Chapter 127: Downfall

Heavy leather boots pounded against the hardwood floorboards of the ground level as Lieutenant Gustav Feldman barked his orders from the entryway.

​"Secure every door! Search every office and storeroom!" Gustav shouted, waving his hand toward the hallway. "If anyone tries to run, drop ’em! Secure every ledger, manifest, and scrap of paper you find!"

​His two sergeants and a squad of twelve precinct patrolmen scattered through the ground floor, heavy hickory nightsticks drawn.

​A moment later, Sergeant Miller trotted back out from the loading bay behind the main shopfront, his face pale with confusion. "Lieutenant... there’s nothing here, sir."

​Gustav frowned, stepping into the back area. "What do you mean, nothing?"

​"I mean it’s bare, sir," Miller said, gesturing to the open floor. "No crates, no whiskey barrels, no sacks of flour. Not even a speck of saw-dust on the boards. The whole floor’s completely cleared out."

​Gustav’s brow furrowed. "Check the upper floors. Move! Don’t let anyone escape onto the fire escapes!"

​The patrolmen hurried up the central staircase, their boots clattering on the steps. On the second floor, officers kicked open three separate storeroom doors, only to find empty wooden pallets stacked neatly against the brick walls. On the third and fourth floors, they found empty offices with bare desks and hollow supply closets.

​Finally, on the fifth floor, Sergeant Miller gathered six patrolmen at the far end of the corridor outside the primary corner office. Gustav stepped up beside them, unholstering his service revolver. He nodded to Miller, who kicked the heavy oak door open with a loud thud.

​Ricky sat quietly behind his mahogany desk, his hands resting flat against the polished surface. He didn’t jump or reach for a weapon. He simply looked up at the armed officers entering his office.

​Gustav stepped into the room, keeping his revolver raised. "Richard Stevenson. By order of Captain Herman Thompson, you are under arrest."

​Ricky tilted his head slightly. "On what charge, Lieutenant?"

​"You are suspected of orchestrating gang violence that led to the murder of seven innocent civilians and twenty-three gang members across the ward," Gustav declared, his voice ringing out in the quiet room. "You are also suspected of running illegal contraband and tax evasion."

​Ricky didn’t argue or protest. He stood up slowly, stepping out from behind his desk, and offered his wrists to the sergeant.

​Gustav smiled faintly as Sergeant Miller slapped the cold iron handcuffs around Ricky’s wrists, clicking them tight. "Where are your men, Stevenson? Where’s all the liquor you’ve been running through Greenwich?"

​Ricky looked directly into Gustav’s eyes, remaining completely silent.

​Gustav scoffed, waving his hand to the patrolmen. "Escort him down to the carriage."

​As the officers led Ricky down the staircase, Gustav turned to Miller. "Leave four men posted outside this building. Keep a watchful perimeter around the block. Anyone who tries to step foot inside this front door gets arrested immediately."

​"Yes, sir," Miller replied.

​Outside on Hudson Street, a crowd of curious tenement residents had gathered on the sidewalk. Patrolmen shoved them back with their nightsticks as Ricky was guided into the back of a black police wagon. The iron door slammed shut, and the driver whipped the horses into a trot.

​Gustav mounted his horse and trotted down across Hudson Street, leaving the wagon convoy behind. Across the avenue, a man wearing a dark flat cap stood waiting under a brick archway. Gustav pulled his horse up alongside the curb, and the man stepped forward, discreetly slipping a thick paper envelope into the lieutenant’s coat pocket.

​"Pleasure doing business with the Ninth Precinct, Lieutenant," the man said in a low voice.

​"Where’s the warehouse key?" Gustav asked.

​"Don’t need a key," the man replied, gesturing to three enforcers standing behind him holding heavy iron crowbars.

​They stepped up to the sliding freight doors of Atlantic & Pacific’s primary Hudson Street warehouse. With a loud screech of tearing metal, the men wedged the crowbars under the padlock clasp and snapped the iron fitting cleanly off the timber.

​They slammed the heavy wooden doors open, stepping inside with lanterns raised.

​The interior was completely, utterly empty. Dust motes drifted through the vast, hollow space. Thousands of square feet of concrete floor sat completely bare under the high rafters.

​The man in the flat cap stared into the empty cavern, his jaw slumping. "Jesus Christ..."

​Gustav leaned over his saddle, staring into the dark warehouse. "Where’s all the stuff?"

​The man turned around slowly, his face pale. "Frank’s not gonna like this... Let’s get out of here." He waved his men off, hurrying down the alleyway while Gustav sat on his horse, staring into the void.

​An hour later, Ricky was brought through the heavy rear entrance of the Ninth Precinct station house.

​Two broad-shouldered precinct guards led him down a narrow flight of damp stone steps into the basement holding cells. The air down here smelled of damp lime, rust, and stale sweat.

​"Strip ’em down," a guard ordered flatly.

​They unbuttoned Ricky’s coat, tossed his vest and trousers onto a wooden bench, and stripped him down to his white cotton drawers. He was marched into a narrow stone cell with a iron-ringed wall. They pulled his hands above his head, locking his wrists into iron shackles bolted directly into the stone.

​"Captain says you need to learn some manners before trial," one of the guards muttered, pulling a heavy hickory nightstick from his belt.

​The two guards stepped up, swinging the wooden clubs with full force.

​Thud. Thud.

​The hickory wood struck Ricky’s ribs, back, and shoulders with dull, heavy impacts. Ricky didn’t scream or give them the satisfaction of a plea. He simply gritted his teeth, tightened his core, and let his body absorb the strikes, curling his limbs inward as far as the chains would allow.

​After five brutal minutes, the guards blew out a breath, wiping sweat from their foreheads.

​"Cold bastard didn’t even yell," one grumbled, tossing his club onto a bench outside the bars. They slammed the iron cell door shut, turning off the lantern on the wall and leaving the basement corridor in pitch darkness.

​Inside the dark cell, Ricky hung from his shackles. His breathing was slow and measured.

​Beneath his skin, his 120 Vitality stat kicked in with quiet efficiency. The deep purplish bruises forming along his ribs began to fade instantly. Fractured capillaries sealed themselves, swollen tissue smoothed out, and the aching deep within his joints vanished like smoke in the wind.

​Within two minutes, the pain was entirely gone. The only physical trace of the beating was a thin smudge of dried blood on his lower lip.

​Ricky let out a long, quiet breath in the dark, resting his forehead against the cool iron of his shackles.

​Upstairs in the precinct captain’s private office, the morning sun shone brightly through the clean glass windows.

​Captain Herman Thompson sat behind his mahogany desk, picking up a crystal decanter and pouring two heavy glasses of rye whiskey. He slid one across the blotter toward Frank Knox, who sat in the leather armchair opposite him, his dark wool coat unbuttoned.

​"So?" Thompson asked, taking a sip from his glass. "Did your boys find anything down at his Hudson Street warehouse?"

​Frank picked up his tumbler, taking a slow drink. His face was cold, his eyes dark. "As expected... we found nothing. The place was cleaned out to the bare concrete."

​Thompson sighed, shaking his head. "Yeah, well, my men didn’t fare any better. Five stories of office space and not a single ledger, manifest, or crate of contraband. There’s no physical evidence we can file against the man, Frank."

​Frank leaned forward, resting his glass on the corner of the desk. "My street captains already have their testimonies rehearsed, Captain. They’ll state under oath that Stevenson personally supplied the illegal goods and the whiskey that ignited the riot on Gansevoort. We plant a few cases of un-taxed liquor in his cellar tonight, and your officers can ’discover’ it tomorrow morning."

​Thompson tilted his head. "You’re bound and determined to put him away, aren’t you?"

​"Even if you say I cannot kill him in the street because he’s a public figure with newspaper connections," Frank said, a cold, terrifying smile touching his lips, "in front of the law and in front of the electric chair at Sing Sing, the public can’t do anything but watch. He dies either way."

​Thompson chuckled softly, nodding. "Yep. That always works. Though it really is quite unfortunate you can’t avenge your brother with your own two hands. Leaving it to the state takes the flavor out of it."

​Frank stood up, adjusting his necktie. "I’ll handle that part myself. I’m going downstairs to check up on him—rough him up a little bit before your boys haul him off to the magistrate."

​Thompson raised a hand. "Let two of my patrolmen go down with you, Frank. Just in case he gets wild."

​"No need, Captain," Frank replied coldly. "I’ll have my own men with me. And don’t worry... I won’t kill him in your basement."

​Thompson hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Fine. But I’m still sending my men down to watch the spectacle. I don’t need a corpse in my holding cells before the District Attorney sees him."

​"That’s fine," Frank said. "He can enjoy the show."

​Frank turned and walked out of the office, closing the door behind him.

​Thompson picked up his whiskey glass again, leaning back in his chair. A minute later, a firm knock sounded at his door.

​"Come in," Thompson called out.

​The door opened, and Captain William Kearney stepped into the office, his polished brass buttons gleaming under the electric light. He held his leather cap tucked under his arm.

​Thompson looked up, raising an eyebrow. "Ah, Captain Kearney. What can I do for you this morning?"

​Kearney stood straight, his expression calm and professional. "I’m going to need an audience with your new suspect, Captain Thompson. Richard Stevenson."

​Thompson paused, setting his glass down on his blotter. He studied Kearney’s face for a long second before speaking smoothly. "Ah... you’ll have to wait a bit on that, William. My detectives are conducting a preliminary interrogation downstairs as we speak."

​Kearney’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he kept his posture rigid. "I see. Thank you, Captain." He tipped his head slightly, turned on his heel, and walked back out into the hallway, shutting the door cleanly behind him.

​Left alone once again, Thompson looked at the closed door. A brief, uneasy thought crossed his mind—a sudden, lingering doubt over whether hauling Richard Stevenson into his precinct was going to bring far more trouble down on his head than Tammany Hall had promised.

​He shook his head, taking another drink of whiskey, and returned to his paperwork.