The Fall

by Sean Moynihan

  “Indeed,” Penwill said, stopping in front of the address. “That’s a right smart move on your part.”

  “And I am happy to be of service, gentlemen,” Houllier said.

  “Thanks,” Falconer said. “Well? Shall we try them?”

  The men nodded and followed him up the front stairs of the stone brownstone that stood on the corner of 4th Ave. and 18th Street.

  “Nice place,” Waidler remarked.

  “Yes, it is very impressive,” Houllier said.

  Falconer knocked on the door, and, within 30 seconds, a woman dressed as a housemaid appeared. “Yes?” she asked with a French accent as she looked at the men.

  “Allow me, messieurs,” Houllier said, stepping forward. He then began to speak with the young woman in French, and after a brief discussion, she moved to let the men in.

  “Well, this is a good start,” Penwill said, and Falconer nodded.

  The housemaid led the men down a central hallway until they reached a large, well-furnished drawing room on the left. She motioned for them to enter, and then she strode off to a nearby staircase and ascended. As the men stood silently in the drawing room, Falconer could hear voices speaking in French upstairs. Moments later, a rotund, well-dressed man in his fifties appeared. “Bonjour, gentlemen,” he said with a smile. “My name is Henri Lavaud. Please—have a seat.”

  The men all sat down in chairs or on two fancy couches that sat squarely in the middle of the room. Lavaud motioned for the housemaid as he spoke to her in French again, and the woman departed. He then turned back to the men.

  “I understand that you are looking for young Antoine Boucher after his terrible accident last night,” he said. “Alas, he was here overnight after leaving the hospital, but he is gone now, I am afraid.”

  “Thank you for meeting with us, Monsieur Lavaud,” Falconer said. “I’m Detective Sergeant Falconer from the New York City Police Central Detective Bureau, and we are investigating the fire from last night. We fear that Mister Boucher was actually targeted, and that it was not an accident.”

  “Not an accident?” Lavaud said, sitting back and appearing surprised. “Mon Dieu—this is not good. Why would you say this?”

  “Well,” Falconer said, “it’s our understanding that Mister Boucher testified earlier this year in the trial against the anarchist, Ravachol. Is this correct?”

  “Yes, detective sergeant,” Lavaud said quietly. “I am afraid that is all true. Antoine was a fine young man, but regrettably, he got caught up in…unfortunate events.”

  “I see,” Falconer said. “Well, we believe that a follower of Ravachol—a Theodule Meunier—is here in New York and that he deliberately sabotaged the gas burner in Mister Boucher’s room to start an explosion as soon as a lit candle was brought into the room.”

  “Oh, my,” Lavaud said. “Meunier…here in New York…”

  “Do you know Meunier, Monsieur Lavaud?” Penwill asked.

  “Well, I know of him. We all followed the events from this past spring, and it was well known that Meunier tried to exact revenge in Paris for Ravachol’s execution, and that he then left the country for parts unknown.”

  “Yes, I see,” Penwill said.

  “Monsieur Lavaud,” Houllier said from his seat at the end of a couch.

  Lavaud looked at Houllier and then the two men began speaking to each other in French as the others looked on. After a moment of discourse in their native tongue, Houllier turned to Falconer and spoke: “I just asked the gentleman what Boucher had told him last night and where he had gone. He said Boucher was convinced, as we are, that this was no accident, and that Boucher felt compelled to flee the city. I asked Mister Lavaud where he went, and it appears that he just left a half hour ago for your Grand Central train terminal.”

  “Sir,” Falconer said, looking at Lavaud, “do you know where Mister Boucher is going?”

  “I am sorry, detective sergeant,” Lavaud said, “but he felt it would endanger my wife and me if he revealed his planned destination. And so, he only said that he would be headed west, and would contact us when he could.”

  “West,” Falconer said. “I see. And do you happen to have a photograph of the young man, just so we can familiarize ourselves with him?”

  “But of course. Just over here on the mantle.”

  He walked over to the fireplace, reached up and grabbed a framed photograph on top of the mantle, and then brought it back to his seat.

  “Here you are,” he said, handing the framed portrait to Falconer. “That is him just about a year ago.”

  Falconer looked down at the photograph of a thin, young man with dark hair and a trimmed mustache sitting amiably in a chair and looking off to the side.

  “Thank you, Monsieur Lavaud,” Falconer said, handing the framed photograph to Waidler, who then shared it with the other men. “This helps us very much in our efforts.”

  “Yes, my pleasure,” Lavaud said.

  “Well, I think that’s all we need to talk to you about today,” Falconer said. “We certainly appreciate your assistance, and we will keep you informed of your friend, Mister Boucher.”

  “Yes, please do,” Lavaud said dolefully. “He is the son of an old friend of mine back in France, and I have a special affection for him. I just fear that he has gotten himself into a most difficult situation from which he will not be able to escape.”

  “Well, we will do our best to find him and get him to safety,” Falconer said, standing up as the other men followed suit. “And we will find Meunier. I promise you that.”

  “Merci, merci, detective sergeant,” Lavaud said, also standing up. “I wish you men all the best, and good luck to you. Bon courage.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Falconer said, shaking Lavaud’s hand. “We can see ourselves out.”

  The men then skirted past Lavaud and walked to the front door of the home. As they stepped outside, Penwill turned to Falconer. “Well,” he said, “looks like it’s on to the train terminal immediately.”

  “Yes,” Falconer said. “There’s no time to lose. Let’s go get a cab and head up there.”

  The five men then briskly descended the front staircase and headed off to 4th Avenue on their way north to the great train station in the heart of the city.

  49

  Falconer leaped out of the covered carriage as it pulled to a stop on 42d Street and looked back briefly to see the other four men following him out. He turned again and glanced across the sidewalk at the busy entrance to Grand Central Railroad Station, which was swarming with people. “All, right, gents,” he said, “we know generally what Boucher looks like, and thanks to Inspector Penwill here, we also just saw that photograph of our target, Mister Meunier, that he brought along. We don’t know if Boucher is still here, or if Meunier is tracking him. Basically, we know nothing for certain, but we have to start somewhere, so let’s go inside, spread out, and start looking for either of them. Agreed?”

  The men nodded and he immediately turned and started walking to the entrance. Stepping inside and wading through the crowd of people in the large, front lobby, he led the men into the cavernous train shed beyond. Travelers were walking everywhere amidst the many trains that sat idling on the various tracks, and it was difficult to get a good look any faces in the chaos of hundreds of people milling about and moving quickly from point to point in the large space. Nevertheless, Falconer quickly formulated a plan.

  “Inspectors, you two head over to the right,” he said to Penwill and Houllier. “James, you head up those stairs and get a good look from above, while the professor and I will head over here to the left. All right?”

  “Got it, boss,” Waidler said, and Falconer watched as the young detective slipped through the crowd and quickly ascended the large staircase leading up to a balcony that overlooked one end of the enormous train depot. “Well, professor?” Falconer said turning to
his companion. “Shall we have a look over near these tracks on the left?”

  “Certainly,” Levine answered, and the two men began to struggle through the mass of people entering and exiting the trains on the long platforms.

  “This seems futile,” Falconer said to Levine after a few minutes as they both peered around the bustling room. “But I’m not sure what else to do, frankly.”

  “I recall, “Levine said, “that Inspector Penwill mentioned in the cab that Meunier would have a noticeable limp due to his spinal affliction—correct?”

  “Yes,” Falconer answered. “That’s the case, apparently.”

  “Well then, I would think that that is our surest way to find him in this mob, if in fact, he is here. That’s not a very common condition.”

  “Yes, you’re right, so we look for the limp.”

  “Exactly.”

  Falconer looked back towards the balcony overlooking the end of the tracks and saw Waidler scanning the crowd intently. “Waidler will be looking for that, too,” he said, “so maybe he can spot something. Let’s keep moving along the side here.”

  The two men then moved farther down the platform that lined the wall of the train shed and kept scanning the crowd and the interiors of the cars through their windows. After several minutes, they moved on to the next long platform that ran parallel to the first one that they had just traveled, and, after walking its length, moved on to the third one.

  “Well, nothing yet, I’m afraid,” Falconer said. “I hope the others are having better luck.”

  “Yes,” Levine said.

  “Imagine,” Falconer said, stopping midway down the platform. “Coming all this way to exact revenge against a turncoat. That’s dedication, professor. What strange people these bomb throwers are. They spend all this time and energy on—”

  “There!” Levine interrupted.

  “What?”

  “Look back fifty yards. There—the man in the buttoned-up, gray coat and hat with the red hat band. Do you see him?”

  “Yes, I do, and he’s—”

  “Got a noticeable limp,” Levine said, interrupting again. “And look how his coat fits—it’s got a bulge on his back.”

  “His hunchback,” Falconer said, removing his revolver. “Let’s go!”

  He took off at a sprint through the many people walking down the platform, followed closely behind by Levine. As he got closer to the man they had spotted, he saw him move towards an open door to one of the train’s cars. As the man stepped up to enter, however, he suddenly stopped and looked down the platform, as if to make sure he wasn’t being watched. Falconer slowed down to a walk and held his revolver hidden behind his back, but he saw the man look directly at him and appear to recognize that Falconer was not just a regular passenger looking to find his train.

  Falconer stopped and looked back at Levine, who also stopped in his tracks. Then Falconer looked back at the man, who still looked intently at him, not twenty paces away. The man appeared to hesitate, as if he were deciding on a course of action, and Falconer gripped his gun tighter behind his back. The man then slowly edged away from the door of the car, all the while looking straight at Falconer. Then he quickly turned and fled back towards the doors leading to the train station’s lobby lining 42d Street.

  “MEUNIER!” Falconer shouted above the din of the platform, and many people stopped and looked at him. He started sprinting again towards the lobby and looked up at the balcony to see if Waidler could see him, and he saw that Waidler was himself sprinting over to the staircase to come down to the train platform area. Meeting together right in front of the doors to the lobby, Falconer explained the situation rapidly to the young detective: “It’s him—Meunier—he just ran out into the lobby. Let’s go!”

  Waidler followed him at a run without a word and they both burst into the lobby area with their guns drawn, eliciting shrieks and gasps from the people who were assembled there.

  “Quick,” Falconer said. “He’s gone out to the street.” But then before running outside, he saw Levine running up, panting for air.

  “Professor,” Falconer said, “he ran outside. Go find the inspectors and tell them to follow us!”

  “Understood,” Levine said, and then Falconer and Waidler ran out through the front doors of the station. Stepping out onto the busy sidewalk, they looked around for a moment, scanning the street and sidewalks for their suspect.

  “There!” Waidler finally shouted, pointing down the street. “Getting into the carriage.”

  “Right, I see it,” Falconer said. “Let’s go.”

  The two men then ran swiftly along the sidewalk, dodging the many pedestrians who blocked their way, in an attempt to reach the carriage that was just pulling away from the curb.

  “It’s leaving,” Falconer said breathlessly. “Hurry!”

  But as they ran, the swift horses leading the carriage began to trot much faster down the street, and Falconer realized that they could not close the distance. He finally slowed down and motioned for Waidler to stop, too.

  “It’s no use, James,” he said. “We lost him.”

  “I’m sorry, boss,” Waidler said. “Too many people out here.”

  “You’re right, but at least now he knows we’re onto him.”

  As he stood and slowly caught his breath, he looked in vain far down the street and saw the carriage disappear around a corner. Then he looked over at Waidler and nodded for him to join him in walking back to the train station.

  “Let’s go meet the professor and the inspectors,” he said. “This isn’t over.”

  50

  Halloran wiped the sweat off his brow as he waited outside Odd Fellows Hall on Forsyth Street down on the Lower East Side. Falconer had left a message for him earlier in the day instructing him to keep an eye on the place while Emma Goldman was inside speaking to a group of working-class German immigrants. Falconer and the others were pursuing some leads on Meunier, and Halloran preferred to be with them, but of course he heeded his detective sergeant’s orders and arrived with several other plainclothes officers from the Detective Bureau and set up surveillance outside the place.

  He looked down the block as the sun slowly disappeared behind a row of buildings to the west and saw Pat Long, the crafty and jocular sergeant who was filling in as a plainclothes detective in his last days with the department before retirement. Long looked up at him and nodded his head slightly before turning to face the street that was still alive and busy at this late hour in the day with pedestrians, horse-drawn wagons, hansom cabs, and dirty ragpickers lugging their wooden wheelbarrows full of refuse and junk.

  Halloran slowly started walking towards Long, and, when he arrived to within a couple of feet of the beloved sergeant, he spoke quietly to him while scanning the street and adjoining sidewalks: “Well, Sarge, see anything?”

  “I don’t, Jimmy,” Long answered. “Seems pretty normal, huh?”

  “You think this Goldman lady is secretly up to something new? Maybe another assassination of some bigshot here in the city?”

  “Possibly. You know, she hasn’t been in the papers much for the past month. Maybe she’s wised up and is just going to lay low for a while.”

  “Well, sounds like she’s raising a ruckus in there by the sounds of the crowd.”

  “Yes, but I don’t understand German. Just English, a little Gaelic, and a lot of annoyed wife.”

  Halloran chuckled and wiped his brow again. The street was now getting dark, and a lamplighter appeared nearby, raising his ladder to light the gas lamps for the evening.

  “Sounds like it might be getting over,” he said. “I’ll go inside and see what’s happening.”

  “All right, Jimmy my boy,” Long said. “We’ll be right here.”

  Halloran walked over to the entrance to the hall and flashed his badge to the doorman, who promptly moved aside an
d let him in. Walking through the small lobby, he entered the big meeting room and saw that the proceedings had ended, and many people were now grabbing their hats and coats and slowly winding their way to the exit. He looked at the back of the room and saw various people surrounding Goldman and shaking her hand. Standing aside for a few minutes to let the crowd leave, he stepped back into the lobby and exited the building. Outside, he encountered Long again, speaking with another plainclothes detective, Eric Jahn.

  “Well, it’s over, as you can see,” Halloran said. “She’ll be stepping outside in a minute—she’s just being congratulated by a bunch of followers.”

  “So, what’s next?” Long asked. “A few of us tail her, I suppose?”

  “Looks like Detective Sergeant Falconer wanted that,” Halloran replied. “You guys up for it?”

  “I’ve got nothing else to do, Jimmy,” Long said, looking over at Jahn. “You, Eric?”

  “Sounds fine by me,” Jahn, a sturdily built, German-born detective in his forties with a thick crop of brown but slightly graying hair, said with a smile.

  “Well, then, sounds like we have a plan, gentlemen,” Long said.

  “You okay with this, Sarge?” Jimmy asked.

  “Jimmy,” Long said with a stern look, “I’ve handled the streets for thirty years. I can handle this young agitator for an evening. We’ll keep you updated.”

  Halloran heard some noise coming from his right and saw Goldman and a small crowd exiting the building. As she walked by the men, she looked at Halloran and leered at him momentarily, then turned and started walking down the sidewalk with her retinue of followers. Halloran followed them a few steps and then turned back to Long and Jahn as a couple of other detectives approached from across the street.

  “All right, fellas,” he said to them, “she’s all yours.”

  “Sounds good,” Long said with a grin. “You have a good night and we’ll be in touch.”

  Halloran nodded, and then stared beyond Long’s shoulder for a moment, looking confused.