Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks and the
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DYKE DARREL THE RAILROAD DETECTIVE
Or
THE CRIME OF THE MIDNIGHT EXPRESS
By FRANK PINKERTON
1886
CONTENTS
I. A STARTLING CRIME.
II. DYKE DARREL'S TRICK.
III. PROFESSOR DARLINGTON RUGGLES.
IV. SCALPED.
V. ELLISTON'S REBUFF.
VI. DYKE DARREL'S DANGER.
VII. WHAT A HANDKERCHIEF REVEALED.
VIII. A PLUNGE TO DEATH.
IX. WORDS THAT STARTLE.
X. BLACK HOLLOW.
XI. POOR SIBYL!
XII. A BURNING TRAP.
XIII. A SAD FATE.
XIV. DYKE DARREL ASTOUNDED.
XV. A BAFFLED VILLAIN.
XVI. NELL MISSING.
XVII NELL IN THE TOILS.
XVIII. BEATEN BACK.
XIX. THE DETECTIVE FOOLED.
XX. OVERMATCHED BY A GIRL.
XXI. A BOUT IN THE CELLAR.
XXII. THE EMPTY SEAT.
XXIII. DYKE DARREL ON THE TRAIL.
XXIV. A RACE FOR LIFE.
XXV. SAVED!
XXVI. THE MYSTERIOUS WART.
XXVII. THE STORY OF A WART.
XXVIII. THE REVELATIONS OF A SATCHEL.
XXIX. RETRIBUTION.
WON BY CRIME
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?"