The Fall

by Sean Moynihan

“He and his aides are refusing to halt their campaigning. They said that they understand the dangers, but to stop going out and having rallies would be to send a message that any crazy anarchist can control our elections. They also fear that letting this news get out could strike fear in the voters and thus, suppress the vote in November. So, they were adamant that we keep this out of the papers, sir.”

  “Well, I can’t say that I agree with Reid on that one, but I can’t control a candidate’s national campaign. Meanwhile, what is the latest on this other group that you’ve been investigating?”

  “Well, we had the unnamed informant helping us, but unfortunately, he was found dead a couple of nights ago. We chased a suspect up on the roof, but he got away. We did, however, find something of interest in a note that apparently fell out of the suspect’s pocket.”

  “Oh? What’s that?”

  “It’s an address for a meeting happening tonight. Something about a ‘Manhattan Council.’”

  “Manhattan Council? Council for what?”

  “We’re thinking that it’s a part of this secret order, sir. Clearly, our informant was silenced because he was giving up information on them, and this assassin that we lost up on the roof must be a part of the organization.”

  “So, a meeting tonight, you say…and I suppose you’re wanting to do a little surveillance on them?”

  “That’s correct, sir. We’ll sit back and see if we can find out who’s showing up.”

  “And where is this alleged meeting place?” Byrnes asked.

  “It’s at 153 Christopher Street, sir,” Waidler chimed in. “It’s the location of the Saint Veronica Church, but it’s in the process of being built—they just have the basement finished at this point.”

  “Really?” Byrnes said. “That’s odd. Why meet in the basement of an unfinished church?”

  “Apparently they’re already holding masses in the basement,” Falconer replied, “but I’d say that a building under construction wouldn’t attract much attention because it’s just a whole lot of stones, tools, and debris right now.”

  “I understand what you’re saying,” Byrnes said. “Well, do what you need to do and find out what this meeting is about and who’s attending.”

  “Yes, sir,” Falconer said. “Oh, and one other thing.”

  “Yes, Falconer?”

  “When I met with that informant, he told me that the group was controlled by some very high-up people in business and government. But I only got one name from him—a man who the informant said was the controlling figure at this point—the overall boss.”

  “And who was it?” Byrnes inquired.

  Falconer hesitated, looking at the other men for a moment, and then he turned back to Byrnes. “Walter Bliss,” he said.

  “Bliss?” Byrnes said, wide-eyed. “Walter Bliss, the railroad mogul?”

  “Yes, sir. Our informant was very clear on Bliss’ role at the top.”

  “Well, I must say that I’m rather surprised,” Byrnes said walking a few steps away from his desk. “Bliss is certainly a character, a man-about-town, and he is never at a loss for making headlines in the papers. But the head of a cult of assassins? It seems almost absurd.”

  “Bliss has been known to make certain anti-immigrant comments in the papers. And that would fit with what the informant said was the group’s stated purpose.”

  “Yes, I know that he’s been one of the more vocal critics of allowing immigrants into the country in recent years. But murder? That’s a new one for me.”

  “Unfortunately, we don’t have much to go on except the informant’s statement to me, which is now useless given his death. But I did want you to know who the informant fingered as the leader.”

  “Yes, yes, thank you, Falconer. And let’s keep this in this room, understand?”

  The men all nodded.

  “If we were to make a public allegation without hard evidence,” Byrnes said, “Bliss would make a big stink of it.”

  “Understood, sir,” Falconer said.

  “All right then, carry on, gentlemen. And be careful out there tonight—there’s no telling what this band might pull if they’re exposed.”

  “Right, sir. Thank you.”

  Falconer then turned and led the men out of the office and to the stairs leading down to the front entrance of the headquarters building. As they gathered at the bottom of the stairs, he turned to Waidler. “Did you go out to the church on Christopher earlier this morning?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” Waidler answered. “Didn’t see anything but we went up to check out the door leading down to the basement. It’s a big, wooden door with a metal lock that needs a key. Not sure how we’ll get in tonight if it’s locked up.”

  “Well, we can’t break it down or shoot the lock. That would attract too much attention.”

  “Agreed.”

  “You said it’s a lock that takes some sort of a key?”

  “Correct.”

  “I think I might have someone who could help us out. Let’s go pay a visit to the Fifth Avenue Hotel. Boys, we’re going to take a little trip uptown right now. Inspectors, we’ll see you here at 7:00 PM?”

  “Jolly good,” Penwill said. “We shall see you back here this evening.”

  “Excellent,” Falconer said. “And thanks. All right, gentlemen, let’s go.”

  He then stepped down the front stairs of the headquarters, followed closely by Waidler, Halloran, Winter, and Kramer, and bounded down the sidewalk, headed for the elevated train that would lead them uptown to the 5th Avenue Hotel.

  79

  The crowded streetcar pulled to a stop on its tracks in front of the opulent, six-story 5th Avenue Hotel at the intersection of 5th and 23d Street. Falconer and the other men hopped off the car and sauntered over to the front entrance of the enormous, brick and white marble building.

  The sidewalks were busy at this late afternoon hour with pedestrians determined to get to the next destination in their packed Sunday schedules, and the streetcars and horse-drawn wagons and hansom cabs jostled for position out on the avenue as they navigated their way north and south on the wide thoroughfare.

  Falconer looked up at the five-columned front entrance of the hotel and then briefly turned and surveyed the southwestern corner of the lush Madison Square across the avenue. “All right boys,” he said, turning to them, “shall we go in?”

  “Uh, detective sergeant?” Halloran said. “Can you tell us why we’re here?”

  “Sure. We might need to enter the basement of the church through a locked door tonight, and so, we’ll need someone who can do that for us. And I’ll bet he’s inside the hotel right now.”

  “He? Who’s he?”

  “Come on inside with me,” Falconer said, and he moved through the large front entrance into the hotel’s bustling, marble-lined lobby. Stepping over to a wall amidst the many impeccably dressed hotel patrons and uniformed staff members scurrying about, he scanned the capacious room, looking out into the sea of top-hatted and tuxedoed men chatting amiably in groups and smoking cigars as their wives gave sweaty-browed porters directions for their luggage piled high onto wheeled carts. His men waited patiently as he looked, moving his eyes constantly from group to group, until finally he spoke out: “There, over near that group of swells standing next to the tall, potted plant: that’s our man.”

  “Who, detective sergeant?” Halloran asked as he craned his neck to see.

  “Who are you spotting, boss?” Waidler asked.

  “The droopy-faced mug who’s standing next to the men over there,” Falconer answered. “See him?”

  Waidler and Halloran looked over at a man with a bowler standing against a wall.

  “That one,” Falconer said. “Just watch—he’s about to swipe a wallet now.”

  Falconer looked on with the other men as the lurking man slowly str
aightened up, moved towards the group of well-heeled men standing with their cigars and canes in hand, and suddenly bumped into one of them. Turning to face the subject he had run into—an older, gray-bearded man who had the look of a lifelong aristocrat with plenty of money in his bank accounts—the man in the bowler reached out with both hands to steady the old gentleman and appeared to apologize profusely to him. He then bowed deferentially and moved on through the crowd, heading towards the front entrance of the hotel through which Falconer and the men had just walked.

  “Get ready,” Falconer said. “He’s headed our way. Did you see what he did over there, Jimmy?”

  “Uh, I think so, sir,” Halloran responded.

  “That was a classic move by one of the best pickpockets on the east coast,” Falconer said. “And here he comes now. Winter and Kramer, grab him quietly and usher him outside.”

  “Got it, boss,” Winter said. “Come on, Kramer—you grab one arm and I’ll get the other.”

  Kramer nodded and stepped forward discretely as the unknowing thief walked up near to them on his way out of the hotel. The two officers then reached out simultaneously and grabbed the man’s arms firmly, and Winter spoke quietly into the man’s ear with a smile: “Let’s go, bub—we saw what you did over there. Quietly now.”

  The two officers then moved him outside, followed by Falconer, Waidler, and Halloran. Stepping over to the front wall of the hotel, away from the entrance, they quietly searched his pockets as he expressed surprise and bewilderment, and Winter finally fished out a long, black wallet, and handed it to Falconer. “So, what’s that, pal?” Winter asked. “I’m betting it ain’t yours. Am I right?”

  The man, appearing to be in his mid-forties and wearing a thick mustache, demurred excitedly: “But I don’t understand, gentlemen…I-I was just leaving the hotel after visiting a friend—that’s all. I have no idea what this is about.”

  “What this is about, Poodles, is lifting that old dandy’s wallet,” Falconer said, holding up the purloined leather wallet. “And you’re caught dead to rights.”

  “Um…‘Poodles,’ sir?” the man said incredulously. “Why, I’m not sure what you mean by that.”

  “Stop it, Poodles,” Falconer said, handing the wallet to Halloran. “I know who you are and I was wised up recently about you probably hitting some marks in the hotel here this week— and look what happened.”

  The man only rested his head glumly back against the hotel’s wall and said nothing.

  “Poodles?” Halloran asked. “Is that this guy’s name?”

  “Gentlemen,” Falconer said, “meet Terrence ‘Poodles’ Murphy, perhaps the most accomplished pickpocket on the east coast. So how are you, Poodles? I heard you had to do a stint in the pen back in Pennsylvania.”

  “Um…yes, sir, officer,” Murphy answered quietly. “Three years…got out in eighty-seven.”

  “You were working back then with your partner, Pretty Jimmy Wilson, correct?” Falconer asked.

  “Uh, yes, I was, actually. He got two-and-a-half years with me at Eastern Penitentiary. Not sure where he is now.”

  “I see.”

  “So…what are you gentlemen going to do with me? Throw me in the Tombs?”

  “Not necessarily,” Falconer answered. “Yes, it was wrong of you to lift that man’s wallet, but we can get it back to him…in exchange for a little help on something.”

  “Um…help?” Murphy said. “What sort of help, sir?”

  “Well, I know that your expertise includes picking locks. Is that correct?”

  Murphy looked taken aback and looked at the other men momentarily, then turned back to Falconer. “Well…the truth is…I do have some experience in that…area,” he replied slowly.

  “Good, then. We’re going to have to ask you to help us out this evening on a particular locked door, understand?”

  “I can do that, sir. And this little incident here?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Falconer said, reaching out to Halloran with the wallet. “Jimmy? Can you bring this back to the old codger in there and then come back outside?”

  “Certainly, sir,” Halloran said, taking the wallet. “Be right back.”

  “There, you see?” Falconer said to Murphy. “No need to bring you down to the Tombs on this one. Just come downtown with us this evening for a little bit, and then we’ll release you. You okay with that?”

  “Absolutely, Detective Sergeant…uh…Detective Sergeant…what is your name, sir?”

  “Falconer.”

  “Detective Sergeant Falconer,” Murphy repeated. “I will be very happy to get you through that locked door, sir—with my thanks.”

  “Good. And here comes our boy, Jimmy, now. All right, gentlemen, let’s go meet the inspectors and then head over to the church.”

  He then moved off, walking down the street, trailed by his four fellow police officers and their distinguished pickpocket-burglar in tow.

  80

  Falconer stood behind a large supply wagon parked directly across from the partially built Saint Veronica’s Church on Christopher Street. Halloran, Waidler, Poodles Murphy, and Levine stood by him while Winter, Houllier, and Penwill lurked behind a row of large barrels that stood on the corner fifty yards distant. Falconer looked at his watch and then turned to Levine. “Glad you could join us, professor,” he said. “Thought you might be intrigued by all of this.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Levine said. “Quite thrilling behind-the-scenes stuff.”

  “Well, it’s just about eight,” Falconer said, looking across the darkening street at the flattened construction site that would be a Catholic church eventually. “Anyone seen anyone out there yet?”

  “No one, boss,” Waidler said.

  “Me neither,” Halloran answered.

  “Well, that’s disappointing,” Falconer said, taking off his bowler and wiping his sweaty forehead with his sleeve. “I was hoping that note we found up on the roof would lead us to a big meeting in this place.”

  “May I ask what sort of meeting you were expecting to take place, sir?” Murphy said.

  “Not really sure about that, Murphy,” Falconer answered, “but we were thinking it was going to be this sort of a meeting of a secret society type thing.”

  “Secret society?” Murphy said, his eyes widening. “That’s interesting.”

  “Yeah, well, looks like maybe we were mistaken, unfortunately,” Falconer said. “No one’s coming around here tonight.”

  “Not so fast, boss,” Waidler said, looking off to his right. “See over there?”

  Falconer looked across the street and saw in the distance a woman dressed in a black dress followed by an older man, dressed in a suit and tie and wearing spectacles, slowly edging down the street towards the church grounds. They were creeping along the sidewalk very slowly and appeared to be trying to make their way down to the church as discretely and clandestinely as possible.

  “Now who the hell are those two?” Falconer asked.

  “Can’t quite tell,” said Waidler. “But if they’re trying to be secretive, they aren’t doing a very good job of it.”

  “If I wasn’t crazy,” Halloran said, peering closer at the two individuals slowly getting closer across the street, “I’d say those people look like—”

  “Nellie Bly and Jacob Riis,” Levine interrupted.

  “What?” Falconer said, turning back and looking across the street at the two figures. “What the devil are they doing here?”

  “I don’t know, but I think it is them, sir,” Waidler said.

  “Damn it all to hell,” Falconer said frustratingly. “Jimmy, can you go get their attention and get ‘em over here?”

  “Sure thing, sir,” Halloran said, and then he crept out around the corner of the wagon and whistled shrilly once. Falconer watched as Bly and Riis stopped in their tracks and look
ed over at Halloran, who was now waving for them to join the men. The two interlopers then quickly jogged across the street and arrived at the wagon, breathlessly.

  “Ah, there you are, gentlemen,” Bly said with a smile. “We lost you on the way.”

  “Lost us?” Falconer said. “What the hell does that mean? Why are you here?”

  “Why, to get the story, of course,” Bly answered matter-of-factly.

  “What story?” Falconer demanded.

  “A story of some dark, secretive organization that might be responsible for some recent nefarious activities in this city—including murder.”

  “And how did you come by this information?”

  “Why, from my sources, of course.”

  “What sources?”

  “You know I cannot divulge that, detective sergeant—against the rules.”

  “If you’re afraid I might give them a beating, you’re right, Miss Bly.”

  “That was on my mind, actually,” Bly said. “But rest assured, your secret is safe with Mister Riis and me—only we followed you here.”

  “That’s just great,” Falconer said. “So reassuring.”

  “Well, since we are here now,” Bly said, “there’s no sense in delaying your operation. What next?”

  “What’s next?” Falconer said exasperatedly. “What’s next is you leave and forget this ever happened.”

  “I’m sorry, but we cannot do that,” Bly said, crossing her arms.

  “I can’t believe this,” Falconer said, turning to Riis. “Mister Riis, I’m a little surprised at you.”

  “I’m sorry, detective sergeant,” Riis said, “but Miss Bly was insistent that she would be reconnoitering this scene tonight, and I just couldn’t let her do it alone.”

  “Right,” Falconer said. “I figured.”

  “Really, detective sergeant,” Bly said. “We will not intrude on your activities tonight and will just hang back and observe.”

  “That’s comforting,” Falconer said dismissively.

  “Boss, what we do now?” Waidler asked. “Cancel?”

  Falconer hesitated a moment, then looked out across the street at the church construction site. “No,” he finally said, “it looks like no meeting ever happened, but we should at least check out the church basement, just in case. Murphy, you ready?”