The Fall

by Sean Moynihan

  One Burned and Furniture Wrecked

  It is reported that a severe gas explosion took place last evening in the dwelling-house at 103 West Fourteenth Street, adjoining the Fourteenth Street Theatre. The house is occupied by Mme. Taylor, a dressmaker, and the explosion occurred in a room upstairs which had just been rented. The tenant had requested that a private gas meter should be placed in the apartment, and this had been done by the Consolidated Gas Company.

  About 8 o’clock last evening the tenant came to take possession and was shown up to his room by Harry Colon, the son-in-law of Mme. Taylor. They entered the room with a lighted taper, and as the door was opened a volume of gas rushed out, followed by an explosion, which shook the whole building.

  Both men were thrown down violently, and the prospective tenant, who was a little in the rear, scrambled to his feet and ran downstairs. He was slightly burned about the face and his hair and face were singed. Mr. Colon, however, was seriously injured. He was taken out of the room in an unconscious condition, with burns on the face, arms, and breast.

  The upper story of the house was partially wrecked and the furniture injured by the explosion.

  45

  Falconer glanced upwards at the smoking ruins of the top floor of the apartment building on 14th Street. He had heard of the explosion that had occurred the night before and had thought nothing of it—a gas leak that had been turned into a sudden inferno by a landlord lighting a candle—but Houllier had shown interest in the incident and had asked Falconer and Penwill if they might join him at the scene, if only to confirm the source of the explosion. Now, Falconer stood with the two inspectors and Levine, who had managed to break free from his students at law school for a while and had taken a train down to 14th Street.

  “So, only the two men hurt, is it?” Penwill asked.

  “Yes,” Falconer replied. “It appears that only the landlord and the renter were injured, if you can believe that. Look at that damage—it looks like a bundle of dynamite went off up there.”

  “I should say so,” Penwill said. “Can’t believe the two men weren’t killed outright.”

  “Well, the renter escaped with only minor burns, luckily,” Falconer stated. “It was the landlord’s son-in-law, actually—a guy named Harry Colon—who took the brunt of the explosion. He’s at Bellevue now in serious condition.”

  “And what of the man who rented the apartment?” Levine asked.

  “No information on that, I’m afraid,” Falconer answered. “But maybe the landlord herself will know—Mrs. Taylor. She’s apparently inside here with men from this precinct.”

  “Well, then, shall we go introduce ourselves?” Penwill suggested.

  “Yes,” Falconer said. “And just know that the fire inspector said that the gas is off now and the air has cleared, so there’s no danger of another explosion happening in the building—in case anyone is wondering. After you, Inspector Penwill.”

  The four men then walked into the entrance of the building. Inside, there was much activity going on. Workmen were going up and down the stairs, some carrying charred remains of furniture or buckets of smoking ashes. Policemen stood about, as well, ensuring that no thieves would come by and try to take anything of value that remained up on the higher floors.

  Falconer looked over to the corner of the room—which was clearly a shop of some sort—and saw a middle-aged woman speaking with a couple of detectives. As she wiped her brow with her handkerchief, Falconer and his companions approached her and the policemen. “Pardon us,” Falconer said, showing his badge to the detectives. “We’re with the Detective Bureau—I’m Detective Sergeant Falconer. Mind if we just take a minute to ask the lady a few questions?”

  “No, not all, detective sergeant,” one of the detectives replied. “Take your time.”

  “Thanks,” Falconer said, and the two roundsmen walked off and went outside the building. Falconer then turned to the woman seated before him.

  “I’m very sorry to have to speak with you under these circumstances, ma’am,” he said, “but I’m wondering if we can just ask you a few questions. We just want to be clear on what happened here.”

  “No, that’s fine, sir,” Mrs. Taylor said to him. “I just can’t believe it all—utterly destroyed…apparently a gas leak after workmen had placed a new meter up in the apartment.”

  “Yes, that’s our understanding,” Falconer said. “Again, we are very sorry. How is your son-in-law doing, if I may ask?”

  “Well, he’s terribly injured, unfortunately,” she replied, “but the doctors say he will live. It appears, though, that he will be permanently crippled by his burns, I’m afraid. The poor boy.”

  “Yes, I see,” Falconer said. “And do you happen to know the name of the man who was with him? The renter?”

  “Well…I…yes,” she said, as if searching her mind for the name. “I believe his name was…was…wait—yes, it was French. He was a young Frenchman newly arrived to town. The name was Antoine Boucher, I believe. A very pleasant young man.”

  “Boucher, you say?” Houllier asked intently. “Antoine Boucher?”

  “Yes, I believe that is correct, sir,” she answered him. “He spoke just like you—with that lovely French accent.”

  “Something up, inspector?” Falconer asked Houllier.

  “Yes, perhaps, mes amis,” Houllier replied. “We must talk of this, but first, madame, do you know where this Antoine Boucher was taken last night?”

  “Well, I believe he went to the Bellevue Hospital with my son-in-law, sir,” she stated.

  “And do you know if he remains there?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “I do not know the answer to that. He was fortunately not hurt as badly.”

  “Yes, that is most fortunate,” Houllier said.

  “Well, I think we are done asking you questions, Mrs. Taylor,” Falconer said. “We appreciate your time very much and hope your son-in-law has a swift recovery.”

  “Yes, thank you very much, gentlemen,” she said. “I just don’t know how we’re going to recover from all of this…just devastating.”

  “Yes, we understand, ma’am,” Falconer said.

  “Madame?” Houllier said.

  “Yes, sir?” she replied.

  “If you don’t mind, we would like to examine the remains of the room upstairs. Is that all right with you?”

  “Why, yes, if you’d like, sir. You can take those stairs right over there. It will take you up, but it’s a horrible scene.”

  “Yes, understood,” Houllier said. “Tres bien. We are most appreciative for your assistance. Merci beaucoup.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Falconer said. “We’ll do that now. You take care.”

  “Thank you, detective,” she said.

  Falconer then led Houllier, Penwill, and Levine across the shop, and they ascended the stairs as other men came down. At the top, Falconer beheld amidst the various workers and fire inspectors a scene of utter destruction: burned-out walls, incinerated furniture, and broken, charred wood everywhere. As the workmen sifted through the wreckage, he approached one of the fire inspectors. “Morning, inspector,” he said. “I’m Falconer, detective sergeant from the Central Office on Mulberry. I’m here with a few men just to check around, if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all, detective sergeant,” the man said. “But you won’t find much, as you can see.”

  “Yes, I can tell. So, you’re thinking it was just an accident?”

  “That seems to be the conclusion. Someone must have mistakenly left the gas burner open on the new gas meter that was just installed. Then, when the two men opened the door with the lit candle, they were met with an enormous collection of gas, and…well, you know what happened then.”

  “So, the gas burner was in the open position, huh?”

  “Yes, it appears that way, but unfortunately, we’
ve seen that before. People get careless with these things. They fall asleep and never wake up because of the gas that keeps coming in. But in this instance, the men actually lit the gas up with their candle.”

  “I see. Tough break.”

  “Right.”

  “Well, anyway, thanks for letting us take a look around.”

  “Sure thing. Have a nice day.”

  Falconer walked back to where the other men were looking around the blackened room.

  “Anything from the fire inspector?” Penwill asked, as Levine and Houllier joined them.

  “Well, yes,” Falconer answered. “They say the gas burner on the newly installed gas meter was left open accidentally, and when the men walked in with the lit candle, the gas blew.”

  “And so, it was an accident, as the newspapers reported,” Penwill said.

  “No accident, messieurs,” Houllier announced, “but a deliberate act of retribution.”

  “Deliberate, you say?” Penwill said. “Retribution? How so?”

  “Come with me,” Houllier said. “It is time for a café. I will explain.”

  46

  Falconer lifted his cup of coffee and took a short sip inside the local café that he, Houllier, Penwill, and Levine had found just a couple of blocks from the damaged building on 14th Street. He then placed the cup back down on the round, wooden table around which he and the men were sitting and looked over at Houllier. “So, inspector?” he said. “You felt for some reason that this explosion was a deliberate act against someone. Why do you think this?”

  “Gentlemen,” Houllier began, “I was stunned when I heard the name from the lady: Antoine Boucher. I could not believe my ears for a moment.”

  “Why?” Penwill asked. “Who is this Antoine Boucher person?”

  “Well, of course, there are probably many Antoine Bouchers,” Houllier continued, “but it simply could not be a coincidence. No—c’est impossible.”

  “What is impossible?” Falconer asked. “Do you know this Boucher character?”

  “I know of him,” Houllier answered. “If, in fact, it is he. Antoine Boucher was an anarchist in Paris, or at least he was a lost, young man who wanted to be one.”

  “The man who was injured after renting the room back there was a French anarchist?” Penwill asked.

  “Yes,” Houllier replied. “But, as I say, he was just a neophyte—a young follower who idolized Ravachol and got swept up in the frenzy of the French anarchist movement. He never blew anything up, nor tried to kill anyone, but he did get close enough to Ravachol to provide helpful evidence to the authorities.”

  “So, Boucher was a turncoat, huh?” Falconer asked. “He testified against Ravachol?”

  “Indeed,” Houllier said. “The French prosecutors had enough evidence against Boucher to charge him as an accessory to several of Ravachol’s murders, so he eventually agreed to testify against his former leader in return for a very lenient sentence. And thus, Boucher became a villain in the minds of Ravachol’s avengers.”

  “May I ask, inspector,” Levine said, “what happened to Boucher following the trial?”

  “But of course, professor,” Houllier said. “He only had to serve three months in the local jail, and then he essentially disappeared—a ghost of Ravachol’s murderous spree. No one really knew where he went, but there were rumors that he left the continent—headed towards India, or perhaps to Germany, or perhaps even here to the States. And now, gentlemen, we know that he did come here to, in effect, disappear.”

  “But Meunier found him,” Falconer said. “Or at least, that’s your theory.”

  “Oui,” Houllier said, taking a sip of his coffee. “I believe that this Boucher is our former compatriot of Ravachol’s band of criminels, and because of his act of betrayal against Ravachol, Meunier is responsible for this explosion.”

  “Remarkable,” Levine said, leaning back in his chair. “To slip up into the room and open the gas burner, knowing somehow that the target would be returning in the evening, when a candle would likely be lighting his way into the room. It is ingenious, in a way.”

  “I agree with you, professor,” Houllier said. “No need for a stick of dynamite. No need for a dagger or pistol. Simply an open valve, and voila—the room goes up in flames.”

  “It is an interesting theory, I’ll admit,” Falconer said, “but we’d need more proof than simply a French name that happens to be in the record of Ravachol’s trial.”

  “What do you suggest, Falconer?” Penwill asked.

  “Well,” Falconer said, “I think if we can confirm that this Boucher was the Boucher who testified against Ravachol, then it’s clear this wasn’t a coincidence or an accident.”

  “But the problem is,” Levine said, “where is Boucher now? I would doubt that he’s still at the hospital—his wounds were only superficial.”

  “You’re right,” Falconer said. “And this has probably scared him enough that he’ll high-tail it out of New York pretty quickly. I suppose we’ll just have to start at the hospital, though. Inspector Penwill, can you get over there with Inspector Houllier and Detective Waidler and find out anything you can about where he might have gone, any plans he might have mentioned?”

  “Righto,” Penwill answered.

  “Professor,” Falconer said, turning to Levine, “how about you? Do you have a little time to join me over at the 15th Precinct station on Mercer? We could get any info they got on Boucher last night.”

  “I’d be happy to join you,” Levine answered, grabbing his hat.

  “Good,” Falconer said. “Well, gentlemen, we need to find Boucher, and find him quickly. If we find him, we’ll probably find Meunier, too.”

  47

  Falconer and Levine walked with a police officer towards the back of the Mercer Street station house. Near the end of the hallway, the officer stopped and pointed into a room that was full of desks, clerks, and detectives busily at work on their typewriters.

  “That’s Detective Delmonico over there,” he said. “He was with the victims at Bellevue last night.”

  “Thanks,” Falconer said, and then the officer turned and went back towards his post at the front desk of the station house.

  Falconer nodded at Levine and the two then walked through the maze of desks to the back of the room where Delmonico sat working at his typewriter.

  “Morning, Detective Delmonico,” Falconer said.

  Delmonico stopped typing and looked up. He appeared to be in his early fifties with dark hair speckled with gray and a face that had the deep, tanned complexion of a sheep herder who had spent his life tending to his flock in the sun-drenched hills of Sicily.

  “I’m Falconer from the Central Detective Bureau, and this gentleman here is Professor Eli Levine, who’s consulting with us on an investigation. We’re wondering if we can ask you a few questions about your investigation of the Fourteenth Street apartment fire last night.”

  “Sure thing,” Delmonico said. “Have a seat.”

  Falconer and Levine sat down in a couple of wooden chairs before Delmonico’s desk and then Falconer spoke again: “So, we understand that the renter who escaped serious injury was a Frenchman named Antoine Boucher. Is that correct?”

  “Yeah, that’s the name given,” Delmonico replied.

  “Did you get a chance to speak with him?”

  “I did, but he didn’t have much.”

  “Did he say why he was here in New York?”

  “Only that he was just here to sight-see. You know—a young guy trying to see the world before settling down. That sort of thing.”

  “Right. And I suppose he’s no longer at Bellevue?”

  “No, he was discharged pretty quick. He only had a few minor burns and bruises, so they let him go.”

  “Any idea where he was going?”

  Delmonico paused for a momen
t, then reached across his desk for some papers. “Let me take a look here,” he said. “I think I took it down.”

  He sifted through several pages of notes and then finally stopped on one page. “Right,” he said. “Here it is: he said he knew a French couple down on 4th Ave. who would help him out while he figured things out, get his plans in order—know what I mean?”

  “Sure, sure,” Falconer said. “Any names or an address given for this French couple?”

  “Well, I did ask him if he could provide that, in case I had to do any follow-up, and he gave the address of 58 4th Ave., right near Union Square. No names, though. He was saying he didn’t want them getting involved in all of this.”

  “Got it. Well, we certainly appreciate your time on this, detective. Thanks for meeting with us.”

  “Yeah, no problem,” Delmonico said as Falconer and Levine stood up to leave. “Hey—mind me asking what this is all about? It looks like it was just an accident last night—a gas burner left open by someone.”

  “Well, we can’t go into it in too much detail right now,” Falconer said, “but we’re thinking it might not have been an accident.”

  “Not an accident?” Delmonico asked, appearing surprised. “How so?”

  “I wish I could go into it, but it’s just a theory right now, so probably not smart to start up a bunch of rumors. Suffice to say that we believe someone had it in for Boucher. I’ll be sure to follow up with you just as soon as I have more.”

  “Yeah, understood. I’d appreciate that.”

  “Sure thing,” Falconer said. “Have a good day, detective.”

  “And you gentlemen do the same,” Delmonico said. Falconer and Levine then moved off and headed towards the hallway leading out to the front of the old station house.

  48

  Falconer stood before 58 4th Ave. with Levine and glanced down the sidewalk. He saw Penwill, Houllier, and Waidler approaching on foot, and when they got to within earshot, he spoke out to them: “Glad you got my telegraph. We might need Inspector Houllier to translate if anyone’s home.”