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Falconer approached the train station at Park Row on his horse, which panted and breathed heavily in the crisp nighttime air. He saw the entrance to the stairwell leading up to the platform and wondered if the animal could make it up. Have to give it a try, he thought to himself.
He pulled the reins slightly as the horse trotted up to the bottom of the stairs. Looking around, he saw several people glaring at him as he got closer and closer to the first step. Ignoring their looks, he kicked quickly into the beast’s ribs, urging it to step up onto the stairs. To his surprise, the horse responded well and stepped quickly up onto the first few steps. Then he kicked again, and the animal started leaping up several steps at a time. He bounced roughly atop its back but held on tightly to its mane and gripped its body with his legs. At the top, the horse hesitated as several other people lingering up on the landing at this late hour looked over in apparent surprise at the sight of a man riding up the stairs on a horse.
Falconer kicked the horse again and nudged it out onto the outermost roadway leading up the ramp to the bridge that spanned the East River. Next to the roadway and running parallel was the railway upon which the elevated trains ran all day and all night towards Brooklyn. Then, situated much higher than both the roadway and the rail tracks and running along the center of the ramp was the footway that ran all the way across the bridge for pedestrians who wanted to take in the views.
Falconer got his horse, now clearly tired and unable to run hard, to trot steadily up the long ramp in the direction of the river. As the horse moved, he looked ahead for any sign of a man, or Bly, or both, alongside the edge of the great bridge. He saw nothing, though, and feared that he was too late—that by now, Bly was drowned far below in the river and the man who had taunted him was gone, a ghost who had appeared and disappeared, and would be heard from no more. He thought of Bly, the intrepid, forceful woman who had entranced the world with her adventures and journeys, and how she had affected him when she had first insinuated herself into this, perhaps the most important investigation he would ever take part in.
And he had failed her.
The horse pounded up onto the bridge now, and he looked over to the side and saw the great river below and all the ships moored along the shore, near to his police station on the grim Lower East Side. Although it was nighttime and there were very few people out on the streets, he could see the light emanating from the streetlamps on the street corners and from the windows of the tenements that lined the river. It was a grand view at this hour, actually, and he thought that, on another night perhaps when he was not out chasing a ghost or dealing with the imminent death of a woman that wrenched at his heart, he might come up to the bridge on the footway and take in the scene just for the purpose of seeing the splendid view at night.
But as he ruminated on this prospect, the sight of something dark and block-like obstructing the roadway ahead suddenly interrupted his thoughts. What is this? Yes, a carriage. Stopped right in the roadway.
He rode the horse another fifty yards and then dismounted, quickly tying the reins to the four-foot-tall wrought-iron fence that lined the outer edge of the roadway all the way across the bridge. He then looked ahead and saw no movement—just the dark outline of the covered carriage that had stopped a quarter of the way across the river. Although the carriage was at a full stop, there remained room for other carriages or wagons to get around it because the roadway was so wide—approximately twenty feet.
Falconer walked slowly towards the carriage and took out his Colt revolver, making sure that it was fully cocked and ready to fire at the slightest hint of aggression. He thought he could hear some sounds coming from the carriage, but the wind muffled it such that he couldn’t quite discern its source or nature. Whimpers? Giggles? Surely, he thought, some couple did not decide to stop here, in the middle of the roadway out on the bridge, to engage in private affairs.
He approached farther, looking along first one side of the carriage and then the other. He thought for a moment that perhaps it had been abandoned for some reason—maybe the police had stopped it and trundled the occupants off to a station house—but then he saw an elbow coming out of the right side of the carriage. It was dark, covered in clothing, and it appeared to be struggling with something. He walked a few more steps, careful not to alert the person who was now stepping out onto the roadway and reaching back into the carriage.
He squinted in the darkness and raised his revolver. The figure, clearly a man, started to pull another figure out of the carriage, and Falconer could see that the second person was tied up somehow and struggling.
Bly.
The man at the carriage now dragged the person whom Falconer was certain was Bly fully out of the carriage and moved towards the wrought-iron fence. Falconer could not make out the face of the suspect, who had a large collar of his thigh-length coat pulled up around his neck and face and wore a large top hat that appeared to be drawn down almost to the eyes. It was as if the person wanted to be seen by no one and remain hidden from sight, even though they were now high up on a darkened bridge with nary a person near to them at this very late hour.
Falconer saw the man drag his victim over to the fence with an ease that surprised him, and he realized that he had to act now or he would, indeed, fail to save her here high up on the bridge, so he walked three more steps and pointed the end of the revolver’s barrel directly at the man’s torso, and spoke in a loud voice: “STOP RIGHT THERE—POLICE! LET HER GO AND GET FACEDOWN ON THE ROAD, OR I’LL SHOOT YOU NOW!”
He watched and saw the man stop moving and stand there, still as a statute, and yet still clutching Bly, who was clearly muzzled, as she could not let out even the softest plea for help. The man’s back was to Falconer now, and he did not turn around, but instead, merely stared down at the ground, as if contemplating his next move.
“I SAID PLACE MISS BLY DOWN ON THE GROUND AND GET DOWN ON YOUR STOMACH!” Falconer yelled, louder than the first time. “GET DOWN AND PUT YOUR HANDS OUT TO YOUR SIDES! I’VE GOT MY GUN POINTED AT YOUR BACK NOW, AND I’LL KILL YOU IF YOU MAKE THE SLIGHTEST MOVE TO THROW HER OVER! YOU’RE FINISHED, YOU HEAR?!”
The man refused to move, and the bridge seemed wrapped in silence save for the occasional wind that whistled gently in the black night. Falconer decided to walk slowly forward, all the while keeping his gun leveled at the man’s back. And yet, he knew he was still some distance from the carriage and the man might have sufficient time to finish his work. Then, suddenly, the man raised his arm as if to gesture a signal of surrender, but just as quickly he pivoted around and held Bly in front of him, now facing Falconer. The man remained hidden behind Bly’s struggling form, and Falconer knew that he could not get off a good shot now, for the man’s torso and head were largely shielded by Bly’s body.
Stalemate, Falconer thought. Now how are we going to end this?
He thought for a few seconds, holding his gun steadily, and then spoke. “I have an idea who you are. I got your note, of course. You just didn’t think I’d get it tonight. Bad luck on your part.”
He waited for a response, but none came. The man only moved closer to the iron fence.
“You sure are a clever one,” Falconer said, moving closer, too. “But not clever enough. I don’t know if you killed those ladies over in London, and I don’t really give a damn. All I know is, you’re committing a crime in my jurisdiction, and I’m going to run you in. Or shoot you on this bridge. You decide.”
The man inched slowly next to the fence and held Bly tightly in front of him. Then, as Falconer was about to speak again, the man suddenly spoke out in a low whisper that nonetheless was loud enough for Falconer to hear. Strangely, though, it did not sound like the voice of Seidler that Falconer had heard so recently back at the Hoffman House. It was, rather, a far different voice—breathy, without accent, and almost otherworldly.
“Save her or shoot me,” the man said. “Now that, Falconer, is for you to decide—because you can’t do both.”
He then chuckled briefly and spoke again. “I can throw her over right now, and you can risk the far drop and jump in yourself to save her perhaps. But if you choose to level your gun at me and shoot, you’ll probably be too late to save her, Falconer.” He then laughed again. “Who has the difficult decision now, Falconer? Who?”
Falconer looked first at Bly and then behind her at the man, still hidden from view. He gripped his Colt, ready to shoot, but the man’s words echoed in his mind as he sought to formulate a plan, to make some sense of his situation. It was all happening too fast and he needed time to think—to reason it all out. But there was no time, and he knew that. So, as he saw the man start to lift Bly’s form up towards the top edge of the fence, he made his decision. And he felt at peace with it, here, alone, high up on the bridge with Bly and a murderous ghost before him.
He would do both.
The man shoved Bly up over the fence and she disappeared. As if everything was moving in slow motion, Falconer watched and acted. He felt he could see and feel everything in detail, moving in front of him, even though it all took perhaps two seconds at most to really transpire. He saw the man move back towards the door to the carriage, and he pulled the trigger of his gun, and he saw the bullet hit the target—right behind the right shoulder, two inches down, a quick tuft in the man’s coat and a yelp of pain. Falconer then felt himself drop his gun and move over to the fence and grip the top of it, and he felt himself pull his own body up over the fence and swing his legs out over the dark river far below.
And then he felt himself release his grip from the fence and drop into nothingness. He felt just air—air and wind rushing by as he prayed to live.
81
Falconer thought that he was in a dream, but he knew that when one is, in fact, dreaming, one isn’t aware of it—one is in it, living it, breathing it. The fact that he at this moment believed he was dreaming told him somewhere in in his pained and jumbled mind that this was all real, and that he was floating amidst a cloud of bubbles. He slowly opened his eyes and saw nothing but felt the cold of the water sear across his eyeballs. The bubbles were now roaring all around him, and he could feel his legs moving quickly, struggling beneath him.
Bly.
The bridge.
I’m alive.
Have to breathe.
He looked up and saw the faintest glimmer of some light and he knew that he had to move that way—up, up towards the air now. His lungs were hurting—burning, in fact—and so he pumped his arms and legs harder and harder, straining to reach the surface before he would have to open his mouth and let all the water in.
He could feel his heart beating faster and faster within his chest, and he wanted to scream from all the pain, but he just kept pumping his legs and reaching for the surface. Straining…
Just a little bit farther now…
“WOOOOOOAAAAHHH!” He burst through the water and gulped in a large amount of the cold air hanging over the river, then sank back briefly before leveling himself off at the surface by treading water. He looked around, trying to find Bly. To his right, he spotted some sort of rowboat coming at him from the Manhattan shoreline, but its occupants were hidden by the glare of a lantern shining off its bow.
Penwill and Levine.
“Over here!” he yelled at them. “Here!”
He looked around again for Bly but saw no sign of her.
Quick—where did she splash? Remember now…yes…fifteen feet or so northwest of my impact point….
He turned to his left in the water, took a great big breath and dove down. Moving his arms and legs rapidly to move closer to where she fell, he opened his eyes and struggled to see in front of him. The water was so dark, though—almost black at this time of night—that he held out little hope of seeing her floating around somewhere. And even if he found her, she was bound and gagged…probably drowned by now.
He felt a sudden blow on the left side of his forehead above his eye. For a moment, he was struck with terror, feeling that perhaps he had run into some huge beast that lived in these waters, but then he gathered himself and reached his hand out. He felt something cylindrical and relatively thin and moved his hand up and down its length for a moment.
Yes—her leg.
He reached with his other arm and managed to grab her around her torso from behind and begin to swim to the surface, which was not very far, luckily. He burst up through the water again and held her head above the lapping little waves. He could not tell if she was breathing, and so he decided that the best thing for him to do would be to get her onto the boat. He looked back towards the Lower East Side shoreline and saw the rowboat again, this time closer. “Inspector! Professor!” he shouted. “Over here—I have her!”
He saw the boat moving faster now in his direction and heard Penwill yell back: “Just a moment, Falconer—we’re almost to you!”
The boat came up alongside of him and he saw Penwill, Levine, and Riis inside it. He pushed Bly’s limp body up into Penwill and Levine’s arms as Riis looked on from the rear of the boat, and the two men then placed her down inside the boat on her back. As Falconer reached up and was given a hand from Levine, he looked down and saw Penwill cutting off Bly’s gag with a knife. Penwill then leaned over her face. “I think she’s still breathing,” he said, “but it’s faint. Here, give me a hand turning her over—she’s bound to have water caught up in her.”
Levine moved quickly over next to Bly and the two men carefully moved her over onto her stomach. Penwill then began to strike her back with the heel of his hand. “Lift her up a bit by the legs, professor,” he said. “It’ll help bring the water out.”
As Levine did as the inspector instructed, Falconer could only sit in the bow, out of breath, feeling as if a team of horses had run over him, and lament that he had not been able to save her. Perhaps if he had just jumped and left the suspect alone—not tried for the shot—maybe…
“Yes, yes, that’s helping,” Penwill said as he stood astride Bly’s form and leaned over close to her head. “Here, let’s move her over again, onto her back.”
Levine helped Penwill move Bly back over onto her back and Penwill rubbed her temples and chest quickly with his hands. “Come on, Nellie,” he said. “You can do it. Open your eyes for me…breathe now…breathe a little bit….”
Falconer looked at her and didn’t see any response to Penwill’s stimulations. “I’m sorry, inspector,” he said. “I just didn’t get to her—”
“HUUUUUUHHHHH!”
Bly breathed in suddenly and then turned her head to the side, vomiting out some water onto the deck of the rowboat.
“That’s it, young lady,” Penwill said. “Just take it slowly now. Breathe in and out. You’re safe, Miss Bly. You are safe with Detective Falconer, the professor, Mister Riis, and me on a boat. It’s going to be all right.”
Bly looked up at him as if he were someone she had never met before, then she looked over at Levine and, finally, at Falconer. “I…I survived the fall?” she asked breathlessly.
“You certainly did, Miss Bly,” Penwill explained, “thanks to Detective Falconer here. But you mustn’t move—you may have broken bones, so please, do lie still and we’ll get you to the hospital in a jiffy.”
Bly turned her face away from the men and looked up at the sky. Falconer watched her as she breathed steadily now while Levine placed a blanket over her torso. Penwill started talking to the professor and Riis about rowing back to the shore, and while their words to each other became a muffled hum in Falconer’s ears, he kept looking at Bly. After a moment, she slowly turned her head to him and smiled. “Thank you, detective,” she said.
He looked back at her and nodded, and then he watched her move her head back so that she was again looking upwards at the sky. He saw her then shut her eyes gently as Penwill, Levine, and Riis rowed steadily back to shore.
82
Falconer reached down and laced his shoes while sitting in a chair next to his hospital bed. Although he had suffered no b
roken bones or damaged organs, he had been held in the hospital for two days for observation, since he had fallen from such a great height and had suffered a certain degree of exposure being out in the cold water for several minutes before Penwill, Levine, and Riis rescued him and Bly.
His body still ached, but he was glad to have been authorized for discharge by the attending physician. He stood up slowly, grabbed his bowler off the bed, and began to walk to the ward’s exit. He thanked several nurses as he passed by them, and then made his way up a nearby stairwell towards the women’s wards. Penwill had informed him that Bly was still recuperating up in Ward 20 under a fictitious name: “Eleanor Smith.” Hm, he thought. Common enough name.
Upon being brought to the hospital, he and Penwill had demanded that Bly be registered under a different name to protect her from unwanted attention from the press, which would have jumped at the opportunity to write a story about how the one and only Nellie Bly had survived a fall from the Brooklyn Bridge. “Is there nothing the young intrepid woman cannot do?” the papers would ask. “Nellie Bly survives a death-defying fall from the East River bridge and lives to tell us all about it!”
So, for the present time, Bly remained quietly shielded from view up in Ward 20, and Falconer wanted to at least check in on her before leaving the hospital. He arrived at the top of the stairs on the floor holding the ward and asked a young nurse for directions. Walking down the hallway, he turned into an open entryway halfway down and looked in: he saw about ten white beds aligned against the wall facing the street below. Several large windows allowed in a plentiful amount of sunlight, and various framed paintings were affixed to the walls, lending a tasteful, homey feel to the place.
As he walked several steps into the ward, he could see a few women sitting in rocking chairs in the middle of the room, convalescing with shawls pulled tightly over their shoulders. Down at the end of the ward, it appeared that two doctors were conferring with a nurse over one patient, while against the windowless, interior wall, another doctor stood next to a nurse seated at a desk. No one seemed to pay Falconer any attention as he scanned the room for Bly. He walked in a few more steps and then saw the back of a large man sitting next to a bed near the end, shielding a patient from his view.
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