The Fall

by Sean Moynihan

  “Are you still in their good graces?”

  “So far, I think, but one never knows with these people. They are very tight with security and could expose me at any time.”

  “So why are you doing this?”

  “Because it started out as something noble and grand, and then it descended into something ugly and…well, un—American, in my opinion. I could no longer be a party to such despicable behavior.”

  “Who controls it?”

  “Well, there are many who have a say in its direction, and many of them are some of our nation’s most enterprising and successful power-brokers in business, finance, and politics. But there is one who is really controlling things at this point. He has made his imprint felt and they have allowed him to pervert the society’s original aims.”

  “Do you have a name?”

  “I do, but first, we need to arrange for you and your men to come get evidence of the group’s misdeeds and its organization—documentary evidence that will help you bring down the whole place, as it deserves. I have taken a small apartment in the Tenderloin—55 West 37th Street, Apartment 402. Meet me there just before dusk tomorrow—say, seven o’clock. I will give you everything I have, and everything you need to bring them down. You have that address?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. And again, be discrete. Make sure no one follows you. They have men everywhere.”

  “Everywhere? Like where specifically?”

  “In the halls of government. In the corporations…even in your police department.”

  “You haven’t said what their overriding purpose is. What is it that they want exactly?”

  “To control how the country works, thinks, and looks. To get the country back to the way they believe it should be—the way they believe it was meant to be.”

  “And what the hell does that mean?”

  “I think you know what that means, detective sergeant. I think you’re aware by now what their animating motive is.”

  “Purity of blood,” Falconer said after a pause. “A permanent, white, Christian, controlling class. Am I correct?”

  “You are,” the man said, seemingly surprised. “You are a very perceptive man.”

  “But I’m just one man.”

  “Yes, but one man can destroy an entire wooden bridge by simply removing one, key supporting strut—one essential element to the bridge’s structural integrity. Pull that one strut out, and…the whole bridge collapses. You don’t need an army to do that.”

  “Well, that’s encouraging.”

  “I must go, and we’ve been here much too long already.”

  “Wait. I need that name.”

  “Of course. Walter Bliss.”

  “What?” Falconer said incredulously. “The Walter Bliss? The millionaire?”

  “The same,” the man said calmly. “All roads lead to him, but it will be difficult to show that.”

  “So where do we begin?”

  “By meeting me as we’ve arranged. Now I really must go. Until tomorrow evening.”

  The man then moved to stand up, but Falconer stayed seated as he spoke again: “I never got your name.”

  “A friend,” the man said quietly before striding off and disappearing into the crowd walking down the Mall.

  73

  Houllier walked over to the dresser in his room at the Occidental Hotel and grabbed a necktie out of the top drawer. Standing before the mirror that was attached to the wall behind the dresser, he fixed the tie snugly around his collar and straightened it for effect.

  Tres bien.

  He then checked his watch: 6:30 PM. Right on time for dinner with Penwill down the block at a small café.

  Circling back to the small bed that was set against the wall across the room, he sat down and looked at the pile of papers and envelopes that he had just left there. One manila envelope caught his eye—a large yellow one stuffed with photographs—and he finally picked it up and reached inside. Pulling out several photographs, he selected one and held it up in front of his face: Ravachol.

  The unrepentant bomb thrower was shown standing in prison garb alongside two swarthy policemen dressed smartly in military uniforms and wearing large bicorn hats emblazoned with fancy cockades on their front. Houllier studied the prisoner’s face. It appeared calm and relaxed—almost serene—and betrayed no sign of fear or dread of his approaching execution.

  How, he wondered, could a man be so composed, so self-confident and poised as he faced certain death by guillotine? What was going through his mind as he spent those last few days lingering in his cell and waiting for the great blade to drop and send him to eternity?

  He placed the photograph down and looked at another one in his hand: a police mugshot of Ravachol taken after he had had been arrested following a violent scuffle with several officers at a restaurant on the Rue Magenta. The arrestee’s normally combed hair was in disarray, and his chiseled good looks were now marred by bruises and cuts arising from the arresting officers’ blows and kicks. And yet, the stark defiance and unyielding rectitude in his own personal beliefs were still readily apparent in his faintly detectable smile and smug expression, and Houllier found himself admiring for a moment the determination and commitment of the doomed prisoner in the face of a lost cause and impending death.

  This is why they follow him, he thought. This is why he is not truly dead. He lives on and is celebrated for his defiance of authority and his absolute commitment to his cause. You knew that this would happen upon your death at the hands of the executioner, didn’t you? You knew the Meuniers and the Francois and all the other frightful anarchists would follow in your footsteps and continue with your work. You are not dead, after all. And perhaps you are even stronger now.

  He placed the photographs back in the manila envelope and stood up. Grabbing his jacket, he slipped out of the room, locked the door behind him, and headed to the stairway leading down to the lobby of the hotel.

  74

  Falconer walked up to the front steps of 55 West 37th Street with Halloran, Waidler, Winter, and Kramer right behind him. It was a five-story walk-up, and, at this hour—7:00 PM—the street was relatively quiet as the sunlight slowly faded away and the more welcomed, cooler evening air seeped in between the buildings and along the sidewalks, lending some much-needed relief to the city’s overheated denizens.

  “Well, this is it,” he said to the men. “Let’s head up—Apartment 402.”

  He then led the men up the stairs and into the old apartment building, the floors of which creaked and groaned as they slowly moved up the stairwell to the fourth floor. Reaching the top, he signaled for the men to stop, and peered down the hallway, which was silent and devoid of life.

  “Draw your weapons,” he instructed. “You never know who might be watching or waiting.”

  As the men did as they were told, he unholstered his large .45 caliber revolver and started walking down the hallway, constantly scanning his surroundings for the slightest movement. Reaching Number 402, he turned to face the others. “I’ll knock,” he said. “Just be prepared for anything.”

  Rapping lightly on the battered and scarred door, he waited to hear some sign of life, but there was just silence. He knocked again, louder this time, and waited for several seconds, but there was no response or sound from behind the door. He then tried the doorknob and found that it was unlocked. Turning back to the men, he nodded briefly and then turned the doorknob slightly and gently pushed the door open. He looked inside and saw an unkempt, barren apartment that was still partially lit by the fading sunlight creeping in through two large windows directly opposite him. Sitting in a chair in front of the windows, and facing away from the door, was a figure, silent and unmoving.

  Falconer moved closer and spoke: “It’s us. Are you all right?” But the figure remained still as a statue and said nothing in return. Falconer looke
d back at the men, and then said quietly, “Something’s wrong. Cover me.”

  Waidler motioned for the others to spread out into the room and positioned himself in the doorway in case anyone tried to enter from the hallway. Falconer then slowly approached the sitting figure until he came around to face him: it was the man, the “friend” who had met him in the park, and he was motionless with his eyes staring straight ahead at the windows.

  “James,” Falconer said quietly, motioning for Waidler to approach. Waidler quickly walked up and looked closely at the man. “I think he’s dead,” Falconer said.

  Waidler reached down and felt for a pulse on the man’s neck. Turning to Falconer, he shook his head. “No pulse, boss, but…he’s still warm.”

  A noise suddenly came from above them out on the stairwell—a quick, jarring sound of perhaps a door closing or a heavy object falling to the floor. Falconer looked up at the ceiling and then quickly over at the men. “Up on the roof!” he said. “Jimmy, you stay here with the body.”

  He then ran out into the hallway, joined by Waidler, Winter, and Kramer. Sprinting up the last two flights of stairs, they came to a heavy, metal door that clearly led out to the roof of the building. Falconer tried to push it open, but it wouldn’t budge. “Here,” he said to Waidler, “help me shove it open—he must have put something behind it.”

  The two of them then rammed their shoulders into the door, and it moved slightly, but still, it would not allow entry onto the roof. They tried a second time, and it moved ever so slightly again. “Something heavy behind it,” Waidler said breathlessly.

  “Here, boss,” Winter said from behind them, “let me give the son of a bitch a try.”

  Falconer and Waidler moved to the side and let Winter move his bulky frame closer to the door. Sizing it up for a moment, the officer then stepped back slightly and rammed a large shoulder directly into the middle of the door, and it moved a foot.

  “Good work, Winter!” Falconer said, moving to squeeze through the opening. “Let’s go!”

  He then disappeared through the opening and the other men quickly followed.

  75

  Falconer ran a few steps out on the roof of the building and then stopped, scanning his surroundings. “See anything?” he asked the men.

  “Nothing,” Winter said.

  “Nope,” Kramer replied.

  Falconer walked a few more steps with his revolver at the ready and looked out over the sea of buildings that stood like a great chain of mountains jutting into the sky.

  “There!” Waidler yelled, pointing to a corner of the building. Falconer looked and saw a figure clad in black standing on the short, raised wall that surrounded the entire rooftop. The man quickly looked back at him, turned again and hopped off the building, and disappeared.

  “What the hell?” Winter said. “Did he jump?”

  “Just to the next building,” Falconer replied. “Let’s go!”

  He then led the men in a run over to the corner and looked down. The man had landed across the short gap onto the next rooftop about twelve feet below and was now running away towards the far side of that rooftop.

  “Let’s go, boys!” Falconer yelled before holstering his gun and quickly jumping to the lower roof, followed by the others in quick succession.

  He ran quickly and could hear his men just behind him as he saw the suspect pause at the far side of the roof and appear to look across at the next building. Clearly, the gap was much farther this time, and the man was hesitating. But then Falconer saw him walk backwards a few steps, run directly at the short wall in front of him, step up onto the wall in full stride and leap out across the expanse in between the buildings. The man then landed hard on the next roof and quickly got up.

  Falconer kept running directly at the short wall ahead of him and determined to make the same leap. As he got closer, he saw that the gap was perhaps eight feet across and felt he could make it. Running at full speed, he stepped up onto the wall and pushed off hard, flying across the gap with the alleyway far below. He then landed with a thud and rolled over. Getting up quickly, he saw his men standing back at the wall of the second rooftop and then turned and looked at the mysterious figure who was running away. Turning quickly back to his men, he yelled to them: “Who’s the best shot?!”

  He saw the three men look at each other with a surprised look, and then Winter yelled back: “Kramer is!”

  “Kramer!” Falconer yelled at the officer. “Can you get a shot off?!”

  He then saw Kramer pull out his revolver and step up onto the small wall on the edge of the building. Crouching down, Falconer could see the suspect about to arrive at the far side of the rooftop that they were both occupying, and he looked to see if Kramer could get off a shot or two. The stoic officer stood up on the wall and had his revolver extended out at arm’s length, and he was clearly trying to find a bead on the target. Then, just as the man was about to jump again to the next rooftop, Kramer fired off two rounds in quick succession, and the suspect fell to the ground, clutching his leg.

  “You got him!” Falconer yelled. “Nice shot!”

  He then started running over to apprehend the stricken man, who was already getting to his feet despite his apparent wound. They were now three stories up over the street, and Falconer could hear all the people and wagons and activity below on the busy thoroughfare. He ran hard now, and just as the man was about to try and somehow leap to the next closer rooftop, Falconer dove and grabbed him by his legs, and the man groaned loudly and fell again to the surface of the roof. Struggling to get up again, the man flung his fists as Falconer’s head, and Falconer managed to parry the blows and get a hold of the man’s jacket.

  “Stop resisting!” Falconer yelled. “Or I’ll shoot you!”

  The man ignored the commands, however, and flailed with his legs, trying to kick Falconer off him. Falconer grabbed the legs to thwart the attack and then punched the man hard in his ribs. “I said stop resisting!” he yelled again, smashing a fist into the man’s mouth. The man, dazed, tried to crawl away, but Falconer got up and, grabbing his jacket again, flung him hard against the low wall lining the edge of the roof over 37th Street. The man emitted a pained moan, and Falconer stood several feet away from him. “You’re under arrest,” he said to him, wiping a little blood off his own face. “Get on your stomach.”

  But as he slowly walked over to place handcuffs on him, the man got up to his knees and looked over the wall to the street below. He gazed back at Falconer briefly, and then reached up and flung himself up and over the wall with a surprising quickness. Falconer ran the last few steps and looked down towards the street. “Damn it all,” he muttered.

  The man had fallen towards the street but had landed in a large wagon full of large, burlap sacks filled with some sort of soft grain, for he was now slowly getting off the wagon and limping away down through the crowd of people who mingled and stared at him.

  Falconer watched as the man quietly disappeared down the street, and as he rued his inability to properly take the suspect into custody, he glanced back to where they had struggled and noticed several items littering the surface of the roof. Walking over, he bent down and examined them: a small box of matches, a few coins, and a folded piece of paper. Unfolding the paper, he glanced at what was hand-written on the page:

  Manhattan Council Meeting

  153 Christopher St.

  8:00 pm, Sun. Sept. 18

  Folding the paper back up, he placed it in his jacket pocket along with the matchbox and coins and pondered what the note meant. Then he heard the voices of his men calling to him back on the other roof, and he turned and slowly walked back to speak with them.

  76

  Falconer stood with Waidler and Halloran below the reviewing stand near the entryway to the large Union League clubhouse on Rogers Avenue in Brooklyn. It was 8:00 PM on Saturday, the evening after the chase on the roof
tops, and several thousands of enthusiastic Republican voters now stood cheering and shouting in the large plaza that stretched out in front of the detectives. A band was playing up on the stand while the crowd waited expectantly for the scheduled speakers, and fireworks were going off high above everyone. Meanwhile, the ornate clubhouse itself was lit up like a gigantic Christmas tree, with rows of gas jets and electric lights brightly lining the entrance, and other lights shining through the windows of the great building. This brightening effect was topped off by four electric arc lights that illuminated the whole plaza wherein the cheerful throng congregated.

  The event’s hosts had made sure, too, to decorate the building in a way that was fitting for a party in honor of the future vice president of the United States: American flags draped down from every window and hung over the arched entrance to the building, while other colorful banners fluttered brilliantly in the wind from the flagstaff that rose out of the building’s cupola high above.

  Falconer, who had just arrived after having attended the autopsy of their still-unnamed informant, turned to Waidler and spoke loudly into his ear, as the crowd was generating such a tremendous noise that it was difficult to hear one speak. “Are the officers in place around the plaza?”

  “Yes,” Waidler replied, equally loudly. “We have men all over, some in the crowd, some on the periphery. And, of course, Reid is surrounded by our men and his own.”

  “Good,” Falconer said above the noise. “But with this crowd, there’s no way we can cover everything. If Meunier tries to strike here, he has a chance to succeed. There are just too many damned people.”

  Waidler nodded as the crowd started singing along with the band’s latest offering, and Halloran couldn’t suppress a smile at all of the rejoicing happening around them.

  “You ever seen a bigger crowd, Jimmy?” Falconer asked the young officer.