The Fall

by Sean Moynihan

  “Yes, sir,” Winter said.

  “Got it,” Kramer replied.

  “Now,” Falconer said, “the first thing you need to do is go home and change into plain clothes. You won’t be wearing your uniform on this duty, all right?”

  The two officers nodded.

  “We’ll see you back here in two hours,” Falconer said. “You are dismissed.”

  Winter and Kramer then turned and exited the office, and Falconer looked over at Byrnes. “Sir, I think it’s time to get our prisoner, if that’s all right,” he said.

  “Certainly,” Byrnes said. “Charlie,” he said to McNaught, “could you please fetch our suspect?”

  “Yes, sir,” McNaught said, and then he left the office.

  “There was no identifying information found on him?” Falconer asked.

  “None,” Steers answered from his position next to Byrnes. “Just one item: this napkin from a bar up in the Tenderloin with handwritten notes on it pertaining to the time and place of Goldman’s lecture last night. It was found in his pocket. That’s it.” Steers handed the napkin to Falconer, who gazed down at it. In printed letters on the edge were the words, “The Black Swan,” and then, handwritten nearer to the middle of the napkin, the words, “Odd Fellows Hall – Forsyth St – 7 pm.”

  “Black Swan?” Falconer said. “Up in the Tenderloin?”

  “That’s right, Falconer,” Clubber Williams said, walking closer. “It’s been there for years on 36th just off Broadway. I knew it well when I used to walk the beat up there. It’s a quiet place generally—not swanky, but not a dive, either. Business is usually fairly slow—no big parties going on in there, if you know what I mean.”

  “Understood,” Falconer said. “Well, then, I think it’s time to have a little chat with our mysterious carriage driver.”

  53

  Falconer stood in front of Byrnes’ desk as McNaught and another officer brought the chained suspect into the room. Falconer studied the man as they forced him to sit down in a wooden chair in front of him. He was young—perhaps in his mid-twenties—and was very pale, clean shaven, and had a shock of tousled black hair. The man looked around at the several men surrounding him, and Falconer was surprised to see an almost nonchalant, peaceful mien about his face.

  After McNaught stepped back and the other officer exited the room, Falconer stepped forward a couple of feet and spoke to the man. “So, you drove that carriage into a crowd of people last night. You didn’t kill any of them, fortunately, but you did hurt some of them. Were you targeting Miss Emma Goldman? Was that it?”

  The man just stared back at Falconer and said nothing.

  “Who sent you to do this?” Falconer asked. “Who are you working for?”

  The man again remained silent.

  “Do you have a name, kid? You know, you’re going to have to give up some information eventually.”

  The man smiled slightly. “I don’t think so, detective,” he said.

  “Well, one of the people you hurt pretty badly was a sergeant on our police force,” Falconer said quietly. “He’s a friend of mine, actually. He was a close friend of my father and was very good to me when I was a kid.”

  He then walked slowly towards the man as if he were going to circle around behind him. “I don’t take kindly to you driving a team of horses over him, understand? It makes me pretty angry, actually.”

  SMACK!

  The man fell violently backwards in his chair after being struck by Falconer’s fist just under the nose. He groaned in pain and writhed on the carpeted floor but could not tend to his injured face, as his hands were still chained behind his back.

  “Get him up, please, boys,” Falconer said to Halloran and Waidler.

  They both moved over to the man and grabbed him under his arms and lifted him forcefully back into the chair, and he moaned audibly as he bled from his mouth. Falconer stepped back in front of him slowly. “Now then,” he said, “let’s try this again. Who sent you to do this last night?”

  The man just gasped for air several times, and then looked up at Falconer, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I see,” Falconer said. He then walked back around the man and stopped directly behind him. “You’re protecting someone. I get it—you don’t want to betray your handlers and would prefer to just be the honorable guy who goes down for everyone else. That’s very noble of you, but unfortunately, that’s just not going to work.” He then grabbed one of the man’s fingers and bent it upward at an awkward angle.

  “AHHHHHHHHH!” the man shouted out in pain, but Falconer refused to let go.

  “Whose plan was it!” Falconer yelled out over the man’s agonized screams. “Whose?”

  The man just continued screaming in pain and shaking his torso as if to force Falconer to let go.

  “Who do you work for, damn it!” Falconer shouted into the man’s ear as he bent the finger farther.

  “Never! Never!” the man yelled back in a rage. He then looked up at Falconer and smiled through gritted teeth. “We are coming,” he hissed. “We will protect all real Americans, and you won’t stop us.”

  Falconer grabbed the man by the front of his shirt, lifted him up out of the chair, and threw him into the wall a few feet away, and the man feel down onto his back, seemingly unconscious.

  “Well, he’s sure a tough nut to crack,” Byrnes said, walking over and looking down on the man.

  “Sorry,” Falconer said, catching his breath. “Got a little excited there.”

  “It’s no worry,” Byrnes said. “This one had it coming, and we’re not done with him yet.”

  He then looked at the other men gathered in the room. “This stays here, gentlemen.”

  “I’ll go grab some men to get him out of here, sir,” McNaught said.

  “Yes, thanks, Charlie,” Byrnes said. “In the meantime, maybe we should move him over here and put some water on him.”

  “Yes, superintendent,” Waidler said, motioning for Halloran to help him.

  The two men went to grab the stricken prisoner by his arms when suddenly Falconer pointed at them. “Hold on,” he said. “What’s that?”

  “What’s what, boss?” Waidler asked.

  “Right there, just under where his shirt is buttoned at the top,” Falconer replied. “Hidden by the shirt.”

  Waidler unbuttoned the top button and opened the shirt to reveal a tattoo on the man’s chest.

  “‘PF,’” Falconer said, looking at the tattoo.

  “What do you think it is?” Byrnes asked. “His own initials, perhaps?”

  “Maybe,” Falconer said, “but something’s bothering me about it.”

  “Bothering you?” Penwill said. “How so?”

  “I don’t know,” Falconer answered. “I feel like I’ve seen this before somewhere, but I just can’t quite remember where.”

  “Hm,” Penwill said. “That’s most interesting.”

  “Maybe you have seen it on another suspect?” Houllier asked, stepping forward.

  Falconer turned and looked at him. “Another one?” he said. “Yes…yes, I believe it could be…I…”

  He looked down at the floor for a moment and then suddenly looked back up at the men. “That’s it—the man I fought near the waterfall in Cohoes. As he hung onto the branch high up over the falls right before letting go, I remember now seeing something imprinted on his fingers. It was these same letters—‘PF.’ I can see it so clearly now, in dark ink: the tattoo that this man here has on his chest.”

  “Well, by Jove, that’s something,” Penwill cracked.

  “Yes, gentlemen,” Houllier said. “They both have the same signature, if you will. The markings of—”

  “Of some secret society or group,” Falconer interrupted.

  “Yes,” Houllier said. “Secret…and deadly se
rious, it appears.”

  “Well, then,” Byrnes said, “how do we go about finding out who’s behind this group?”

  “I think a good start would be to go see the people who run this Black Swan Saloon,” Falconer said, looking down at the napkin confiscated from the prisoner. “And I know just the men do it.”

  Byrnes smiled. “I get your meaning, Falconer,” he said.

  “But one thing first,” Falconer said. “Is Goldman still in the building? I’d like to speak with her.”

  “Yes, she’s still downstairs in protective custody, but I can’t keep her against her will for much longer. She has those rights, you understand.”

  “Yes, sir. Understood.”

  “Very well, then. Good luck and keep me posted, gentlemen.”

  “Right, sir,” Falconer said, motioning for the other men to follow him out of the office. “Shall we?”

  He then led Waidler, Halloran, Houllier, and Penwill out into the hallway and towards the stairway leading down to the main floor of the police headquarters building.

  54

  Falconer showed his badge to the officer standing guard outside the room in which Goldman had been placed temporarily after the incident with the carriage. The officer moved aside and let him enter, while Penwill, Waidler, Halloran, and Houllier waited outside.

  “Detective sergeant,” Goldman exclaimed as he shut the door behind him. She was sitting in a chair by a long wooden table with a scowl on her face, and was joined by her friend, Claus Timmermann. “Why am I not surprised?”

  “Miss Goldman,” Falconer said, doffing his bowler. “Mister Timmermann.”

  “Good evening, detective sergeant,” Timmermann said.

  “Are you here to release me, I pray?” Goldman asked.

  “Well, if that’s what you want, I suppose I am,” Falconer replied.

  “Good, then. We’ve been cooped up long enough in your headquarters.”

  “I wouldn’t advise leaving, of course.”

  “Well, thank you, but nonetheless, we’ll go now.”

  “Miss Goldman, as you know, this is the fourth time that someone has tried to take your life in the past month, and you’ve been lucky enough to escape unharmed yet again. However, I think your luck is going to run out soon. We have safe houses here where you’d be protected by armed men around the clock. It’s the best thing for you now.”

  “I am aware of the peril that I am in, but I will not—I cannot—let these forces of persecution and tyranny silence me in this way. I must continue the march, no matter what the cost.”

  “The march? What march?”

  “The one that started on November 11 of 1887, detective sergeant,” she answered flatly.

  “Am I supposed to know why that date is important?” he asked.

  “Well, you should,” she said. “It was the date when the four martyrs to our cause were hanged by the bloodthirsty state after a pretend investigation and sham trial of the Haymarket incident in Chicago. Four men who were simply there for the revolutionary gathering and labor protest, and no real evidence to show that they were responsible for any of the deaths that occurred that day. Engel, Fischer, Parsons, and Spies—all murdered by the state, hanged at the gallows, with no cause. But we continue their march, detective sergeant. We continue it so that their deaths will not be in vain. Good day, sir.”

  She moved past him to exit the room, but then she stopped when he spoke out: “I understand your position, Miss Goldman, but these men who are after you—they are determined and very ruthless. I’ll find out who they are, but it will take more time. I’m asking you to stay in protective custody until I can do that.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, facing him at the doorway, “but death awaits all of us, and I imagine that we don’t really have a say in when it occurs.”

  He stood looking at her for a moment, and then walked over to the doorway. “Here,” he said, “let me walk you out.”

  Stepping out into the hallway, he let the other men exchange brief greetings with Goldman, and then he led them all down the corridor towards the exit of the grand headquarters building, with Goldman walking by his side, a slight, petite figure next to his imposing presence.

  Coming to the end of the hallway, he turned the corner to enter the large lobby when he almost bowled over a young female who was walking in the opposite direction.

  “I beg your pardon, miss,” he blurted out. “I didn’t mean to—Nellie? I mean, Miss Bly?”

  “Detective Sergeant Falconer,” Nellie Bly said, straightening out her hat. “Fancy seeing you here. And Inspector Penwill, Officer Halloran, and Detective Waidler, as well—how nice to see you all again. But I don’t believe I’ve met this gentleman.”

  “Ah, this is Inspector Houllier from the French Surete, Miss Bly,” Penwill explained. “He is assisting us on an investigation.”

  “Oh, my…from France?” Bly said, shaking Houllier’s hand. “How fascinating.”

  She then turned to look at Goldman standing next to Falconer. “Why, you’re Emma Goldman, the so-called Red agitator,” she said, wide-eyed.

  “And you are Nellie Bly, the infamous circumnavigator of the globe,” Goldman responded drily. “How are things as a celebrity reporter?”

  “Oh, not much of a reporter these days,” Bly replied with a smile. “I was trying to write some fiction recently, but it hasn’t really worked out, so I’m looking at my options now.”

  “Well,” Goldman said, “if you ever want to contribute some anarchist writings, let me know.”

  Bly chuckled. “Why, thank you, but what I’d really like is an interview with you. Could we arrange that, perhaps?”

  “I am sorry,” Goldman said, “but I don’t trust reporters. Perhaps Detective Sergeant Falconer here could assist you with a juicy story, though? I take it you are acquainted with him?”

  “Yes, we worked on cracking a case from last year, so you could say that we know each other somewhat.”

  “Well, from the looks of it, I think there is room to get to know each other a little better. Good day to you all.”

  Goldman and Timmermann then walked away and stepped out through the large front doorway of the building, and Falconer looked down at Bly. “So…what brings you to headquarters?” he asked.

  “Unfortunately for me,” she said, “I heard that Miss Goldman had some sort of an incident with a renegade carriage last night, and my sources tell me that it likely wasn’t an accident. So, I had hoped to speak with her about it today, but as you can see, those hopes have been dashed.”

  “Yes, she is, as you can see, very eager to get out of here.”

  “So, is there any truth to that? That is was not an accident last night?”

  “Well, I’m sorry, but there’s an ongoing investigation—I just can’t say anything at this point.”

  “Yes, I see. Well, gentlemen, so nice to see you all again after last year’s rather thrilling adventure. Detective sergeant, I do hope you will keep me posted as to any developments in Miss Goldman’s case that you can share.”

  “Yes, I’ll keep that in mind, Miss Bly.”

  “So nice to see you today,” she said, extending her hand. He took it and they shook hands, but they did not let go and only stared at each other for a moment until Penwill finally broke the silence: “Um, well then, chaps, I suggest we get a move on now—shall we?”

  “Right,” Falconer said, finally releasing his hand from Bly’s. “Good afternoon, Miss Bly.”

  “Good afternoon to you, gentlemen,” she said, and then she walked away and exited the front doors, as Goldman had just moments earlier.

  “Mon Dieu,” Houllier said. “I have met the incredible Nellie Bly. I am stunned.”

  “Well, old boy,” Penwill said, “that’s New York for you.”

  “And much prettier in person, I must say,”
Houllier said. “Tres belle filles.”

  “Yes, well, I suppose we should be getting on,” Falconer said.

  “Yes,” Penwill said. “And actually, Inspector Houllier and I must take our leave of you—we have a slight lead on the Meunier case.”

  “Oh?” Falconer said. “And what’s that?”

  “Well, we’ve had alerts out to all the local arms and explosives manufacturers to be on the lookout for Meunier in case he tries to purloin some dynamite, and one of them has just been in touch with us—seems that a small crate of dynamite sticks has just gone missing down on the docks.”

  “Well, that’s not good.”

  “No, it isn’t. So, we’re going to go check it out. We’ll let you know what we find out.”

  “Great. And why don’t you take Jimmy here just so you have a police department representative with you?”

  “That would be splendid.”

  “Jimmy, mind if you tag along?” Falconer asked.

  “Not at all, sir,” Halloran said. “Happy to.”

  “Great,” Penwill said. “Well, then, we’ll see you all a little later. Cheerio.”

  “See you later,” Falconer said, and Penwill, Houllier, and Halloran disappeared out the doors leading to the street.

  “So, where are we headed, boss?” Waidler asked.

  “We’ll wait for Winter and Kramer, and then go pay a little visit to this Black Swan joint. Let’s go back upstairs.”

  The two men then headed up the stairs to the Detective Bureau in the bustling headquarters building of the New York City Police Department.

  55

  Penwill, Houllier, and Halloran followed the shipping manager, a man named Bowles, into his office down at the New Jersey Southern Freight Station on Rector Street along the Hudson River. Outside the small office, in a cavernous space filled with desks, filing cabinets, and noisy telephones, dozens of shipping clerks energetically attended to their duties of accounting for tons and tons of freight that came in daily on the great ships moored tightly to the crowded docks three stories below. There, where the blended stench of dead fish and sea salt rose onto the docks like a thick blanket of putrid fog, the shrill sound of whistles mixed with the noisy workings of dozens of steam-powered cranes slowly yanking wooden pallets full of dry goods out from the deep bowels of the ships and down to the waiting arms of beefy dockworkers.