 CHAPTER XXVIII. The revelations of a satchel. Hello, old man. A. The man stopped, stared at Harry Bernard as if puzzled, and then began to grin. I want to speak with you, sir. Sorten, sorten, you can. Who are you? Sam Wiggs, a yonkers. What can I do for you, mister? The old fellow seemed honest enough, and as Harry glanced at the dirty hands, he saw nothing to excite his suspicions. Are you a relative of Mr. Naming the farmer who owned the place on which they stood? Well, not as I knows on. Laughing until his old head seemed ready to topple from his shoulders. No blood relation, any, sir. You see, my wife's cousins, aunts, husbands, brother, Jerry was a cousin to Nicodemus Dunn's, who if I don't disremember was related in some way to Isaac or Pete's wife's sister, and since she was this year man's niece or something of that sort, but we ain't blood-related know-how. I should think not, answered Harry, and then he returned to the house, while the old man wids proceeded, unmolested, on his way. At a first glance he did resemble the man of the immigrant train strongly, muttered Bernard, but I see now that I was mistaken. Well, how did you make out, Harry? This was from Dyke Darrell, who had been watching proceedings from the window. A case of mistaken identity, answered the young man with a laugh. I was sure I had found the right man when I saw that old chap crossing the yard, but it seems that I was mistaken. Are you sure of it? I suppose I am. Dyke Darrell watched the retreating form of the old man with no little curiosity, however, until his bent form was lost to view down the winding road. Naturally suspicious, the detective more than half believed that the seemingly aged man had not come to the farmhouse for any good purpose. I can't help thinking that Wiggs, as he called himself, is destined to give us trouble, Harry, the detective said at length. An inoffensive old man, asserted Bernard. At the same time, however, he was not fully content to let the matter rest as it was. It might be well enough to watch the old fellow at any rate, said Dyke Darrell, rising and walking twice across the room, peering nervously out of the window in the direction in which old Wiggs had gone. Keep quiet, Dyke, said Bernard. I will shadow the old fellow and see if he is other than he seems. Bernard was on the point of leaving the room when a youth appeared, walking swiftly toward the farmhouse from the direction of the station. One glance suffice to show both men the genial face of the boy, Paul Ender. So you have Paul with you, Harry, said the detective with a pleased smile. He is my shadow, and I have found him true and brave, answered Harry, at the same time glancing toward Nell, who had told him of the lad's defense of her against the villain, Elliston. I can testify to his bravery, said the girl. Paul and I are great friends. A minute later young Ender entered the presence of the trio and deposited a black satchel in the middle of the floor. I have committed a theft, said the boy, with a queer look on his face, and I am here to throw myself on the mercy of the court. You speak in riddles, said Bernard. I have been on a bully lay, as the pealers say, and I believe I have made a discovery, although it may amount to nothing after all. Go on. I've seen the man with the red hair and beard. When? Where? Over by the depot. I saw him go into an old out-house with this satchel in his hand. Indeed! Go on. I was on the watch, and when he came out I saw not brother Ruggles, but a lean old man, with white locks and beard who seemed to walk with great difficulty. Ah, indeed! He hobbled away and failed to take the satchel with him. At first I could not believe that the sorrel gent and the old chap were the same. I learned this by investigation. When, after waiting a spell, and no sunset-haired gent came forth, I proceeded to investigate, and found this satchel, which, under the law of military necessity, I proceeded to confiscate, that the ends of justice might be furthered. If I have done wrong I am ready to throw myself on the mercy of the court, and be forgiven. You have done right, cried Dyke Darrell. Have you opened this satchel? No, it is locked, and I have not a key that will fit. Cried Bernard produced several keys, none of which fitted the lock to the satchel. What are we to do, cried Bernard? The satchel is securely locked, and its owner has the key. This is no time for ceremony or undue squeamishness, uttered Dyke Darrell. We are on the eve of an important discovery, and I propose to make no delays. Then, drawing a knife from his pocket, the detective bent over the satchel and slit the sides at one stroke. That will open it if a key won't, he remarked, with a grim satisfaction. The contents of the satchel were a revelation. Red wigs and a complete suit of clothes, besides paints and powders. Harry uttered an exclamation. Just as I suspected, uttered Dyke Darrell, you made no mistake when you suspected that old man who just now left this vicinity. Doubtless he forgot his satchel, or else thought it safe until his return. Paul, my boy, you have done a good thing, and shall be promoted. You must now make it a point to intercept old wigs. Doubtless he has gone to the depot. How far is that from here? Two miles. When does the train pass, questioned Dyke Darrell? I cannot say, nor I. Ask the farmer's wife. Paul sped from the room. The New York Express goes in ten minutes, said the boy, on his return. In ten minutes? Then we have no time to lose, cried Dyke, turning to the door. Dyke, what would you do, demanded Nell at this moment. Consider your enemy in mind. But you are not strong enough to take the trail. Stay with me. He interrupted her with, Nell, I never felt stronger in my life. I mean to put the bracelets on the villain's wrists with my own hands. Dyke, leave it to me, urged Harry Bernard. But the detective's blood was up, and he would listen to no one. He was determined to be in at the death, and, for the time, his old strength seemed coursing in his veins. He hastened from the house, and, ascertaining that a horse was in the barn, he at once sprang to the animal's back. You are unarmed, said Bernard. Yes, but take this, I will follow quickly. And the young man thrust a revolver into the hand of Dyke Darrell. Do nothing rash until help arrives, Dyke. Our game is desperate, and will fight hard if cornered. I am aware of that, but I do not fear him. Ha! What is that? The roar of the train. Then time is short. The horse and rider shot away down the country road like an arrow, or a bird. On and on with the speed of the wind, and yet the lightning express made even greater speed than did the detective's horse. With a roar and a rush the train swept past. Too late. Dyke Darrell drew rain at the depot just as the train swept madly away on its course to the great city, and on the rear platforms to the old man who had peered into the farmhouse window but a short time before. It was an aggravating situation. You can use the telegraph, suggested the depot agent, when Darrell unboosomed himself to him. Quick! Send word to the next station and have the man detained. The ticket agent went to his instrument and ticked off the desired information. A little later came the reply. No such person on the train. A malediction fell from the detective's lips. Was his enemy to thus outwit him always? End of CHAPTER XXVIII. CHAPTER XXIX of Dyke Darrell. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Dyke Darrell, the railroad detective, or The Crime of the Midnight Express, by Frank Pinkerton. CHAPTER XXIX RETRIBUTION. A tall, handsome man of middle age stood picking his teeth with a jaunty air beside the desk of a downtown boarding-house, when his occupation, if such we may call it, was interrupted by a touch on his arm. Looking down, the gentleman saw a small ragged urchin standing near. It is yarn, ten cents, please. The boy held out a yellow envelope, on which was scrawled the name Harper Elliston. The gentleman dropped the required bit of silver into the boy's hand with the air of a king, and then tore open the envelope. Mr. Elliston, meet me at room 14, number 388 Blank Street, at 7 this evening, sharp. B. The contents of the envelope puzzled Mr. Elliston, who had been but ten days in New York since his return from the West. He had several acquaintances whose names might, with appropriateness, be signed B. I don't think there will be any harm in meeting Mr. B. at the place mentioned. It may be of importance, as he says. If it should be a trap sent by Dyke Darrell, but, shaw, that man is dead. I had it from the lips of Martin Skidway, and he knew wherever he spoke. I will call it 388, let the consequences be what they may. Thus decided a cunning villain, and in so doing went to his own doom. Ten days had Dyke Darrell and his friend Bernard search the city of New York, ere they found their prey. Once found, the detective resolved upon a novel manner of procedure for his capture. The sending of the letter was part of the scheme. Had this failed, then a bolder move would have been made, but it did not fail. When Mr. Elliston wrapped at room 14, number 388 Blank Street, the door was opened, admitting the visitor to a small room containing a bed, a few necessary articles of furniture, and a curtained alcove. The door was suddenly closed and locked behind Elliston. Light was turned on fully, and then the visitor found himself confronted by Harry Bernard, whom he had met once or twice in Woodburg many months before. A. ejaculated Elliston. So you are the man who wrote that note requesting an interview? Well I am glad to see you, Mr. Bernard, and Elliston held out his hand with a smile reading his thin lips. I imagined you would be, returned to youth, I am glad to see you so well. Fact is, you are badly wanted out in Illinois at the present time. I am sorry that I cannot accommodate my friends out there, returned Elliston with a frown, but it is wholly out of the question. I think I will bid you good evening, Mr. Bernard. I cannot waste precious time here. He turned and grasped the doorknob. It did not yield to his touch. Not just yet, Mr. Elliston, I wish to ask you a few questions. Well, what do you know of the murder of Arnold Nicholson on the Midnight Express, south of Chicago, some weeks ago? I read of it, of course. Mr. Elliston pulled nervously at his glove as he answered. What do you know of the disappearance of Captain Osborne in the death of his daughter, persisted Bernard? You suppose I have nothing to do but answer such nonsensical questions, demanded Elliston angrily, open the store and let me pass out? Not yet. I wish to tell you a little story, Mr. Elliston. I haven't time to listen. Nevertheless, you must take the time, said Harry Bernard sternly. Don't attempt to make trouble, sir. You will get the worst of it if you do. There was a glitter in the eyes of the speaker that was not pleasant to see. Mr. Elliston sank to a chair, and with an air of resignation said, Well, well, this is impudent, but I will listen if it will gratify you. It certainly will. I wish to start out with the assertion that you do know something about the crime on the Midnight Express, and I will try and convince you that I know what part you acted in the murder of one of the best men in the service of the express company. Don't lose your temper, sir, but listen. I am listening. There was a sullen echo in the man's voice that boated an outburst soon. A gentleman of your build and complexion boarded the train at a station just south of Chicago one night in April. At another station two companions joined this man according to previous agreement. One was almost a boy in years, an escaped convict, and these three men during the night entered the express car, murdered the agent, and went through the safe. Just before reaching Black Hollow the three men left the car. One of the three was tall and had red hair and a beard. This man, after the slaughter, left a trace behind that has led to his identity. He left the imprint of a bloody hand on a white handkerchief that he took from the pocket of his victim. That handkerchief was afterward found, and the bloody mark compared with the hand of the assassin. That could hardly be possible. Hands are many of them alike, articulated Mr. Elliston nervously. True, but in this case a wart of peculiar shape gave the man away. The mark of his bloody hand, leaving the wart's impress, was not only on the handkerchief, but left against the white shirt front of the murdered man as well. The man who committed the murder read of the clue in a Chicago paper, and to obliterate the tell-tale evidence he cut the wart from his hand and dropped it under the seat, while journeying through Iowa in disguise on an immigrant train. The face of Elliston had become white as death, and he trembled from head to foot. If Bernard had doubted before he doubted now no longer. A nice story, finally, sneered Bernard's visitor. When did you learn so much? Weeks ago. And you have permitted this villain to run at large so long. Well, I propose to see that he did not flaunt his crimes in the face of the world longer. Then with a quick movement the youth drew a vial from his pocket and held it up to view, exhibiting to the dilating eyes of the New Yorker a large wart with a double top. Just remove the glove from your right hand, Mr. Elliston. I think we will find a scar there that this wart will fit. Furies! This is too much! cried Elliston, coming to his feet, white with rage and fear. Stop! Keep your temper, warned Bernard. I wish to bring a witness, one that has been your companion in crime. The curtain over the alcove was brushed aside, and a man stepped forth, a man with red whiskers and hair, the latter surmounted with a glossy, plug hat. Elliston stared like one bereft of sense in life. Allow me to introduce Professor Darlington Ruggles, Mr. Elliston, uttered Harry Bernard in a mocking voice. Hades, what does this mean? And the trapped villain staggered, clutching the back of a chair for support. It means that your race of crime and diabolism is run, Harper Elliston. Red hair and beard were suddenly swept aside, a revolver was thrust into the startled countenance of Elliston. He looked and could only utter, Dyke Darrell, the detective, do you deny your guilt scoundrel? But Harper Elliston sank to a seat and bowed his head while drops of cold sweat covered his forehead. The touch of cold steel and click of closing bracelets roused him. He was helpless now for his wrists were encircled by handcuffs. Black despair confronted the villain. Dyke Darrell went through the pockets of his prisoner and found a revolver, an ugly-looking clasp knife and other articles of a nature that served to show that the owner was not pursuing an honest calling. Do you remember that night on the dock beside the river, Elliston? questioned Bernard, bending suddenly over the prisoner. But no answer came from the bloodless lips of the cornered villain. It was I who tore your mask of red hair from your head that night. I had mistrusted you for a villain and I meant to unmask you to save Nell Darrell, whom I loved, from your wiles. You struck me with a knife and pushed me into the river. I, however, was not harmed. The point of your knife glanced on a small book that I carried in an inner pocket. I escaped from the river and resolved to follow you to your doom. I overheard your plans of abducting Nell Darrell when you fired at my masked face that night as I peered into Mother Scarlett's room. I then knew you to be a villain of the deepest dye. Since I learned that you were the man in disguise on the immigrant train in Iowa and this wart will, with other evidence, condemn you before an honest jury of your peers. A groan alone answered the denouement made by Harry Bernard. Dyke Darrell removed the glove from his prisoner's right hand and exposed a scarcely healed scar near the joint of the little finger. The chain of evidence was complete. The red hair in the clutches of the murdered Nicholson had evidently been torn from the false beard of the disguised assassin. The New Yorker was removed from the house and taken at once to prison. Since, on the following morning, Dyke Darrell set out on his return to the Garden City with Elliston in charge. Harry Bernard remained at the farmhouse in New York State to see Nell, who had been left in the care of Paul Ender. Nell had almost entirely recovered from the shock of her recent treatment and was overjoyed at the outcome of her friends' visit to New York. Elliston will be convicted and hanged, was Bernard's verdict. On the very day of Harry's arrival at the farmhouse, he, with the old farmer, was summoned to visit one who had met with a fatal accident and was about to die. It proved to be Martin Skidway, who lay on a barn floor with his head in his mother's lap, gasping his life away, an ugly wound in his side. He had accidentally shot himself and was rapidly sinking. A fugitive in hiding for weeks, his life had become an intolerable one. Now that he was dying he made a full confession, admitting his own hand in the awful railroad crime, and implicating two others, Elliston and Nick Brower. Sam Swart had been one of them, but he was known to be dead. Without his urging I would never have stained my hands. In fact it was Elliston who struck the blow that killed the express messenger. Without this confession there was enough evidence to convict the New Yorker. With it both Brower and the principal were found guilty of murder in the first degree, and sentenced to the gallows. Nick Brower was the only one of the four who expiated his crime on the gallows. Harper Elliston died in prison by his own hand. He left a note admitting the express crime, and also confessing to the murder of Captain Osborn and the ruin of his daughter's civil. His was a fitting end to a career of unparalleled crime. We now draw a veil over the scene. Harry Bernard and Nell Darrell were, soon after the arrest and death of Elliston, happily married. Dyke Darrell considers the events leading up to the capture and punishment of those engaged in the crime of the Midnight Express as among the most thrilling and wonderful of his detective experience. To Harry Bernard and Paul Ender he gives a large share of the credit, and with them shared the reward. Bernard has, of late, worked in conjunction with Dyke Darrell on other cases, and is fast winning a reputation second only to that of the great railroad detective himself. The End End of Section 29 End of Dyke Darrell, Railroad Detective, or the Crime of the Midnight Express. Read by Cibella Denton in Carrollton, Georgia, November 2007.