The Fall

by Sean Moynihan

  “No, sir. This is the biggest for me.”

  “Well, Reid and the other speakers should be coming out soon now. The sooner we get them out of here, the sooner we can go home.”

  Waidler nodded again and looked out across the jammed plaza.

  “So where are Winter and Kramer?” Falconer asked. “They’ve got the rifle with them?”

  “Correct, boss,” Waidler said, pointing across the plaza at a darkened building that stood over the whole crowd. “They’re up on that roof over there, ready to take a shot if we can get Meunier in sight.”

  “Well, good, but it’d be tough to get a safe shot off in this crowd. And what about Penwill and Houllier?”

  “They’re walking around the outside of the crowd, just trying to keep an eye out,” Waidler replied. “They said they would report back here when Reid starts his speech.”

  “Good,” Falconer said, gazing out at the mass of humanity that danced and screamed with ebullience in the cooling evening air.

  Just then, the crowd got louder and appeared to start cheering in the direction of the reviewing stand. Falconer looked up and saw Reid walking out with a wide smile on his face, joined by Senator Joseph Hawley of Connecticut and the local U.S. Attorney, Jesse Johnson, among other dignitaries. Johnson moved to quiet the crowd, and, within moments, was able to make his introductory remarks. Then, Hawley approached the front of the reviewing stand and the crowd let out a great roar of approval. Motioning for the people to let him speak, he then began to expound on the blessings of the Republican Party and the benefits of keeping President Harrison and his new running mate, Ambassador Reid, in office.

  After hearing Hawley’s speech for about ten minutes, Falconer turned to Waidler and Halloran. “I’m going to go check on Winter and Kramer in the building across the way. Be alert and keep an eye out for Meunier—especially when Reid makes his speech.”

  “Got it,” Waidler said, and then Falconer moved off across the street, through the tightly packed crowd. Making his way across the plaza, he kept looking out for the small, swarthy Frenchman with the slight limp who was potentially carrying sticks of dynamite to explode in the middle of one of the speeches. It was strange, he thought: the notion that everyone around him was smiling and laughing, unaware of the great danger that possibly lurked within the great folds of people that converged in the plaza, while he, charged with protecting them, was extraordinarily tense, agitated, and fearful that at any moment, a bomb might go off and kill many of them.

  He fought his way through the people and finally came to the front of the building that rose three stories over the plaza. Showing his badge to the two officers standing guard, he moved inside, ascended a staircase to the top, exited out onto the roof, and walked over to where Winter and Kramer stood leaning against a four-foot wall that extended around the perimeter of the roof.

  “Hey, Detective Sergeant,” Winter said. “Big crowd, eh?”

  “It certainly is,” Falconer replied, looking down at the people. “How are things up here?”

  “Oh, just fine, sir. But it might be a little hard picking out this little hunchback out of that crowd down there.”

  “Yes, I know. How you doing, Kramer?”

  The quiet officer was leaning against the wall looking down the barrel of his Springfield 1871 rifle and scanning the crowd for his target. “Just fine, detective sergeant,” he said. “But I agree—hard to get a clean shot off in this crowd.”

  “Understood,” Falconer said. “Just do your best, and if something happens, use your best judgment.”

  “Will do.”

  “All right, I’m headed down to go find Inspectors Penwill and Houllier,” Falconer said. “Carry on, gentlemen.”

  “Yes, sir,” Winter said. “All good up here.”

  Falconer then went back to the stairwell and descended to the first floor. Exiting the building, he looked to his right and noticed a large body of marchers coming up the avenue.

  The parade.

  This would be the large evening parade of political supporters that was scheduled to walk by the clubhouse right before Reid made his speech. It would mean more people—and more potential victims.

  Falconer moved to his right to go around the crowd that was now separating within the large avenue to let the marchers go by. He saw that, out in front, a platoon of mounted policemen was trotting up jauntily towards the clubhouse, and, behind them, walking together, were the parade’s grand marshal and his chief of staff. And finally, behind these parade officials, were the many political groups and clubs that packed the avenue with shouts and song.

  Falconer headed back across the plaza towards the reviewing stand, and, after several minutes of pushing and shoving, managed to arrive back to where Halloran and Waidler now stood with Houllier and Penwill. Penwill was speaking with a man in plain clothes, and when Falconer stepped forward, the Englishman turned and greeted him. “Good to see you, old boy. This is Mister Enright, head of security for the ambassador.”

  “How are you?” Falconer said loudly over the din of the immense crowd cheering behind them.

  “Just fine, detective sergeant,” Enright replied. “The ambassador is about to address the crowd, and we’ve got men all around.”

  “That’s good,” Falconer said. “So, whereabouts are they positioned?”

  “Oh, all around the stage, and dispersed in the first several rows of people here,” Enright said. “I’d say we’ve got good coverage.”

  “Excellent,” Falconer said. Then he looked up and saw Reid slowly approaching the front of the stage after having just been introduced to the raucous crowd by Senator Hawley. Falconer looked back at the people, who must have numbered several thousand at this point, and then back to the stage. And then he looked farther back at the large clubhouse that rose ominously over all the people.

  Strange, he thought. But…could it be?...

  He turned back to Enright and shouted into his ear: “So did you say your men are all outside now?”

  “Yes,” Enright confirmed. “We’ve got them all out here converged on the stage for maximum coverage.”

  “So, no one inside the clubhouse right now?”

  “No…no one. Is there an issue?”

  Falconer turned to Penwill and Houllier and motioned quickly for Waidler and Halloran to step closer. “Quick,” he said to them, “there’s no one watching the inside of the clubhouse and I’m worried we’ve got a vulnerability. Let’s go!”

  He ran up the steps leading to the top of the reviewing stand and made for the entrance to the building, joined closely by the other men behind him. As they entered the large, well-decorated lobby, he pulled out his revolver and pointed to the stairs, yelling out to the men: “James, Jimmy—check out this floor! Inspectors—let’s head up the stairs. Every room needs to be checked!”

  He bounded up the stairs to the second floor with Penwill and Houllier close at his heels, and the three men began to clear all the rooms that overlooked the reviewing stand below. As Falconer entered each room, he would see various supporters gazing out the windows and cheering the ambassador’s speech. He would then move on to the next room, leaving the surprised onlookers standing with mouths agape and confused looks.

  After several moments, the three men met again out in the hallway having seen no sign of their French anarchist target. “One last floor,” Falconer said, motioning to the stairs again. “Let’s head up.”

  Reaching the top of the stairs, they fanned out to check all the rooms on the floor that overlooked the stage upon which Reid was at that moment exhorting the crowd of well-wishers to rise up for a Republic victory in November. Falconer ran to the door of the room closest to him, and, right before entering, quickly gazed down the hallway to see Houllier quietly entering another room, with handgun raised.

  77

  Houllier slowly pushed the door open a
nd peered inside. It was darkened and appeared full of junk and pieces of furniture stacked high on top of each other—a clubhouse storeroom, likely. He entered a few feet with his revolver at the ready and looked out the open window across the room. He could see the tops of the buildings across the street and hear the great cheers of the crowd below interspersed with vague shouted words from a single male speaker: Ambassador Reid.

  Stepping in a few steps, he looked to his right at a large mass of furniture piled together and decided to go check behind it. Moving lightly on his feet, he could feel the sweat dripping down from his brow and hear the faint sound of his labored breath as he tried to keep his eyes moving back and forth around the room, ready for any sudden movement.

  Arriving at the corner of the mass of furniture, he quietly steeled himself, took a deep breath, and swung quickly around the corner with his gun pointed in front of him.

  Nothing.

  Walking slowly along the back of the furniture pile, he came to the other end and moved quickly around another corner, again seeing no one in front of him. He then stopped for a moment, listening for any sound of someone who might be hiding behind the junk and the desks, chairs, and tables that were thrown together around the room.

  Hearing nothing, he kept walking alongside the front wall and came to the open window. Looking down, he saw Reid gesticulating as he spoke, and then the immense crowd that looked like a sea of little heads floating together as far as the eye could see. He then turned and moved towards another pile of furniture standing about three feet away from the window. Aligning himself at the edge of the closest corner of the pile, he again took a deep breath, got his revolver ready, and moved swiftly around the corner: nothing once more.

  Taking a deep breath, he decided that the room was empty and moved to go back out into the hallway and find the others. Stepping forward, he suddenly felt a crash against his head and fell to the floor, stunned. He tried to regain his vision as he lay in pain but could only see little, shining stars dancing across the room like lit sparkles on Bastille Day in France.

  Rubbing his head to ease the throbbing pain, he slowly looked back in the direction of the open window and saw a figure. It was a man with his back turned, and the man was doing something with his hands in front of his body, such that Houllier could not quite tell what. He tried to get up, but his body would not respond properly, as if someone else were controlling his hands, limbs, and torso, and as he lay struggling to move, he could hear the muffled sound of voices below. He tried to form coherent thoughts and make sense of where he was, and slowly, bit by bit, he began to remember that he was in a room, searching for the suspect, and there were people below, lots of them, unsuspecting and defenseless, and the vice-presidential candidate, Reid, was speaking before them.

  He looked back at the dark figure and saw something shining behind him—a light? A lit match perhaps? But no, it was no light or match or lantern—it was sparkling wildly like those sparklers that people lit up and waved in the air at joyful celebrations. Houllier tried to avoid the unfortunate truth that was now forming in his brain: that the man held a bundle of dynamite sticks and had just lit them and was about to toss them lightly down onto the reviewing stand below. And then it all became clear to him.

  Meunier.

  He looked quickly around his body for his revolver that had dropped out of his hands when he was first struck, and he saw it a foot away, lying next to a chair. Looking back at the man, he saw that the anarchist was now slowly walking towards the window and would toss the deadly explosives in seconds. Turning back to the gun, he reached out as far as he could, but he was still several inches away from it. Gathering his limited strength, he then rolled his body over once and managed to get close enough to grasp it. Raising it in front of his eyes, he cocked the lever but then saw that the man—Meunier—was at that moment raising the bundle of dynamite and about to throw it out the window.

  So Houllier decided to speak: “Theodule….”

  It was the simplest thought that he could conjure up, the simplest utterance that he felt might stop Meunier for just a second, for a brief moment that would allow him time to aim the gun.

  And Meunier did stop.

  The anarchist looked back briefly, appearing surprised that Houllier was awake and speaking. And that was the moment when Houllier took aim and fired one shot at Meunier’s dark torso. He missed his mark, however, but did hit his nemesis elsewhere, for Meunier winced and dropped the dynamite sticks, grabbing his forearm. Houllier raised himself up with all his will and strength and moved to grab the bomber by his legs. Meunier in response grabbed Houllier by the neck and started to pound at him with one fist, but Houllier managed to trip the would-be assassin and they both fell to the floor. Struggling to grab the suspect by the neck, Houllier shouted at him: “C’est fini, Meunier! Arretez de resister!”

  “Jamis vous batard!” Meunier shouted back. “Je vais tous vous tuer!”

  The two men struggled some more, and while doing so, Houllier noticed with a horrifying realization that the sticks of dynamite lying just a couple of feet away were still lit. Smashing a fist into Meunier’s face, he then scrambled to his knees and struggled over to the sticks and doused the flame just as it moved to within an inch of the explosive cartridges.

  Turning back to Meunier, he saw the man staring at him for an instant, and he felt the anarchist’s rage and turmoil at having been thwarted so close to achieving his desired result. Meunier then turned away and rapidly made for the door, and Houllier sprang to his feet and followed him. Arriving out in the hallway, he saw Meunier running down to a room at the end of the hallway and disappearing within. Just then, he heard Falconer’s voice behind him and looked back to see the detective running towards him from the other end of the hallway.

  “What’s happening?” Falconer asked hurriedly.

  “Meunier!” Houllier shouted. “I just stopped him from throwing dynamite and he has gone into the last room!”

  “Let’s go!” Falconer yelled as he sprinted by Houllier, who followed close behind. The two men approached the door to the last room on their left, and Houllier looked at Falconer, who nodded. Falconer then turned the doorknob and swung the door open, leveling his revolver at the interior. Houllier looked and saw the room was empty, but a window was open. Running over to it, he looked down with Falconer and saw Meunier climbing the last few feet down a tree that rose high alongside the exterior wall of the building from the yard below. Falconer raised his gun, aimed, and fired a couple of shots, but the man escaped unharmed and ran off to a small, stone wall that lined the yard. Houllier then watched as the French bomber struggled up onto the wall and looked back at them.

  “Ca ne s’arrete pas la, Meunier!” Houllier yelled out over the lawn. “Je t’aurai! Je t’aurai, Meunier!”

  “Je ne suis pas Meunier, mon ami!” Meunier yelled back at the top of his lungs. “Je suis Ravachol! Je vis! Je suis Ravachol!”

  Then, he dropped out of sight on the other side of the wall and disappeared.

  Houllier sighed and dropped his head, anguished that he had failed to capture the renegade anarchist.

  “What was it that you said to him?” Falconer asked.

  “I said that this was not the end,” Houllier replied quietly, “and that I would get him in the end.”

  “And what did he say back to you?”

  “He said that he wasn’t Meunier. He was Ravachol and that Ravachol lives.”

  “I see.”

  “I am sorry that I failed to get our man,” Houllier said, shaking his head.

  “It’s all right. The important thing is you stopped him from achieving his mission of blowing up the ambassador and hundreds of other people down there. So, you did succeed. You succeeded very much, and you will get him in the end.”

  “Yes. Yes, we will.”

  “Come on. Let’s go get the others.”

&nbs
p; The two men then walked out into the hallway and headed down the stairs as the rousing cheers of the crowd out in the plaza reached a crescendo and the noises of the celebration reached high up into the sky over Brooklyn.

  New York City Police Headquarters

  Mulberry Street

  September 18, 1892

  78

  “Well, gentlemen,” Byrnes said as he stood behind his desk, “you did a fine job averting a catastrophe last night. Especially you, Inspector Houllier. It sounds like our suspect was only seconds away from successfully throwing some dynamite down on that reviewing stand when you stopped him in his tracks. The city and the country are indebted to you.”

  “Merci, Superintendent Byrnes,” Houllier said. “I am only sorry that I let him get away.”

  “Do not worry, inspector,” Byrnes said. “You clearly wounded him, so he will be slowed down now and easier to spot. I’m just wondering if you think he will continue to try and target the ambassador despite his wounds.”

  “If I may, superintendent?” Penwill said.

  “Yes, by all means, inspector.”

  “Meunier is a radical and a fervent acolyte of Ravachol,” Penwill said, “but I would wager that, having been wounded now by Inspector Houllier and knowing that we are close on his trail, he will not be inclined to further his deadly aims. Frankly, I believe that he will try to give us the slip and head back to Europe.”

  “Falconer?” Byrnes said.

  “I tend to agree,” Falconer said. “Meunier knows that he barely escaped with his life last night. I would think that he has finished making a statement here and will flee now.”

  “Understood,” Byrnes said. “Well then, let’s alert all of the wharves and points of departure in Manhattan—let everyone know that Meunier may be seeking to get on a ship.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  “And how is the ambassador reacting to the attempted bombing?”