The Fall

by Sean Moynihan

  “You…you can’t come in here and do this and get away with it,” the man said haltingly through bleeding teeth and lips. “You’re dead, cop, and your men, too. Just like the filth you’re protecting. We’re putting an end to it.”

  Then the man started laughing, and Falconer got to his feet. “Boys,” he said, looking at his men, “I think this place looks a little too clean and put together—let’s leave a little message for the owners.”

  He then lifted a chair up over his head and threw it behind the bar, smashing many bottles to the floor. Waidler, Halloran, Winter, and Kramer started to follow suit, throwing over tables, breaking glasses, and crashing chairs onto the hard floor. After several seconds of this, Falconer then lifted his hand to signal the men to stop. “All right, that’s enough,” he said. “They’ll get the point.”

  “Hey, boss,” Waidler said, “you might want to take a look at this.”

  Falconer walked over to where Waidler was standing and saw him looking down at an overturned table. “What is it?” he asked.

  “Looks like a little slot or drawer attached to the underside of the table,” Waidler answered. “Could be a place to quietly place a message or delivery of some sort.”

  Falconer knelt and examined the small wooden slot about four inches wide and six inches long that was attached by screws to the underside of the table. Reaching inside with his fingers, he felt a paper of some sort and extracted it. It was a small, white envelope containing a folded sheet of paper. Removing the paper, he looked down and examined the words written on it:

  High Council

  Cadere

  Directives:

  Eliminate EG.

  Continue surveillance.

  Prominent Jew – Jewtown.

  SO ORDERED

  Falconer turned to the men standing near to him. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “These are instructions.”

  “Instructions?” Waidler asked. “What sort of instructions?”

  “Instructions to kill,” Falconer said, taking a few steps as he scanned the paper again. “Here—take a look and pass it around.”

  Waidler took the paper from Falconer and read the words printed on it, then passed it to Halloran, who, after reading for several seconds, handed it in turn to Winter and Kramer.

  “What do we do with this?” Waidler asked finally. “It seems clear that this is our mysterious group, but who is it? And what does ‘Cadere’ mean?”

  “I don’t know,” Falconer answered. “Sounds foreign—perhaps Spanish—but we can find out. Whatever it means, it appears to be the name of our illustrious gang of assassins.”

  “And there’s no address given,” Waidler said, “so we don’t know where it came from.”

  “No, they wouldn’t be so sloppy. But notice that they did mention continuing to target ‘EG.’”

  “Emma Goldman.”

  “Right. They didn’t try to disguise that much.”

  “Well, do we take it with us?”

  “Yes, James. Someone left it in there, so now it’s officially abandoned property and we can take it. And they’ll realize shortly that we now have in our possession one of their orders to kill someone, and that’ll rattle them a bit.”

  “All right,” Waidler said, placing the envelope and note into his jacket pocket. “Sounds good.”

  “And I’m going to have Professor Levine meet us at headquarters if he can,” Falconer said. “He’s quite good with foreign languages. For now, let’s get the hell out of here, gentlemen. These thugs have some cleaning up to do.”

  He then turned and headed for the door, and the other men followed, leaving the broken and trashed barroom behind them.

  66

  Penwill sat in vice-presidential candidate Whitelaw Reid’s special car as the campaign train rumbled through the night somewhere in central New York State. Across from him, Houllier dozed peacefully in his own seat while Reid and a few of his staffers quietly conferred across the aisle in their own plush, cushioned seats covered by red velvet. A few security men, meanwhile, stood like lifeless, sculpted idols at each end of the car—watching, waiting, and scanning the windows for any suspicious activity.

  Penwill looked outside again and saw only the black night and the occasional dark silhouette of a grove of trees or a farmhouse rushing by. He wondered if this was all futile—if he and Houllier were simply being led astray, out into the American heartland, for a meaningless campaign trip while Meunier was actually getting ready to attack a different target back in the city. The theory made sense, at least—that Meunier would want to send a message of revenge by assassinating one of America’s most prominent newspapermen who had enthusiastically and loudly called for Ravachol’s execution, especially a newspaperman who was currently running to be vice president of the United States.

  But would the slippery Frenchman with the hunchback come all the way out here, onto the long, flat prairies, so far away from the teeming city where he could better hide and disappear into the crowds, in order to accomplish his deadly mission? Penwill thought not and mused with some agitation that the dark-eyed bomb thrower was at this very minute getting ready to toss his sticks of dynamite into a bustling café in Greenwich Village, just as he had done in Paris already.

  The train car jostled slightly as it went over a bump and he saw Houllier wake and look around momentarily, then lay his head back against the window and fall into slumber again.

  He then glanced at Reid to his left and saw the man staring intently at some papers being shown to him by an aide: a speech to be made in Cincinnati, likely. Reid did not appear perturbed in the least about the possibility of a French assassin being on his trail, and Penwill remembered how the candidate had seemed slightly confused and irritated to learn that two foreign service detectives were being placed on his train to protect him against a bomb threat.

  He looked down at his watch—11:00 PM—and then gazed out the window again. He thought of Meunier, the radical devotee of Ravachol, and of Falconer and his men, who were now probably tramping about through the dark, New York City streets in search of the other mysterious assassins who were targeting the very radicals whom Meunier represented.

  Such a strange world, he thought. Killers and fanatics, both the hunters and the hunted. He looked out the window again and saw only the darkness, and he reached into his jacket and placed his hand on one of his British Bulldog revolvers sitting in its holster, as if doing so would somehow help make the world seem safe and ordered again. And then he waited.

  Saturday, September 10, 1892

  67

  Falconer glanced up from his desk in the Detective Bureau and saw Waidler leading Levine in from the hallway. “Ah,” he said, getting up out of his chair and approaching the two men, “glad you could make it, professor, and sorry to intrude on your weekend.”

  “Not a problem at all,” Levine said, nodding to the other men gathered in the office—Winter, Kramer, and Halloran.

  “Here, please have a seat,” Falconer said, moving a chair near to Levine. “I have something I want you to see.”

  “Really?” Levine said, sitting down in the chair. “I’m very intrigued.”

  “Well, the other night we had a little altercation at that bar up on Thirty-Sixth, and we discovered a little mail slot attached to the underside of a table in the barroom.”

  “Hm. A mail slot under a table? That’s odd.”

  “Yes, it is, but what was really interesting and concerning was what we found inside the slot: an envelope containing instructions for somebody.”

  “I see. And what sort of instructions?”

  “Here, see for yourself.”

  Falconer then handed the envelope with the note inside to Levine, who carefully extracted the note and read for several seconds. Levine then placed the note back into the envelope and looked up at the men. “Wel
l, this is a fascinating development,” he said.

  “I agree,” Falconer said, taking the envelope back.

  “These are clear instructions to commit murder and conduct surveillance on anarchist groups within the city.”

  “And it’s clear that one of the persons targeted is Goldman. EG.”

  “Yes, I saw that immediately, too. She is obviously still a priority.”

  “And this mention of targeting some ‘prominent Jew.’ Any doubts about this group’s motivating force?”

  “None. It is obvious that his group is stridently anti-Semitic and—equally likely—stridently ‘anti-foreigner,’ I’d say.”

  “I think you’re exactly right, professor,” Falconer said, walking a few steps inside the circle of men. “It’s not too difficult to see, I’m afraid. But what’s confusing is this prominent reference to ‘Cadere,’ at the top of the page. Any idea what that might mean? Sorry, but we’re not really the greatest with foreign languages.”

  “Yes, in fact, I do know what it means, gentlemen. It’s Latin, and it means quite simply, ‘fall’—or perhaps more accurately, ‘to fall.’”

  “‘To fall?’” Falconer said. “What the devil does that mean?”

  “Well, secret societies and groups often use symbolic language to identify themselves. Thus, instead of identifying itself with more literal terms, a group will use a name that is more symbolic, mysterious, and, frankly, eye-catching—like the Illuminati I told you about recently.”

  “Yes, I get what you’re saying, professor. It makes sense, but ‘to fall?’ That’s kind of a strange name for a band of assassins, don’t you think?”

  “It could mean any number of things. To fall into sin, or the fall of society. We just don’t know, though, and perhaps that is the whole point—that only those admitted into the group can know and the rest of us are, as they say, kept in the dark.”

  “I think you’re right, but we’re in agreement that ‘Cadere’ or ‘to fall’ appears to be the group’s name?”

  “Yes, that appears to be the case by how prominent it appears at the top of the page. You are facing a group operating in the shadows that calls itself, ‘Cadere.’ Truly fascinating.”

  “And, as usual, the question for us now is where do we go from here? We don’t know where this ‘High Council’ meets or where it sends its directives from—or who’s even on it. We have a name now, but we’re still in the dark, as you said.”

  “But what you do have is an informant or spy working with you. You obviously don’t know who this person is, but you do know that he is on the inside, or at least close to the inside of the group. And, hopefully, he will be in touch with you again very soon.”

  “That’s true. We do have that.”

  He then looked over at Waidler and Halloran. “Meanwhile, do we still have men on Goldman?” he asked.

  “We do,” Waidler answered. “Shadowing her day and night.”

  “Well, I’m sure she’s pleased about that,” Falconer said with a smile. “And let’s also keep eyes on the saloon—see if anyone of note shows up.”

  “Will do, boss,” Waidler said.

  “Professor, thank you again for dropping by and giving us your input on this,” Falconer said, shaking Levin’s hand.

  “Glad to,” Levine said. “Anytime, and please keep me posted as to developments.”

  “We will do that. All right, then, men—let’s head out.”

  “Oh, by the way,” Levine said, “any word from Inspector Penwill?”

  “No, not yet, but they’re leaving Ohio tonight. I assume that it’s been an uneventful journey so far, and it’ll probably be a quiet ride back.”

  “Excellent,” Levine said, smiling. “Very good to hear.”

  68

  Houllier sat inside the rumbling train and finished reading a story in the New York Daily Tribune about how all the grand government buildings in Paris were undergoing a major cleaning and restoration before the opening of Parliament. He then placed the newspaper down and looked at Penwill sitting opposite him, reading his own newspaper. They had been riding along in Ambassador Reid’s campaign car for some time after having stopped in Cedarville, just outside of Dayton, to spend a day with Reid’s mother.

  Then, after having stopped momentarily at a station in Steubenville along the Ohio-West Virginia border, the train had gained steam again and was headed towards the long railroad bridge that traversed the great Ohio River. It was late at night and most of the passengers on the train were sleeping comfortably in their seats. Houllier, however, was pensive, wondering where on earth his nemesis, Meunier, was lurking. They had checked the train for suspicious activity thoroughly at each stop, to the point where Reid’s campaign staff expressed frustration at all the delays incurred from so many precautionary measures. Now, they were headed over the river and briefly into West Virginia, and then onward to Pittsburgh and Philadelphia, before the final leg into Manhattan.

  Houllier looked around and scanned the car. Virtually nothing was happening around him and the car seemed relatively quiet and peaceful as the eastern Ohio countryside whizzed by in the darkness outside. Some security men chatted and laughed together quietly at their posts at the ends of the car and Reid was safely ensconced in his sleeping compartment in the next car forward. Houllier decided to get up out of his seat and stretch his legs and use the lavatory. “I am just going to the washroom, my friend,” he said to Penwill.

  “Oh?” Penwill said, looking over his newspaper. “Jolly good.”

  Houllier then walked down the aisle past the various sleeping staff members and a few journalists, and then crossed over outside into the next car to reach the washroom. He went inside the small compartment, relieved himself, and then, while washing, scanned his face in the small mirror attached to the wall.

  Tired looking, he mused. I am really not good with traveling by trains at all hours of the night.

  Stepping back into the corridor, he nodded at Reid’s security man standing near the sleeping compartments, and then turned to cross back over into the main campaign car at the back of the train. As he stepped into the rear car and out of the rushing wind, however, he thought he heard something and stopped.

  Qu’est-ce que c’est? Am I imagining things?

  He stood still, waiting for another sound, to make sure that perhaps it was just something striking against the fast-moving train—a tree branch or a small rock, for instance.

  Hearing nothing, he took a step to move down the aisle but then was stopped by the sound again.

  Yes, indeed. A knock or thud. Where, though? Above me?

  He looked up at the ceiling of the car and tried to pinpoint the location of the dull thudding sound. And then he heard it again, faintly.

  Thud…thud…

  Oui…above me…up on the roof…there is someone walking up there…

  He immediately reached for his French Chamalot-Delvigne model 1873 11-millimeter revolver in his jacket and raced down to where Penwill sat reading his paper still. “Charlie,” he said in a hushed voice. “Quickly—a man is up on the roof now. I will tell the men at the front and then climb up—you go to the back.”

  “Good god,” Penwill said as he rose quickly out of his seat and brandished one of his revolvers. “How the devil did someone get up there?”

  Houllier turned and ran back to the front of the car where the two security men appeared anxious about the ruckus. “Gentlemen,” Houllier said to them quickly, “we believe there is a man on the roof. You stay here and cover the inside and we will go up.”

  “Got it,” one of the men said.

  “And please alert your man in the sleeping car,” Houllier instructed.

  “Will do,” the man replied.

  Houllier then stepped out into the wind and noise between the cars and looked around the corner of the rear car, spotting a ladde
r affixed to its side panel. Looking quickly back the other way, he could see in the distance the land slowly descending until it met the approaching riverbed and the great railroad bridge that spanned the river, and he knew then that they were about to cross the Ohio into West Virginia.

  Reaching up, he grabbed the ladder firmly and pulled himself up as the ground rushed by just a few feet away from him. Ascending the ladder quickly, he peered down the length of the roof of the car and spotted a dark figure halfway down, slowly walking towards the rear.

  Meunier.

  Houllier struggled up to his feet and leveled his revolver at the figure. “MEUNIER!” he shouted over the noise of the train and wind. “T’ARRETE, BATARD!”

  In the darkness, he saw the figure turn slightly, and then crouch down quickly near to the edge of the roof of the car.

  Mon Dieu, what the hell is he doing?

  He walked slowly towards the crouching figure, but as he got to within twenty feet of him, he saw the man pull something out of his jacket. Houllier’s heart raced as he realized in the dim light what it was: a stick of dynamite. “ARRETER, FILS DE PUTE!” he yelled at the man. “STOP!”

  The man, however, ignored his commands and instead, pulled out what appeared to be a box of matches and carefully lit the fuse. Houllier aimed his revolver and pulled the trigger twice, but the man laid down flat just before the shots rang out and simultaneously smashed one of the windows just inches below him and threw the stick into the car. Houllier let off another round but missed striking the man by inches as the man rolled back to the center of the roof and got to his feet quickly.

  Just then, Houllier saw a glowing object fly back out of the window and drop quickly into the darkness towards the river.

  The dynamite.

  He immediately fell to his stomach and held tightly onto the roof as best he could, waiting for the explosion, which came seconds later. The enormous sound and force shook the train roughly and he feared that it would be shaken off its tracks and fall into the river, but he was relieved to see that it remained moving steadily on its way towards the other shore. He looked up then to find his mysterious adversary slowly creeping towards the back of the car. Penwill suddenly appeared at the top of the other ladder that ascended at the rear of the car, and Houllier saw that his friend was aiming his own revolver at the attacker.