”

  “Not too bad, inspector,” Falconer replied, nodding at the others. “Gentlemen.”

  “I was just looking at the evening paper,” Penwill said, “and it appears that this Borden woman up in Massachusetts had her preliminary hearing today. Can you imagine that? A young woman kills her own father and stepmother with a hatchet? What the devil could be the motive, I wonder?”

  “I have seen such terrible acts of violence committed by otherwise refined young women,” Houllier said. “There is no telling what a desperate person may do if pushed too far. Even if that person is une belle jeune femme.”

  “Yes, I suppose you are right there,” Penwill said, “but why did she do it? Money, I suppose. Wasn’t the old codger fairly wealthy?”

  “I believe that he was,” Levine chimed in, “but he was known to be particularly frugal. In fact, I read recently that the home didn’t even have indoor plumbing or electricity despite the man’s obvious financial ability to pay for such things.”

  “Well, that’s quite odd,” Penwill said. “Why would
the old man live like that?”

  “Afraid to lose it—all that money,” Falconer said. “Not all of these rich types live large. Some of them live with the constant fear that they’ll fall on hard times and have to go back to living like they once did—like normal men do.”

  “Well, I dare say, it’s a good thing I’ll never have to worry about that,” Penwill said with a smile.

  The men chuckled at his remark, and then, as the laughter ebbed, Falconer spoke again. “So, I suppose the trail has run cold with Meunier.”

  “It has,” Penwill replied. “I’m afraid we have no leads or sightings. Perhaps he’s run along to another country—if he ever was here, in the first place.”

  “I agree, mon ami,” Houllier said. “I am convinced that he did come here to your fine city, but alas, there is no sign now.”

  “And you have bulletins out with his description, I assume?” Falconer asked.

  “Yes, everywhere,” Penwill answered. “At least, we’ve tried.”

  “Well, then, I suppose you’ve done all that you can,” Falconer said, “and we all just have to wait for him to make his next move. I know that isn’t really what you want to hear, but it is the situation.”

  “Very true,” Penwill said. “Very true.”

  “And what about your mysterious assassins, Detective Sergeant Falconer?” Houllier asked. “Any leads?”

  “Unfortunately, not,” Falconer replied. “It’s been quiet all around, and Goldman is acting as if none of it ever happened. She’s very brash, that one. Quite the ‘bricky girl,’ as you would say, Inspector Penwill.”

  “Yes, it appears so,” Penwill said. “But who could have been behind it? A band of marauders intent on killing this young woman, and for what? For her political beliefs, perhaps?”

  “I believe so,” Levine interjected.

  The men all turned to him.

  “She is an anarchist,” he continued, “and thus, who does she appeal to? To the workers, of course—the multitude of forgotten factory hands and sweatshop toilers who gather at all those loud and boisterous rallies. She is their protector and their voice, and through her rousing speeches she keeps them from forgetting how they are constantly exploited and used by—”

  “By the corporate bigwigs,” Falconer interrupted. “Like Frick.”

  “Yes,” Levine said. “Like Frick.”

  “I say, Falconer,” Penwill said, “do you think it’s Frick who was up to those attacks on you up on the Mohawk River?”

  “No,” Falconer answered, pulling out a cigarillo and lighting it. “Why would he? Berkman is in jail and about to face trial, but he was captured in the act, after all, so there’s no question as to his guilt. His goose is cooked and he’s going to prison.”

  “A fait accompli,” Houllier said.

  “Yes, exactly,” Falconer said.

  “Well, then, who?” Penwill asked. “Any ideas?”

  “Detective sergeant,” Levine said, turning to Falconer, “you said that right before that one particular gunman let go of the cliff up in Cohoes and fell into the water, he said to you, ‘You don’t know how powerful we are.’ Isn’t that correct?”

  “Yes,” Falconer answered. “That’s exactly what he said. Why?”

  “Well,” Levine said, “he said ‘we,’ and chances are, he was not merely referring to the gunmen who were with him that day; he was more likely referring to his employers—to those who tell him what to do.”

  “And?” Penwill asked.

  “And,” Levine continued, “if we stick with the notion of Miss Goldman frustrating the aims of the great financiers and the corporate titans, then perhaps the ‘we’ is, well…”

  “Yes?” Falconer asked.

  “Perhaps the ‘we’ is actually a band of these corporate heads who are issuing orders to eliminate any rabble-rouser who gets in their way.”

  The other men looked at Levine for a moment, and then at each other, and then Houllier finally spoke. “I see, professeur…a secret society, if you will, driven to promote the aims of their companies even to the point of committing murder.”

  “Well, isn’t that just a bit fanciful, perhaps?” Penwill asked. “A group of wealthy owners meeting in secret to dispense their own brand of justice? You mean to say Carnegie, Rockefeller, Morgan, and all the others like them are members of a secret, organized crime gang?”

  “I’m not saying exactly that, inspector,” Levine said. “I’m only postulating that perhaps those assassins whom Detective Sergeant Falconer faced are getting their instructions from some people who are very powerful and very high up in the chain, as it were.”

  “It makes sense, actually, gentlemen,” Falconer said. “Goldman advocates the upending of our capitalist society and the government that supports and enables it. She is a sharp thorn in the wealthy owners’ sides and only makes things worse for them—just look at what happened in Homestead.”

  “What is that?” Houllier asked. “Homestead?”

  “Yes,” Falconer said, “Homestead, Pennsylvania, where striking steel workers engaged in a gunfight with Pinkerton agents at one of Frick and Carnegie’s factories just last month. It’s why Berkman went after Frick.”

  “Ah, I see,” Houllier said.

  “Perhaps the professor here can better explain,” Falconer said, looking at Levine.

  “Yes, certainly,” Levine said. “The striking workers were from a union, the Amalgamated Association of Iron and Steel Workers, and they went on strike after Frick and Carnegie refused to increase wages and improve work conditions at the factory. Frick, determined to destroy the union, locked the men out of the factory and hired hundreds of Pinkerton agents to keep them out. Well, the workers fought back, and a gun battle ensued just last month along the banks of the Monongahela River, which fronts the plant. Several agents and workers were killed, and many more were wounded. Eventually, the Pinkertons—who were vastly outnumbered and outgunned—were forced to surrender, but then the governor called in the state militia, and the workers found out quickly which side the governor was on. They were strong-armed into capitulating and had to go back into the factory on Frick’s draconian terms just a couple of weeks ago.”

  “I see,” Houllier said. “Thank you, professeur.”

  “So,” Penwill said, “perhaps these mysterious assailants who have dogged you and Miss Goldman, Falconer, have been sent by unnamed representatives of the companies’ ownership—or perhaps even by the owners themselves.”

  “Maybe it’s a stretch,” Falconer said, “but the motive is certainly there. Goldman is a firebrand and she’s continually sticking a hot poker right in the owners’ eyes every time she gives a speech to hundreds of angry workers.”

  “The problem is, of course, messieurs,” Houllier said, “how do you find out if this is true?”

  “That’s a hard question to answer,” Falconer said. “But I think the only way is to catch one of these thugs and put the squeeze on him until he talks. Don’t you agree?”

  “Yes, indeed,” Penwill said. “But where are these thugs now? Where are you to find them? As you’ve pointed out, they’ve melted away.”

  Falconer said nothing in response to his companion’s pointed remark, and only took a long drag of his cigarillo as he thought of Emma Goldman.

  43

  The young Frenchman followed the apartment manager up the darkened staircase with a suitcase in hand as dusk slowly settled over Lower Manhattan. The manager also carried a bag, having offered to assist the new lessee with his belongings. As they reached the top floor, the manager lit a candle to better see in the darkening hallway.

  “Here, we are, sir,” he said to the young renter. “That’s a little better.”

  They then both approached the room, and the manager, leading the way, opened the door to enter. The younger man instantly felt a rush of hot, pungent air—g
as—hit his face, and then a bright flash lit up the hallway like the sun. He felt himself suddenly tumbling backward and heard a loud roar—like a freight train rushing by inches from his face.

  He landed with a thud on his back in the hallway, and in his dazed state, he felt something burning: his mustache and hair. He reached up and tried to douse the embers that were singeing his face and heard the low rumbling sound around him that reminded him of the fireplace back home in France as a boy: the popping and hissing of the firewood as it slowly burned and the crackling of the blue and orange flame as it lapped the air and danced upward into the chimney.

  He did not know what had happened, and was having trouble forming coherent thoughts, but somewhere in his tangled and pained mind he realized that an explosion had occurred—a gas explosion. He moved his head slightly to the side as he lay on his back and tried to see Mister Colon, the manager, but he could only see flames and smoke, and debris falling all around him.

  Then he heard voices from below, and—somehow summoning the strength—he determined to get up and away from the encroaching flames. He rolled over to his side and lifted himself up to a sitting position, and then, struggling to his feet, he looked for the stairwell leading down to safety. Seeing it through the glare of the surrounding inferno, he limped over to the top step and slowly made his way down to the voices.

  44

  The World

  Tuesday Evening

  August 23, 1892

  HURT IN A GAS EXPLOSION

  Two Men Thrown Down,