Here

by Sean Moynihan

  “Oh, don’t mention it, professor,” Penwill said. “This was quite worth it—quite well worth it. You have a marvelous grasp of these things, and it was fascinating. Thank you again.”

  “I agree,” Falconer said. “You’ll have to tell us more about these people when you have time, of course. Who knows? Maybe it’ll help us in our own work.”

  “Yes, yes, I will, detective,” Levine said with a grin. “Thank you again, gentlemen. I hope that we can meet sometime soon perhaps? Maybe to see where you both are with everything?”

  “Right, sounds good,” Falconer said. “Why don’t we plan on meeting this weekend? We’ve been talking, professor, and…well, we both think it’s time to engage our friend who sent the note.”

  “I see,” Levine said. “I look forward to that conversation.”

  “Well, give it some thought,” Falconer said, throwing his bowler on his head. “I’ll be in touch, all right?”

  “Yes, that will be fine. Goodnight, gentlemen,” Levine said. “And thank you again for attending.”

  Falconer and Penwill then moved aside to allow the next person to speak to Levine in front of the stage, and then they slowly wound their way up the aisle, out into the basement lobby, and then up the stairs to exit out onto Seventh Street. The Third Avenue elevated train was rushing by on the tracks high above the street to their left, and, as they walked over to the Bowery to their right, a couple of cable cars slowly chugged down the avenue in their direction. “Well, I’m headed over to my hotel,” Penwill said to Falconer. “Beastly hot lately—I need a cool drink. I’ll look forward to meeting in a couple of days?”

  “Yes, thanks, inspector,” Falconer replied. “I’ll notify you. Have a good night.”

  Penwill then walked away, disappearing down the avenue beneath the shimmering gaslight poles that lit the avenue high overhead. Falconer lit a cigarillo and began to walk down the Bowery amidst the departing crowd. Turning west at Fourth Street, he headed towards Washington Square Park, beyond which lay the elevated Sixth Avenue train. At this hour, the park was strangely silent save for the occasional yelping of a vagabond standing within a group of his peers, or the subtle whispers going back and forth between lovers nestled on one of the park benches. As he approached the park, he could see to his right in the distance the great white arch with the figure of President Washington standing atop that was built just a year earlier and that greeted visitors where Fifth Avenue ended and opened onto the great green lawn.

  As he walked along the southern border of the park, he watched the various people loitering about, but then slowly began to become aware of a presence behind him. Footsteps, he could tell—not just footsteps that happened to be walking in the same direction as he as if by chance, but the sound of steps that were slowly moving behind him at the very same pace as his, and with a palpably deliberate purpose: slowly, steadily, and getting ever so closer as he moved past the tree-lined park.

  Not wanting to reveal his knowledge of this yet, he continued walking and taking drags of his smoke. He could hear the footsteps behind, probably twenty paces back, as he reached a corner of the park, and there he turned right, up McDougal Street, to see if the mysterious follower would change direction, as well. This the person did, now apparently getting closer, as the footsteps became slightly more audible to Falconer as he approached Waverly Place at the northwest corner of the park. Turning left, he headed down the short block on Waverly to Sixth Avenue, where he would catch the elevated train.

  The footsteps remained with him, though, as he made his turn, and now he figured that this was no accident, and the interloper was up to something. Right before the intersection with Sixth, he saw an alley to his right, well-lit by an extended gaslight pole standing up next to a tree on Waverly in front of the quaint, expensive row houses that dotted this area of town. Falconer disappeared into the alley and waited next to the side of a home. Moments later, he saw the dark outline of a face slowly peer around the corner.

  He reached out suddenly, grabbed the spy by his lapels, and wrenched him around the corner of the building and into the alleyway. Throwing the smallish man up against the brick wall, he reached into his own pocket, taking out a switchblade that he placed in an instant against the man’s throat. Then, peering closely at the face now, he realized that this was not a man, but rather, a boy—or more accurately, a teenaged boy with a smooth, beardless chin, large brown eyes, and wearing dark spectacles on his nose and a dark hat pulled down low over his head. The boy could not speak, as Falconer held his own hand over his mouth, and the frightened young man could only whimper and struggle excitedly as Falconer gripped him tightly with the knife hovering just inches from the boy’s eyes.

  “Who are you?” Falconer hissed as he examined the face closer now. “You’ve been following me the past ten minutes, and you’re going to tell me why or you’re going to get a beating you won’t forget in this alley, you hear me, kid?”

  The young man whimpered some more, obviously in great distress, and so Falconer lightened his grip around his mouth. “If I let go, are you going to scream on me? Because if you do, I’ll run you in right this minute—I’m a police detective, you understand?”

  The young man nodded in acknowledgment, and so Falconer finally let go of the boy’s mouth, stepping away so that his prisoner could catch a breath or two. “Who are you, kid?” he asked. “And why were you following me?”

  The young man adjusted his glasses on his face and slowly looked up at Falconer. “I’m not a kid, detective,” he said breathlessly, extending his hand. “Please allow me to introduce myself—Nellie Bly, at your service.”

  Falconer stood for a moment and stared expressionless at the person standing against the wall in front of him. Then he looked down at the extended hand, and noticed that it was a very small hand, with long, delicate fingers and smooth, milky white skin. “Nellie Bly?” he finally blurted out. “Are you kidding me? What’s doing here?”

  “As I said, Detective Falconer, my name is Nellie Bly” the stranger responded. “Perhaps you’ve heard of me? I won’t bite you, you know.” The young “man,” now apparently giving up completely on the ruse of impersonating a teenaged boy, continued to extend her hand to Falconer, who stood openmouthed opposite her in the dimly lit alley.

  “Here, let me show you,” she said, removing her glasses and reaching up to remove her hat and reveal a lush bundle of dark brown, wavy hair that fell to her shoulders. “Do you believe me now when I tell you that I’m certainly not a young man? Far from it, in fact.”

  Falconer slowly walked in a small semi-circle, staring intently the whole time at the woman who had revealed herself to him and stood glaring at him now.

  “Nellie Bly?” he finally asked again. “The real Nellie Bly?”

  “That would be the one, detective,” she answered. “You seem almost disappointed. Is my appearance in the flesh somewhat of a letdown?”

  “You’ll forgive me for appearing a little surprised, Miss Bly” Falconer said, “but I’m not sure why a famous woman reporter would be following me in the middle of the night dressed as a boy.”

  “Well, I can understand that,” she said, “but believe me when I say that I can explain, if you’ll just give me the opportunity.”

  “I’m listening,” he replied tersely.

  “I’d like to do it somewhere other than in a dark alley that smells of urine and garbage, if you don’t mind,” she said, dusting off her jacket.

  “There are some places just around the corner that’ll be open,” he said, “if you don’t mind drunken bums and dirty loafers being near you.”

  “I’ve been near worse, I can assure you, detective,” she replied. “Shall we?”

  “Sure,” he answered. “Uh…do you want to put your disguise back on? You might be recognized.”

  “Yes, that’s a good point,” she replied. “But then they might bother me for being a young man who’s too young to enter, detective. I’ll leave the glasses on and pu
ll my hair up a bit, and remain a woman, but hopefully, not one whom they’ve seen a lot in the papers.” She did exactly that as Falconer watched, and then she looked up at him, holding her hands out as if revealing a completely new person. “There—hopefully, that did the trick?”

  “Looks good to me,” he replied, admiring her quick transformation. “Shall we?”

  “Yes,” she said. “May I have your arm, detective?” Bly held her own hand out as if waiting for Falconer to offer his arm, but he hesitated, not expecting the request.

  “Uh…sure, here,” he finally said, holding out an arm so that she could curl her hand into the crook of his elbow.

  “Why, thank you, detective,” she said with a smile. “So gallant.”

  The two then walked around the corner to Sixth Avenue, where the train ran by above the street, and they disappeared into a nearby saloon.

  Part II

  46

  “So, I’m very curious, Miss Bly,” Falconer said, sitting down with a mug of beer and handing her a cup of coffee. “How do you know my name, and why were you following me tonight?”

  She took the cup from him and placed it on the stained, beaten-up table, and then looked around for a moment at all the unsavory ruffians lingering in the smoke-filled tavern. “Yes, detective,” she said, looking back at him. “I’m sure you are curious about that, and it’s to be expected. And thank you for the coffee, by the way. So…where to begin? Well, I’m not sure if you’re aware, detective, but I’ve been out of the newspaper business for some time now.”

  “Yes, I knew that,” he replied. “We haven’t heard much from you since you came back from your trip last year. You disappeared, it seems.”

  “In a matter of speaking,” she said, smiling. “Yes, I came back in January of last year, and as you might have heard, the attention was quite overwhelming, almost to the point of convincing me to leave and go right back around the globe.”

  “I can understand that,” he said. “Your trip was everywhere in the news.”

  “Yes, well, I then took the time to write my book about my travels,” she said, “and that worked out just fine. But somehow, I just felt that I needed a break from the newspapers and all. I needed to sit back and think about what to do next. I’m not sure if you understand that, detective.”

  “Actually, I do,” Falconer replied. “I think we all feel that way sometimes.”

  “Yes, I suppose we do,” she said. “So anyway, I left my position as a staff writer for the World, and just sort of fell off the earth, right after circumnavigating it, if that makes any sense.”

  “Sure,” Falconer replied, taking a drink from his mug of beer. “So, what have you been doing for the past year and a half?”

  “Well, I didn’t completely give up writing for the papers,” she answered, sipping on her coffee. “I signed a contract, actually, with the New York Family Story Paper—you’ve heard of it?”

  “Yes,” he replied. “Sorry, I don’t read it myself, but I have seen it on the newsstands a lot.”

  “Yes, well, I’m under contract with them to write a series of fictional tales, and I’m trying to do that, although not with tremendous success, I’m afraid.”

  “Why not?” he asked, taking another gulp of his beer. “You’re a good writer, and famous, too.”

  “Thank you, detective,” she said, “but writing fiction is different from writing about one’s own experiences. All I’ve ever done is report about what I know, what I see and hear, but creating a whole new world with fictional characters and such—that’s a whole other ballgame, as they say.”

  “So why not just go back to the newspapers?” he asked. “You’re obviously great at it, and they’d jump at the chance to have you back, I imagine.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she said, looking over at a group of men arguing over cards. “I suppose I’ve just been determined to leave that world behind and become a bona fide novelist. At least that was the plan.”

  “So, you’re not writing much these days?” he asked.

  “No, not really,” she answered. “I’ve just been whiling my days out at my mother’s place in White Plains—it’s really very peaceful out there—and struggling to find some sort of idea, some sort of an ‘angle,’ as they say, to become the basis for a novel. But I’m not having much success at it, as you might have concluded by now.”

  Falconer noticed a man, shabbily dressed, drunk with alcohol, and stinking of cigar smoke, walking over haltingly to their table. The man stepped forward, peering in Bly’s direction, obviously intrigued by the young woman with spectacles sitting in the corner of the dark saloon. Falconer and Bly both looked up at him as he edged closer and studied Bly with the attention of an entomologist slowly picking apart an ornate bug pinned to a tray.

  “Well, well,” the interloper said, slurring his words, “what have we here, I wonder? Ain’t you a pretty one? And with the spectacles, too, like a randy little librarian, eh? Is that what you are, darlin’? A little fox of a librarian? How about you come with me, sweetheart? Come with me and take off yer’ spectacles for a while—”

  He reached out for Bly’s face, but Falconer instantly stopped him by pulling out his revolver and pointing it directly at the man’s temple as he leaned in towards her. “How about not, friend,” Falconer said calmly, “and you just go back to the bar?”

  The slouching drunkard looked back at Falconer, seemingly stunned with the fact that a large handgun was pointing directly at his head. His eyes opened wider, and he appeared speechless as he slowly stood up away from the table, raising his hands above his shoulders. “It’s okay, partner,” he finally stammered, moving back. “I ain’t meaning no trouble with ya’, sir…I’ll just head on over to the other side of the room now, okay?”

  “That sounds just fine,” Falconer stated. “Thank you.”

  The man then slowly walked away, leaving Bly covering her mouth in astonishment as Falconer, meanwhile, put his revolver back in his holster by his side and took a long swig of his beer.

  “Do you do that often, detective?” she asked him as he placed the mug back on the table and leaned back in his chair.

  “I try not to,” he replied. “But you do what you have to do in these parts, if you know what I mean.”

  “I see,” she said. “I must confess that I really have never experienced a man pull a large gun in my presence like that. It was rather invigorating, actually.”

  “I’m glad you feel that way,” he said. “Now, let’s get back to where you left off—you said you were trying to write a novel, but you weren’t finding much success with it.”

  “Yes, I just can’t seem to find an exciting jumping off point,” she admitted. “I’ve sat there, detective, there at my desk with my typewriter, I can’t tell you how many hours, and it just hasn’t come. The story that I need to serve as the basis for a proposed novel just won’t reveal itself to me, and it’s been killing me.”

  “Well, what about something from your journey around the world?” he suggested. “Surely there must be something there.”

  “Yes, I’ve tried that,” she said, “and I get about five pages in, and it just drops away—so dreadfully boring and going absolutely nowhere. And besides, I already told everything about my trip in my book from last year.”

  “Right,” Falconer acknowledged. He took another drink from his beer and looked at her silently.

  “Do you think I’m pathetic?” she finally asked him.

  “No, not at all,” he replied. “I just wonder if you were really meant to become this novelist that you’re so intent on becoming. You’re a journalist, and a great one, and there’s nothing wrong with sticking with that. I wish you could still find writing real-life stories rewarding like you used to. The public loves you, Miss Bly.”

  She smiled and looked away from him, peering over at all the drunks draping themselves on the bar across the room with their gamesome floozies hanging on their arms. Falconer, though, leaned in to the table and tr
ied to bring her back to his original inquiry.

  “So now you’re following me,” he said, “just an obscure Fourth Ward detective, through the Village late at night, and I’m sure there’s a reason for that, although you’re trying not to tell me what it is.”

  Bly looked back at him and leaned back in her chair. “Yes,” she said, “back to your original question, I see. I suppose there’s no avoiding it with you—you’re clearly very good at your job, detective—so I’ll submit to the third degree and reveal all.” She sat up and placed her elbows on the table, resting her chin upon her clasped hands.

  “Back in April, I did follow the East River Hotel murder with great interest, as most people in this city did, and I was especially interested in the Jack the Ripper storyline. How could I not? All my former colleagues at the papers kept pushing that theory day in and day out, as you know. And then with the conviction of Ali, things calmed down somewhat, but I learned through my sources that there was also a strange little incident out at the women’s asylum on Blackwell’s Island that I am so intimately familiar with—a killing of a patient up on a ward there that seemed eerily similar in some respects to Miss Brown’s murder. My interest was piqued, of course. And then, more recently, my sources came to me with yet another incident that was apparently and very skillfully kept quiet by your police department—an attempted murder of a young prostitute up in the Tenderloin late at night, near the Hotel Imperial. I saw then that something might be happening in the city, Detective Falconer, something potentially groundbreaking, something earth-shattering perhaps.”

  “And what would that be, I wonder?” he asked.

  “You know very well what I’m talking about, detective,” she answered. “What if the Whitechapel killer is here in our midst, and Ameer Ben Ali is just a dupe, just a poor, uneducated foreigner who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and the true killer of Miss Brown is still out there and still preying upon women in the city? That would be a very terrible thing, detective—terrible for the citizenry, and terrible for your department. It could well be the greatest horror that has ever befallen New York City in its history, Detective Falconer.”