Dyke Darrel the Railroad Detective; Or, The Crime of the Midnight Express — Inside the Classic

"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?"

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."

"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."

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."

"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?"

"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."

"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?"

"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."

"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."

"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?"

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

"Very well. Better take something."

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

"Don't fail me now, sir."

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?"

"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."

"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."

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?"

"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."

"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!

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."

"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."

"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."

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

"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.