The Fall

by Sean Moynihan

  Bowles, an employee of one of the firms that shared the space, gestured for the policemen to take a seat, and then he himself sat down behind his desk that overlooked the crowded and noisy quays below. “Well, gentlemen,” he said, “I appreciate you coming down here today.”

  “Certainly, Mister Bowles,” Penwill said. “I’m sure we can all appreciate how serious a missing crate of dynamite is.”

  “Very serious, sir,” Bowles said. “And I can assure you, we are doing everything in our power to track it down, but I’m afraid it may very well have been stolen—which is a first for us.”

  “We understand,” Penwill said. “Now then, you are shipping manager here in Manhattan for the American Forcite Powder Company out of New Jersey, correct?”

  “Yes,” Bowles replied. “The plant and works are out in Landing, and we get shipments everyday down on these docks and distribute our products nationwide from here.”

  “So, this crate that went missing,” Penwill said. “How many sticks would be in it?”

  “Well, it’s fortunately not a large item. One of those particular smaller crates carries approximately eight cylinders, I’d say.”

  “Still a lot of explosive power, though, correct?”

  “Oh, yes. One of those cylinders could completely wipe out this office and those above and below us. The sticks are generally meant for removing rock and minerals, you see.”

  “Yes, of course. So, you were saying outside that one of your security guards saw a suspicious character nearby last night?”

  “Yes, that would be Graves, one of our overnight guards. I asked him to be here so that you could meet with him.”

  “That’s good, thank you.”

  “Here, let me go see if he’s waiting outside,” Bowles said, and he got up and exited the office.

  “How the devil does one suddenly lose a crate of dynamite?” Penwill said, looking at Houllier and Halloran.

  “Yes, it is most alarming,” Houllier said. “One would think that security is very tight for these things.”

  “Especially after this company had an accidental explosion out at their plant back in April.”

  “An accident? This is true?”

  “Oh, yes. A very large explosion out there—killed seven men, unfortunately.”

  “My…c’est terrible.”

  Bowles then walked back into the office trailed by a young man in a brown suit. “This is Mister Graves, our security man,” he said, taking a seat along with Graves.

  “Ah, yes, Mister Graves,” Penwill said. “Thank you for meeting with us.”

  “Certainly, sir,” Graves said.

  “So, you apparently saw a suspicious character near your storehouse last night?”

  “Yes, I did, sir. I only caught a glimpse of him walking away up Rector Street, but I did see him, and I thought it odd.”

  “Odd, why?”

  “Well, we don’t see many people down here at that hour, and he seemed rushed as he walked away.”

  “Could you describe him?”

  “I’m sorry, but he was too far away, so I didn’t see his face. But generally, I’d say he was of medium height—maybe five feet eight or so—and he was dressed in dark clothing and wore a dark crusher hat. And then there was his limp.”

  “Limp? What sort of limp?”

  “Well, I noticed that when he walked away, he had this sort of limp, as if he was injured, or was perhaps lame, in some manner.”

  “I see.”

  “Monsieur Graves,” Houllier said, “did you notice anything misshapen about his form? His back, perhaps?”

  “Misshapen, sir?” Graves said. “No, no, I can’t say that I noticed anything. But of course, he was carrying a canvas bag on his back, so that might have hidden something from me.”

  “A canvas bag?” Penwill said. “Perhaps to carry away your missing crate.”

  “Yes, makes sense to me,” Bowles said.

  “Mister Bowles,” Penwill said, “I assume you have very tight storage protocols for the dynamite.”

  “Oh, yes, absolutely. These sticks are kept in a locked storage house after retrieval from the boats, and they’re further kept inside locked cages within the storage house. So, it’s near impossible to get to them without a key.”

  “And who would have those keys, sir?”

  “Well, I would, inspector, and then also my two assistants, Tom Underwood and Frank MacLeish. But we’ve already confirmed their whereabouts last night—they were both at home miles away from here. And I can absolutely vouch for the two of them—they’ve worked here for years and are very loyal, upstanding members of our company.”

  “Understood. And no sign of a break-in at all? Damage to doors or locks—that sort of thing?”

  “No, indeed, inspector. That’s what beats me about this—I can’t figure out how this damned crate got taken out from under our noses.”

  “Well, I can assure you, sir, that we will take all of this under careful consideration and keep you posted as to the investigation. The New York City Police Department is making this one of its highest priorities, you understand?”

  “Yes, I do, sir. Thank you.”

  “Well, then, we’ll be off now. Again, we appreciate your time today, gentlemen.”

  “And thank you, inspectors,” Bowles said, as they men all stood up.

  “We’ll see ourselves out,” Penwill said. He then exited the office, followed by Houllier and Halloran. Outside, down on Rector Street, He stopped and turned to his companions. “A man with a limp,” he said. “I think we know who that is.”

  “Yes,” Houllier said, wiping his brow with a handkerchief. “Meunier somehow managed to get a hold of this crate, and now things are most urgent.”

  “Agreed,” Penwill said. “We must confer with Falconer as soon as possible. Meunier is planning to act soon, and we must spare no efforts in stopping this man. Come, gentlemen—back to Mulberry Street.”

  56

  “Well, it’s clear to me that Meunier is the suspect who took the crate of dynamite sticks,” Falconer said, sitting at his desk in the Detective Bureau on Mulberry Street. “The question is: where is he going next with it?”

  “Agreed,” Penwill said, sitting nearby with Houllier, Halloran, Waidler, and the two new additions to Falconer’s team—Winter and Kramer. “We’ve got bulletins with his photo spread out across the city now in the various station houses. We’ve also alerted certain large venues that might be a target. But your city is very large, gentlemen—it’s like looking for a needle in a haystack, as they say.”

  “Well, the only thing to do is to keep spreading the word,” Falconer said, “although feeding it to the newspapers could create a panic. We can only hope that some vigilant officer walking the beat somewhere spots him soon.”

  “Yes, hopefully,” Penwill said. “For now, though, since it’s been a long day, would anyone care to join Inspector Houllier and me for a drink?”

  “We’d like to, inspector,” Falconer said, “but we’re going to head up to that saloon that our carriage driver suspect apparently frequents—see if we can get any leads on this organization that he’s a part of.”

  “Understood, say no more,” Penwill said. “We’ll see you in the morn’, then?”

  “Yes, have a good evening, gentlemen,” Falconer said. Then he looked over at Waidler, Halloran, Winter, and Kramer. “Boys, ready to go check out this joint up on Thirty-Sixth?”

  The men all nodded and grabbed their jackets and hats.

  “Good luck,” Penwill said.

  “Thanks,” Falconer replied. “All right—off we go.”

  He then started walking out towards the hallway leading to the exit of police headquarters, trailed by the other men, on their way to the Tenderloin and the place known as “Satan’s Circus.”

  57

/>   Falconer, joined by his men, walked up to the front entrance of the Black Swan Saloon on 36th Street as the sun fell beyond the high bluffs of New Jersey across the Hudson River to the west. The streets were busy at this hour with pedestrians of all sorts—small-time bunco men looking for a good swindle; prostitutes noisily plying their wares to gamesome men out on the town for a night; young, dirty orphans causing mischief and mayhem before being chased down the street by irate street cops—and Falconer had to dodge people on the sidewalk as he stepped up to the door.

  Moving inside, he glanced around the surprisingly quiet barroom as his colleagues spread out along the perimeter. To the left, a tall, sullen bartender with thinning hair and thick forearms glared at them, and then went back to his business of cleaning mugs and wiping the bar clean. In the back, at several round tables, a bunch of men quietly sipped their frothy beers and played cards, some of them stopping momentarily to eye the detectives suspiciously before focusing back on their game.

  Another bartender—this one younger and boyish, but with an arrogant, testy look about his face—walked into the barroom through a door leading to the back of the place and stopped briefly to size up Falconer. Then he walked up to the tall bartender and whispered something in his ear, and the taller man nodded subtly.

  Falconer motioned for the men to stay back as he slowly started walking up to the bar. Stopping a couple of feet from the two bartenders, he held out his badge. “I’m Falconer with the Central Detective Bureau down on Mulberry,” he said. “Got a minute?”

  “What’s doin’?” the taller man said.

  “We had an incident last night down on Forsyth Street where a driver deliberately ran over some people with his carriage.”

  “That’s too bad,” the bartender said.

  “Yeah,” Falconer said. “Well, the suspect had a napkin from your place in his pocket, and he had written down the address where this incident took place down there. We’re wondering if you’ve ever seen this guy here.” He then held out a mug shot of the carriage driver taken earlier in the day.

  “Nope,” the bartender said, looking briefly at the photograph.

  “What about you, kid?” Falconer asked the younger man, who stared back icily and then glanced quickly down at the mug shot. “No, never,” the younger man said.

  “I see,” Falconer said. “What about this?” he asked, showing the men a drawing of the tattoo that was found on the suspect’s upper chest.

  “What is that?” the older man asked.

  “It’s a tattoo that this carriage driver has on his chest,” Falconer explained calmly. “Ever seen it before? Those letters like that?”

  “I don’t typically check out guys’ chests for tattoos,” the taller man quipped.

  “I take it that’s a no?” Falconer asked, and the man shook his head briefly, stating, “Sorry, cop.”

  “What about you?” Falconer asked the younger man. “You ever seen something like this?”

  “Can’t say I have, sir,” the young man said with a smile. “Probably just the initials of his old lady, I’d suspect.”

  “Well, then,” Falconer said, “I’m sure you two won’t mind if I make the same inquiries with your guests here?”

  “Go right ahead,” the older bartender said tersely.

  “Thanks,” Falconer said, and then he walked back to Waidler, Halloran, Kramer, and Winter lurking in the shadows by the walls.

  “The barkeeps are playing dumb,” Falconer said. “I don’t trust a word they say, but I told them we’d like to ask these customers if they’ve ever seen our suspect or the tattoo we found on him. James and Jimmy, mind if you do that for me?”

  “Sure thing, boss,” Waidler said. “Come on, Jimmy.”

  The two men then ambled over to the tables as Falconer gathered with Kramer and Winter by the wall. “Look, gentlemen,” he said to them, “I think you’re going to have to pay this place another visit in the near future—send a message to these guys. Not tonight, but soon. They are, shall we say, not treating this seriously, so maybe we need to use a different method of persuasion. Understand?”

  “Absolutely,” Kramer said.

  “Yup,” Winter said. “We got it, boss.”

  “Good, then,” Falconer said. “When Waidler and Halloran are done in a moment, we’ll shove off. Something strange about this place. I can’t tell what, but I sense it.”

  “Think they’re involved with this mope we have on ice back at headquarters, sir?” Winter asked.

  “I don’t know,” Falconer replied, “but we’ll find out soon enough, I can tell you that.”

  Waidler and Halloran then walked back to where Falconer was talking to the two officers, and Waidler gave the predictable news: “They’re not saying anything—playing dumb.”

  “Yeah, I figured,” Falconer said. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  He then led his men outside onto the street, and they all headed over to Broadway to catch a cable car down to the Mulberry Street headquarters.

  September 2, 1892

  58

  The man sat at the worn desk overlooking the busy street below and fingered the stick of dynamite.

  Wonderful. Eight cartridges. All so smooth and well manufactured. So much explosive power. How to utilize them, though? One, all-encompassing, grand event? Or perhaps several smaller ones? No matter. There is time enough.

  He stood up in the dark apartment and peered more intently at the people walking below.

  So many New Yorkers going every which way, oblivious to my plans. None of them have any idea. Capitalist lambs.

  He smiled and went back to his seat, unfurling a map of Manhattan and its environs.

  59

  The grim-faced interloper sat in the back of Ritter’s Lokal, a German beer joint down on 2d Street on the Lower East Side where many of the German radicals in town were known to mingle. He knew German himself—had learned it from his parents as a boy—and that is why he was recruited for this job by his superiors. The place was full of them—German workers and agitators bent on bringing down the American State and installing their own vision of an anarchistic utopia based on a network of worker cooperatives and mutual aid societies. They were all speaking German, too, and many of them were likely Jews, he surmised. They were dirty, vulgar, and drinking their beers with abandon in the grimy, smoke-filled bar.

  He scanned the crowded barroom in search of his target, a young anarchist neophyte who had been tagging along with Red Emma Goldman of late: Ernst Ginsberger. Twenty-three years old, slim of build, light-brown hair, and with a fiery demeanor when pontificating to a crowd.

  Ginsberger was supposed to be in the saloon this evening—the assassin’s own compatriots had assured him of this intelligence based on their contacts within the anarchist sphere—and he had studied a photograph of the young rabble-rouser for some days now.

  After several minutes of looking around to no avail, he heard a ruckus at the door and glanced over to see several young people energetically shouting rude imprecations as they barged inside. There, in the front entrance, with two young ladies hanging onto his arms, he saw him: Ginsberger—insolent, haughty, and probably intoxicated. An easy mark this night, the man thought.

  He watched as Ginsberger and his companions slowly and haphazardly waded through the crowd and took over a small, round table in the center of the room. As they sat down, Ginsberger raised his hand and shouted to the waitress over near the bar. Soon, the quiet spy saw her bring over a round of beers for the group, and he settled into watching the young radical holding court at the table.

  He sat there watching unobtrusively and cleverly, waiting for the right moment, the perfect opportunity, when—hopefully—his target would run to the washroom alone, or would step outside into the warm evening air out in front of the noisy tavern. But it would take time—if the opportunity came at all
.

  He sat there patiently for the next forty minutes, quietly drinking his own beer and fingering the switchblade and small revolver in his pocket, and occasionally feeling the false beard set upon his face with a layer of spirit gum.

  Everything is fine.

  Then, at precisely 10:45 PM, he saw the young man, Ginsberger, finally stand up and whisper something into the ear of the young woman sitting next to him, and then walk slowly back towards the washroom in the back hallway of the place.

  Getting up out of his chair, the man flipped a dime onto the table, straightened out his jacket, and moved quietly, like a ghost, through the crowd towards the back, as well. Dodging several people in the hallway, he came to the door to the washroom and opened it. Walking inside, he immediately saw his quarry in the back, standing unsteadily over the trough, with no other men nearby.

  Good. No one else about in here.

  He stepped into a stall and closed the door. Extracting the knife, he calmly opened the door again, walked back out, and moved over behind Ginsberger, who was still attempting to relieve himself over the trough in the corner. Stepping just behind and to the left of him, the assailant reached up, cupped his hand over the young anarchist’s mouth, and shoved the knife deeply into the side of his neck.

  Ginsberger struggled where he stood and attempted to shriek out, but the killer’s strong grip on his mouth refused to yield. Muscling the gravely wounded man backwards, the quiet assassin dragged him into a stall, turned him forcefully around and down over the toilet, and pierced the man’s back several times—first, near the spine, and then, several times into the lungs and kidneys. He then let the dying man fall gently to the floor on his back and, to make sure of things, slashed the trachea in one, final motion.