The Fall

by Sean Moynihan

  “Sounds good.”

  “Okay, then, let’s back off and head back to where the cab is. When this little minion of Bliss comes out of the alley, we tail him. Okay?”

  “Understood.”

  The two officers then quietly retraced their steps and moved out onto the sidewalk of 31st Street, where they would await the appearance of George Bliss’ mysterious new contact.

  87

  The young lawyer, Meyer Weintraub, stopped for a moment in his speech to a large crowd of immigrant workers at an assembly hall on the Lower East Side and allowed their raucous applause to play out. He was almost finished with his remarks to the mainly German and Eastern European followers of the Autonomist branch of anarchism in New York City, and he was pleased that the crowd had been noisily receptive to his words.

  He took a deep breath and then spoke again: “To conclude, my fellow Americans—yes, Americans, for that is what you are despite the ill treatment you face every day on these shores—I am just a young, undistinguished attorney with—like you perhaps—very little money in my pockets. But I will fight and keep fighting for your rights and your equality in this land, and I will not shrink from their intimidation or their threats to silence me! Let us go forward and make the world anew and fight the dark forces that would keep us under the boot and hidden away from the blessings of this country!”

  The crowd roared again as he stepped away from the dais and received a quick handshake and congratulations from the master of ceremonies, and then he took his seat along with the other speakers at the back of the stage.

  A half hour later, he was exiting the assembly hall to the well-wishes of the spectators, and, after speaking again momentarily outside with the meeting’s organizers, he placed his hat atop his head and cheerfully walked down the street, pleased with his place in the movement and his status as a frontline warrior in the legal battles to ensure the rights and dignity of the immigrants struggling together in the packed tenements of Lower Manhattan.

  That went well. Anya will be pleased when I tell her, and I will keep doing the work that the thousands of others cannot do for themselves. This country does have an inherent tendency towards kindness and goodwill, and we have hope….

  88

  Falconer stood alone under a gas lamp and smoked a cigarillo. He had been waiting for her to come out of the saloon for the past hour and thought this was a better course of action than to simply interrupt her again with her band of followers and friends inside the place. He heard the noise of some drunken revelers down the street and glanced in that direction, and then turned back to the entrance of the establishment. He saw the door open wide and Emma Goldman came out finally, surrounded by several companions. As they all spoke gaily to each other following their evening of drinking and storytelling, Falconer stepped off the curb and saw that she had seen him. He walked slowly across the street and could see that she was smiling now.

  “Detective Sergeant Falconer,” Goldman said, “I see that you are still tracking my whereabouts.”

  “Occasionally, Miss Goldman,” he said. “And how are you these days?”

  “I am fine, for the most part, thank you. But such is not the case for my Sasha, whom I just learned recently was subjected to a sham trial and was sentenced to twenty-two years in the penitentiary. Twenty-two years, Falconer!”

  “Well, I’m sorry about that, but he did try to kill a man.”

  “But this is outrageous!” she said excitedly. “Twenty-two years in a hole in the ground, forgotten by civilization and beset by the brutes of the prison system. It is not right, and I will fight this sentence to the last extremity.”

  “I’m sure you will, and I imagine you might succeed in helping him.”

  “We can only hope,” she said quietly. “So, why have come out this night?”

  “I wanted to warn you. I know that you’ve not been targeted recently, but we have come across certain evidence recently…evidence concerning who was trying to assassinate you these past few months, and they are still out there.”

  “Evidence, you say? What sort of evidence? Who is it?”

  “I can only say that it is a group that hides in the shadows and is led by some very powerful men,” he replied. “We are not there yet with proof that will hold up in court, but we are trying. I just ask that you be very careful these days—they aren’t finished.”

  “And what is their grievance? Why are they so hell-bent on killing me?”

  “They are a group devoted to maintaining the purity of the population, and that means white Christians, and that also means that you—a Jewish immigrant who rails against the American system and government—are the enemy. You are everything that they despise—an intelligent woman who is of a different culture and religion, and who is a threat to their power. Do you understand?”

  “Oh, I understand very well,” she said calmly. “I understand all too well. It appears that your land of the free is actually not so free, after all. Do you agree?”

  “I suppose I do,” he said.

  “Well, then, your warning is appreciated, and I shall take appropriate precautions, but I will not bow down to their threats.”

  “I know you won’t. And I won’t, either.”

  “I know that, too. We are not so dissimilar.”

  “Maybe,” he said, grinning slightly. “I’ll be in touch.”

  He then walked off across the street and headed for the elevated train.

  89

  The groggy janitor lugged his bucket and mop out to the pews in the Sharrai Zedeck synagogue on Henry Street. It was early in the morning—six o’clock—and he wanted to get the floors cleaned well before the rabbi and his assistant appeared for the day. He dropped the bucket to the floor and stood up straighter, intending on dipping the mop into it, but then he noticed something out of the corner of his eye in the growing sunlight that seeped into the temple’s windows. He turned slightly and looked up over the rabbi’s podium and started with a fright, dropping his mop.

  “My god,” he said. “Oh, my god.”

  He then ran out through the front doors and raced as a fast as he could to the Madison Street police station five blocks away.

  90

  Falconer hopped off the police wagon with Waidler in front of the synagogue at 38 Henry Street. A small crowd of mourners lingered together near the entrance, clearly overcome with grief. “Let’s head in,” he said to Waidler, and then the two men moved to the entrance and entered the building. Inside, Falconer spotted Detective Stan Crawford from the 7th Precinct on Madison Street amongst several other officers and lay persons. Crawford looked up and nodded at them, and then walked over.

  “Hey, Robert,” he said to Falconer. “Glad you could make it.”

  “How you doing, Stan?” Falconer said. “This is James Waidler, a detective with us at Mulberry.”

  Crawford shook Waidler’s hand and then turned back to Falconer. “Well,” he said, “we learned that the victim was a lawyer for some of the anarchist groups down here, and then we were told to call you guys down. Does this make any sense to you?”

  “Yes, it does, I’m afraid,” Falconer replied, looking up at a rope with a noose that hung from a beam angling down from the ceiling. “So, what do you have?”

  “Well, the janitor was cleaning this morning when he looked up and saw victim hanging from that rope,” Crawford said. “He beat it on down to our station and we came over immediately. We know who the victim is—his wallet was still in his pocket. His name is Meyer Weintraub, a twenty-five-year-old lawyer who represents these anarchist types in their fights with landlords, in their criminal court cases—that sort of thing. Apparently, he’s been earning a name as a very vocal supporter of their causes—a real firebrand type.”

  “Any witnesses to what happened?” Falconer said.

  “No,” Crawford replied. “No one saw anything, or at le
ast we haven’t found anyone. We do know that he was at a rally last night at Wilzig’s Assembly Hall on 4th Street. He finished his speech and then left alone, according to some witnesses. No one knows what happened to him next.”

  “And I take it he’s a Jewish lawyer—correct?” Falconer asked.

  “Well, yeah,” Crawford answered with a puzzled look on his face. “But what does that have to do with it?”

  “And he worked closely with people down here who were aligned with the anarchist movement?” Falconer asked, ignoring Crawford’s inquiry.

  “Yeah, definitely,” Crawford said. “I’m hearing that he was basically rising in the ranks of those who are looked upon as leaders of their movement—a talented speaker, apparently.”

  “Right,” Falconer said. “Well, we know who did this.”

  “You do?” Crawford said. “How? There aren’t any witnesses and no evidence left at the scene.”

  “I know,” Falconer said, “but it’s clear who’s responsible.”

  “Mind telling me how you’re going to prosecute someone when you don’t have any witnesses or identifying evidence?” Crawford asked, incredulously.

  Falconer looked up at the rope again, and then turned back to Crawford. “I’m not going to bring these people in to be prosecuted,” he said. “Thanks, Stan,” and then he nodded at Waidler and the two men walked back outside to the street.

  91

  Bly hurriedly entered the sparkling lobby of the Bliss Building on 5th Avenue. A crowd of reporters was already assembled, as well as scores of admirers who struggled to get a glimpse of the famous railroad magnate, who, along with his wife, Agatha, and son, George, was expected to make a grand entrance at any minute from their upstairs apartment.

  Bly had heard that Bliss was back in town after vacationing at his opulent mansion in North Carolina and would be making some sort of big announcement in the lobby of his famous building that had his surname etched into the concrete over the front entrance. Through her sources at her old newspaper, The World, she had learned that Bliss was likely going to announce a run for governor of New York State and make the long-expected transition from business mogul and constant presence in the newspapers’ society pages to the government.

  As she walked between the many persons vying for a good spot to see the event, she bumped into Fred Sullivan, her old cohort and fellow scribe at The World. “Nellie!” he exclaimed, eliciting the concerned glances of several onlookers nearby. “What are you doing here? I thought you’d be out at the farm and writing novels still.”

  “Oh, pshaw, Fred,” she said dismissively. “You know I was never cut out for that novelist thing. And I’m not officially working for anyone, mind you, but I do have a lead on something.”

  “Really?” he said, eyebrows raised. “What, pray tell?”

  “Sorry—can’t,” she answered apologetically. “It’s top secret, as they say, but it could be big, Fred. Really big.”

  “Well, I’m all ears, girl,” he said, “but I understand your position. Oh, look—here they come.”

  Bly craned her neck to get a look at the wealthy couple and son coming down the shiny, golden stairs of the fancy high-rise. “Here,” Sullivan said, offering her a space in front of him. “It’s a good vantage point.”

  She moved over a step to be in front of him and thanked him, and then gazed at the Bliss family walking down the steps towards a lectern set out in the lobby. The elder Bliss appeared as she remembered him from her reporter days: tall, a little rotund, a ruddy complexion, and with a thick mane of brown, graying hair sitting atop his head and a similarly colored, well-manicured goatee. He wore a dark suit with a fancy necktie and smiled approvingly at the throng that greeted his entrance enthusiastically as if he were a Roman conqueror.

  His wife, Agatha, much younger than his 72 years, was slim and silent, a pretty woman dressed in a dark dress who said little and smiled wanly at the crowd. Then, behind her, the son from a different wife, George, in his early forties with slick-backed, dark hair and wearing an equally expensive suit and tie, smiled confidently at the crowd, seemingly convinced of his father’s greatness and his own special place in the world.

  The assembled people clapped and cooed until Walter Bliss, joined nearby by several security men, finally raised his hands to quiet them down. He then looked from side to side and spoke: “Ladies and gentlemen, this is a beautiful day here at my building, and it’s so wonderful to be joined by all of you. We just got back from the lovely State of North Carolina, and it’s beautiful down there, but it’s not like New York. New York—the greatest city in the world.”

  The crowd cheered at his words and it took several moments before they quieted down to give the man a chance to speak again.

  “But, my fellow citizens,” he continued, “we’re not here to talk about the weather outside. We’re here to talk about a new beginning. A new beginning for this city and this state. We are seeing this once-great city crumble with crime and disease, brought here by people who came from God knows where. You know them—these people living twelve persons to a room, children everywhere, never washing, not even speaking English. Yes, you know the type.”

  The clapping and cheering grew louder again, until Bliss once more signaled for quiet.

  “But we’re here to put a stop to this nonsense,” he said. “We’re going to take this city and this state and bring them back to the way they used to be, when it was a bright, shining place for true Americans to work and raise their children in peace. Let me tell you, ladies and gentlemen—we’re going to do it, that’s right. So, as of today, I am announcing my candidacy for governor of the great State of New York, and we are going to win. We will win, and win big, ladies and gentlemen.”

  The people in the jammed lobby then erupted in a huge cheer, and Bly looked around and was impressed with the fervor that she saw, and she looked at Sullivan and smiled. Then Bliss again moved to silence his supporters and spoke in conclusion: “We thank you for coming out today—such a lovely crowd. Thank you for being here, my dear people, and God Bless America and our great state.”

  He then turned to lead the others up the golden staircase again, and the reporters started shouting out questions, and Bliss stopped suddenly and turned back to answer several of them. After a brief back and forth with the newspapermen, who wrote feverishly in their notebooks as the bombastic new candidate spoke forth, he turned once again to ascend the stairs, but then Bly pushed her way to the front of the pack and yelled out: “Mister Bliss, does the word ‘Cadere’ mean anything to you?”

  Bliss stopped and turned, looking for the female voice that had uttered the strange question. Bly raised her hand and spoke out again as the other reporters looked at her in wonder: “Um, Nellie Bly, sir.”

  The crowd murmured with excitement upon learning who the young woman was: Nellie Bly, the great reporter/adventuress.

  “Does the Latin word ‘Cadere’ mean anything to you or to your son here, sir?” she asked again.

  Bliss glared down at Bly, and she could see below him the son also staring stone-faced at her. There was a moment of awkward silence in the room until Bliss finally smiled again. “Well, well,” he said. “Do you see, ladies and gentlemen? We have none other than the famous reporter, Nellie Bly, here with us today. It’s great to see you, Miss Bly, and sometimes I’ve wondered where you’ve gone—maybe you’re just not so famous anymore, I don’t know. But I’m not sure what you’re talking about, so whatever it is, you should check your sources.”

  He then turned and walked up the stairs, followed by his wife, son, and retinue, and Bly just watched them go up before she was suddenly barraged with greetings and questions herself from the adoring people.

  92

  Falconer looked over at the shabby apartment building across the street in Hell’s Kitchen as Winter and Kramer stood by. It was morning, and the rising sun revealed the grimy
street lined with old and dilapidated buildings and sidewalks littered with rubbish and junk left by residents and shopkeepers the previous evening for the occasional ragpicker to come by and collect. As people walked briskly along the sidewalks, Falconer turned to the two officers and spoke: “So, you’re sure this is the place where he stays?”

  “Yes, sir, boss,” Winter answered. “We followed him back here after he met Bliss, Junior, and he’s been going in and out for a couple of days.”

  Falconer looked over at the decrepit building again. “Looks like a place a thug working for the Bliss family would call home,” he said. “And you think he’ll be coming out soon?”

  “Yeah,” Winter replied. “He’s been coming out the past couple of mornings at nine o’clock or so. Then he goes down the street for a coffee.”

  “Well, then let’s just wait and see if he’s on time again today, gentlemen,” Falconer said. “Winter, why don’t you and Kramer head down the block a bit and wait near the corner there? I’ll keep watch here with Halloran. If he comes out, converge on him and bring him down—we have our warrant now.”

  “Got it,” Winter said, and then he traipsed off down the street with Kramer.

  “Okay, Jimmy,” Falconer said, “let’s just see if our little minion appears on the street here in a minute.”

  “Yes, sir,” Halloran said. “Do you really think Mister Bliss, the millionaire, is responsible for these assassinations going on?”

  “It’s looking like he is. Hard to believe, though. I’ve always viewed that guy as sort of a clown, one of those ringmasters in the circus—not as a real danger to the community. I guess we can always misjudge people.”

  “Yes, sir. And I hear he just announced a run for governor.”

  “What? Governor?”