“No,” Falconer said. “Just curious.” Then he turned and strode away down the street.
29
Falconer awoke to a pleasant and sunny Fourth of July slowly appearing outside his apartment window high up over the Tenderloin. After he had dressed, he walked down the stairs of his building and immediately made for the newsstand on the corner. There, on the front page of his one-cent edition of The Evening World, he saw a curious headline: “Ben Ali’s Big Luck—The Algerian Made Glad By The Jury’s Surprising Verdict.”
As he read down the page while walking towards a local diner, he discovered that the jury had polled itself initially and had found that the vote was eight to four for a guilty verdict on first degree murder. Then, a little later in its two-hour deliberations, there had been another ballot on the simple question of guilt or innocence, and the vote then had been eleven for guilt, and only one for acquittal. Finally, after more haggling and cajoling, the jury had come back a little after ten o’clock at night with what one juror later described as a “compromise verdict” of guilty as to second-degree murder: the killing of a person with intent to kill, but without premeditation or deliberation.
Recorder Smyth, who had presided over the trial, had lauded the jurors openly in court on what he viewed as, on the whole, a just and fair verdict, and then, after scheduling sentencing in a week’s time, had dismissed the twelve men with the Court’s thanks. Reporters managed to ask Ali before he was trundled away to the Tombs again how he felt about the verdict, having escaped the death penalty but still facing life in prison, and he only smiled wearily as he was now known to do, and said in his broken English, “What can I do?”
Falconer read down to the bottom of the page, where the post-verdict comments of Chief Inspector Byrnes were also included. After having made his way back to the Central Office late in the night followed by a group of newspapermen, the chief inspector had sat at his desk and discussed the evening’s events. “I confess that I am a little disappointed at the verdict,” he said. “I was thoroughly convinced of the guilt of this man, but of course I was naturally prejudiced by the evidence laid before me by the officers who worked up the case, much of which was not admissible on the trial. The man deserved to die if ever a murderer did, and he has escaped his deserts. As to the verdict, it doubtless seemed to the jury that the woman, Old Shakespeare, was killed without premeditation. He demanded the earnings of her shame and when she refused to give it up, he grasped her by the throat. He probably would not have strangled her had she given him the money.”
“Do you think that Frenchy is the Whitechapel Jack the Ripper?” a reporter had asked.
“I cannot say that,” the chief replied calmly. “But I have in my possession documentary evidence that this miserable creature was in London at the time of the commission of the some of the Ripper murders, at least.”
Very crafty, thought Falconer. Don’t commit to a position but leave just a seed of suspicion in the minds of the readers, such that they are left thinking that if indeed the Ripper had made his way to these shores, he has now been caught and faces a life behind bars in Sing Sing prison. That was the ending sequence of this little drama in lower Manhattan as spoken by the famous detective who had gotten his man yet again—part of the spoils of war that go to the victor.
Falconer folded his paper under his arm and walked down the street towards his breakfast. The case of Old Shakespeare’s murder appeared over, but he still had much thinking to do.
30
On July 10, Riis sat in a packed General Sessions courtroom as guards led Ali in from his holding cell. Riis looked around the room. Although it was stifling hot and people in the rows of seats fluttered their newspapers or fans like a great swarm of butterflies, he was fortunate to have a seat inside the room to hear the sentencing of the prisoner. Hundreds of other would-be onlookers, barred by a strong cordon of policemen and court doorkeepers, strained out in the hallways to get a glimpse into the packed courtroom or to at least hear the proceedings.
Riis looked back at Ali when the case was called. The prisoner waddled up in his chains to where Recorder Smyth sat at the bench, and Smyth asked him some preliminary questions concerning his age, residence, and employment, but Ali simply stood at the bar in silence, apparently not understanding what was being said to him. His lawyer, Mr. Friend, then spoke up and moved for a new trial on several accounts, asserting that the jury must have lacked the intelligence to make a reasoned verdict on the paltry and unconvincing evidence in the case, but Smyth was unmoved, denying the motion outright.
“I will say this for the jury,” he began. “That they were men of intelligence and integrity, and I believe the jury was perfectly justified in finding a verdict for murder in the second degree. In finding that the act was not committed with previous deliberation, they were governed by the evidence and the peculiar character of the defendant. There is no necessity of referring to the evidence and the facts of the case, as this man cannot understand me. I am compelled to pronounce the sentence which the law imposed. That is that the prisoner shall be confined at hard labor in Sing Sing prison for the term of his natural life.”
Riis watched as Ali then hopped back to the prisoner’s box. His attorney, Mr. Friend, appeared to whisper something in his ear with the aid of the interpreter, and then the guards took him quietly out of the courtroom as the crowd of spectators slowly stood up and began filing out of the steamy courtroom.
So that’s it, Riis thought. The end.
He got up out of his seat and placed his pad and pencil in his jacket pocket. His mind raced as he stood there for a moment feeling strangely queasy and weak in his knees as he watched the people leaving. He tried to ascribe this sudden physical sensation simply to the overwhelming heat of the day, but he knew better: the truth was, he felt somehow complicit in the railroading of a man who now faced a lifetime of hardships in the horrible prison far up the river, and he had done nothing about it.
He walked slowly out the courtroom and headed to the offices of the National Tribune to write his last story on the case of Ameer Ben Ali.
Duel
31
One week after Ali’s sentencing, while the public and the newspapers and the police administration moved on from the case and went back to their businesses and their daily lives, Falconer decided to return to the mystery that gnawed at him and journey over to the Tombs detention facility in the middle of Five Points to visit a man he had never yet met: George Neumann. To accomplish this, however, he first called upon the German cook’s attorney, Mr. Albert Zweig, of the law offices of Zweig and Hilton in mid-town Manhattan.
“I’d like to see your client,” Falconer explained to the boyish-looking defense attorney upon sitting down with him in a modest inner office of the firm. “I’m not here as an official representative of the police. Let’s just say that I have my own personal doubts as to your client’s guilt, and I need to speak to him to get his side of things. I know this is unusual, but if you’re open to having my possible help in the matter, you have my word that there’s nothing shifty about this. I’m on my own and working behind the back of Mulberry Street. I could get fired for this.”
Zweig had a very serious, intent look about him, Falconer could see, and the voice that emanated from the slightly built young lawyer was surprisingly rich and sonorous as he finally replied carefully to the detective’s inquiry. “I trust you, Detective Falconer,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I, too, obviously think that my client has been wronged here, so any help that might go to gaining his release would be welcome—even if it is…off the record, as you say. Can you tell me why you differ from the police department in your assessment of this case?”
Falconer paused for a moment as he relaxed in the plush leather chair situated in front of Zweig’s desk and looked outside an open window. “Well,” he replied, turning back to the attorney, “all I can say is that I visited Blackwell’s Asylum the day after the murder with the assigned detective, and
I saw some things that just didn’t make sense to me—things that seemed to make the case against your man pretty screwy. But I’ve never had a chance to hear from your client to compare his story to what I saw. I’d like that opportunity now, if you don’t mind—with you present, of course.”
Zweig got up out of his chair and walked over to the corner of the room lined with law books of all kinds and straightened out his jacket. Then he turned back to Falconer and slowly nodded. “Certainly, detective,” he said. “We can do that, and I’ll join you. Like I said earlier: I trust you.”
Moments later the two men discretely exited the building and hopped the elevated train together. Upon disembarking from the train down in Five Points, they walked a short distance and arrived at the front entrance of the enormous, stone jail that had been built fifty years earlier. Walking past the four, imposing Egyptian stone columns that supported the looming front portico leading into the interior, they entered the ominous building. Inside, a guard had them sign a ledger and then they were led down a series of hallways into the bowels of the building that still reeked of the foul swamp upon which it was erected. Upon reaching one last locked gate, the guard turned and said, “He’s right down here,” as he moved to twist the key and open the barrier for the two men. The guard then led walked several more paces and stopped. “Neumann,” he said to the burly man lying on a cot in the narrow cell, “you have a couple visitors. You can come out and speak to them in the room over here.”
Falconer watched as Neumann got up and walked over to the bars fronting the cell, where he squinted in the dim light. The guard unlocked the cell door and led him out, directing him over to a small room nearby where attorneys could meet with prisoners. Zweig walked over with Neumann and spoke with him briefly in hushed tones, glancing back occasionally at Falconer, who remained standing near the cell, watching. Then, Zweig motioned for Falconer to join them in the small conference room, where the three sat down on wooden chairs surrounding a small, beaten up old table.
“George has agreed to speak with you, detective,” Zweig explained. “He understands that you are not acting for the police department in this moment, and that you are privy to the investigation against him.”
“How’s his English?” Falconer inquired.
“Just fine,” Zweig answered. “He’s been here over five years and is a remarkably quick learner. There’s no need for an interpreter.”
Falconer turned to look at the man sitting before him in the familiar gray jailhouse garb of prisoners in the Tombs. He then leaned toward the man a little bit closer in his seat and placed his elbows on the table, rubbing his hands together as he spoke.
“Neumann,” he said, “I know that you’re a cook over on the first floor of the asylum. I spoke to Mr. Bolen, your superior, and saw the murder scene upstairs. I’m here because I’ve got problems with the case against you. My bosses have told me that I’m not to investigate this case further, and to keep my mouth shut. So, you understand, this meeting is to stay strictly between us in this room. If word got out that I’m messing around down here, I’m finished with the force, and you’d get no help from me. Understand?”
“Ja,” the man replied quickly in his noticeable German accent.
“So, I’m wanting to know your side of the story, Neumann,” Falconer continued. “Tell me about that day, the day the cops grabbed you and brought you here.”
“Vell,” the prisoner began, “I vas just getting ready to get ze next day’s order together on my little table dere, and all the police come in—told us to go down ze hallvay and vait. There vas some kind of incident and zey need to search, you know? I vent down ze hallvay vith ze cooks, you see? And ve vait dere, and zen zey come back and grab me and take me to room. Zey ask all kinds of qvestions there, and I do not know vhy. Then, zey suddenly put handcuff on, and next thing I know, I’m here, you see?”
“Sure, sure,” Falconer answered. “So, tell me what happened that day. You know they’re saying they found a bloody knife in your bag. When did you last touch that bag, and when did you last touch your jacket? They also say there’s some torn cloth from the lady’s smock in your pocket? How can you explain that, Neumann?”
“Ze bag is mine,” the man answered slowly. “But I never put no knife in it. No, never—I svear. I just come in in ze morning, took my newspaper and extra clothes out of it, and hung it on ze nail dere, like always. That’s all—never touch bag again. My jacket, I place on chair in dressing room for kitchen men. I never touch zat again, either. I don’t know vhat zey’re saying—lady’s cloth inside my pocket? I just placed on chair and start vork, like every day, you understand? If torn cloth is in dere, someone place it, detective. Somebody is trying to frame me for zis murder, you must understand.”
“The body was found upstairs on the third floor in a closet,” Falconer said. “That’s where the killing occurred. Are you able to go up there? Do you have access?”
“Nein, nein,” Neuman quickly replied. “I don’t go up dere. Other people do. I’m just cook—I don’t have key to get up dere. We just make food. We don’t have no business up dere. I cannot go up, detective.”
“But if you did,” Falconer said, “I’m just saying—if you happened to be up there, would people know you? Would they know who you are?”
“I suppose, yes, they vould,” Neumann stated. “People see each other in ze building, coming in, going out, taking breaks, you understand? And I’d be in my vhite cooking clothes. They vould know zat I am cook downstairs…they vould know.”
Falconer paused as he let the German’s answers sink in for a moment. Then he asked a final question. “Did you see anybody suspicious that day, Neumann? Anybody near the kitchen maybe who seemed out of place?”
Neumann looked down at the floor for a moment, then looked back up at the two men sitting before him. “No, no, dere was nobody that I noticed.” Then he suddenly stopped himself and held up his hand as if to halt the men from moving. “No, vait—dere vas just vun person, a laundry vorker who came in to get our used rags and aprons and such…I never see zat man before, but he vas just laundry vorker—they do zat all ze time. It vasn’t really anything that strange, you understand?”
“Wait,” Falconer said as he moved his chair closer to Neumann. “You say you never saw this guy before. What did he look like? Did he say anything to you that day when he came in?”
“Nein,” Neumann replied. “He just come in, go to back room and take our used aprons, like I say. I did look at him once and he nodded to me, but zat is all. He vas dressed in vhite, like all of dem laundry people, and he vas maybe a little under six feet, I’d say. He had dark hair, I zink—he vas vearing small vhite hat, but I could see hair coming down a bit—and he had mustache. Maybe he veigh about 180 pounds, and—”
The man’s voice trailed off and he sat still looking at the wall. “What is it, Mr. Neumann?” Falconer asked.
“Vell,” Neumann finally said, “I just remember looking up at him and zinking zat he don’t look like laundry vorker, you know? I don’t know vhat it vas, but something about his face and hair seemed…vell, I thought for moment that this vas gentleman, not man who go around grabbing rags, you know? I don’t know vhy…”
“Did he go anywhere near to your jacket or bag hanging on the nail, Mr. Neumann?” Falconer asked. “Could you see that?”
“Vell,” the cook answered slowly, “I suppose he could have gone back zere a bit, but I just vasn’t looking after ve nodded to each other. I didn’t zink nothing of it. I’m sorry…”
Falconer looked over at Zweig, who had also clearly seen the possible import of his client’s latest remarks, and Falconer jerked his head subtly at the lawyer to get him to exit the room together briefly. Zweig obliged, and the two men stepped outside, leaving the prisoner sitting at his seat at the old table.
“I think that last bit was very interesting,” Falconer said quietly to Zweig once they were standing outside in the hallway together. “I’m not saying this laundr
y worker is the killer, but he’s never seen him before, and your man had a funny feeling about him for some reason. I’m just saying that that’s interesting to me, and worth looking into.”
“I agree,” Zweig replied. “I suppose we could check employee records for that day…maybe ask around to see if anyone knew this mysterious person who came by to grab the rags.”
“Right,” Falconer said. “I’ll do that. In the meantime, you need to keep this stuff under your hat. Like I said, if the Central Office finds out that I’m still snooping around here, I’m finished on the force, and I’ll be of less use to you and your client, if you know what I mean.”
“Understood, detective,” Zweig said. “So where do you go from here?”
Falconer slowly shook his head. “I don’t know, but I’ll do what I can. You still have time before any trial or anything like that?”
“Yes,” Zweig answered. “We’ve got the coroner’s inquest coming up shortly, but trial still won’t be for a while yet. But his wife is completely beside herself with him being stuck in here accused of murder, as you can imagine.”
“Right,” Falconer said. “Well, we’ll see what we can do. Thanks for letting me speak to him. I’ll keep in touch when I can.”
“Sure, sure,” Zweig said. “I appreciate your efforts, detective.”
As Falconer turned to walk away, Zweig suddenly spoke up and stopped him. “You know, Detective Falconer, many of my clients are, quite frankly, guilty of the crimes alleged against them. I know that. But I believe Mister Neumann, detective. I believe that he has been framed somehow by someone, as he says.”
“Well,” Falconer said, “if it’s true, we’ll try to catch that someone. And hopefully, I’m not just imagining things and wasting our time.”
“I’ll see you, detective,” Zweig said as Falconer walked off into the darkness of the musty hallway deep in the heart of the Tombs.
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