Standing up, he slowly moved towards the trapped man to arrest him, but suddenly the man stepped to the side of the roof, looked back at him and Penwill briefly, and jumped into the river. Houllier ran to where the man had leaped and crouched down carefully, scanning the dark river below, but he could see no one on the surface—just a bubbling little circle where the bomber had plunged into the river’s depths just seconds before.
Penwill crawled up to him and looked down to the river, too. “Well,” Penwill yelled over the noise of the train and rushing wind, “looks like we missed him again! Not sure if he can survive the fall, but we can alert the locals and start a search. At least I got the dynamite out of the car!”
“Ah, it was you!” Houllier shouted excitedly. “I thought for certain that we would all be blown up, and then I saw the little stick fly out into the night like a bird! Good thinking, mon ami. You have saved us from certain catastrophe!”
“Yes, well, I only wish we had caught the bugger. Let’s get off this roof and see to the ambassador!”
“Yes! Let us go down!”
The two men then slowly crawled back to the ladder and descended to the landing as the powerful train surged across the long, dark bridge towards the West Virginia shore in the distance.
Tuesday, September 13, 1892
69
Falconer stood with his men and Penwill and Houllier in Byrnes’ second floor office at the Mulberry Street headquarters. Byrnes sat in his chair, quietly smoking a cigar after having just heard a summary of the attack on Reid’s campaign train on its way back from Ohio. He placed the cigar in a crystal ashtray on the desk and looked up at Falconer and the inspectors. “So,” he said, “no word on the manhunt out near the river?”
“Nothing yet, I’m afraid, sir,” Penwill said. “They’ve got many men and dogs searching both sides of the river, but no trace of Meunier.”
“And you’re sure it is Meunier, as opposed to some other lunatic agitator?”
“Inspector Houllier got the best look at the man, sir,” Penwill said, looking over at Houllier, “and he feels certain that it was, indeed, Meunier.”
“Inspector?” Byrnes said, looking at Houllier.
“Yes, superintendent,” Houllier said, “I saw his face very briefly and it appeared to be Meunier. Plus, the way he walked was strongly indicative of a man with Meunier’s physical deformities.”
“I see. And does anyone appear to know of this in the press? I haven’t seen anything.”
“No, sir,” Falconer answered. “The ambassador agreed with us that we should keep this all very quiet for now, and thus, the authorities conducting the search out there are just telling the press that they’re looking for an escaped inmate from the local jail.”
“Good,” Byrnes said, picking up his cigar again. “The last thing we need is a public panic that a French dynamiter is on the loose.”
“Yes, sir,” Falconer said.
“So, what’s next?” Byrnes asked. “Do you think this Meunier character will try to come back to New York, or will he just flee the country?”
“We believe that—given his failure the other night—he won’t give up,” Penwill replied. “The ambassador is clearly his target of revenge, and these French anarchist bombers do not scare easily and are very persistent, I’m afraid.”
“Understood,” Byrnes said, taking a drag of his cigar. “And what of the ambassador? Is he suspending his campaigning, I hope?”
“Unfortunately, no,” Falconer said. “He’s a very stubborn man and told us that he will not be intimidated by violent anarchist bomb throwers. In fact, he’s getting ready for a large campaign gathering in Brooklyn this weekend.”
“Brooklyn?” Byrnes said, sitting up straighter in his chair. “This weekend? After he nearly got blown up on his train?”
“Yes,” Penwill said. “As Detective Sergeant Falconer said, Reid takes a hard line on anarchist agitators and he is determined not to be cowed by them. He is planning on attending a dinner and rally with Republican groups out at the Union League Club on Bedford Ave.”
“And how many supporters are expected at this rally?” Byrnes inquired.
Falconer looked at Penwill, who slowly turned to Byrnes and spoke: “Well, sir, they are expecting above a thousand persons in the streets.”
“Good god,” Byrnes exclaimed. “More than a thousand people in one place? It’s a perfect target for a blood-thirsty bomber such as Meunier.”
“We know,” Falconer said. “We’ve tried to dissuade Reid, but he won’t budge—he says it’s giving in to the barbarians.”
“Well, then, we’re just going to have to take exceptional efforts to watch over this rally, gentlemen,” Byrnes said. “If Meunier is here again, I’m certain that he’ll try to blow up a bomb in that crowd. So, do what you need to do, Falconer. If you need more men, get them with my approval. Stop at nothing to prevent an incident. Do you understand?”
“Absolutely, sir,” Falconer said.
“Good,” Byrnes said. “And Inspectors Penwill and Houllier, I congratulate you on your efforts on that train. Our country owes its thanks to you.”
“Thank you, sir,” Penwill said.
“Merci beaucoup, superintendent,” Houllier said. “I appreciate your kind words.”
“Thank you, gentlemen,” Byrnes said. “And Falconer, keep me posted.”
“Will do, sir,” Falconer said. “Let’s go, gentlemen.”
He then turned and headed out into the hallway, followed by the two inspectors and Waidler, Halloran, Winter, and Kramer.
70
Falconer strolled into the Detective Bureau the morning after the debriefing with Byrnes and sat down at his desk. He had been busy over the past eighteen hours recruiting men to help watch over the upcoming weekend political rally in Brooklyn and was about to send out more requests when Waidler came into the room behind him and spoke: “Boss, I got something for you—think you’ll be interested.”
“Morning, James,” Falconer said. “What do you have?”
“Looks like another message to you from that unknown informant with our band of assassins,” Waidler said, handing a small, white envelope to him.
Falconer took the envelope and looked at the address typed on its front:
Det. R. Falconer
Detective Bureau
300 Mulberry St.
New York, NY
Opening the envelope, he then unfolded a piece of paper and read the type-written message:
Falconer:
I applaud your handling of the men down at the Black Swan. Now they know that the police are onto them. However, this means that they will increase their efforts and stop at nothing to achieve their malevolent goals. Thus, be ever vigilant—they are dangerous!
I would like to meet you in person, but we must be exceedingly discrete. Meet me alone at 1:00 pm Thursday at the park benches directly behind the Beethoven statute in Central Park. Do not say anything to me—just sit near to me and feign reading a newspaper so that I can speak. I will have further directions. I know what you look like. I will have on a yellow necktie with eyeglasses.
A friend
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Falconer said, looking up at Waidler and the others. “Our friend wants to meet me in Central Park tomorrow at one. He says he’ll have more directions.”
“So, what do we do?” Waidler asked.
“We meet him. But just me—he insisted that I be alone. However, I’ll have you and Halloran keeping watch from a distance. All right?”
“Sure thing.”
“Meanwhile, any idea where the two inspectors are this morning?”
“They said they had an appointment with Reid out at his mansion in Harrison. Something about trying to convince him to cancel his rally this weekend.”
“Really? Well, they’ll need a little
luck with that.”
Waidler grinned and then sat down at his desk to sort through his own telegrams and messages, and Falconer sat back in his chair, thinking of Penwill and Houllier and their meeting with the vice-presidential candidate, Whitelaw Reid.
71
Penwill looked ahead at the imposing structure as the wagon bearing him and Houllier ambled up the driveway of Whitelaw Reid’s impressive estate in Harrison, New York. As they got closer, he could see how truly immense it was: the grand, stone castle built in the style of the imposing castles that lined the Rhine in Germany.
“It is tres magnifique, my friend,” Houllier said.
“Indeed, Prosper,” Penwill said. “And it’s practically brand new. The old place burned down several years ago, and so they’ve been building this castle since then. They just opened it up this year, actually.”
“Well, clearly the ambassador is an important man. I didn’t know newspaper men could become so wealthy.”
“Well, I’m sure he’s done well, but I think most of this was actually bought with his wife’s money. She has a very wealthy father.”
“Ah, yes, I see. The easiest way to become a millionaire: marry a woman who is already one.”
Penwill chuckled as the driver pulled the wagon to a stop in front of the large front doors of the castle. “Well, here we are, Prosper,” he said.
He climbed down from the wagon, followed by Houllier, and immediately saw a man approaching from the house. It was Leominster Finch, Reid’s personal secretary.
“Ah, inspectors,” Finch said enthusiastically. “So nice to see you again. I hope the train ride up was quieter than our return to New York?”
“Yes, very much so,” Penwill answered. “No bombs this time, fortunately.”
“Well, the ambassador is waiting for you,” Finch said. “Just follow me, gentlemen.”
He then led the two men into the front entry hallway, the walls and floor of which Penwill observed were made of a most exquisite pink marble. Above a large, ornate fireplace, he could see a very fine-crafted frieze that extended along the top of the marble walls. He stopped momentarily to gaze at the amazing detail, and Finch walked back to him. “Ah, yes,” Finch said, looking up at the frieze. “Sculpted by the well-known firm, Salviati and Company, and imported from Italy.”
“Most impressive, Mister Finch,” Penwill said. “I’m sorry—shall we?”
“Yes, please,” Finch said. “Ambassador Reid is just up the staircase here.”
He then led the two inspectors up a shiny, marble staircase at the end of the hallway and down a hallway to a large, wooden door, which he opened. “Please, gentlemen,” he said, “after you.”
“Why, thank you, Finch,” Penwill said, walking by him to enter the room.
“Merci, Monsieur Finch,” Houllier said, following Penwill in.
The three men then entered a spacious, well-furnished office that overlooked a large, green lawn below. Standing over near two great windows that allowed plentiful sunlight into the room was Reid, who turned and spoke: “Ah, inspectors—so nice to see you again. I hope you had an uneventful journey?”
“Yes, we did, ambassador,” Penwill replied. “Thank you for seeing us.”
“It is my pleasure, gentlemen. Please, have a seat.”
The three men then sat down in a group of ornately carved and well-lacquered chairs standing in the middle of the office, and Reid offered the men a drink.
“No, thank you, ambassador,” Penwill said, “but we appreciate the offer, of course.”
“Yes, of course,” Reid said. “Now, how can I help you?”
“Well,” Penwill said, “we understand how you feel about the upcoming rally this weekend, but nonetheless, we must impress upon you the extreme danger posed by this anarchist, Meunier, and we would urge you again to consider canceling the event.”
Reid smiled wanly and sat motionless for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts, and then he spoke in a calm, almost reassuring tone: “Gentlemen, I know that this man is still out there, and he may likely be entertaining the idea of attacking me at the rally. I recognize the seriousness of the threat and I obviously don’t wish to endanger any of my Republican supporters. Nevertheless, and after careful thought, I have concluded that we must go on with the campaign and not let these anarchist troublemakers interfere with our work.”
He raised his hands up in front of him and gestured excitedly as he continued: “Can you imagine if we give in to these people? What message will be sent? It will be that any crazed bomb thrower who hates America can, with the slightest threat, completely muzzle us and send us hiding in our bunkers. We cannot give in to that, gentlemen. We cannot let the barbarians and criminals win. We must stand up and face them and destroy them with our words and with our might. It is the only way, I am afraid.”
Penwill looked down at the floor briefly and then looked back up and smiled slightly at Reid. “I understand your position, ambassador,” he said, “and, in fact, I salute you for being committed to it. But still, I have grave worries about the security of this event. We will have many men mingling in the crowd and working the perimeter, but it is impossible to cover every square inch.”
“Yes, I know,” Reid said, “but I am confident that my security men, in conjunction with you and your friends with the New York and Brooklyn police departments, will be able to thwart any attempted attack. The security will be extremely tight and any attacker like Meunier will find it extremely difficult to accomplish his goals.”
“Yes, well, I suppose you’re right, sir,” Penwill said. “We thank you for your time and we will see you at the rally.”
“Yes, thank you, gentlemen,” Reid said, standing up to shake hands with the two men.
“Thank you, ambassador,” Houllier said. “We can see our way out.”
“Oh, nonsense,” Reid said. “Finch here can lead you back to the front and your cab that is waiting. Good day, gentlemen.”
“Good day, sir,” Penwill said, and then Finch led the two inspectors quietly back out into the hallway and downstairs to their waiting wagon, where they would begin their journey back to Manhattan twenty miles away.
Thursday, September 15, 1892
72
Falconer strolled down the tree-lined Mall in Central Park while quietly smoking a cigarillo amidst hundreds of other pedestrians enjoying the picturesque surroundings. The temperature had dropped to a comfortable sixty-five degrees in the past day and the mild weather had clearly drawn out many people who wanted to enjoy the burgeoning fall weather in the grand, lush park lying in the middle of Manhattan.
As he walked, he took note of the variety of citizens dotting the pleasant scene: two women wearing their finest afternoon dresses with ornate, flowered hats leaning off their brows as they walked chummily together and quietly chuckled over something known only to them; a man holding the reins as he slowly walked alongside a team of two miniature ponies drawing a small wagon carrying an obviously well-heeled mother with her young, scowling son; a swarthy, young father dressed in a three-piece suit gently holding the hand of his toddler dressed smartly in a little blue sailor suit; the quiet man in a black bowler sitting alone on the benches lining the Mall to the left, drowsily reading his newspaper with lit pipe billowing soft puffs of tobacco smoke into the air around him; and the strapping, mustachioed beat cop walking jauntily down the way while swinging his billy club by its attached leather strap and whistling an upbeat, marching tune.
There were hundreds of them, all either strolling down the wide expanse of the Mall or sitting beside it, taking in the fresh air away from the busy city streets and getting a brief break from the harsh, breakneck pace of the growing metropolis that surrounded them.
Falconer walked on, taking in the sights and sounds of the busy meeting place and all the happy people wandering through it, until, moving closer to the shores
of the great lake ahead of him, he spied to his right the tall, commanding face of the great composer, Ludwig van Beethoven, set upon a tall base of exquisite, gray marble. Walking closer to it, he looked up and studied the bust of the great musical genius for a moment: thick, wavy hair growing out of the tall forehead; two, deep-set eyes set fixedly on something seemingly obstructing his way; the small, contentious frown expressing an unbreakable will and imperious swagger. Shrugging, Falconer then pulled a copy of the morning’s newspaper out of his jacket pocket and looked beyond the statue, over to the benches where several people sat minding their business amidst the great murmuring crowd moving slowly down the Mall.
He walked closer and looked for a man in a yellow tie with eyeglasses and saw him sitting alone at the end of the bench to the far right, away from the other people. The man held a newspaper in his hands down near his lap and appeared to be deeply engrossed in a story. Falconer walked up and took a seat about two feet away from him and unfolded his own newspaper, bringing it up closer to his face to shield himself from the gazes of strangers.
“Thank you for coming,” the man finally said after a few seconds. “We must be very short with this and discrete, as I said.”
“Understood,” Falconer said quietly. “Who are you? A member of Cadere?”
The man chuckled briefly. “Oh, so you know the name?” he asked. “I didn’t think you’d be that far along. But yes—I was a member of it, until things got too out of control and wrong. Then I started rebelling.”
The Fall Page 21