The Fall

by Sean Moynihan

  A loud chorus of boos immediately filled the room as the spectators started looking around, searching for the police interlopers who would so deviously try to sabotage the meeting. Falconer and the men just looked at each other, and Falconer chuckled briefly, amused with Goldman’s tart opening. He then leaned back against the wall to hear more from her, but she then started to speak in German, and he quickly motioned to Arndt to come translate again.

  “Got it, boss,” Arndt said, leaning over towards Falconer’s ear. “The condition in America,” he began as Goldman started to speak, “is worse than in Russia because here it is cloaked by a sham republic. The report of Berkman’s shot will be heard throughout the world, and these shots will continue until capital is dead.”

  The crowd gave a sustained cheer, which forced Goldman to pause momentarily, and then she continued. “We must make the most of this deed of Berkman’s and follow it with other similar deeds until there are no more despots in America.” The crowd then interrupted her again with a huge roar, and she was forced to pause again for almost a minute. Quieting the attendees, she went on speaking in German for another twenty minutes or so, expounding on the blessings of anarchy and lauding the heroic actions of her close friend, Berkman, and when she was done, the people cheered her mightily for several minutes.

  As the people clapped and shouted, Falconer looked out at them all. He thought nothing of them, really—just a band of strange, manipulated, poor, working people who were being led down a path by a bunch of foreign crazies who liked to hear themselves speak. But then he suddenly noticed something off to the side of the darkened hall: a lone man, walking slowly down towards the front of the room where the stairs led up to the dais. He could have been just another acolyte—a young, aimless ruffian taken in by the fancy speeches of the anarchist leaders who wanted to get closer to his heroes. But there was something odd about the man, about the way he pulled his cap down low over his brow and held his hands firmly in his trouser pockets.

  “See that guy over there?” Falconer asked Waidler.

  “Yeah,” Waidler replied. “What of him?”

  “I don’t know,” Falconer said. “Just something odd about him. He just appeared out of nowhere and he’s trying to get close to the stage. I’m going to go check it out.”

  “Right, boss,” Waidler said, and then Falconer started walking briskly down the side of the hall, with the loud cheering of the crowd still reverberating off the walls. The people were still whooping and yelling their approval of Goldman’s inspiring speech, and she remained standing at the center of the dais, not smiling but occasionally nodding her head in appreciation.

  Falconer had to fight his way through more and more packed bands of people as he got closer to the dais, and he could see the strange man drifting ever closer to the small set of stairs that allowed the speakers to ascend and descend from the stage. He shouted at the spectators standing in his way as he got closer to the man—“Police! Move aside! Move! Get out the way!”—and as he finally got to within ten feet of his target, he saw the man finally stop and look up at Goldman standing not twenty feet from him. Falconer could see that the man was fiddling with something in his pocket, and so he himself reached into his own jacket to unholster his Colt revolver. He then realized that the man was now looking directly at him, and amidst the loud cheers and frenzied cries from the people for more remarks by Goldman, he locked eyes with the man.

  They both stood still there, looking at each other while the wild din of the crowd continued all around them, and Falconer gripped his gun tightly in his jacket but did not pull it out. Then, with an icy look and not even the faintest expression of fear or worry or apprehension, the mysterious man slowly backpedaled and disappeared into the mass of humanity that was slowly enveloping the dais. Falconer watched him disappear out a side door that had been left open to allow more fresh air into the meeting, and then he was left alone with a thousand thoughts racing through his mind.

  Letting go of his gun, he then looked up on the dais and saw Goldman staring first directly down at him, and then staring out at the door through which the strange man had just departed. She did this a couple of times before the next speaker interrupted her and held her hand aloft to the resounding cheers of the people. Falconer then slowly drifted back to his men near the entrance of the hall, pondering what had just happened.

  11

  “What’s that, you say?” Byrnes asked Falconer. “You noticed what?”

  Falconer and his men stood before Superintendent Byrnes in Byrnes’ office the next morning with Chief Inspector Steers, Detective Sergeant McNaught, and Inspector Clubber Williams standing off to the side. Falconer had just given a brief, oral report of the raucous meeting that had taken place at Military Hall, and the superintendent appeared confused.

  “I said that I noticed a lone figure slowly approaching the stage from the side,” Falconer said, “and I grew concerned.”

  “Concerned?” Byrnes asked. “Why?”

  “There was something about him,” Falconer answered. “I’m not sure what, but he just didn’t seem like he belonged there—like he was out of place.”

  “Hm,” Byrnes snorted. “Tell me more.”

  “Well,” Falconer said, “I approached this male party through the crowd, and as I got closer, I could see him fingering something in his pockets, and he was slowly walking towards the stage where Goldman was standing. Then I got to about ten feet from him, and he saw me. He just stood there, looking at me, and we had an odd moment for a second or two.”

  “Odd, how, Falconer?” Byrnes asked.

  “I don’t know, sir,” Falconer replied. “It was as if I knew exactly what he was doing, and he knew that I knew, and he just stood there looking at me, then he slowly retreated from the room and disappeared outside.”

  “Well, what of it?” Byrnes asked. “So, another of Goldman’s Red followers got nervous around you, a police detective, as he tried to get closer to his heroine agitator, and then he departed. What’s so odd about that? There were probably hundreds of followers like him in the hall last night.”

  “There was something different about this one, sir,” Falconer said. “From his behavior and the way that he tried to get closer to Goldman from the side of the stage, I believe that he was actually trying to harm her, sir.”

  “Trying to harm Goldman?” Byrnes said. “Isn’t that a bit of a leap?”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Falconer answered. “I know I don’t have solid evidence for you, but it’s what I believe. I’m convinced someone was trying to hurt Goldman last night during her speech, but I don’t know who or why.”

  Byrnes walked slowly back towards the open window overlooking Mulberry Street behind his desk, and then he turned back to face Falconer and the other men in the room. “Well, what of it?” he said. “Goldman is a controversial figure, a firebrand who has incurred the anger of half the country due to her inciteful and traitorous speeches. She’s bound to have enemies. We can’t just eliminate the danger that she has created for herself.”

  “I understand, sir,” Falconer said, “but I’m concerned that if we don’t act in some way, we may have a murder on our hands.”

  “Falconer,” Byrnes said as he walked back to his desk, wiping his neck with a handkerchief, “Goldman is a known anarchist who has espoused violence against the government and the people of this country. We are convinced, in fact, that she helped to engineer the assassination attempt on Mister Frick and is likely plotting additional attacks this very minute. So that must take precedence over any perceived threat to her own safety that she has incurred herself through her own reckless speeches and writings. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” Falconer answered tersely, “but we shouldn’t be surprised if Miss Goldman ends up dead in the near future. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Well, your concerns are well-meaning and duly noted,” Byrnes said.
“And, of course, if you somehow come across more evidence of a possible threat to the woman, let us know. But as I said, we need to get a case against her soon, or it could blow up in all our faces. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” Falconer replied.

  “Very good then. Keep me apprised of the situation. That is all.”

  “Will do, sir,” Falconer said, and then he motioned for his companions to follow him out into the hallway. When they got outside and Byrnes’ door was shut behind them, Waidler turned to Falconer. “So, what now?” he asked. “We aren’t getting much on Goldman.”

  “Right,” Falconer said, adjusting his bowler on top of his head. “Well, we’ll just keep shadowing her, and maybe it’s a waste of time, but Byrnes obviously is intent on incriminating her somehow.”

  “Yes,” Waidler said. “And now you think she herself is a target, too?”

  “I do, James,” Falconer answered, “and I actually think I need to warn Miss Goldman about it.” He then started to walk off down the hallway.

  “Warn her?” Waidler said, grabbing Halloran and walking quickly to catch up to Falconer. “What’s that?”

  “Come on,” Falconer said as he continued walking down the hallway. “I’ll explain.” And then the men disappeared down the stairway to the first floor.

  12

  Falconer, Waidler, and Halloran stood outside the entrance to the Zum Groben Michel tavern on Fifth Street. It was late in the evening and the word on the street was that Emma Goldman was holding court with her fellow anarchists at a back table in the place, as she typically did on late nights after she had finished giving a lecture somewhere.

  “Are you sure you want to do this, boss?” Waidler asked Falconer.

  “Yes, James,” Falconer answered. “I think we owe it to her to tell her about the possibility that someone’s targeting her.”

  “We don’t have much hard evidence of that,” Waidler pointed out, “and we’re supposed to be keeping our distance from her to catch her doing something incriminating.”

  “You’re right,” Falconer conceded, “but there’s just something telling me that someone out there wants to hurt her, or worse. She’s got a lot of enemies in this town, with all her crazy speeches, so I feel we have to at least warn her. I’ll take the blame if the brass has a problem with it. Plus, it’s not as if we’ve uncovered any evidence linking her to the Frick assassination attempt. The search of her place didn’t give us anything, and she’s been very good at not slipping up. Hell, maybe she isn’t even involved, as she keeps saying to the papers.”

  “Got it,” Waidler said tersely.

  “All right then, boys,” Falconer said, “let’s go in. I’ll deal with Goldman and you just keep an eye out for trouble. But I don’t think there’ll be any problems.”

  “Okay,” Waidler said.

  “Got it, detective sergeant,” Halloran replied.

  The three men went through the door into the busy tavern. Falconer saw Tough Mike looming over the bar to the left, and their eyes met briefly. The huge bartender simply went back to his work behind the bar, and Falconer continued walking farther into the place as Halloran and Waidler spread out to opposite sides of the room.

  The bar was busy, with lots of patrons—mostly speaking German—sitting at tables and drinking large mugs of beer and conversing loudly. A few looked up at him but then quickly turned away, as if they expected the policemen to be trolling around the neighborhood bars like this.

  Falconer looked farther back in the room and saw, through the hazy smoke of lit cigarettes and cigars, the petite figure of Emma Goldman sitting with eight or nine other people at a single table against the far wall.

  Just as I thought—lording it over her subjects late into the night.

  Falconer walked past the various tables and approached the sullen group of apparent anarchists sitting with Goldman, who stopped speaking to them suddenly and looked up at him with a glare. “Well, look who’s here,” she said. “If it isn’t that police detective who was present at my lecture the other night. Are you here to perhaps arrest me for some trumped-up charge, sir?”

  “Can’t say that I am, Miss Goldman,” Falconer replied calmly.

  “Well, then why are we so lucky to have you gracing us with your presence, detective?” she asked. “Are you perchance interested in taking part in some anarchist discussions?”

  The men and women sitting at the table chuckled.

  “Not really,” Falconer said, smiling slightly. “But thanks for the offer.”

  “Well, then, out with it,” she said with a scolding tone to her voice. “Tell us what you want and then please leave us alone.”

  “Certainly, Miss Goldman,” he said. “I’m here to actually warn you about possible threats to your safety.”

  “Threats to my safety?” she asked. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s true, I was there at Military Hall last night,” he continued. “And I know you saw me after your speech dealing with an individual who was approaching the stage.”

  “Yes, I saw you,” she answered curtly.

  “I believe that that man was sent to harm you, Miss Goldman,” he said.

  “Sent to harm me?” she asked. “What makes you think that, sir?”

  “Just the way that he was acting, and how he departed when I got close to him,” Falconer said. “I just had a feeling that he was not there to hear your speech, miss, and I’ve been in this business a long time.”

  “Your suspicions sound like just a lot of melodramatic speculation without any real evidence,” she said. “But I do appreciate your concerns.”

  “You do know that your speeches and writings inflame many people, don’t you?” he asked. “You have many enemies out there, Miss Goldman, and some of them are not above doing violence.”

  “Of course, I’m aware of that,” she replied blithely. “But we cannot let the apes intimidate us into silence, now can we? The enemies of progress will always try to stifle the voices of the people as they fight for their rights and freedoms. Good people cannot shrink in fear and be muzzled. I think you know that.”

  “Yes, I understand,” Falconer said, “but you need to be aware that these people out there who disagree with you—they can be very dangerous and will try to harm you…even kill you, I’m sorry to say.”

  Goldman paused and sat still for a moment as if deep in thought, and then she looked up at him again and spoke. “I thank you for your concern, and I will be on my guard, but we will not let anyone dissuade us from our mission, and that is to empower the workers to overcome the yoke of oppression thrown onto them by the forces of capitalism. No one and nothing will scare us into submission.”

  “Yes, I see,” he said to her. “I just wanted to alert you. If you’ll excuse me.”

  He turned away and started walking back to the entrance to the bar, but Goldman stopped him with her voice. “Detective? May I have your name?”

  “Certainly,” he replied, looking back at her. “It’s Detective Sergeant Falconer, from the Central Detective Bureau on Mulberry Street.”

  “Thank you, detective sergeant,” she said. “I do appreciate your warning tonight.”

  “Certainly,” he said, and then he turned and walked away.

  13

  The World

  Evening Edition

  August 4, 1892

  ANARCHISTS BREAKING CAMP

  The Mollick – Goldman – Timmerman Crew Are Moving

  Queen Emma Angrily Refuses to Tell Where They Are Going

  The red flag was at half-mast at the Mollick-Goldman-Timmerman Anarchist nest at 340 Fifth Street this morning. To-morrow the most rabid of radical Anarchists must obey the mandates of a law they hate more than the fate of sinful man.

  Michaels & Sons, agents of the tenement, 340 Fifth Street, have issued an edict that Emma Goldm
an and her subjects must pull up stakes and get out.

  This morning the entire colony was engaged in pulling up the stakes.

  The Anarchistic camp was on the rear of the ground floor. It was dirty. So were the inmates. But never since Rip Van Winkle rubbed the moss of his eyes and brushed aside a foot or so of mother earth that had accumulated on his face and hands during his long sleep has there been so much terra firma on any one person as seemed to surround Mrs. Mollick as she opened the door of the apartment this morning and said, “Git out.”

  A cloud of dust like a Sahara sandstorm rushed through the door with the words. When at length the dust and Mrs. Mollick’s wrath subsided the cause of the disturbance could be seen.

  It was this—the Anarchists were breaking up house-keeping. A rag carpet, a bedstead, a table, a stove, a cradle, a baby carriage and a baby were piled up together, and from out the mass came mingled infant’s screams, the odor of unwashed furniture and the accumulated dust of months. Back of it all was the voice of Emma Goldman reviling law, order and work.

  “I have nothing to say,” she screamed, as she threw a pile of Anarchistic literature in the baby carriage.

  “Moving are you?” the reporter asked.

  “Well, d’ye think we’re doin’ this for exercise?” was the answer, as Emma wiped the perspiration from her dimpled chin and rosy cheeks with her dust-covered hand.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Fifth Avenue; where did you suppose? We’ve got a corner lot among the ‘ristocrats, and I guess we’ve a right to use it, hain’t we, even if we don’t stand in with the police and capitalistic press?”