“Right, Detective Sergeant,” the other young man replied, moving over to help the injured victim up off the ground.
The two of them gently grabbed the old man underneath his arms and slowly lifted him up to his feet. “Ugh,” he groaned as they held him in a standing position. The old man then squinted and looked directly at the stranger who had come to his rescue in this dank, barren, little corner of the city. “Thank you,” the old man managed to say through bloody and swollen lips. “Who are you?”
“I’m Falconer, sir,” the stranger replied. “From the police department’s Central Detective Bureau.”
New York City Police Headquarters
Mulberry Street
July 25, 1892
3
Falconer stood outside the office of Police Superintendent Thomas Byrnes. It had been approximately 36 hours since Falconer and his colleagues had interceded in the robbery and assault of the elderly Jewish shopkeeper, Mordecai Rosen, in the back alley off Hester Street. Now, after arriving for work, he had discovered that he was wanted in the superintendent’s office for some unexplained reason, and so he stood patiently in the hallway as police personnel drifted by him in the typical day’s fashion—clerks, detectives, and secretaries, all busy with the duties of keeping the citizenry safe in a rapidly growing and modernizing city.
The door to the boss’s office suddenly opened and Inspector Alexander “Clubber” Williams poked his head out. “Ah, Falconer, you’re here,” he said. “Come on in.”
Falconer followed Williams into the ornate, spacious office and saw Byrnes—recently elevated to the very top position of Police Superintendent—standing behind his desk. Two other of Byrnes’ top advisors—his replacement as Chief Inspector of the Detective Bureau, Henry Steers, and Detective Sergeant Charles McNaught—stood close by, along with the always pugnacious-looking Williams. “Afternoon, Falconer,” Byrnes said. “Thanks for dropping by.”
“Sure thing, superintendent,” Falconer replied.
“Have a seat,” Byrnes said, motioning for Falconer to sit in one of the chairs fronting his large desk.
Falconer sat down, as did Byrnes and the other three men. “Well,” Byrnes said, “I heard you took down a couple of those miscreants who have been fleecing the shopkeepers over in the Jewish sector on Saturday night. Well done, Falconer.”
“Thank you, sir,” Falconer replied. “It’s only two, but it’s a start.”
“Yes, indeed,” Byrnes said, lighting a cigar. “We’ll break up that crew soon enough, and I’m proud of the work you and your men are doing over there.”
“Thank you, sir,” Falconer said.
“I wanted you in here, Falconer, because of something that’s come up,” Byrnes said. “Do you know who Henry Frick is?”
“Yes,” Falconer replied. “The steel company man who just got shot over the weekend.”
“Yes, he’s the chairman of the Carnegie Steel Company up in Pittsburgh,” Byrnes explained. “A real important man, and unfortunately, one of those anarchist agitators just tried to assassinate him—shot him twice in his own office on Saturday.”
“I heard Frick survived, though,” Falconer said.
“Yes, he did, Falconer,” Byrnes said, tapping the ashes of his cigar into a glass tray on his desk. “In fact, he’s apparently doing remarkably well considering he got shot twice, including a wound to the neck, and was stabbed in the legs, too.”
“What happened to the suspect?” Falconer asked.
“Oh, they roughed him up a bit and now he’s sitting in jail up there and not saying much, I’m afraid,” Byrnes replied. “His name is Berkman—Alexander Berkman. Young foreigner type from Russia, another of these crazed, Red anarchists bent on destroying everything for whatever idiotic reason they have. It’s an open and shut case, though. He’ll get decades in prison for this, and he’s just lucky Frick didn’t die. Otherwise, the chair would be waiting for him.”
“So, may I ask why you wanted to see me about this, sir?” Falconer asked.
“Well,” Byrnes said, “we’ve communicated with the Pittsburgh police, and it’s agreed that Berkman probably didn’t do this alone and had some help in effecting his plans. We need to round up his gang of anarchist bomb throwers before someone else follows up and tries something new, and the main suspect is none other than Miss Emma Goldman. You’ve heard of her?”
“I have,” Falconer replied. “She gives lots of speeches around the country, supposedly on behalf of the working man. A real firebrand, they say, but that’s about all I know of her.”
“Yes, you’ve painted an accurate picture of her,” Byrnes said, looking over at McNaught, Steers, and Williams and smiling slightly. “Except that she’s also likely trying to perpetrate acts of violence to make her point, I’m afraid. These Red agitators are all basically the same: no sense of decency, no sense of basic moral principles, all just complaining about how the state has ruined their lives. And now it’s time to stop them.”
“And you want to focus on Goldman first?” Falconer asked.
“Yes, indeed,” Byrnes answered. “She was known to cavort with this Berkman character, lived with him for a time, and they share the same fanatical attachment to the anarchist creed—tear down the world as we know it so that chaos will reign and there will be no authority to ensure order and public safety. We simply can’t have these people out there, sowing discord, and clearly now they’ve raised the ante by trying to kill Frick, a symbol of all that they despise. Goldman is probably planning more incidents—it’s well known that she idolizes those bomb throwers who were hanged for the Haymarket affair in Chicago back in eighty-six, and we believe that she’ll try to pick up where Berkman left off. So, we need to shadow her and gather evidence against her. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Falconer said. “Any idea where she might be hiding?”
Byrnes looked over at the other men again, and then Steers spoke up for the first time. “She’s not exactly hiding out,” he began. “In fact, she’s been pretty brazen about her whereabouts. She gave another anarchist speech on Saturday night here in the city. She has lots of contacts and friends who are sympathetic to her cause, and they will obviously try to protect her. We believe that she probably knows we’re on her trail, but she’s been telling everyone that she’s not involved with the Frick shooting. We think otherwise, of course. We have good information that she’s currently staying with a woman over on Fifth Street—a lady by the name of Mollick. That lady’s ex-husband, Frank Mollick, is likely involved with Berkman, too. Pittsburgh PD believes that he sent Berkman some money just before the assassination attempt. We’ll need to keep any eye on Goldman and see where this leads us. She’s a very clever bird, and dangerous, too.”
“Got it,” Falconer said. “I’ll need some men to help out, of course.”
“Certainly,” Byrnes said, standing up from his chair. “You’ll be off your current cases for now—we’ll see to that—and you can pick a team of your own from the Detective Bureau. This is a priority. We need to nip this in the bud and take care of these people.”
“Yes, sir,” Falconer. “We’ll get on it. Anything else?”
“Not at this time, Falconer,” Byrnes answered. “Good luck to you, and please keep us posted.”
“Will do,” Falconer said, and then he turned to move to the door.
“Oh, and Falconer?” Byrnes stated.
“Yes?” Falconer said, stopping and looking back at the chief.
“Don’t take chances with these people,” Byrnes said. “As Chief Inspector Steers just pointed out, they are dangerous and there’s no telling what they might try to pull. Do what you have to do to stop them. Understand?”
“I do,” Falconer said. “Thank you.” He then stepped out into the hallway and moved quickly to the stairs leading down to the offices of the Detective Bureau.
4
/> “So…who is this Goldman lady?” Jimmy Halloran asked Falconer as they walked briskly out of the Mulberry Street Headquarters with Detective James Waidler shortly after Falconer’s meeting with Byrnes and his men. The day was growing hot, with the temperature rising towards 90 degrees, and the men had removed their jackets and loosened their collars.
“She’s an anarchist,” Falconer answered, dodging various people walking along the busy sidewalk in front of the large building. “It’s a group of people who essentially believe that government is oppressive of the people and should be abolished.”
“I don’t get it,” Jimmy said. “If you don’t have government, you have nothing. It’s just chaos and every man for himself.”
“Well, that’s where I stand on things, too,” Falconer said, “but there’s no question that these anarchist types do exist, and they can be trouble.”
“How so?” Jimmy asked.
“Well, they blow things up occasionally, for one thing,” Falconer said. “Like the Haymarket riot.”
“What’s that?” Jimmy inquired.
“You don’t know of Haymarket?” Waidler asked, incredulous.
“No,” Jimmy replied, looking at him. “What’s that?”
“A bunch of these anarchists blew up a bomb in Chicago back in eighty-six,” Waidler answered. “The bomb and some shooting right after killed some cops and a few workers, too. You never heard of this?”
“Well, I was only sixteen and was in school,” Jimmy said, “so I guess I missed it.”
“Well, they hanged some of the anarchist leaders,” Waidler continued, “and now all these new anarchists consider them heroes and want to continue with their crazy work.”
“And this Emma Goldman is one of these types?” Jimmy asked.
“Yes,” Falconer replied. “A very prominent one, too.”
“So where are we headed, detective sergeant?” Jimmy asked.
“Over to Fifth Street,” Falconer replied. “She’s apparently staying in a tenement over there with some woman and her kids. And she also hangs out at a German club down the street that’s popular with the anarchist crowd.”
“So, what do we do if we see her?” Jimmy followed up.
“Nothing,” Falconer said. “We’ll just split up, keep our badges concealed, and keep an eye on her—see who she converses with, that sort of thing. Got it?”
“Sure, detective sergeant,” Jimmy answered.
“Right,” Waidler said.
“All right,” Falconer said, “let’s head over to Bowery and walk up to Fifth. It’s not far.”
The three men then headed toward the German sector of the Lower East Side, where noted provocateur and anarchist rabble-rouser, Emma Goldman, was allegedly scheming to wreak havoc on the city.
5
Falconer approached the bustling corner of Fifth and Bowery with Waidler and Halloran. They had just entered the German district, full of hard-working immigrants from Berlin, Hamburg, Frankfort, and other Teutonic strongholds, or from the hinterlands of Bavaria and Alsace-Lorraine, all seeking a better life within the embrace of Lady Liberty, who welcomed them all with her commanding presence as they streamed into New York Harbor.
Although just as crowded as the tenements near Mulberry Bend and Little Italy, those in the German district were not as filthy or disease-ridden. Indeed, somehow the stout and disciplined German residents had managed to make the teeming enclave reasonably livable and pleasant, despite the lack of room and privacy.
Falconer stopped the men just before rounding the corner. “All right,” he said, “we’re just giving it a look and not trying to raise any alarms here. You’ve seen photos of Goldman, so you should be able to recognize her if she shows herself. She’s staying in Number 340 on the first floor, down near the corner of First Ave. next to the police station there. Jimmy, you walk down and find some little spot across the street and see if she shows herself. James and I are going to go into this beer joint right up here across from Beethoven Hall. It’s called Zum Groben Michel and it’s supposedly a big anarchist gathering spot where Goldman hangs her hat a lot. Like I said, keep your badges hidden and if any of us see her, just quietly alert the others and we’ll keep an eye on her. Understand?”
“Yes, detective sergeant,” Halloran answered.
“Right, boss,” said Waidler.
“Okay,” Falconer said, “let’s move.”
As they turned the corner, Falconer saw the normally boisterous ale house called Zum Groben Michel standing amidst the brick walk-ups and noisy tenement houses of Fifth Street. Stepping up to the place, he turned to Halloran. “All right, this is our stop, Jimmy,” he said. “You head down another two blocks and keep an eye on the place she’s been leasing. Remember—it’s first floor of Number 340.”
“Got it, detective sergeant.” Halloran replied.
“All right, James,” Falconer said. “Shall we head in?”
Waidler nodded, and then the two men stepped inside the strangely quiet tavern.
6
Falconer looked around the barroom with Waidler standing by his side. It was drab, dark, and only half-full of patrons at this early hour in the mid-afternoon. To the left was a long bar fronted by perhaps fifteen beaten-up, old, wooden stools, and on the right were approximately six round, wooden tables with chairs. The walls were nondescript, with only an occasional framed painting, some with German phrases on them.
Falconer estimated that there were roughly twenty customers loitering at the bar and tables, some visibly drunk, while others simply played cards together or smoked silently by themselves. What got his attention immediately, however, was the enormous man standing behind the bar cleaning glasses with a dish rag while a couple of minions tended to the customers. The bartender must have been close to seven feet tall, Falconer figured, and weighed surely over 250 pounds.
Falconer motioned for Waidler to go find a seat in the barroom while he went over to see the giant, who appeared to be in charge of the place. He walked over slowly and leaned next to the bar near to the big man. “Afternoon,” he said to him.
The man only nodded and kept to his task of cleaning the glasses.
“Nice place,” Falconer said, scanning the room. “How long have you been here?”
The man looked at Falconer for a moment with a look of annoyance on his face, and then spoke with a clear German accent. “Nine years. You vant drink?”
“Sure, sure,” Falconer said. “How about just a lemonade? I don’t typically have a drink until evening if you know what I mean.”
“Sure,” the imposing man said, and then he walked down the bar to pour the drink. Moments later, he returned with a glass of the lemonade and handed it to Falconer.
“Thanks,” Falconer said, handing the man a nickel. “Appreciate that.”
The man said nothing and only went back to his task of cleaning the glasses and looking around the room in silence. Falconer walked slowly across the room to where Waidler had taken a seat at an empty table. “I don’t see Goldman,” he said to the young detective. “You?”
“No,” Waidler replied. “Just a few women, but none match her.”
“The big guy behind the bar doesn’t seem too thrilled about our presence,” Falconer said, taking a sip of his lemonade. “Probably doesn’t like strange intruders.”
“You know what the name of the place means?” Wailer asked. “Sorry, but I’m not up on my German.”
“No, I don’t know,” Falconer answered. “Maybe one of these guys can tell us,” he said, looking at the a few men playing cards at the next table. “Hey, friend,” he said to the man sitting in a chair closest to them, “can you tell me what the name of this place means, ‘Zum Groben Michel?’”
“Ja, sure,” the man replied with a German accent. “It mean, ‘Tough Mike’s,’ you understand?” He pointed over at the tall bartend
er. “For Mike over der,” he said. “He is de owner.”
“Got it,” Falconer said. “Thanks.” He turned back to Waidler. “Well, there’s no sign of Goldman,” he said. “I figured she wouldn’t be here this early in the day.”
“Should we go check out her place with Halloran?” Waidler asked.
“Yes, let’s do that,” Falconer answered. “But first let’s go ask the big guy if he’s seen her lately.”
The two men got up out of their seats and walked over the bar to where the large, sullen proprietor was silently arranging glasses.
“Hey, mister,” Falconer said to him. “You ever had a woman in your place by the name of Emma Goldman?”
The bartender looked up with an angry look, and then went back to his glasses without saying a word.
Falconer and Waidler looked at each other, and then Falconer spoke up again. “You hear me, pal? We’re looking for an Emma Goldman. She’s known to frequent your establishment. Have you seen her lately? Mid-twenties, brown hair, very petite, wears spectacles…”
The big man looked up again and peered directly at Falconer. He then moved closer, reached out and grabbed Falconer’s lapel roughly in his large hand, pulling Falconer closer to him over the bar. “Look, friend,” he said threateningly. “I don’t like stranger coming by and ask qvestions, you see? You get out of here or I take you and your girlfriend and throw you both into ze barrels out back after I break faces in, you understand?”
Falconer glanced back at Waidler and shook his head almost imperceptibly as if to tell him to hold off on pulling out his revolver. Then he looked back at the large man who was grabbing his lapel and instantaneously grabbed the man’s wrist, turning it severely such that the bartender’s face went straight down onto the bar and Falconer was essentially looking down over him and holding him in place.
“Ah! Ah!” the giant yelped as Falconer slowly twisted his wrist, torquing the man’s arm and causing more pain. The customers in the place immediately stopped what they were doing and looked over at the bar.
The Fall Page 2