Detective Bob Bridger

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Chapter I. The Night Express Mystery

“Seeree-go! ’e, ’e, ’e ! See-ree-go \ /?

It was the wild, meaningless cry of an idiot under the lash for the crime of garroting.

As imitated by Detective Bob Bridger, it sounded to me like the screaming note of a sea bird which I had once heard while hanging on, and bereft of all hope, in the rigging of a wrecked ship.

The bird’s discordant cry seemed then to be the exultation of a demon.

It now lingers in my memory as if it had been the message of an angel.

For barely had it sounded when the fierce hurricane subsided, the toppling waves became long and rounded, and our wrecked ship rode safely until succor approached.

I had asked Detective Bridger to tell me the tale of the Scotch Detective, and I begin my version of the story, as he began his, with the cry of the silly garroter, as above.

Detective Bob Bridger has been for years one of the most active and successful secret service officers in the employ of the United States Government.

He has amassed a comfortable fortune, married a Philadelphia girl, and now takes things easy.

On his shirt-front he sports, at times, a solitaire gem of great value,

DETECTIVE BOB BKIDGEB.

The fellow was a wild eyed greenhorn, and Dan hustled him out on the platform.

A few moments later, like the persistent darky in the negro minstrel sketch, the same man entered again.

Again Dan hustled him out, and again he returned.

His third entrance so exasperated Dan that, seizing up a poker from the coal-box, he rushed upon the intruder as if to strike him down.

The unfortunate immigrant, crazed with terror, hastened forth to the platform and sprang from the train.

The train was rushing at the time through a rocky cut at a fifty-mile-an-hour gait.

The ill-fated passenger struck the left bank of the cut, and bounding back under the iron wheels was cut to pieces.

Barely had Dan ended telling of the sad affair when the engineer blew for Maysville station.

Here dwelt a gang of roughs who delighted in beating the conductor out of a ride when they could.

The train having stopped, discharged, and received its passengers, started ahead again at Bridger’s signal.

He, as usual, entered the first coach, and throwing the glare of his lamp in the passengers’ faces, proceeded through in quest of tickets.

He was thinking intently the while of Dan Colgate’s tale regarding the German immigrant who on the night previous leaped from the train and killed himself.

Near the middle of the coach a tall man lay spread out upon two seats, and sound asleep.

He was a boss raftsman, and was returning from a trip down the Alleghany River to Pittsburg, on a lumber raft.

The man wore a soft black hat, and had so placed it as to completely cover his face.

One of the tricks of the Maysville roughs was to thus hide their faces, so that the conductor might think them sleeping through passengers and pass them by.

On lifting the man’s hat that he might see his features Bridger touched his hand.

Perceiving who the passenger was he passed on, leaving the man still sleeping.

When he had passed half way through the second coach he had occasion to turn about, and thought he perceived some one rushing from side to side, in the darkness, upon the platform.

As the train was nearing Pittsville station he supposed

DETECTIVE BOB BKIDGER.

that it was the brakeman — for, in those days, steam brakes were not in general use.

He continued on to the end of the coach, when the newsboy, with pallid features, came running into the car from the front, and toward him.

With trembling hands he clutched Bridger’s arm, and whispered in his ear that the tall man had sprung from the train.

A moment later the raftsman’s companions came through from the front car excitedly looking for their missing friend, and it became evident that what the boy had said was true.

When the train pulled up at Pittsville station Bridger bade the section men hasten back along the track on their hand-car.

A mile from the station they found the unfortunate passenger.

He lay in a crushed and bleeding mass where he had fallen, and only lived an hour.

He was conscious, however, and said that he had been asleep, and dreaming, when he became suddenly possessed of the delusion that he was on a swift running raft, and must manage to jump from it to the river’s bank, and make a landing.

The raft seemed borne along so rapidly that for a moment he hesitated, when, glancing behind him, he thought he perceived an angry man rushing upon him with an uplifted iron poker.

In terror he ran from his seat to the platform and sprang toward the delusive bank, awaking to hear the train thunder by, and to find himself, stunned and bleeding, at the edge of the track.

On learning these facts, Bridger believed that Dan Colgate’s story of the German’s fate, at the time so vividly pictured on his brain, had been in some mysterious way conveyed, by his touch, to the raftsman’s brain, so as to shape the man’s dream and cause his death.

One week afterward on Bridger’s train, at the same spot and hour, a second passeger met his death under circumstances exactly similar.

The people along the line became alarmed.

They did not understand that every human being’s brain is an electric battery, and the body’s nerves its communicating wires.

They, therefore, would not believe that a man of Bob Bridger’s powerful frame and magnetic stature might in-

DETECTIVE BOB BRIDGER.

nocently, by a mere touch of the hand, telegraph the ruling impression of his brain to that of a slumbering man, so as to make that impression the law of the sleeper’s action.

They intimated instead that Bridger and his brakemen were engaged in robbing passengers and then hurling their victims to certain death from the dark platforms of the swift running train.

A newspaper correspondent, whose name was something like Black, approached Lew Hutchinson, Bridger’ s mailtrain engineer, on the day subsequently to the second passenger’s death.

Assuming a tragic air, he said :

“Do you think, sir, that Conductor Bridger would do a deed of blood ?”

The engineer, oil-can and torch in hand, was oiling around, and supposing the man to be a “crank” suffering from the delirium, responded :

“I have no liquor on the engine, cap, but there’s a can of first-class kerosene there — if that will do you any good. *”

The indignant scribe forthwith hastened to his home, and penned an article to his paper in which he charged that the railroad men of the line were surely banded together to do deeds of robbery and murder.

Meanwhile, puzzled at the strange deaths of the two sleeping passengers, and fearful of further repetitions of the mystery, Bob Bridger resolved to resign his position.

When he had made the extra trip according to the superintendent’s order he again entered that officer’s presence.

To his surprise he found both the superintendent and the general manager impatiently awaiting his coming.

“Conductor Bridger,” said the general manager, “in regard to your resignation as conductor, I do not wish you to quit the company’s employ, and, if agreeable, will assign you service in another branch. ”

“In what capacity, sir?”

“I wish you to go to Europe as the company’s special detective.”

“To accomplish what?”

“The recovery of a large amount of money recently embezzled from the treasurer’s safe by a young man whom you have doubtless often seen. ”

“Who, sir?”

“Richard Hanford, the treasurer’s chief clerk.”

“Possible ?”

“You know him, then?”

DETECTIVE BOB BRIDGER.

“ Very well, by sight, from having seen him frequently upon my train. ”

“I thought you would.”

“And you are assured that he has embezzled the funds, and sailed for Europe ?”

“It is all too true. Three weeks since he asked and obtained one week’s leave of absence. When a fortnight had transpired and he not returned, the treasurer began to fear that all was not right. On examination funds to the amount of sixty thousand dollars were found missing. And we have since learned that a young man answering Hanford’s description procured a ticket for London, and, two weeks past, sailed from New York on a Cunard steamer.”

Then why have you not notified the London police, and had him arrested ?”

“It is a delicate matter. Richard Hanford is the only son of a widow, and she the only sister of a prominent officer of the road. And what I want you to do is to trace the young man, and arrange with the detective officers in whatever city you run him down to apprehend him m a secret, make believe manner. When you have thus recovered the company’s funds in his possession you will pay the officers liberally for their services, release Hanford from custody, and persuade him to return in penitence to his heart broken mother to be forgiven. You see it is our aim to keep the matter quiet. It would be the death of Hanford’s mother, and a heavy blow upon the officer on whose recommendation he was appointed if the thing gained publicity. This gentleman has placed an amount sufficient to cover the steal in the treasurer’s keeping, and we have agreed to keep the matter quiet. The rest I leave in your hands, Bridger, believing that you are shrewd enough to work it. ”

And thus it happened that Bob Bridger was frightened from his position as conductor to become a detective.

Chapter II. Bob Bridger’ S Trip To London

On the Saturday following Bridger sailed for England. Arriving in London, he hastened to the unpretentious building near the House of Parliament known as Scotland Yard, the headquarters of the London police.

12 DETECTIVE BOB BEIDGEB.

Entering, he stated his business to the sergeant at the desk.

“You are an entire stranger in London?” asked the officer.

“Precisely,” returned Bridger. “In all Europe there is nothing with which I am familiar save, possibly, the face of the man I seek. ”

“You will then require an assistant, but whom to assign I am puzzled to know. Our men are all very busy at present — at least such of them as I might choose to aid you best. Let me see — ”

At that moment a tall, handsome young man entered hastily from the street.

His attire, although not showy, was as faultless as if he had stepped forth from a bandbox, and any lady would have voted him on sight a charming young gentleman.

His air was social and easy going — that of a man who could bounce into a better acquaintanceship in five minutes than the majority of men could accomplish, with the samesubject, in as many years.

His face was clean shaven, his features were regular, and his eyes the most magnetic and marvelous that Bridger had ever beheld — save in a looking-glass.

They were large, black, kind, laughing eyes, but so clear and piercing that, as they squarely met Bridger’ s searching gray orbs, a mutual and involuntary shudder coursed through the nerves of the two young men.

“Ah, here is Fandon !” said the sergeant. “I’ll send him out with you. ”

“In an instant I’ll be with you,” quoth Fandon, and he darted by to an inner office to report a case he had been at work upon.

“If any man can aid you he can,” said the officer. “He is the youngest man on the metropolitan force, but there is no shrewder detective in Scotland Yard.”

A moment later Fandon stood at the desk awaiting orders.

The sergeant introduced Bridger as an American detective, and stated the nature of his business.

Bridger then, at his request, gave an accurate description of Richard Hanford.

As he finished speaking the Scotch detective grasped his hand and shook it warmly.

“ It’s a pleasure once in a while to shake a live Yankee’s hand, isn’t it, sergeant?” he said. “They have things pretty much their own way over there, with their baked

DETECTIVE BOB BRIDGET.

beans, pumpkin pies, border ruffians, wild Indians, and California gold mines : but, betimes, we have to give them a point or two, eh ? Ha, ha, ha ! But now let me see, your name is — ” he continued, addressing Bridger.

“ Bridger.”

“ But the first, short name, is — ”

“Bob.”

“Bobe, eh? Well, my short name is Roe. Remember that, Bobe, and never say Fandon.”

Bridger noticed that Fandon spoke with a slight Scotch accent, and, from the levity of his manner, began to fear that, notwithstanding his marvelous eyes, the prospect of being materially aided in the hunt for Hanford by this tastily dressed joker was so small that, withdrawing his hand somewhat curtly from the Scotch detective’s grasp, he asked, abruptly :

“ Well, is there any hope of finding this Richard Hanford in London ?”

“Bless your heart, yes !” responded Fandon, pulling forth his watch as he spoke. “ It is now ten o’clock. At four P. M. I’ll wager you a mug of beer we’ll have the ‘darbeys’ on his wrists, and every dollar he has left in our possession.”

Bridger started back in astonishment at this sudden return to business-like principles, and ejaculated :

“ Surely you don’t mean it?”

“Mean it? Nothing simpler. I’ve had that youth’s measure in my eye for a fortnight past. He’s registered at Somerset House as Emanuel Picard, and his manners have become as grand as his name. You wouldn’t take him for a Yankee clerk now, for he has so diligently set about aping the London swell that he has succeeded in fashioning himself into nearly as disagreeable a jackass as his prototype. And, finding that the aforesaid metropolitan jackass attends the races, he has necessarily learned to ‘talk horse’ by the yard, ‘ba jove, you know.’ In truth, I consider that about the swiftest move we can make to clip his spreading feathers will be to drive to Epsom Downs’ race course direct. My word for it, we’ll find him there at to day’s special meeting, strutting about among the book-makers, and giving himself airs as huge as the ship he came over in. Come, we’ll hail a cab and be off.”

Fandon instructed the cabman, who came at his beck, to pull up first at Millbank prison.

As the twain rolled off in the vehicle, Fandon said :

DETECTIVE BOB BRIDGER.

“ Tell me, now, Bobe, are you connected with the New York force?”

”No ; I am simply the railroad company’s special.”

“ Looking up rogues that break into goods-vans and the like, eh?”

“This is my first case.”

“ Then you have only recently become an officer ?”

“Yes. Until recently I have been a conductor, or, as you say here, a guard. ”

“ Then your present position is a promotion ?”

“ I do not so regard it. ”

“ Then how came you to make the change ?”

“ I was frightened into it. ”

“ Frightened into it ?”

“Yes.”

“ How?”

“ In a very mysterious way. ”

At the Scotch detective’s suggestion, Bridger then narrated the entire story of the night-express mystery as shown in the chapter preceding.

As Bridger proceeded Fandon became intensely interested.

He turned half way about on the seat, grasped Bridger’ s hand, and looking directly into his eyes, drank in eagerly every word.

When Bridger had ended his tale Fandon said :

“ Bobe, tell me, am I to understand that you believe in the unseen forces of which you speak ?”

“How can I disbelieve when such evidence has been thrust upon me ?”

“ Then your tale has simply brought coals to New Castle, Bobe.”

“How so?”

“ Because I am one of the most superstitious fellows you ever saw. And, although I have never experienced this telegraphy of thoughts to another’s brain, I certainly believe that my own brain has been telegraphed upon while in slumber.”

“ By whom ?”

“ By some unseen power.”

“ Explain. ”

“ You will not deride or call me insane ?”

“Not I.”

“ Then, at times, when I am sleeping, I have the most wonderful dreams. Dreams that widely differ from the common run of dreams that every one has. For instance,

DETECTIVE BOB BRIDGER.

when I was but twelve years old, the night before my father was shbt, f dreamed I saw him enter a dark store-room. He flashed the eye of his dark-lantern, as he advanced, upon the floor- way. It was strewn with cloths, and a large bag stood nearly half full of goods. Crouching beneath a table, in one corner, he perceived two thieves. He pointed his revolver toward them and bade them come forth. As he spoke a burly burglar arose softly from behind a bale of cloth to his left, leveled a pistol, and fired. My father fell dead upon the floor, aiid the three men lifted their bag and hastily departed. ”

“ Did you speak to your father of this dream ?”

“ I tried to do so, but he had gone from the house in the morning before I arose, and although I searched everywhere for him I could not find him. My God ! if I only might have found him — for under the precise circumstances of the dream he met his death on the night afterward. ”

“Wonderful !”

“ But stranger yet, Bobe, the faces of the three burglars were fixed on my memory. I looked through the Hogues’ Gallery pictures and found them. The man who shot my father was called Tober Jack, and his two pals were known as Flopper and Cole. Detective John Plinny, who had been a great friend of my father, told me that a dream was no evidence, and bade me keep quiet about it. He had some faith in the mystery, however, and shadowed the three burglars to a 4 boozing ken’ which they frequented.

I made myself up like a ‘ kinchin cove, ’ and hung about the place. Plinny furnished me with plenty of money, and as I spent it freely and talked thieves’ ‘patter’ like a veteran, I soon got into the good graces of ‘Liverpool’ Sal, the landlady. I became a great favorite of the crooks that frequented the place, and they looked on me as a shrewd young ‘prig.’ One night Plinny shadowed ‘Tober’ Jack and his two pals, Flopper and Cole, to the ‘ ken. ’ He gave me instructions how to proceed, and waited in readiness with his men. I entered tbe place, and at once began chatting with Liverpool Sal, who had taken a great fancy to me. The place was filled with thieves— men and women. The. air was blue with tobacco smoke, and the barmaids busy passing about drinks, bread, cheese, and the like, among the noisy throng. ‘Tober’ Jack and his pals sat at a table by themselves drinking and talking. At length ‘Tober’ Jack arose from his seat and crossed the room toward a woman who had beckoned to him. As he passed me I nudged him, and said in an undertone : Lay low, Jack, ‘Blackfriars !’ ”

He stopped, and bending his ear close to my lips, said :

“What’s up ?”

“ Flopper and Cole have grown ‘ leaky, ’ and I ‘ twigged’ them ‘cacklin’ to a ‘fly-cop’ about you ‘croakin’ the ‘crusher’ in the store.”

“When?”

“Yesterday. So lay low, for they’re workin’ with the ‘fly-cops’ to ‘pull you in,’ and ‘twist’ you.”

“ ‘Tober’ Jack started back, and a look that meant mur der flashed from his eyes.

“ He glanced furiously toward the two ‘ cracksmen’ in the corner, then, catching my arm, dragged me toward them.

“ Are those the men ?” he cried, as he paused near the astonished burglars.

“Both of them,” I replied. “I heard them ‘peachin’ to a ‘fly-cop’ on the ‘walk.’ ”

“ ‘What’s the “kid” givin’ “guff” on? Come here!’ roared Flopper, and he made a move as if to clutch me. But ‘Tober’ Jack shoved me back out of his reach, and pulling forth a ‘ billy, ’ knocked him senseless on the floor. A general uproar ensued in the ‘ ken. ’ Meanwhile ‘ Tober’ Jack attacked Cole, and the fight was waxing hot between them, when Plinny and his men entered the ‘ken,’ and striking right and left, secured the three men and led them away.

“Flopper and Cole were now easily ‘worked’ by Plinny in their cells. They were led to believe that ‘Tober’ Jack, to shield himself, had charged them with the murder, and put up the job with the police to have them arrested. The result was they turned queen’s e vidence, were sent up for light terms, while ‘Tober’ Jack was convicted of the murder, confessed it, and was hanged. ”

“ Is Plinny now on the force ?” asked Bridger.

“ No ; he is an old man, became rheumatic, and is now employed in the British Museum. He is the only man to whom I mention my superstitions, and he will relish greatly to hear me tell him of your strange experience on the railway. ”

“By the way,” added the Scotch detective, “to show you his interest and friendship, Bobe, the other day a case came to the museum containing, among other things, six spirit glasses such as are made and used by East Indian necromancers to produce sleep. They are so artfully contrived that I have never yet found a man who could hold

DETECTIVE BOB BEIDGER.

one in his hand and gaze at it steadily for even five minutes without falling off into deep slumber. Well, one of these glasses I speak of was broken, and so Plinny marked two broken on the bill, and placed one in his pocket for me. And here it is. ”

As the Scotch detective spoke he produced what seemed to be an oval, flat-bottomed, circular paper-weight, some three inches in diameter, the bottom of which was of thin sheet-iron, carefully fitted and cemented upon the glass.

“I warn you, ” continued Fandon, “ not to gaze long or intently at it, for so sure as the warmth and electricity from your hand causes the fluid within to move you are gone.”

u I ’ll risk it,” returned Bridger, taking the glass in his hand.

He perceived that it was heavy, and, on closer inspection, seemed a cleverly contrived ink-stand.

It was filled with a jet-black fluid, while directly in its center, and beneath the upper glass, was an open glass circle an inch and a half in diameter, which appeared to be the mouth of an inner bottle.

Any one would have considered it a clever puzzle, the puzzle being how to get at the ink.

Soon after Bridger took hold of it the fluid began to pour over into the mouth of the inner bottle.

At every instant, as he gazed, the movement became faster, and at length it seemed to bring up dregs from the bottom, which appeared to be tiny particles of silver and gold.

The current of the fluid now assumed a regular course.

It rushed outward in centrifugal motion upon the bottom of the glass, and then up its sides, with marvelous swiftness.

At the top it turned in, in centripetal motion, and plunged down in the center, forming a busy whirlpool.

Bridger became fascinated looking at it. He could not have withdrawn his eyes from it if he had tried.

The fluid was no longer black, but a bright gray.

Gradually the plunge of the whirlpool’s center seemed to grow deeper and its circumference greater and greater, until at length it appeared to Bridger as if he were hanging over the edge of a great circular Niagara.

The roar of an ocean of rushing, plunging, plashing waters seemed also to sound in his ears.

An instant more, and, with a gentle start, as if he had plunged downward, all was dark.

DETECTIVE BOB BBIDGER.

Bridger saw or heard nothing more.

He was asleep.

Perceiving his condition, Fandon rested his hand beneath the hand that held the glass.

“Bobe,” said he, u you see I am Richard Hanford. You have the ‘ruffles’ on my wrists, and the company’s money in your possession. Now, what are you going to do with me ?”

Without removing his stolid stare from the glass Bridger replied :

“Well, Hanford, although you richly merit punishment, the officers of the company, out of regard for your heart-broken mother, have resolved to find you a situation elsewhere, and try you again. ”

The Scotch detective would have continued his experiment with the enforced sleeper further had not the vehicle at that moment pulled up in front of Millbank prison.

As his eyes fell on the gloomy walls the errand that called him thither flashed vividly to his mind.

Removing the glass with his left hand, he grasped Bridger’ s hand with his right, and gave it a sudden jerk.

“Ho, there, Bobe ! Wake up !” he cried.

Bridger started up wildly as if in terror, and, plunging suddenly forward, brought up against the front portion of the cab, dragging Fandon from his seat.

“Wake up, Bobe, wake up!” shouted the Scotch detective, wincing under the steel-like clasp of Bridger ’s hand on his.

“ Oh, I see it all !” exclaimed Bridger, as the situation dawned with his returning faculties.

Then dropping to a sitting posture on the cab’s front seat, he rubbed his eyes and smiled.

“ The glass was too much for you, Bobe. There's no mistake, you were either asleep — or mesmerized.”

“ I feel as if I had been. ”

“I made you believe I was Richard Hanford, and you informed me what you proposed doing with me.”

“Bid, eh?”

“ Have you no recollection of it ?”

“ All that I recollect is, that when I awoke I was possessed of the idea that I was a garroter. My hands seemed in pillory, my back bare, and I about to be flogged. ”

“ Then here between ourselves, Bobe, we have another instance of the telegraphing of thought from brain to brain , for when I jerked your hand to wake you I was thinking intently of a garroter whom I arrested a fortnight since,

DETECTIVE BOB BRIDGED.

and who is to be flogged this very hour in the jail within. In fact, I fear we may be too late for the flogging, and I would not miss this particular execution for the world. Did you ever see a culprit flogged, Bobe ?” u Never.”

“Well, jump off with me. Come.”

Chapter III

Springing as he spoke from the vehicle, the Scotch detective led the way up the stone steps and into the corridor of the prison, Bridger following at his elbow.

Through the hall- way, and back through grated doorways, which obedient turnkeys opened, Fandon conducted his companion to the gloomy jail-yard.

The walls of the prison inclosed it upon all sides, and from their grated windows peered upon the scene beneath a horde of eager, vicious faces.

An upright beam crossed by a frame, in which were pilloried a culprit’s hands, stood at the yard’s center.

The victim was a giant in frame, tall, broad-shouldered, deep-chested, sinewy — a man in the prime of his years and strength.

His brawny body was stripped bare to the waist.

A score of solemn-visaged keepers stood guard near, while a burly keeper wielded the ugly ‘ cat. ’

Already nine of the twenty lashes had fallen.

A hundred purple welts meshed the sufferer’s back, and attested the severity of his punishment, while where the ridges crossed, the bruised, black blood had burst forth and stood in heavy drops upon the skin..

The tortured flesh seemed fairly to creep upon the man’s bones.

His forehead was pressed violently forward against the cross-beam, as if he strove, by self-inflicted pain, to offset the torture he endured.

The sturdy executioner calmly, determinedly, with all his strength, and with the regularity of a machine, applied the whip.

As the tenth stroke fell the frenzied victim suddenly threw back his head.

Its covering of sandy hair was closely clipped.

In size it was small and appeared utterly out of proportion upon the man’s gigantic frame.

DETECTIVE BOB BRIDGEK.

The forehead was receding, the mouth huge, the lips large, the chin massive, the nostrils wide, the nose flat, the eyes wild, staring, and full.

Without doubt they were the head and features of an idiot.

The expression of the distorted, idiotic face was so horrible that Bridger, with a sickening feeling, averted his glance, while a manly tear dimmed the eye of the Scotch detective.

Fixing his eyes in a vacant stare upon the wall at his rear the poor idiot cried out, shrilly, in the supreme agony of the instant :

“ See-ree-go ! ’e ! ’e ! ’e ! See-ree go !”

It was not the cry of a human being, but that of a wild beast stricken down by the hunter’s dart.

As the startling cry rang through the corridors of the prison a deep toned muttering of condemnation came in response from the convicts at the windows.

The idiot, with a quick movement, dashed his head violently forward against the crossbeam.

The executioner had drawn the u cat” to give the eleventh stroke when his eye met the eye of the Scotch detective.

The rabble at the windows were quick to perceive that Fandon had given the burly keeper the “ office” to lighten up his blows.