The Fall

by Sean Moynihan

  “I appreciate that,” Levine said, also standing up. “These are trying times, and we must be vigilant.”

  “Agreed,” Falconer said, placing his bowler on his head. “We’ll keep in touch?”

  “Yes—as always.”

  Falconer then turned and headed out through the door into the hallway, on his way back to the Mulberry Street police headquarters.

  63

  “That is a very good theory, I must say,” Penwill said to Falconer as they sat in the Detective Bureau with Houllier, Halloran, Waidler, Winter, and Kramer. “Very compelling.”

  “I agree,” Houllier said. “This man, Meunier, bombed a café in Paris as revenge for Ravachol’s execution, and it is clear that he is not finished exacting retribution from Ravachol’s enemies.”

  “Apparently, this gathering for Reid out in Brooklyn on the seventeenth is going to be big,” Falconer said. “You think that’s his ultimate target?”

  “It seems like a very attractive one,” Penwill replied. “If I were the bomb thrower, I’d be looking to it—mass casualties, a crowd to slip away in, chaos and pandemonium, et cetera, et cetera.”

  “Right,” Falconer said. “And because Reid was a well-known supporter of executing the Haymarket suspects, this fits in very well with the revenge motive. We need to alert Reid and his people. Anyone know where he is at this time?”

  “I can find out,” Waidler said, getting up out of his chair. “Just give me a minute.”

  “Sure thing,” Falconer said. “Thanks.”

  Waidler then walked out of the office and Falconer turned back to the others. “Well, if Meunier is here,” he said, “he’s certainly been keeping a low profile. No reports of anyone seeing him from the various precincts, inspector?”

  “Nothing, I’m afraid,” Penwill replied. “I suppose Meunier lost track of Boucher and just turned his attention towards Reid, given the campaign season. Of course, this is all conjecture—we don’t know what he’s up to, unfortunately.”

  “True,” Falconer said. “These anarchist types are just puzzling to me. They complain about the government and society and yet they don’t really present any viable alternative—they just want to tear everything down with no plan or organization. Just blow everything up and let the rest of us clean up the mess.”

  “Yes,” Houllier said. “They are despicable excuses for human beings. Ce sont des animaux. They are animals—nothing more.”

  “But crafty animals nonetheless,” Penwill interjected. “We mustn’t underestimate their reserve for cunning and trickery. These men are oftentimes from the low classes, and yet their actions can betray a certain level of refined guile and ingenuity that could make the most high-born and educated master criminal envious.”

  “No argument with you there, inspector,” Falconer said.

  Waidler walked back into the office and sat on the edge of one of the desks. “I just got word down the hall,” he said. “Reid is about to leave on a trip out to some campaign rallies in Ohio. He leaves on a train tonight.”

  “That makes things tough,” Falconer said. “We need to alert him and his staff. Any idea what train he’s on?”

  “Looks like the campaign has its own train leaving from the Jersey City station at six tonight,” Waidler replied.

  “That gives us a few hours,” Falconer said. “But I’m thinking we need to do more than just alert Reid and send him on his way.”

  “Really?” Penwill said. “What did you have in mind?”

  “The threat is getting serious, and I don’t think we can sit back and do nothing at this point. How would you feel, inspectors, about joining the vice-presidential candidate for the ride out to Ohio?”

  Penwill and Houllier looked at each other, appearing surprised.

  “I don’t have a problem with it,” Penwill said, looking back at Falconer, “but you really think our presence is necessary?”

  “I’m sure Reid has security men, but you two know Meunier much better than they do—if they’ve ever heard of him at all. And at this point, I could see Meunier trying just about anything to make a statement. So, I think it’s a precaution we should take.”

  “Well, I’m not sure how we manage to get included with his party on the trip,” Penwill said.

  “You leave that to me. Inspector Houllier, have you ever thought about visiting the American Midwest?”

  “I have,” Houllier answered, “and now would be as good a time as any.”

  “Tres bien, sir,” Falconer said. “Let me make some calls.”

  “Oh, and boss,” Waidler said, handing a small, yellow envelope to Falconer, “I also saw this telegram for you out in front.”

  Falconer took the envelope and scanned the message inside. “What the hell?” he said.

  “What is it?” Penwill asked.

  “Here—take a look,” Falconer said, handing the telegram to him.

  Penwill looked down at the message and read it out loud: “‘Detective Sergeant Falconer, I know that you are trying to crack the case involving Miss Goldman’s assailants. Please know that this organization is more dangerous than even you think, and that it rises to the highest levels of society. I cannot reveal myself at this time, but I can suggest to you that you and your men should start with the men at the saloon. They are a part of it. Sincerely, a friend.’”

  Penwill handed the message back to Falconer, who took it and placed it in his breast pocket.

  “I’m not sure what to make of it,” Falconer said, appearing lost in thought. “This person knows all about the attacks on Miss Goldman, and about our investigation—and even about our visit to the Black Swan place. It’s a little shocking, to be honest.”

  “But this man is obviously an ally,” Houllier said. “In fact, he even makes that clear to you by calling himself a friend.”

  “I agree,” Falconer said. “So…who could it be? Some sort of spy or informant who has infiltrated the group?”

  “It would appear so,” Penwill said. “And if that is the case, then this is an incredible stroke of good luck. You have a man on the inside who has taken you into his confidence. I say that you must take him at his word and heed what he says.”

  “Does anyone disagree with Inspector Penwill?” Falconer said, looking around at the men, none of whom said anything.

  “Well,” Falconer continued, “seeing that no one is speaking up, I’ll say that I agree with the inspector here—we don’t know who this person is, but he knows about us, and he appears to want us to succeed in finding out who these assassins are and bringing them to justice.”

  “So, what now?” Penwill inquired.

  “We need to get you and Inspector Houllier on that train headed to Ohio,” Falconer answered, “and then…”

  He turned to Winter and Kramer, who had been sitting silently against a wall for the entire conversation.

  “Yes?” Penwill asked.

  “And then,” Falconer continued, “I think we’ll have Officers Winter and Kramer here pay the Black Swan another visit.”

  “Well, jolly good show,” Penwill said excitedly. “We’re starting to make some progress. Now, lads, let us all find these bastards and then retire for a good cup of tea.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Falconer said. “Gentlemen, let’s go alert Byrnes and Steers and then start to ruffle some feathers.”

  64

  Falconer walked up to the front entrance of the Black Swan Saloon late in the evening trailed by Waidler, Halloran, Kramer, and Winter. He looked in a window and then turned to face the men. “All right,” he said. “The men we spoke to the first time we dropped by are in there now, and there are a few others loitering at tables, but it looks pretty quiet. I’ll stand guard out here with Waidler and Halloran. Winter, you and Kramer go inside and ask these men again about the photo of the carriage driver who almost killed Goldman, an
d about that tattoo we’ve seen.”

  He reached into his jacket and pulled out the mug shot of the carriage driver and the drawing of the tattoo. “Here’s the photo and the drawing,” he said. “Now listen— they’re going to rebuff you and play dumb again, and that’s when you start leaning on them a bit…let ‘em know that the gloves are off now. All right?”

  “Sure thing, detective sergeant,” Winter said, “but, uh, what sort of ‘leaning on’ are you thinking?”

  “Any kind that you consider appropriate to get the message across, officer,” Falconer answered. “Understand?”

  “I think I do,” Winter replied.

  “Just know that you are authorized at the highest levels of the department to conduct yourself in any manner you deem necessary,” Falconer said. “These men are killers—or at least they’re involved in a conspiracy to commit killings. So, as far as I am concerned, certain extraordinary steps might have to be taken to ensure ‘officer safety’ in the course of your investigations. Are we clear?”

  “Got it,” Winter said.

  “Very clear,” Kramer answered.

  “If things get a little too hot for you, then Waidler, Halloran, and I will come in as backup,” Falconer said. “Just know that.”

  “Thanks,” Winter said, “but I think we’ll be fine.”

  He grinned at Kramer, who smiled back at him, and then they opened the door and entered the bar.

  65

  Winter stepped into the saloon and then stopped, glancing over at the bartender, who glared back at him. Nodding to Kramer, he then walked over to the bar and stood before the sullen man, who was cleaning a glass. “How ya’ doin’, bud?” he said to him, doffing his bowler. “Quiet night, huh?”

  Kramer stepped up to the bar a few steps away and turned around, staring at three men who sat leering back at him from over at a table.

  “It’s okay,” the bartender said to Winter.

  “Can I get a whisky?” Winter asked.

  “Sure,” the bartender said. “What brand?”

  “Got any Roxbury Rye?”

  “Coming right up,” the man said tersely. He then turned around and grabbed a bottle from the many that sat like shiny sentinels in front of a large mirror affixed to the wall behind the bar. Turning back, he poured a shot of the whisky and handed it to Winter, who dropped a quarter on the bar.

  “Thanks,” Winter said. “Say, can you give my partner here a bottle of Bucks Beer, too?”

  “Sure,” the barkeep answered.

  As the man fetched the bottle for Kramer, Winter turned and examined his surroundings. Three grim-faced men sat huddled together at a table on the other side of the room, but apart from them, no other people were present. Winter watched them momentarily, but then his observations were interrupted by a voice coming from his left. Turning in that direction, he saw the younger bartender who had appeared the last time they had visited the place walking into the barroom from the back drying his hands on a dish towel. Winter locked eyes with him and felt immediately that the kid was itching for a fight, such was the antagonistic look upon his young face.

  Turning back to the taller and clearly older bartender, Winter pulled out the mug shot of the carriage driver suspect and placed it on the bar. “Say,” he said, “you ever seen this guy around here before?”

  The bartender looked down at the photo briefly and then peered directly at Winter. “I told you guys before that I ain’t never seen him,” he said tartly. “Didn’t you hear me the first time?”

  “Well, what about this here tattoo?” Winter asked, ignoring the man’s disagreeable affect as he shoved the drawing in front of his face. “You ever seen that tattoo before, pardner?”

  “Nah,” the man replied with a sneer, “I never seen it before. Just like I said to your pals the last time. Got it?”

  “Well, I heard you,” Winter said, gulping down the shot of whisky, “but the thing is, I think you are lying to me, my friend. Is that what you’re doing here? You lying to an officer of the law?”

  The bartender stood up straight and glared back at Winter for a moment, then spoke in a haughty, condescending tone: “You can take what I said any damn way you want, cop, and then you can take your ass out of here along with your little date over there. You might be cops, but I know plenty of other higher-up cops who could have your job in a second if I complained to them. So, why don’t you do yourself a favor, huh? Go take your little detective act elsewhere and don’t ever show your face in here again, see?”

  Winter smiled as if impressed with the bartender’s airs of importance, then he took the empty shot glass in his hand and tossed it up in the air a couple of times. “Well, you’re a pretty tough guy,” he said to the man. “Hey, Kramer—did you hear this guy? He said we’d better get outa’ here or he’ll get his pals over at headquarters to give us our walking papers. Can you imagine that?”

  He then turned back to face the man, who remained standing with his arms folded in front of him. Looking past the man, Winter motioned to the large, ornate mirror that backed the bar. “Say, that sure is one swell mirror you got back there,” he said. “I’d say that cost a pretty penny. Is that true?”

  The bartender remained still as a statue, however, and refused to answer.

  “It’d be a shame if something were to happen to it,” Winter said. And then he suddenly reared back and threw the shot glass directly at the mirror, just inches from the bartender’s head, shattering it into hundreds of pieces.

  The bartender ducked instinctively, and then—seeing what Winter had done—reached down behind the bar and raised a large wooden club up over his head with the clear intent to brain the offending officer. Winter, however, reached over the bar, grabbed the man’s arm quickly with two powerful hands before the man could bring the heavy club down, and yanked him violently over the bar. Throwing him down to the floor on his back, Winter then smashed the man in the mouth with a meaty fist, and the man’s face exploded in blood. Winter then pulled the dazed victim up and flung his face into the bar, resulting in the man falling to the floor in a heap.

  Turning to his right, he saw the younger man running down alongside the bar towards him, but Kramer intercepted the interloper mid-stride by smashing his bottle of beer squarely against his forehead, and the young man fell back behind the bar with a groan. Kramer then hopped over the bar and began kicking the hoodlum in the ribs as he lay cowering in pain.

  Winter heard a sound to his right and saw the three men at the table throw their chairs back and begin to approach him menacingly. “Oh, you three, too?!” he yelled to them with a grin. “I shoulda’ figured as much. You guys look like pieces of shite who would be with this crew.”

  The three men spread out and continued to slowly approach him, and he saw that they now had extracted knives from their pockets. Resisting the desire to pull out his revolver, he reached down instead and grabbed the large, wooden club that the taller bartender had been brandishing just moments before. “That’s it, boys,” he said to the three men. “Come a little closer now.”

  The three men looked at each other and then turned and suddenly rushed him. He swung the club mightily at the closest one, striking the man solidly against the side of his head, and the man fell heavily to the floor. The other two got to within a foot of him, swinging out wildly with their knives, when he saw Kramer suddenly burst forth from the side of the room and take down one of them by the legs.

  As Winter jousted with the last malefactor, he saw out of the corner of his eye Kramer rolling over on the floor and manhandling his own attacker into a twisted bundle of arms and legs. Kramer then quickly rolled back on top of his unsuspecting prey and wrenched his arm upwards and behind his back, and the man screamed out in pain. The screaming ended, however, when Kramer struck the man hard in the face with a swift kick that left the assailant lying senseless on the floor.

  T
he third attacker swung his knife again at Winter’s face, and Winter managed to parry the blow with the wooden club. But then the man started getting closer to him, and Winter could feel the air from the knife’s thrusts blowing gently onto his face, and he decided then that extreme measures had to be taken to avert injury. Swinging the club one last time at the thug’s face to gain some distance, he then reached down and pulled out his loaded .38 caliber Colt Lightning revolver. “Well, lookie here,” he said to the man with a smile. “Forgot I had this.”

  The man stepped backwards slowly with a pained look on his face. “Now, where you goin’?” Winter asked him, and then he leveled the gun at the man’s legs and shot him once in the knee, and the man toppled over in pain.

  Just then, Falconer, Waidler, and Halloran burst into the bar, weapons drawn. “You men all right?!” Falconer yelled. “Heard a shot.”

  “Yeah, just me,” Winter said sheepishly as he pointed to the whimpering suspect on the floor clutching his knee as gun smoke wafted through the room. “This one got too close for comfort with his knife—had to bring him down, sir.”

  Falconer looked around at the all the wounded men lying on the floor. “Who’s the main guy?” he asked.

  “Over there under the table,” Winter said, pointing his finger at the inert form of the tall bartender lying on the floor.

  “Right,” Falconer said, walking over to the stricken man. “Jimmy, will you grab me that mug of beer on the table there?”

  Halloran picked up a half-filled mug of beer on a table and handed it to Falconer, who immediately started pouring the beer on the dazed bartender’s face. “Wake up,” he said to the man.

  As the bartender came to his senses, Falconer knelt next to him. “You remember me?” he said to the man, who blinked several times and winced as he regained consciousness.

  “I know who you people are,” Falconer continued. “You can’t hide anymore in your little secret society. We’re onto you and we’re going to bring your whole outfit down. When you clean yourself up, go tell your damned bosses that. Understand?”