The Fall

by Sean Moynihan

  The other two bodyguards moved forward but were stopped when confronted by Winter and Halloran’s raised billy clubs. “I wouldn’t, fellers,” Winter said, “unless you want your noses rearranged.”

  Falconer looked beyond the bodyguards and saw the figure of George Bliss, dressed in a tuxedo, striding rapidly towards them from inside the banquet hall. “What the hell do you men think you’re doing here?” he demanded. “Turn around and get your asses out of here or I’ll—”

  SMACK!

  Falconer’s fist rammed into Bliss’ nose with a loud thud and the young man fell to the floor, moaning in pain and holding his face, which was now bleeding profusely.

  “My nose!” he yelped. “You broke my nose!”

  “Put him in cuffs,” Falconer instructed one of the uniformed officers. “Let’s go.”

  He then entered the banquet hall and walked with the other men alongside a wall on the way towards the front circular table where the millionaire, Walter Bliss, stood addressing the large crowd. As they got closer, Falconer could hear murmurs from the audience and Bliss finally halted in mid-sentence to look over at the men approaching the table.

  “What the hell is this?” Bliss said. “You can’t come in here.”

  Falconer nodded at Winter, who stepped forward and held out the arrest warrant. “Pardon me, ladies and gentlemen,” he announced loudly, “but I got here a warrant for Walter Bliss’ arrest for conspiracy to commit kidnapping and murder.”

  A loud, collective groan came from the crowd, and Winter held up his hand as if to calm the guests. “I know, I know,” he said, “but we’ll be quick about it and get this suspect out of here in just a few minutes, and then you can all get back to your fancy dinner.”

  Falconer then signaled for him to join him, and they both moved over to where Bliss stood as voices in the crowd started angrily objecting to the intrusion.

  “Walter Bliss,” Falconer said, “you are under arrest for conspiracy to commit kidnapping and murder. Turn around, sir.”

  “I know who you are—you’re that joke of a detective who couldn’t solve a crime if his life depended on it,” Bliss sneered. “Falconer…yeah, Falconer…you can’t just come in here and ruin our event. I’ll destroy your career for this. You’ll be nothing by tomorrow.”

  “I’ll repeat myself, sir,” Falconer said. “Please turn around so we can take you into custody.” He motioned for Waidler and Halloran to step forward and the two men walked up and grabbed Bliss by the arms, attempting to turn him around, but Bliss shrugged them off violently. “DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?!” he shouted in Falconer’s face with a threatening stare, but Falconer grabbed the angry man by his lapels and threw him face-first down onto the table, sending silverware and plates flying everywhere.

  “Do you know who I am?” Falconer said through gritted teeth closely into Bliss’ ear.

  He then stood up and looked at his men as Halloran and Waidler placed handcuffs on Bliss’ wrists. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. He turned and started walking out of the great hall, followed by the others, while the dinner guests began to cry and wail, shout and protest at the sight of their beloved candidate being hauled out in handcuffs.

  122

  Goldman stopped momentarily in the middle of a speech she was giving to a gathering of workers and anarchists at an old assembly hall on the Lower East Side just a few days after Falconer and his men had rescued her from her ordeal with her kidnappers. She stepped to her left on the stage and picked up a glass of water on a table, took a drink, and then turned back to the hundreds of dark forms sitting before her in the smoky auditorium.

  “So, you see, my friends,” she said, “our work is not done—not nearly. We are faced with the oppressive and brutal tactics of a police state, allied with the great capitalist criminals sitting in their beautiful mansions on Millionaires Row, determined to stifle the speech and very lives of the workers like you who built this country!”

  The crowd roared with approval.

  “And if they think they can erase us,” she continued, “if they think they can keep us under the boot of modern-day slavery, then they have another thing coming! The state is filled with immoral men determined to further the ends of their evil machinations, men who want you to remain under the yoke of oppression and greed, men who want you to work yourselves to the bone and then just disappear without any struggle or sound. Yes, my friends, the United States is now ruled by men who care not a whit about your lives or your sufferings! Men who…who…”

  She stopped mid-sentence and looked out towards the back of the hall as the people murmured slightly. She was about to conclude her long speech but then thought that she saw something near the back wall, out where the people had entered two hours earlier.

  “I…I’m sorry, ladies and gentlemen,” she said slowly, still straining to see in the muted light. “As I was saying…”

  She peered again and saw it—or rather, saw him—leaning back against the wall with the familiar cigarillo and bowler worn down low on his brow. It must be him, she thought—taller than the other figures back there, silent and puffing slowly on the cigarillo, arms folded in front of him. She recognized the figure, even in the darkness of the hall—the man with whom she had struggled for survival, the man who had saved her time and time again during that terrible period after Sasha had been imprisoned. He was out there in the hall, watching from the back, quietly and unobtrusively. It had to be him…she just knew it.

  And then she looked back at the people, who were looking at each other and shuffling in their seats, unsure of what was happening. Gathering her thoughts, she took a deep breath and continued: “As I was saying, ladies and gentlemen, we live in an oppressive time when men in powerful places are doing everything that they can to keep you bound and gagged within the dank factories and the stifling sweatshops that prop up their vast corporations. They do not care one bit about you or your families because you are different than they are. You are what I call ‘the other’—the people who have darker skin, who speak differently, who perhaps worship a different god. But sometimes there are other men…”

  She looked across the tired and withered faces, grimy from a long day of work, and settled her eyes again on the tall figure leaning against the back wall.

  “Sometimes there are men and women in this world who will stand up to the corruption and the lies and the injustices,” she continued. “Brave men and women who will put their own lives in danger to soothe the persecuted and lift the downhearted—who will try to correct a broken world. We must look to these men and women, these lonely sentinels who stand with the downtrodden, who go out into the night to confront the danger and bring the powerful brutes to justice, and we must keep fighting for the better world that we know is possible.”

  The crowd erupted with cheers and applause, and as the people looked up at her with approval and admiration, she watched as the tall figure in the back slowly stood up away from the wall, moved to the main doorway, and quietly exited the hall.

  123

  Charles Francis, a young cub reporter for the New York Tribune, stood outside the courthouse with Jacob Riis and watched as the throng of other reporters and onlookers pushed and struggled to get a glimpse of the people exiting the building after Walter and George Bliss’ arraignments were held. The story had hit the newspapers like a lightning bolt, and every crime reporter was desperately pacing the sidewalks in the hopes of gleaning new information from the very secretive police department and district attorney’s office.

  “Look there,” Riis said, pointing at the stairs of the courthouse. “It’s Falconer and his men coming out. Now those are the people you’d really want to speak to.”

  Francis watched as Falconer and his men stepped down to the street and moved through an opening in the crowd created by several large police officers wielding billy clubs. The men then started walking towards him and Riis on the
sidewalk, and Riis turned to him and said, “Let me try and introduce you, Francis.”

  Falconer walked up with his men and smiled at Riis. “Mister Riis,” he said, “how are you today?”

  “Very well, Detective Sergeant Falconer,” Riis answered, shaking his hand. “Thanks for asking. This is a new reporter for our paper, Charles Francis. Francis, this is Detective Sergeant Falconer with the Detective Bureau and some of his men.”

  “How do you do, Mister Francis?” Falconer said. “This is Detective Waidler, along with Officers Halloran, Schlager, Kramer, and Winter.”

  “Pleased to meet you gentlemen,” Francis said, doffing his hat.

  “So,” Riis said, “how did it go in there?”

  “Oh, not too bad,” Falconer answered. “But….”

  “But what?” Riis asked.

  “Oh, there was just something about how the D.A. and judge acted that I found a little troubling.”

  “How so, may I ask?”

  “Well, I can’t put my finger on it, but something seemed fishy in there, Mister Riis. This secret order has a lot of men in high places, and no one knows about it. And I’m worried, frankly, that they’ve managed to spread into the courts and D.A. offices, which would not be good, obviously.”

  “Well, that would be troubling, indeed,” Riis said, “but surely it can’t be so widespread as to prevent these agencies from doing their jobs.”

  “Maybe, but I wonder,” Falconer said.

  “You sound very pessimistic,” Riis said.

  “I’m just a policeman, Mister Riis,” Falconer said. “I don’t have a lot of power, really. I can only arrest someone and put them in jail for a few days. Yes, I can use lethal force, if necessary, but I must be justified in that—I can’t just go out and shoot someone without cause. But the district attorney—he is the one who has true power and is really the last bastion against chaos and violence in the streets. He can bully the bully, as it were. If he has the evidence, he can potentially remove a man from ordered society for the rest of his life—or even send him to the electric chair. That is true power, Mister Riis. And if someone with that kind of power becomes corrupt—if the prosecutor himself becomes one of the bad guys and won’t stand up and do the right thing, then we are all lost.”

  “I see what you mean,” Riis said. “That is worrisome, indeed.”

  “Yes, it is,” Falconer said, “but we will hope for the best. Have a nice day, gentlemen.”

  “And, uh, what is next for you and your men?” Riis asked.

  “Oh, the cases keep hitting our desks,” Falconer said, smiling. “We don’t get a break.”

  “Yes, understood,” Riis said, also grinning.

  “Take care of yourself, Mister Riis,” Falconer said, and then he turned and motioned for the other men to follow. Francis watched as they walked off, six policemen in plainclothes headed back to their bureau. “Very impressive group of officers,” he said to Riis.

  “Yes, Francis,” Riis stated. “And do you know what they call them, actually?”

  “I’m sorry?” Francis said absentmindedly as he watched Falconer and the men walking away.

  “Byrnes’ detectives in the Detective Bureau,” Riis said. “Do you know what the newspapers call them?”

  “No, I don’t, actually,” Francis said.

  “The Immortals,” Riis said, smiling slightly. “They call them The Immortals.”

  Riis took a deep breath and straightened his hat on his head. “Well, have a good afternoon, Francis,” he said. “I shall see you back at the office later.”

  “Yes, sir,” Francis replied. “Thank you.”

  He watched Riis step off the curb and walk across the street, and then he turned his attention back to Falconer and his men as they receded into the crowd again, disappearing from view.

  124

  Levine sat down at his desk and stared at his typewriter. It had been over a week since he had narrowly escaped death at the hands of the murderous secret order, and he wanted to set down on paper his thoughts and experiences over the past few months. He pondered what had happened, and how Falconer and his men had managed to track down the group and accumulate enough evidence to prosecute many of its members.

  Looking down at his desk, he noticed what appeared to be a sealed telegram with his name on it. Miss Brittle must have left it there when he was out. He picked it up, opened it, and saw that it was a message from Falconer. Sitting back in his chair, he read its contents:

  Professor:

  Thank you again for doing what you did out on the boat that night. Although I’m sure it was difficult, you did save our lives, and for that, I am eternally grateful to you.

  “A faithful friend is a strong defense: and he that hath found such a one hath found a treasure.”

  —Ecclesiasticus 6:14

  Falconer

  He placed the telegram back on his desk and smiled. Then he looked at the typewriter again and began to write.

  125

  Falconer sat at his desk in the Detective Bureau several days after the arraignments of Walter and George Bliss and their closest co-conspirators. He fumbled through some letters and telegrams and then picked up a new file: the disappearance of a young girl who lived down on Hester Street. He read the first few paragraphs of the initial pages when he suddenly realized that someone was standing next to him. Looking up, he saw two women gazing down at him, stone-faced. The closest one was a little shorter with brown hair cut above her shoulders and wearing round, wire spectacles. The other, standing just behind and to the side of the first one, had bright, blue eyes and longer hair that was pulled up underneath her hat. Falconer waited a few seconds for one of them to speak, but they remained silent, and so he finally spoke to break the awkward silence: “Um…can I help you ladies?”

  “Maybe,” the shorter woman said. “Or more likely, it is we who can help you, Detective Sergeant Falconer.”

  “Really?” Falconer said, standing up. “And how might you do that?”

  “Well,” the shorter woman said, “we are both aware, as is most of the city, of how you have cracked a secretive organization that resorts to kidnapping and murder to accomplish its nefarious goals. But maybe you aren’t aware that this group is much larger than you think, and that it continues to operate with impunity.”

  “Well, I wasn’t aware, exactly,” Falconer said, “but I figured as much.”

  “Yes, well, we have certain information about its ongoing activities,” the woman said, “and we are willing to collaborate with you as co-investigators in this effort to bring them all to justice.”

  “Collaborate?” Falconer said. “As co-investigators?”

  “Yes,” the woman said. “Here, allow me.”

  She pulled out a business card and handed it to him, and he read the contents out loud: “‘Aguilar & Johnston…Private Investigators…No Case Too Small Or Large.’ You ladies are…private investigators?”

  “Yes,” the woman said, “is there something wrong with that?”

  “Well, no, miss,” he replied. “I just didn’t…expect this, frankly.”

  “Well, y’all know why we have to go private, don’t y’all?” the taller woman suddenly interjected in a loud voice tinged with a decidedly southern drawl. “It’s because y’all won’t let women like us join your police force. You git that?”

  “Uh…yes…I understand,” Falconer said slowly. “I…I didn’t mean to insinuate anything…”

  “Well, y’all know why we’re here,” the taller woman stated flatly. “You gonna’ git on board this train or no?”

  “Wait, Miss Johnston,” the shorter woman interrupted. “There’s no reason to get excited here. I’m sure this is all very sudden for the detective sergeant. What do you think, sir? If we have valid information pointing to additional suspects—as we do—would you be interested in wo
rking with us to bring these men to justice?”

  “Well, I suppose I would, uh, Miss Aguilar, is it?” Falconer said. “Anything to help solve the case.”

  He paused as Aguilar smiled and nodded approvingly, and then Johnston broke the silence: “Well, what are we all waitin’ for? Git your jacket, Falconer, and let’s get goin’ here. There’s no time to waste on this, people!”

  He grabbed his jacket off the chair and headed for the hallway, trailing the two ladies who were already leaving him behind as they quickly headed out to the bustling streets of Manhattan.

  Epilogue:

  London Victoria Station

  8:00 p.m. April 4, 1894

  126

  Penwill walked up to Houllier at the end of the loading platform at the crowded Victoria Station. They had been lingering in the area for an hour, searching for Theodule Meunier, who was reputed to be back in England after a two-year jaunt to North America and was supposedly going to be boarding a train at any minute according to intelligence sources. Penwill nodded at his friend and scanned the busy train station.

  “Well, hopefully, we’ll get our man tonight, Prosper,” he said to Houllier. “It’s been a long chase.”

  “Yes, my friend,” Houllier said. “Much too long.”

  “Look,” Penwill said, nodding to his right, “here comes the Old Man himself.”

  Penwill watched as William Melville, the sturdily built head of Scotland Yard’s Special Branch, walked up to them and smiled. “Hello, boys,” he said. “Anything yet?”

  “Nothing, sir,” Penwill replied, “but we still have time.”

  “Indeed, Penwill,” Melville said. “This crafty fox may yet show. Well, keep your eyes peeled, gentlemen.”