Falconer grew restive and tense at his seat in the café as the people went in and out of the substation throughout the afternoon, and he contemplated going to the chief inspector and telling him that this latest scheme was not working and was a waste of man-hours. The killer would no longer drop letters for him at this dusty little corner of the city, he thought, and maybe the killer had even left for another great metropolis, pleased and satisfied that he had made his point and triumphed over the New York Police Department. Falconer thought of where the maniac might have gone—Chicago? San Francisco? Madrid? Rome?—and was imagining how the police in those cities would react when they, too, were confronted by this particular evil, when suddenly he was startled out of his ruminations by the sight of Patrolman Lenzi bursting out of the substation and pointing directly at a figure who was walking away down the street.
Falconer sat up and, realizing what was happening, ran outside of the café and looked at Lenzi, who was jabbing his hand at the direction of what appeared to be a young man dressed in rumpled clothes and sporting a brown, newsboy cap pulled down low over his eyes. The man was walking away with his hands in his pockets and appeared to be trying to avoid attention as he shuffled down the street. Falconer looked back at Lenzi, who was now waving a small letter in his hand and appeared to be mouthing something at Falconer. “That’s him,” he appeared to be saying as he pointed again at the man who was walking away.
Falconer immediately looked up the street and waved at Schiavone and Penwill, who were both already running briskly down opposite sides of the street. Falconer then turned on his heels and started to run, too, determined to grab the suspect. As he raced through the throng of people and carts slowly making their way up and down past the Bend, he saw the man turn and see him, and the man then bolted down the street with a suddenness that surprised him. Falconer ran after him, dodging people, horses, and carts as he headed south towards the intersection with Park Street. Arriving at that location, he saw the man turn left onto Park and run quickly towards Mott Street, passing the great Catholic Church of the Transfiguration on his left.
Falconer followed and managed to keep the man in his sights, but the ruffian appeared young and fleet of foot, and Falconer worried that he would be too slow to catch him before he disappeared like a ghost amongst the thousands of people crisscrossing the streets in the area. He also wondered if Penwill and the other officers were somewhere close behind him, but he was too intent on staying with his quarry to look behind and confirm their presence as he ran past the large church and followed the man down Mott Street.
As he struggled to breathe now and to force his legs to continue with the quick pace, he saw the large intersection of Chatham Square looming just ahead and realized why his suspect had chosen this route for an escape: the trains. The man was going to try and jump one of the elevated cars that stopped at the busy station erected high over the streets of the square, and so Falconer tried to close the distance on the mysterious subject as they both ran into the large, open space where ten different streets and avenues met like great tentacles emanating out of an octopus’s head.
As ever, there was a sea of people wandering below the elevated tracks at this time of the day, and Falconer had to shove several people aside as he desperately tried to catch the man before he could manage to hop an uptown Second Avenue train that had just pulled in after a journey up from South Ferry. Falconer ran to the barrier of turnstiles that stood before the wooden stairs rising to the train platform, and as the other people waited patiently in little lines to drop their nickels into the slots and move through the gates, he ran up and, instead, jumped over the turnstile, flashing his badge at a surprised transit worker standing alone in a booth. Gripping the bannister of the stairs, he then threw himself up the steps in between people making their way up and down between levels and arrived at the top with his chest heaving and his brow soaked with sweat. The steam engine for the Second Avenue train was smoking and rumbling in its temporarily halted state on the tracks as the waiting crowd of people slowly moved toward the four cars that were attached to its rear.
He walked carefully alongside the train as he scanned up and down the landing, peering over and around people as he tried vainly to catch sight of the man. He then looked inside the cars quickly, dodging passengers up and down the platform, but saw no trace of him. And then, when he was about to give up hope amidst the scores of people who were pushing by him to catch their train or to step down the stairs to their next destination, he looked up for a moment at the covered footbridge that traversed the Second Avenue tracks fifty yards in the distance, allowing passengers to access the Third Avenue train that connected City Hall with points farther north. Although the bridge was now covered after many years being simply an exposed wooden pathway across the tracks, its sides were left partially open to the air, such that the upper half of persons crossing the span could be seen from the street and the platform below.
Falconer looked at the crowd of people moving rapidly across the bridge and spotted the familiar jacket, newsboy’s hat, and sullen profile. He looked back towards his left and realized why the suspect was headed across the bridge: a Third Avenue train was quickly approaching from the south and would be stopping briefly to gather passengers over on the other platform before moving on for other uptown stops. He immediately started to push his way through the jumble of cranky passengers, yelling at them that he was with the police as they inched forward like a great blob of woolen overcoats towards the entrances to the Second Avenue train’s cars. Struggling through the crowd, he managed to break through near the end of the platform and hop up the short flight of stairs to the footbridge. Running down along its length through the many travelers waltzing their way across to the other side, he could no longer see the suspect, who had by now disappeared down the stairs on the bridge’s opposite end.
Falconer could hear the train pulling to a stop now with a screech and a whistle, and so he rushed down the steps to the Third Avenue platform. It was equally crowded on this side of the tracks, and he had to jump up occasionally to see over all the people moving slowly into the cars. As the train whistled again, signaling its intention to close the doors and move off for the next stop, he hesitated, not knowing what the next move should be: enter the train and possibly get caught on it as the suspect calmly walked away unscathed down on the street, or remain where he was and let the potential killer rush away safely and anonymously ensconced in one of the cars as it wound its way uptown.
The doors started to close as the last passengers dipped their feet inside the cars and stepped across the threshold. Falconer moved quickly toward the car that was closest to him—the fourth and last one of the train—and jumped inside just as the doors slammed shut and the train started to move off like an aged elephant getting an itch to struggle up to its feet and find a new watering hole.
Inside, he looked around at the assembled passengers as he handled his Colt revolver inside his jacket. Seeing no one who matched his suspect, he moved up into the next car, stepping past the passengers sitting in their seats or standing up and holding onto the leather straps that hung from overhead. He opened the door at the end of the car and stepped outside onto the shifting plate where the cars were attached to each other. The train was moving faster now, and as he carefully moved across the moving plate beneath his feet while grabbing one of the moveable metal safety barriers that hung across the space between the cars on both sides of him, he wondered where Penwill and Schiavone were, and cursed out loud the fact that he was alone and on a moving train with a possible mass killer.
Stepping inside the next car, he looked ahead and tried to spot his suspect. It was difficult, though, because there were a good number of people in each car and not every face was readily discernible in the tangle of arms, legs, torsos, and opened newspapers. So, he walked slowly through the car, hand hidden inside his jacket as he held his revolver at the ready, and he looked at every passenger. Some of the people looked up at him
as if taken aback by his indiscreet gaze, and then they turned away, perhaps annoyed or offended by his perceived rude behavior. He walked to the end of the car in this way and stepped outside again into the cool air rushing by in the space between the cars. They would be approaching the next station on the route soon now—Canal Street—and, in fact, he felt the train slowing slightly as it approached that next stop ahead.
He opened the door to the next car—the second one from the front—and began his slow, deliberate visual explorations again, although this time it was even more difficult because passengers were now starting to stand up and prepare for disembarkation. As he scanned the crowded interior, he thought he spotted the familiar newsboy’s cap up near the front, partially hidden behind a tall man holding onto a strap. As the train finally slowed to a full stop with the accompanying screech of wheels and shrill whistle at the station, he worked his way quickly through the people in the aisle and kept careful watch on the exit up near the front.
The doors opened, and the people began to leave the car, and Falconer managed to get a better look at the man. He was relieved to see that it was, indeed, his intended target, standing all alone in the far left corner of the car behind the mass of people who were shuffling out the door. As if moved by some unknown power, the man suddenly turned to his right and locked eyes with Falconer in that moment. He was beardless and young and had a menacing look about him as he looked straight at the detective and then turned back toward the exit. Now Falconer could see that the man was hesitating as the crowd finished emptying out onto the platform, and new riders waited patiently to get on the train.
Falconer looked and saw the man abruptly turn to his left and exit out into the space between the cars. Quickly following him, Falconer saw the man move into the first car attached behind the great, black locomotive that was now heaving with loud sighs and angry spurts of steam as it slowly began to lurch off to the next station. The whistle screamed again, and Falconer entered the car as people settled into their seats and gripped the overhanging straps. He saw the man move swiftly down the car through the people, turning back occasionally to spot his pursuer. The man clearly knew now that the chase was still on, and, having neglected to jump off at Canal, his possible avenues of escape were quickly disappearing at this point.
Falconer held his revolver tightly as he slowly made his way up the aisle and prepared for a confrontation, a confrontation that might involve the use of the gun, and he steeled himself for the moment when he would need to find his mark amongst all the people riding unsuspectingly at the end of the car.
As he neared the middle of the car, he saw that the man was now stepping outside again, into the space between the car and the engine that churned mightily down the track. The man turned and looked back at Falconer through the windows of the door, and Falconer stopped where he was in the aisle, waiting for the man’s next move. The suspect could not jump off the train, as it was moving too quickly now on its hurried way to the next stop at Grand Street and the tracks were built too high off the ground to accommodate a leap without severe injuries or death. And clearly, the man could not come back into the car where he knew his pursuer was waiting.
The suspect looked at Falconer once more, and then he turned to face the backside of the big engine that was pulling the whole, enormous train north up the island along one side of the Bowery, thirty feet up in the air. Falconer could not believe his eyes as he next saw the man jump over to the back of the engine and clamber up onto the top of the box-like rear that contained all the coal for the machine. He watched in amazement as the man then deftly wrapped a leg around to the side of the engine’s cab and maneuvered himself out of sight and into the cab’s interior. Falconer ran up to the door and quickly moved outside, wondering what the determined hooligan would be doing now inside the cab. Commandeering it? Threatening the engineer? He looked over at the raised back of the engine and decided to find out.
Making sure that his revolver was safely secured inside its holster, he jumped up and pulled his torso above the coal compartment, and then twisted himself around into a seated position atop the box. Turning around immediately, he looked into the interior of the cab and saw the suspect’s back as he was leaning forward for some reason. Falconer could not see the engineer anywhere and quickly realized why: as the suspect stood up, Falconer could see an older man in dirty overalls lying either dead or unconscious on the floor of the cab at the suspect’s feet. Falconer moved swiftly to get around the metal side of the cab so that he could jump into its interior, but as he did, the man turned and saw him coming.
As Falconer swung down and landed his feet onto the cab’s floor, he saw the suspect grab a wrench and swing it mightily at his head. Falconer blocked the blow, however, and swung his left fist at the man’s jaw. The intended strike missed, though, and his own body careened to the right due to his own inertia. The man then grabbed him by his jacket and tried to throw him hard against the steel siding of the cab, but Falconer fought back and pushed the man with great force against the engine’s controls that were set out above the blazing fire that could be seen through a round fire hole below.
Falconer knew that he was bigger and stronger than the man, but not as quick: the man was lithe and cat-like in his movements, and before Falconer could grab him again against the control panel, the suspect was suddenly on the other side of Falconer, punching him about the head. Falconer took out his blackjack and swung hard in a wide arc at the man’s face but missed again. Now they were separated within the tiny cab, but only by a few feet, both standing over the prone figure of the engineer. They each feigned striking movements, trying to catch the other off-guard, but neither went for the ruse. Finally, as the train continued to chug powerfully toward the next stop, the man suddenly reached for the metal siding of the cab’s open doorway and tried to swing himself back around to the top of the coal box. Falconer grabbed his legs, however, and dragged him back inside the cab. They both fell to the floor and Falconer managed to strike the man above his eye such that the man’s head recoiled backward from the blow.
Struggling quickly to his feet, Falconer grabbed the man by his jacket and threw his body against the control panel once again, and the man groaned loudly with the impact. Falconer now stepped over the man and was about to pick him up and throw him against the side of the cab once more when the man unexpectedly swung an object—Falconer could not tell what exactly—up at Falconer’s face, hitting him squarely on the cheek. Falconer staggered momentarily back, touching his face with his hand where the object had hit him and feeling what surely must have been blood. At the same moment, the suspect again leaped up and moved quickly to the door of the cab, whereupon he threw himself up and over onto the top of the coal box and down onto the shifting metal plate where the engine connected with the first passenger car.
Falconer looked down at the engineer on the floor, and then looked up ahead on the tracks. He could see that the next station was fast approaching in the distance, and the train was obviously not slowing down, as no one was at the controls. He glanced over at the various bits of machinery on the control panel and hesitated, not knowing what part controlled what aspect of the train’s movement. He had to decide now: try to stop the train and perhaps allow the suspect to escape away into the streets when it stopped, or let the train continue through the next station at its present speed and climb back into the passenger cars in order to nab his suspect.
Looking forward and then back as the train rushed determinedly ahead high above the avenue, he chose to follow the suspect and deal with the train later. Grabbing the side of the metal doorway, he swung himself over and around to the top of the coal box, and then dropped himself down into the space between the engine and the car. He opened the door and saw that the passengers were becoming alarmed now, as the train was rushing quickly toward the Grand Street station without slowing down, and a loud murmur was rising in the car as people looked outside the windows and started to panic.
Falconer r
ushed down the aisle, looking for his suspect, but seeing no trace of him, he walked quickly through the doorway to the next car. He looked to his side as he walked across the moving plates between the cars and saw the platform of Grand Street rushing by with the many confused passengers stepping back from the tracks in apparent confusion and fright. Falconer stepped inside the next car and looked again for the suspect but could not see him anywhere. As he walked down the aisle again, he suddenly heard a strange sound above him over the sound of the click-clacking of wheels rolling over the tracks below. He looked up and tried to pinpoint the source of the sound, a series of dull thumps that appeared to be coming from the ceiling.
He’s on the roof, he thought, following the sounds as they slowly made their way down towards the back of the car. He spotted the train’s conductor running up the aisle towards him with a look of consternation on his face. Falconer stopped him, showing his badge. “The engineer’s been hurt,” he said to the man. “Do you know how to stop the train?”
“Yes, I think so,” the conductor replied breathlessly.
“Good, go see to that,” Falconer instructed him. “We have a suspect on the train and I think he’s up on the roof now. How can I access that?”
The conductor looked up at the ceiling confusedly. “There’s…there’s an access ladder just behind you between the cars,” he said, now looking back at Falconer amidst all the frightened passengers shuffling in their seats. “Here, let me show you.”
He quickly brushed by Falconer and walked to the door leading to the next car ahead. Stepping outside, he showed Falconer the small ladder attached to the side of the car in which they had just been talking. “There’s another one at the very end of the last car!” he shouted into Falconer’s ear over the din of the train and wind.
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