The Fall

by Sean Moynihan

  Stepping back out of the stall, he quickly secreted the knife in his pocket, exited the washroom, and turned left towards the back exit of the establishment. Stepping outside, he quietly descended the small, wooden staircase to the alleyway and disappeared into the crowds that filled the nighttime streets of the Lower East Side.

  60

  Falconer awoke to a loud banging on his apartment door over on Manhattan’s West Side. Sitting up in bed, he scratched his face and let out a deep exhalation.

  Exhausted.

  He heard the banging again, and then Waidler’s voice: “Sorry, but we need to see you, boss.”

  He got up out of bed, threw his trousers on, and yelled out from his bedroom: “Coming!”

  Walking out to the main room of the apartment, he stood next to the locked door. “Is that you, James?” he asked.

  “Yeah, sorry,” Waidler replied from the other side of the door. “We’ve got a body…an anarchist down at a bar on 2d Street.”

  Falconer quickly unlocked the door and opened it to reveal Waidler standing in the hallway with Halloran. “An anarchist?” he said to them. “Who?”

  “Guy by the name of Ginsberger,” Waidler said, walking into the apartment, followed by Halloran. “Ernst Ginsberger. A young radical just off the boat, but apparently a friend of Goldman’s.”

  “Damn it,” Falconer said. “Ginsberger…I don’t know him. Is he prominent in the movement?”

  “People say not so much. But he was clearly trying to be—he was hanging out with Goldman and Aronstam and had already made some crazy speeches to groups down there. I guess he fancied himself a big anarchist leader someday.”

  “And how did he meet his end?”

  “Multiple stab wounds. Found on the floor of the toilet at Ritter’s Saloon, but nobody saw it happen.”

  Falconer walked away a few feet, slowly rubbing his forehead with his fingers.

  “Well, that’s not good,” he finally said. “Here, let me get dressed quickly and we’ll head down to Oak Street.”

  61

  Falconer paced in front of the desk of Detective Michael O’Brien down at Oak Street as Waidler and Halloran sat nearby. O’Brien sat patiently behind the desk after having just briefed the men on Ernst Ginsberger’s grisly murder that occurred at Ritter’s Lokal the night before.

  “So,” Falconer said, “we have just very vague descriptions of this bearded young male who followed Ginsberger into the washroom, correct?”

  “That’s about it, unfortunately,” O’Brien answered. “No one got a very good look at him, and he disappeared down the alley out back.”

  “Do we know if Ginsberger was having any girl problems? Any affairs with married women perhaps?”

  “Nope. He seemed to be unattached, with several lady friends, but nothing indicating that there was some sort of a lovers’ triangle going on.”

  “Well, then, chances are it wasn’t a personal matter,” Falconer said, looking at all three men. “Agreed?”

  The men nodded.

  “Then why was he targeted?” Falconer asked, walking over to a window. “He’s not considered a great gun in the anarchist world—just a young neophyte trying to attach himself to the movement, a bigmouth trying to get seen. So why kill him, of all people?”

  “Maybe his big mouth got a little too big?” O’Brien suggested. “He offended somebody with his wild anarchist talk at some meeting?”

  “Could be,” Falconer said, walking back into the center of the room. “But that sounds kind of thin. I don’t see this sort of killing being about some inflammatory comment made at a beerhall gathering. You said that Ginsberger was getting acquainted with Goldman?”

  “Yes. Everyone we’ve managed to speak to has said the same thing: he was sort of becoming a favorite student of hers, it seems.”

  “Well then, gentlemen, I think we have a political assassination on our hands. It was a firm statement made by the same group that’s been going after Goldman—take your anarchist views out of this city, or else.”

  “Really?” O’Brien asked. “As we’ve acknowledged here, this Ginsberger kid was pretty much a nobody—a hanger-on.”

  “But he was clearly in Goldman’s circle,” Falconer pointed out, “and the anarchists in town were getting to know him. They just picked a target in that circle and sent their message—a message meant to instill fear in all of them.”

  “So where do we go from here, boss?” Waidler asked. “We obviously don’t have much on this guy who did it.”

  “No, we don’t,” Falconer said. “We’ll just have to keep running down any leads we can get. Meanwhile, I’m going to go pay the professor a visit. I’ll see you gentlemen back at the bureau.”

  “Got it,” Waidler said.

  “Detective,” Falconer said to O’Brien, “thanks for your time today and please keep us posted as to anything that you might come up with.”

  “Will do, detective sergeant,” O’Brien said. “And good luck on your end.”

  62

  Levine sat at his desk at the Columbia College School of Law and studied the drawing of the tattoo that Falconer had just placed before him. Falconer watched him intently, waiting for any response, but the professor said nothing. Instead, he just kept peering down at the drawing and even gently moved a fingertip over the initials, as if copying the delicate movements of the police artist who had rendered it.

  “Hm,” he finally said, still looking down at the drawing. “Fascinating. ‘PF.’” He then looked up at Falconer. “And you saw the same initials on the knuckles of the assailant up in Cohoes?”

  “Yes,” Falconer answered. “Right on his middle two knuckles—I saw them as he held tightly onto a branch coming out of the cliff. It was unmistakable, but I didn’t think anything of it at the time.”

  “Yes, I see. Two men with the same cryptic initials tattooed on their bodies. Two men who have both tried to take Miss Goldman’s life recently. I agree with you then: these initials signify some bond, some joint purpose or motivation. The tattoos are a symbol of a unified mission.”

  “But what do the letters mean? That’s the problem here. We just have no idea.”

  Levine got up out of his chair and walked over to his extensive collection of books that sat packed within a long, fixed wall of shelves in his office. “Let me see here,” he said vaguely as he moved his hand slowly across a line of volumes. “Ah, yes—here.”

  He removed one book and brought it back to his desk. Sitting down, he held it up to Falconer. “Heckethorn’s ‘The Secret Societies of All Ages and Countries,’” he said. “Most helpful.”

  “Secret societies?” Falconer asked quizzically.

  “Yes. This is a compendium of secret societies and orders that have existed across the globe throughout the ages. It was written almost twenty years ago, so it’s still very topical.”

  “You think it might be helpful in identifying our suspects and their group?”

  “Yes, perhaps,” Levine replied, rifling through the pages of the book. “From what I have heard about your mysterious adversaries, they do not appear to belong to a sect of any of the well-known secret societies that we know of.”

  “Like?”

  “Like, for instance, the Illuminati, who originated in Bavaria in the latter part of the eighteenth century. Or, of course, the Freemasons, who are still very much active across the globe.”

  “I’ve heard of the Freemasons, but not this Illuminati group. Who are they?”

  “They existed largely in Bavaria during the time of our own country’s founding, but they were banned by edict after only ten years or so after the Bavarian government and the Catholic Church, in particular, grew suspicious of the group’s motives.”

  “What sort of suspicions?”

  “Essentially that the Illuminati were behind the French Revolution and were at
tempting to sow further revolution across Europe and install a radical, anti-clerical, anti-monarchical society.”

  “I see. And the Freemasons? You don’t see any connection to them here?”

  “It’s hard to say, of course, but I see this mysterious group you’re dealing with as being something new, something that has merged aspects of various secret societies into one, new organization.”

  “What would you think their main purpose is?”

  “Again, it’s very hard to say at this point, given that we know almost nothing about them. But considering that they have likely tried to murder Miss Goldman and probably did murder this anarchist acolyte, Ginsberger, I would think that they are animated by a deep antipathy for communistic and socialistic societies and for those pushing anti-capitalist views in general. And…”

  “And what?” Falconer asked, leaning forward.

  “And…well, they likely possess a corresponding hatred of ethnicities and cultures that are not, shall we say, like their own.”

  “Racism,” Falconer said, leaning back in his chair.

  “Yes, and probably religious bigotry, too.”

  “How so?”

  “Goldman is Jewish, as was Ginsberger. And as you know, there is a strong anti-Semitic strain that permeates this country, even today. As a Jewish man, I still encounter it daily. And there was something that you told me about your interrogation of the carriage driver who tried to run over Goldman that convinces me of this further.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “You said that at some point, the suspect told you that he and his unknown compatriots would protect so-called real Americans, and you wouldn’t be able to stop them.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Real Americans. What does that mean to you?”

  “I’d say that the suspect and his pals don’t like certain other citizens,” Falconer replied, sitting back in his chair.

  “True. And, in fact, these men do not even consider other citizens to be actual Americans. You agree?”

  “I do. And let me guess: these other Americans who don’t really belong here are…Jews, Negroes, Chinese, Muslims—that sort of thing?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid, and it would seem that this secret society that is bent on protecting the country from the hordes of immigrants coming here every day will now revert even to murder to get their message across.”

  “It seems possible, professor, but how to break into this secret society? They seem very adept at maintaining their secrecy. We’re having a tough time finding any leads, and that carriage driver won’t break.”

  “Well, you must simply keep on pursuing any angle that you can, and I’ll try to find any clues by studying my various books on these secret orders. I already feel like I know which one has probably been an important influence on the group’s methods and beliefs.”

  “Oh? Which one is that?”

  “The Assassins.”

  “Assassins?”

  “Yes, the Order of Assassins was a part of a Shiite Muslim sect called the Nizari Ismaili that operated in the mountainous areas of northern Syria and Persia in the Eleventh and Twelfth centuries. It was formed by a man named Hassan-i Sabbah, a missionary who became known to Crusaders at the time as the Old Man of the Mountain. His sect ruled these mountainous areas with an iron fist, but they did not have a standing army, so they had to rely on a select band of specially trained killers called fida’i to enforce their rule. The fida’i were skilled warriors who conducted espionage and assassinated particular enemies whenever it was deemed necessary, and they instilled absolute fear wherever they went.”

  “Hm. Sounds like a novel.”

  “Yes, but it was all very real. The Assassins were disciples of Hassan who ingested hashish as part of their ritual, and in fact, that is where the name ‘Assassin’ comes from. Our own word, assassin, is derived from the Latin term assassinus, which in turn was a corruption of the Arabic words al-Hashishiyyun and hashashun, or ‘hashish-eater.’”

  “Fascinating,” Falconer said. “I never knew that.”

  “Well, these assassins were very good at what they did,” Levine continued. “And perhaps it was the hashish-induced fervor that allowed them to accomplish their misdeeds under difficult circumstances, because they were generally on suicide missions and didn’t survive the assassinations themselves.”

  “Well, that’s too bad for them. And how did they typically eliminate their targets?”

  “Interesting that you should ask that. They were, in fact, very well known for using a dagger to accomplish their goals. No other instrument or methods were utilized—just the dagger.”

  “And you think that perhaps the group we’re dealing with has been inspired by this ancient order of assassins?”

  “It’s hard to tell, but Ginsberger was killed by a dagger of some sort, and the group certainly has similarities to the fida’i.”

  “Well, I’d appreciate it if you keep looking into this, professor, and please let me know if you find any clues worth investigating.”

  “I surely will. Oh, and before you leave, if I may change the subject, I have more information that might potentially be helpful to you and the inspectors concerning our French bombing suspect, Meunier.”

  “Really? Please, go on.”

  “You said previously that Inspectors Houllier and Penwill had investigated whether current vice-presidential candidate, Whitelaw Reid, had had anything to do with the trial and execution of Ravachol when Reid was serving as ambassador over in France earlier this year.”

  “Yes, that’s correct.”

  “And that they had found nothing in his service in France that would indicate he had any influence on the proceedings against Ravachol.”

  “That’s right. It was a dead end.”

  “Well, that may be the case, but I have been looking further back into Reid’s history, and you are aware that he was editor and owner of the New York Tribune prior to serving as ambassador?”

  “Right, and still is the owner.”

  “True. He has been the owner of that powerful newspaper since 1872, and thus, he is a very important man with a very influential voice in the country.”

  “I’d agree with that. So, what does this have to do with Meunier?”

  “Well, you know of the anarchists who were hanged for the Haymarket bombing in Chicago?”

  “Sure. Goldman said it was the guiding force for her and her gang of anarchists.”

  “That’s right. It is the seminal incident that has influenced so many anarchists around the world—the martyrdom of five men in Chicago, which has inspired so many others to take up the bloody work of bombing and killing in the name of anarchism.”

  “Like Berkman.”

  “Yes, like Berkman. And Ravachol.”

  “Ravachol? He was inspired by the Haymarket bombers?”

  “Well, he included no express statement saying as much in the scant writings that he left for posterity, but nonetheless, it is well understood at this point that all of these French dynamiters look to the Haymarket five for inspiration and direction. In fact, people who knew Ravachol have said that he would mention the five men when talking about the need to attack the establishment and sow destruction throughout society.”

  “You mentioned five, professor, but there were only four men hanged as a result of the Haymarket bombing.”

  “Ah, yes,” Levine said, smiling, “that is true, but you forget about Louis Lingg, the fifth suspect.”

  “Lingg?” Falconer asked.

  “Yes. Lingg was a young and charismatic German-born anarchist who was swept up in the prosecution of the Haymarket suspects. He insisted that he had no part in the bombing, but nonetheless, he was convicted and sentenced to die like the others.”

  “So, what happened to him?”

  “He cheated th
e hangman in the end. Another inmate smuggled in a blasting cap for him, and Lingg set it off in his mouth in an act of suicide and defiance on the evening before the scheduled hanging. Unfortunately for him, the resulting explosion was not immediately fatal, and he lingered in agony for six hours until finally succumbing to his wounds.”

  “Well, that’s a nasty way to die.”

  “Yes, indeed, but importantly, Reid supported the executions.”

  “So, we have a powerful owner and editor of a major newspaper who was on record at the time for not having any sympathy for the five accused Haymarket bombers headed to the gallows. And now that very influential newspaper owner is a candidate for vice-president in the national election happening in two months.”

  “Yes, and we also have a violent acolyte of Ravachol probably loose in our city now, and he almost certainly has taken notice that that newspaper owner who publicly called for the hanging of the Haymarket defendants is currently running for vice-president.”

  “Taking out Reid would be a great victory for anarchist bombers everywhere around the world, wouldn’t it, professor?”

  “Yes, a wonderful victory. Especially since Reid and his running mate, President Harrison, are both known to be ardent foes of anarchism. And our French dynamiter, Meunier, might actually have the perfect opportunity coming up here in the city shortly.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I read in the papers recently that the Union League Club is hosting Reid for a large campaign dinner and rally at their clubhouse on Rogers Ave. in Brooklyn on the seventeenth,” Levine explained. “A large crowd is expected, too. Hundreds, if not thousands, will be parading and cheering in the streets.”

  “That does seem like a perfect opportunity to cause lots of destruction and casualties, and to assassinate a very important man who wanted the Haymarket men hanged.”

  “Yes. A most inviting opportunity for a dangerous anarchist, if I may say so myself.”

  “Well, thank you for this valuable insight, professor,” Falconer said, standing up. “I will meet with Penwill and Houllier about this, and keep you posted as to developments.”