Dyke Darrel the Railroad Detective

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DYKE DARREL THE RAILROAD DETECTIVE

Or

THE CRIME OF THE MIDNIGHT EXPRESS

By FRANK PINKERTON

1886

CHAPTER I.

A STARTLING CRIME.

"The most audacious crime of my remembrance."

Dyke Darrel flung down the morning paper, damp from the press, and
began pacing the floor.

"What is it, Dyke?" questioned the detective's sister Nell, who at
that moment thrust her head into the room.

Nell was a pretty girl of twenty, with midnight hair and eyes, almost
in direct contrast with her brother, the famous detective, whose deeds
of cunning and daring were the theme of press and people the wide West
over.

"An express robbery," returned Dyke, pausing in front of Nell and
holding up the paper.

"I am sorry," uttered the girl, with a pout. "I shan't have you with
me for the week that I promised myself. I am always afraid something
will happen every time you go out on the trail of a criminal, Dyke."

"And something usually DOES happen," returned the detective, grimly.
"My last detective work did not pan out as I expected, but I do not
consider that entirely off yet. It may be that the one who murdered
Captain Osborne had a hand in this latest crime."

"An express robbery, you say?"

"And murder."

"And murder!"

The young girl's cheek blanched.

"Yes. The express messenger on the Central road was murdered last
night, and booty to the amount of thirty thousand dollars secured."

"Terrible!"

"Yes, it is a bold piece of work, and will set the detectives on the
trail."

"Did you know the murdered messenger, Dyke?"

"It was Arnold Nicholson."

"No?"

The girl reeled, and clutched the table at her side for support. The
name uttered by her brother was that of a friend of the Barrels, a man
of family, and one who had been in the employ of the express company
for many years.

No wonder Nell Darrel was shocked at learning the name of the victim.

"You see how it is, Nell?"

"Yes," returned the girl, recovering her self-possession. "I meant to
ask you to forego this man-hunt, but I see that it would be of no
use."

"Not the least, Nell," returned Dyke, with a compression of the lips.
"I would hunt these scoundrels down without one cent reward. Nicholson
was my friend, and a good one. He helped me once, when to do so was of
great inconvenience to himself. It is my duty to see that his cowardly
assassins are brought to justice."

Even as Dyke Darrel uttered the last words a man ran up to the steps
and opened the front door.

"I hope I don't intrude," he said, as he put his face into the room.

"No; you are always welcome, Elliston," cried Dyke, extending his
hand. The new-comer accepted the proffered hand, then turned and
smiled on Nell. He was a tall man, with smoothly-cut beard and a tinge
of gray in his curling black hair.

Harper Elliston was past thirty, and on the best of terms with Dyke
Darrel and his sister, who considered him a very good friend.

"You have read the news?" Elliston said, as his keen, black eyes
rested on the paper that lay on the table.

"Yes," returned the detective. "It's a most villainous affair."

"One of the worst."

"I was never so shocked," said Nell. "Do you imagine the robbers will
be captured, Mr. Elliston?"

"Certainly, if your brother takes the trail, although I hope he will
not."

"Why do you hope so?" questioned Dyke.

"My dear boy, it's dangerous---"

A low laugh cut short the further speech of Mr. Elliston.

"I supposed you knew me too well, Harper, to imagine that danger ever
deterred Dyke Darrel from doing his duty."

"Of course; but this is a different case. 'Tis said that four men were
engaged in the foul work, and that they belong to a league of
desperate ruffians, as hard to deal with as ever the James and Younger
brothers. Better leave it to the Chicago and St. Louis force, Dyke. I
should hate to see you made the victim of these scoundrels."

Mr. Elliston laid his hand on the detective's arm in a friendly way,
and seemed deeply anxious.

"Harper, are you aware that the murdered messenger was my friend?"

"Was he?"

"Certainly. I would be less than human did I refuse to take the trail
of his vile assassins. You make me blush when you insinuate that
danger should deter me from doing my duty."

"I am not aware that I said such a thing," answered Elliston. "I did
not mean it if I did. It would please me to have you remain off this
trail, however, Dyke. I will see to it that the best Chicago
detectives are set to work; that ought to satisfy you."

"And I sit with my hands folded meantime?"

A look of questioning surprise filled the eyes of Dyke Darrel, as he
regarded Mr. Elliston.

"No. But you promised Nell to take her East this spring, to New York-"

"He did, but I forego that pleasure," cried the girl, quickly. "I
realize that Dyke has a duty to perform in Illinois."

"And so you, too, side with your brother," cried Mr. Elliston, forcing
a laugh. "In that case, I surrender at discretion."

Dyke picked up and examined the paper once more. "DIED FOR DUTY. BOLD
AND BLOODY CRIME AT NIGHT ON THE CENTRAL RAILROAD."

That was the heading to the article announcing the assassination of
the express messenger. The train on which the deed had been committed,
had left Chicago at ten in the evening, and at one o'clock, when the
train was halted at a station, the deed was discovered. Arnold
Nicholson was found with his skull crushed and his body terribly
beaten, while, in the bloody hands of the dead, was clutched a tuft of
red hair. This went to show that one of the messenger's assailants was
a man with florid locks.

Leaving Nell and Mr. Elliston together, Dyke Darrel hastened to the
station. He was aware that a train would pass in ten minutes, and he
wished to enter Chicago and make an examination for himself. The
detective's home was on one of the many roads crossing Illinois, and
entering the Garden City--about an hour's ride from the Gotham of the
West.

In less than two hours after reading the notice of the crime on the
midnight express. Dyke Darrel was in Chicago. He visited the body of
the murdered messenger, and made a brief examination. It was at once
evident to Darrel, that Nicholson had made a desperate fight for life,
but that he had been overpowered by a superior force.

A reward of ten thousand dollars was already offered for the detection
and punishment of the outlaws.

"Poor Arnold!" murmured Dyke Darrel, as he gazed at the bruised and
battered corpse. "I will not rest until the wicked demons who
compassed this foul work meet with punishment!"

There were still several shreds of hair between the fingers of the
dead, when Dyke Darrel made his examination, since the body had just
arrived from the scene of the murder.

The detective secured several of the hairs, believing they might help
him in his future movements. Darrel made one discovery that he did not
care to communicate to others; it was a secret that he hoped might
lead to results in the future. What the discovery was, will be
disclosed in the progress of our story.

Soon after the body of the murdered a messenger was removed to his
home, from which the funeral was to take place.

As Dyke Darrel was passing from the rooms of the undertaker, a hand
fell on his shoulder.

"You are a detective?"

Dyke Darrel looked into a smooth, boyish face, from which a pair of
brown eyes glowed.

"What is it you wish?" Darrel demanded, bluntly.

"I wish to make a confidant of somebody."

"Well, go on."

"First tell me if you are a detective."

"You may call me one."

"It's about that poor fellow you've just been interviewing," said the
young stranger. "I am Watson Wilkes, and I was on the train, in the
next car, when poor Nicholson was murdered. I was acting as brakeman
at the time. Do you wish to hear what I can tell?"

CHAPTER II.

DYKE DARREL'S TRICK.

"Certainly I do," cried the detective. "Come with me, and we will find
a place where we can talk without danger of interruption."

The two men moved swiftly down the street. At length Dyke Darrel
entered a well-known restaurant on Randolph street, secured a private
stall, and then bade Mr. Wilks proceed. Both men were seated at a
small table.

"Shan't I order the wine?"

"No," answered Dyke, with a frown. "We need clear brains for the work
in hand. If you know aught of this monstrous crime, tell it at once."

"I do know a considerable," said Mr. Wilks. "I was the first man who
discovered Arnold Nicholson after he'd been shot. The safe was in the
very car that I occupied. I saw the men get the swag. There were three
of them."

"Go on."

"They all wore mask, so of course I could not tell who they were; but
I've an idea that they were from Chicago."

"Why have you such an idea?"

"Because I saw three suspicious chaps get on at Twenty-second street.
I think they are the chaps who killed poor Arnold, and got away with
the money in the safe."

"Did you recognize them?"

"No--that is, I'm not positive; but I think one of 'm was a chap that
is called Skinny Joe, a hard pet, who used to work in a saloon on
Clark street."

"Indeed."

"Yes. It might be well to keep your eye out in that quarter."

"It might," admitted Dyke Darrel. "This is all you know regarding the
midnight tragedy?"

"Oh, no; I can give you more particulars."

"Let's have them, then."

"But see here, how am I to know that you are a detective? I might get
sold, you know," replied Mr. Wilks in a suspicious tone.

Dyke Darrel lifted the lapel of his coat, exposing a silver star.

"All right," returned Mr. Wilks, with a nod. "I'm of the opinion that
Skinny Joe's about the customer you need to look after, captain. I'll
go down with you to the fellow's old haunts, and we'll see what we can
find."

Mr. Wilks seemed tremendously interested. Dyke Darrel was naturally
suspicious, and he was not ready to swallow everything his companion
said as law and gospel. Of course the large reward was a stimulant for
men to be on the lookout for the midnight train robbers; and Mr.
Wilks' interest must be attributable to this.

"You see, I was Arnold Nicholson's friend, and I'd go a long ways to
see the scoundrels get their deserts who killed him, even if there was
no reward in the case," explained the brakeman suddenly.

"Certainly," answered Dyke Darrel. "I can understand how one employed
on the same train could take the deepest interest in such a sad
affair."

"Will you go down on Clark street with me?"

"Not just now."

"When?"

"I will meet you here this evening, and consult on that point."

"Very well. Better take something."

"No; not now."

Dyke Barrel rose to his feet and turned to leave the stall.

"Don't fail me now, sir."

"I will not."

The detective walked out. The moment he was gone a change came over
the countenance of the young brakeman. The pleasant look vanished, and
one dark and wicked took its place.

"Go, Dyke Darrel; I am sharp enough to understand you. You distrust
me; but you're fooled all the same. It's strange you've forgotten the
boy you sent to prison from St. Louis five years ago for passing
counterfeit coin. I haven't forgotten it; and, what is more, I mean to
get even."

Then, with a grating of even white teeth, Watson Wilks passed out. At
the bar he paused long enough to toss off a glass of brandy, and then
he went out upon the street.

It was a raw April day, and the air cut like a knife. After glancing
up and down the street Mr. Wilks moved away. On reaching Clark street
he hurried along that thoroughfare toward the south. Arriving in a
disreputable neighborhood, he entered the side door of a dingy brick
building, and stood in the presence of a woman, who sat mending a pair
of old slippers by the light afforded by a narrow window.

"Madge Scarlet, I've found you alone, it seems."

"I'm generally alone," said the female, not offering to move.

She was past the prime of life, and there were many crow's feet on a
face that had once been beautiful. Her dress was plain, and not the
neatest. The room was small, and there were few articles of furniture
on the uncarpeted floor.

"Madge, where are Nick and Sam?"

"I can't tell you."

"Haven't they been here to-day?"

"No, not in three days." "That seems strange."

"It doesn't to me. They are out working the tramp dodge, in the
country, or into some worse iniquity, Watson. I do wish you would quit
such company, and try and behave yourself."

At this the young man gave vent to a sarcastic laugh.

"Now, Aunt Madge, what an idea! Do you suppose your dear nephew could
do anything wrong? Aren't I a pattern of perfection?"

Watson Wilks drew himself up and looked as solemn as an owl. This did
not serve to bring a pleased expression to the woman's face, however.
As she said nothing, the young man proceeded:

"I'm working on the railroad now, Madge, and haven't turned a
dishonest penny in a long time. Of course you heard of the robbery of
the midnight express down in the central part of the State last night?
Some of the morning papers have an account of it."

"I hadn't heard."

"Well, then, I will tell you about it;" and Mr. Wilks gave a brief
account of the terrible tragedy that had shocked the land. "It's a
regular Jesse James affair, and there's a big reward offered for the
outlaws."

The woman seemed interested then, and looked hard at her nephew.

"Watson, I hope you know nothing of this work?"

"Of course I know something of it," he answered quickly. "I returned
in charge of the dead body of the messenger. I was in the next car
when he was killed, and one of the robbers put his pistol to my head
and threatened to blow my brains out if I said or did anything. You
can just bet I kept mighty still."

"I should think so. This'll make a tremendous stir," returned the
woman. "The country'll be full of man-trackers and it'll go hard with
the outlaws if they're captured."

"You bet; but they won't be captured." "You are confident?"

"I've a right to be. I---"

Then the young man ceased to speak suddenly, and his face became
deeply suffused.

The woman sprang up then and went to the young man's side, laying her
hand on his shoulder.

"Watson, tell me truly that you don't know who committed this crime."

"Bother!" and he flung her hand from his shoulder with an impatient
movement. "I hope you ain't going to turn good all to once, Madge
Scarlet. I tell you, thirty thousand dollars ain't to be sneezed at,
and I do need money--but of course _I_ don't know a thing about who
did it, of course not; but I can tell you one thing, old lady, Dyke
Barrel is on the trail, and he is even now in Chicago."

"Dyke Darrel!"

"That's who, Madam."

For some moments a silence fell over the two that was absolutely
painful. At length the woman found her voice.

"Dyke Barrel! Ah! fiend of Missouri, I have good cause to remember you
and your work. Do you know, Watson, the fate of your poor uncle?"

"Well, I should smile if I didn't," answered the young man. "He died
in a Missouri dungeon, sent there by this same Dyke Darrel, the
railroad man-tracker. Hate him? Of course you do, but not as I do. I
have sworn to have revenge for the five years I laid in a dungeon for
shoving the queer."

"And Dyke Darrel is now in Chicago?"

"Yes. I parted from him not an hour since."

"What is he here for?"

"The crime on the midnight express brings him here."

"And you saw and talked with him?"

"I did."

"He recognized you of course?"

"No, he did not; that is the best of it. I am to meet him again to-
night. It won't be long before the man who sent Uncle Dan to a
Missouri dungeon is in your presence, and you shall do with him as you
like, Madge Scarlet."

"As I like?"

"I have said it."

"Then Dyke Darrel shall die!"

"That's the talk," Madge. "THAT sounds like your old self; I am glad
you have come to your senses. If Nick and Sam come in, tell them to be
in readiness to receive a visitor."

Then the young man turned on his heel and abruptly left the room. Just
as the shades of night were falling Watson Wilks peered into the
saloon and restaurant where he had parted from Dyke Darrel earlier in
the day.

He saw nothing of the detective.

"It is time he was here," muttered the young man. "Dyke Darrel is
generally prompt in filling engagements."

"Always prompt, MARTIN SKIDWAY!"

The young villain staggered back against the iron railing near, as
though stricken a blow in the face.

Unconsciously he had uttered his thoughts aloud, and the voice that
uttered the reply was hissed almost in his ear.

Dyke Darrel stood before him.

The detective's face wore a stern look, which was suddenly discarded
for a smile.

"I am prompt in filling engagements," said Darrel, after a moment.
"You see I have at last recognized you, and the walls of the prison
from which you escaped shall again envelop you."

And then a sharp click was heard. The fraudulent brakeman held up his
arms helplessly--they were safely secured with handcuffs!

CHAPTER III.

PROFESSOR DARLINGTON RUGGLES.

It would be hard to find a more completely astounded person than the
one calling himself Watson Wilks at that moment.

The noted detective had outwitted him completely.

It was humiliating, to say the least.

"This is an outrage!" at length the young villain found voice to
utter. "I will call on the police for assistance if you do not at once
remove these bracelets."

"Do so if you like," answered Dyke Darrel, coolly; so icily in fact as
to deter the young man from carrying out his threat. It might be that
the detective would delight in turning him over to the Chicago police,
a consummation that the fellow dreaded more than aught else.

"Come with me, and make no trouble. You will do so, if you know when
you are well off," said Dyke Darrel significantly.

And Wilks walked along peacefully, allowing the sleeves of his coat to
hide the handcuffs. After going a few blocks, the detective hailed a
hack, and pushing his prisoner before him, entered and ordered the
driver to make all speed for the Union depot.

"What does this mean?" demanded the prisoner, with assumed
indignation.

"It means that you will take a trip South for your health, my friend."

"To St. Louis?"

"You have guessed it, Skidway."

A troubled look touched the face of the escaped prisoner.

"Why do you call me by that name, Dyke Darrel?"

"Because that IS your name. You have five years unexpired term yet to
serve in the Missouri penitentiary, and I conceive it my duty to see
that you keep the contract."

"A contract necessarily requires two parties. I never agreed to serve
the State."

"Well, we won't argue the point."

"But I am in the employ of the railroad company, and will lose my
place---"

"You gain another one, so it doesn't matter," retorted the detective.
"No use making a fuss, Mr. Skidway; you cannot evade the punishment
which awaits you. Any confession you choose to make I am willing to
hear. The late tragedy, for instance?"

"You'll get nothing out of me."

"I am sorry,"

"Of course you are. Did you recognize me when we first met?"

"No. It was an afterthought."

"I thought so. You shall suffer for this. You've got the wrong man,
Mr. Darrel."

"You seem to know me."

"Everybody does."

"You flatter me."

"My name isn't Skidway, but Wilks, and I can prove it."

"Do so."

"Release me and I will."

"I'm not that green."

The prisoner muttered angrily. He realized that he was fairly caught,
and that it was too late now to think of deceiving the famous
detective.

Dyke Darrel had recognized in the young man calling himself Watson
Wilks an old offender, who had made his escape from the Missouri State
prison three months before, and he at once surmised that the young
counterfeiter, who was a hard case, might have had a hand in the
murder and robbery of the express messenger. Reasoning thus, the
detective decided upon promptly arresting the fellow before proceeding
to search further. It would be safer to have Skidway in prison than at
large in any event.

More than one pair of eyes had watched the departure of Dyke Darrel
and his prisoner from Chicago, and a little later a bearded man, with
deep-set, twinkling eyes, and the general look of a hard pet, thrust
his head into Madge Scarlet's little room, and said:

"It are all up with the kid, Mrs. Scarlet."

"What's that you say?"

The woman came to her feet and confronted the new-comer with an
interested look.

"It's all up with the kid."

"Come in, Nick Brower, and let me have a look at your face. I want no
lies now," cried the woman sharply; and the man drew himself into a
little room, and stood regarding the female with a grin.

"Now let me hear what you've got to tell," demanded Mrs. Scarlet.

"It's ther kid--"

"Watson?"

"Yesum."

"Well, what has happened to him, man? Can't you speak?"

"He's took."

"Took?"

"Nabbed. Got the darbies on and gone South a wisitin'."

"Do you mean to say that Watson has been arrested?"

"I do, mam," grunted Brower. "He's well out of town, goin' South, and
I reckin he'll be in Jeffe'son City before we hear from him agin. I
seed him a-goin' with my own eyes."

"How did it happen?"

The man explained how young Skidway had been seized and taken on board
the train by Dyke Darrel.

"You are sure his captor was Dyke Darrel?"

"I ain't blind, I reckon," growled the man. "I heard sufficient to
tell me that the detective was takin' the kid back to Missoury, and
that was enough for me."

"Why did you permit it?"

A laugh answered the woman.

"You might have saved the boy," pursued Mrs. Scarlet, angrily. "Now he
will spend another five years in the dungeon where my poor man died of
a broken heart. Watson told me that the infamous Dyke Darrel was in
Chicago; but I had no thought of his recognizing the boy. Can you lend
me some money, Nick?"

"A purty question, Madge. Don't you know I'm always dead-broke?"
growled Brower. "What in the nation do you want with money any how?"

"I'm going to St. Louis."

"No?"

"I am. If Dyke Darrel puts my boy behind prison bars again, I will
have no mercy. It's life for life. I am tired of living, and am
willing to die to revenge myself on that miserable detective."

Mrs. Scarlet began pacing the room. She was deeply moved, and tears of
anger and sorrow glittered in her eyes. She was about to utter a
fierce tirade against the detective, when a step sounded without,
followed immediately by three raps on the door.

"Whist!" exclaimed Brower. "It is the Professor."

Madge Scarlet crossed the floor and admitted a visitor, a tall man
with fire-red hair and beard, who was well clad and wore blue glasses.
A plug hat, rather the worse for wear, was lifted and caressed
tenderly with one arm as the gentleman bowed before Mrs. Scarlet.

"I am pleased to find you at home, Mrs. Scarlet."

"I seldom go out, Mr. Ruggles, or Professor Darlington Ruggles, I
suppose."

"Never mind the handle, madam. I see you have company." The Professor
turned a keen glance on Nick Brower as he spoke.

CHAPTER IV.

SCALPED.

The gentleman is a friend," said Mrs. Scarlet. "You need not fear to
speak before him."

"I hain't no wish to hear any private talk," said Nick Brower, and
with that he cast a keen, knowing look into the visitor's face, and
passed from the room.

"We're alone, Professor."

"So it seems."

"What news do you bring?"

"Have you heard of the midnight express robbery?"

"I have."

"And that Dyke Darrel is on the trail?"

"I have heard all that, and more," said the woman. "My nephew has been
arrested and taken to Missouri by this same infamous Dyke Darrel. It
was an awful blow to me; it leaves me entirely alone in the world. I
am ready to do anything to compass the ruin of the detective who
brought me to this."

"I am glad to hear you say it, madam. I came here for advice and help.
I assure you that it is highly necessary for all of us that Dyke
Darrel be removed."

"Well?"

"He might be enticed here, and quietly disposed of."

"Will you entice him?"

"I might; but---"

"Well?" as the man hesitated.

"You see, I've got a place to fill in the world, and don't want to mix
with anything that's unlawful," and the Professor stroked his red
beard in a solemn manner.

"Yet you would be glad to see Dyke Darrel dead?"

"Hush, woman! Walls have ears. You are imprudent. I have nothing
against Mr. Darrel in particular, only he has injured my friends, and
may be up to more of his tricks. Now, as regards Watson Wilks, you say
Dyke Darrel has gone to Missouri with the boy in charge?"

"Yes. The last friend I had in the world has been torn from me, to
languish in prison. I will have the detective's heart's blood for
this," cried the woman, with passionate vehemence.

"Of course," agreed the Professor. "But of what crime was the young
man accused? Not the one on the midnight express, I hope?" The tall
visitor bent eagerly forward then, and penetrated the woman with a
keen gaze.

"No, no," was the quick reply. "I know that Martin had no hand in
that."

"Martin?"

"Watson, I mean," corrected Mrs. Scarlet. "I sometimes call the boy
Martin, which is his middle name, so he has a right to it."

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