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  DEATH ON THE ARKHAM EXPRESS

  Ride the rails with this Cthulhu Mythos mystery!

  The Arkham Detective is back! A well-earned first-class ticket on the train from New York to Arkham, intended as a pleasurable trip, is sidetracked into a grotesque journey. Commuters’ heads are bashed in by an invisible assailant and the only law on board is . . . You guessed it; our detective from Arkham.

  * * *

  “Byron Craft goes places HPL never dared.”

  F. Paul Wilson - Author of THE KEEP, THE GOD GENE,

  REPAIRMAN JACK SERIES, and much more.

  www.repairmanjack.com

  “Bryon Craft again takes the most beloved elements of the Lovecraft canon and makes them his own. The fact that he does this while keeping everything readers love about Lovecraft’s creations in the first place is astounding.”

  Sean Hoade - Author of 18 books and pulp writer

  extraordinaire

  “Byron Craft returns to the Lovecraftian with ‘Death on the Arkham Express.’ Craft’s inimitable ability to pay homage to yet make the world of Lovecraft his own is proof positive of his abilities as a writer.”

  Paul Atreides, www.paul-atreides.com

  “Bryon Craft writes cinematic, action-packed science fiction horror with panache: smart plotting, engaging characters and attention to detail put him a cut above the field. If you like your aliens slavering and carnivorous, your heroes rugged and your action explosive, you’re going to love his work.”

  David Hambling, author of the Harry Stubbs series.

  www.facebook.com/ShadowsFromNorwood/

  “Byron Craft is a master of combining Pulp Adventure with Lovecraftian horrors. When Byron puts pen to paper, he builds a perfect adventure around a core of sheer terror that makes for an excellent read.”

  Matthew Davenport, author of the Andrew Doran series,

  www.davenportwrites.com

  “Byron Craft returns to the Lovecraftian with ‘Death on the Arkham Express.’ Craft’s inimitable ability to pay homage to yet make the world of Lovecraft his own is proof positive of his abilities as a writer.”

  Paul Atreides, www.Paul-Atreides.com

  DEATH ON THE ARKHAM EXPRESS

  Book 5 in The Arkham Detective Series

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 Byron Craft

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

  www.ByronCraftBooks.com

  Cover art by Marko Serafimovic; Upwork®

  ISBN: 9781099792793

  Independently published

  DEDICATION

  To my wife, Marcia, who says she loves me because she lets me watch my crappy TV shows.

  Special thanks to my great network of long distance friends that connect, encourage and support my efforts through the great venue of social media.

  Also a call out for my daughter and son-in-law who are in the publishing business and keep me thinking outside of the box when it comes to marketing what I’ve written. The author in me wants to just write, my support group says “spread the word!”

  DEATH ON THE

  ARKHAM EXPRESS

  BY

  BYRON CRAFT

  DEATH ON THE ARKHAM EXPRESS

  Getting a suspect to fess up can be difficult, decidedly difficult when there’s five of them especially if one of the mugs ain’t human.

  That was the double-barreled dilemma I faced when I boarded the train in New York bound for home, Arkham. It was gonna be a leisurely trip for me — a short, but well-deserved vacation. I think the Chief at our Station House knew as much when he sent me on an assignment any rookie uniform could handle with half his brain tied behind his back. Extradite a Lobo in handcuffs to the Manhattan constabulary, where he was wanted for armed robbery, and beat it back the way I came.

  I had just come off a case that had me working night and day coupled with a grueling trip to Dunwich. My partner and I nailed the perp we were after while rescuing a Federal agent that had been imprisoned by the suspect. I was dog tired when we got back. A nice size nest egg had dropped into my lap in the interim, and I had been shooting my mouth off about a possible early retirement. I think that’s why my boss played Mister Nice Guy and launched me on my cushy duty to the Big Apple. Butter up the old detective in hopes he’ll stick around for a few more years.

  The job was a piece of cake. Until my waiter, in the dining car, had his head ripped off.

  The cuisine on the Arkham Express was limited. They did, however, have a reputation for serving an outstanding hot corned beef sandwich. My mouth watered anticipating my waiter’s return. The only thing that could improve the expected meal would have been beer — a couple of ice-cold beers. Unfortunately, I was unable to locate any to smuggle on board. The Feds were still enforcing the Volstead Act, and I didn’t know any bootleggers in New York. The word is that next January beer and light wine would become legal. Fat chance. I’m hopin’ that Roosevelt will repeal the damn temperance law.

  It was taking the young man that took my order a very long time to bring me my dinner. My navel was scratching my backbone. Out of boredom, I was etching little tic-tac-toe emblems with the edge of my fork into the white linen tablecloth. I looked up from my engravings noticing that several of the clientele in the dining car were also growing impatient. All the tables in the restaurant on rails seat four lining the long walls. I sat alone. I tossed my Fedora onto an empty chair. That was when I heard the scream.

  In my business, you hear a lot of screaming. Dames can let loose with a piercing holler when the right moment presents itself — faced with impending death at knifepoint or, as typical in Arkham, some hideous nightmare. There was this one Philly pushed out a ten-story window. I was standing on the pavement below at the time. Her screams increased in volume as she plummeted closer. Locomotives do that as they exit a tunnel towards you. She was a mess when she hit bottom. Blood, brain matter and long blonde hair splattered the concrete and my slacks. She had been a snappy dresser — light gray wool suit with patent leather purse and shoes. We never found out who or why she was thrown out the window. The Arkham Advertiser reported it as a suicide. I knew better.

  This time the long, loud, piercing cry we all witnessed expressed emotion of morbid fear and extreme pain. The crashing of broken dishes and the voices of several women shrieking followed.

  I drew my Colt from my shoulder holster with my right hand and produced my badge with my left. “Police!” I shouted. I normally announce “Arkham Constabulary” when the need arises, but I was out of my jurisdiction and keeping things simple had always been my forte. I ran toward the kitchen where the racket emanated.

  Blood contains iron, and the metallic smell was extremely strong when I entered. The red painted cookery reeked of the odor. A crimson body fluid spray marred the narrow galley layout of high gloss white walls. Staring at me was my waiter. His head lay grotesquely upon a stainless-steel counter. The features were twisted and torn and mangled. His dead black eyes conveyed a combination of terror and revulsion. It reminded me of the eyes of a dead fish snatched from its peaceful watery existence and decapitated by a hungry fisherman. I didn’t wax poetically at that moment because I was glad that I hadn’t had my evening meal yet. If I had, I probably would have decorated the kitchen deck with my innards.

  Unlike the severed fis
h, the dining car attendant’s head had been ripped from his torso. The two carotid arteries hung loosely leaving bloody trails on the shiny steel already starting to turn brown. A splintered portion of the spinal cord tipped the head sideways. His mouth was wide open as if he was trying to say something.

  The headless body of the young man that took my dinner order was stretched upon his back in the center of the galley. Red streaks crisscrossed his white server’s jacket and trousers as if put there by some mad impressionist. In the waiter’s left hand was a meat cleaver. A peculiar bluish pus or ichor covered both of his hands and the cleaver. Two middle-aged women, I assumed they were the cooks, were frozen in terror at the sight. The galley door on double acting hinges suddenly swung open, and the busboy entered. “Good God in heaven, what happened?” exclaimed the youngster no more than twelve years of age.

  “What’s your name, kid?” I demanded still displaying my gun and badge.

  “Alvin Nash, Sir,” he replied shaking like a leaf.

  “Alvin, take these ladies into the dining car. Under no circumstances are they to leave until I get the opportunity to question them. Tell your customers that the restaurant is closed due to a kitchen malfunction and return to their compartments or seats. But get all their names first, I’ll want to question them later.”

  “Yes, Sir,” he answered still visibly shaken.

  He took the two ladies by their hands and gently led them to the door. He stopped when I hollered, “Hey Kid! You stick around as well.” He slowly nodded and exited the room.

  I had observed something else in the cookery, and I didn’t want anybody disturbing the evidence. A straight diet of a horrifying experience was not a good thing for the lady chefs as well, and it was best that I got them out of the kitchen. Next to the bloody torso were footprints. Someone had tracked barefoot through the blood and headed away from the dining area toward the rear door to the adjoining car. The blood-stained tracks were large with oversized toes, probably a man’s or either a woman with exceptionally big feet. I followed them.

  Toilet facilities are at the end of each carriage before crossing over to a connecting Pullman Car. The footprints disappeared behind the lavatory door. The crazy thing was, as I trailed the unknown assailant, the footmarks gradually reduced in size. Smaller and smaller until they no longer resembled prints made by a human. Footprints of a huge hound? A cold wave of apprehension passed over me. I pocketed my badge and chambered a round in my 1911 Colt. The door to the john was hinged to swing in. I gave it a swift kick and squatted into a two-handed aiming position. It was empty. Six toilet stalls lined a wall and I, in turn, kicked each open in rapid succession aiming the barrel of my .45 straight ahead. Nothing; the damn john was deserted. Little blood spots littered the tiled floor as if made by a small dog. Considering the amount of blood produced by the murder of the waiter a restroom would be the place of choice to wash away the incriminating evidence. I left the lavatory and walked across the platform between the two cars. The chugging, puffing and clickety-clackety sounds of the train traveling the rails was louder on the open-platform. The clickety-clack you hear when traveling by train is due to metal fish plates that join rails; when the train passes over them, you hear those sounds. It is continuous because fish plates are present at intervals of distance dictated by the length of rails.

  I didn’t enter the Pullman and just peered through the door’s window into its interior. It was filled to about half capacity. One fella was smoking a big stogie; two others read newspapers, a third looked furtively around then poured some booze from a hipflask into a coffee cup. Several well-dressed ladies sat on cushioned seats knitting, chatting and reading. One in a blue silk get-up and matching hat read a book that was surprisingly the same color as her outfit. I could faintly make out the author’s name on the cover; Emily Brontë. All looked very calm and peaceful. Even if our suspect was able to wash up before entering the next passenger car his clothes would be covered in so much blood that he’d attract a helluva lot of attention. Unless he committed the dastardly deed stark naked and, of course, that would have created a tremendous uproar, a head turner, when entering the Pullman. From where I stood there was no other way he could have gone. Unless he jumped from the train; a speeding train? The drop would surely kill him. The route we were traveling, at that moment, took us along the edge of a steep mountainous ridge overlooking the coast. I returned to the dining car’s galley.

  I tightened the muscles in my gut and closely examined the detached head of the young man that waited my table. There was a hole in the left temple. I wished I had a magnifying glass like Sherlock Holmes. I pushed my bifocals up onto the bridge of my nose and leaned in for a closer look. The hole was smaller than the end of a pencil. A small caliber bullet? I didn’t seem likely. In the close narrow quarters of the galley, there should have been traces of powder burns, there wasn’t. Even so, there was only one way to settle the issue. I screwed up my courage and did the next disgusting thing. I grabbed a handful of hair and turned the guy's noodle onto its left side. There was no exit wound on the right.

  ***

  The Arkham Express was a laugh. It ain’t no 20th Century Limited. Our little railroad is part of the branch line from Rowley. When the bottom dropped out of the economy in 1929, it didn't go easy on the railroads, and the Rowley Line fell into receivership. The Streamliner Era of transportation passed us by in a few short years. These newer super trains could reach speeds up to 100 miles per hour and carried water tenders that eliminated the numerous stops to refill its boiler. Streamliners, like all locomotives, consume large quantities of water compared to the quantity of fuel, so water tender cars are necessary to keep them running over long distances. These modern monarchs of steel in the third decade of the Twentieth Century speed along the humming rails. Their screaming whistles urging you to “go somewhere.”

  In contrast, the Rowley Line doesn't have two nickels to rub together so, consequently, they were unable to keep up with the new era. The old locomotives they keep in service chug along the coastal route straining to reach speeds of fifty miles per hour. Not hauling any water tender cars either, meant we had to stop every fifteen miles or so, at station houses, to refill the boiler. We would, naturally, take on additional passengers, freight and fuel at all the major stops on the way, such as Pennsylvania Station and the Providence Station, with, however, the numerous watering holes in between. Consequently, what should be a five-and-one-half hour trip in a more modern coach took us ten. That was why the Arkham Express was such a laugh. We would halt at every whistle-stop. At least the Chief was good-hearted enough to book me a first-class passage.

  Winter was around the corner, and it was colder than a witch’s upper torso outside. The warmer coastal temperatures mixed with the chilled evening air and thick vapors swirled and eddied causing our train to travel through a blind fog. I’d been standing there contemplating the outdoors and my next move smoking a Lucky Strike. The windows of the dining car presented an imperfect view. There was no other law on board the “Express” and at that moment I decided they should change its name to the “Limited.” My limitations were numerous. I’d have to make the best of it until I could drop the murder case into the lap of the authorities at one of the major stopovers. I would normally have my partner, Matthew Bell, do a lot of the preliminary questioning taking all the notes, but he was back in Arkham at Station House 13.

  Arkham is a land located in northeast Massachusetts, and at that minute it might as well be a million miles away. I would have to go it alone. I ground out the Lucky in an ashtray and removed a small pad of paper from my trench coat and a pencil from my shirt pocket. Some guys like to use a fountain pen, but they can mess up a shirt in a heartbeat. When the lead wears down, I whittle it sharp with my knife.

  The busboy had done as directed. I counted heads and everyone that was in the dining car when all hell broke loose were present. I started with the two dames that did all the cooking. “What’s your name, ma’am?’ I a
sked the one on the left fiddling with her apron strings. Her eyes were red from crying, and her make-up had run.

  “Sarah, Sarah Walker, Sir,” she answered fidgeting incessantly.

  “And you?” I said pointing my pencil at the other.

  “Ann Hoade, Officer.”

  “Let’s get down to brass tacks, ladies. Tell me what you saw back there in the kitchen?”

  “The same as you, Detective. Poor Mr. Wheatcroft’s mangled body.”

  “Who?”

  “Donny, Inspector,” Alvin Nash, the busboy, interrupted. “Donald Wheatcroft is the rail line dining steward,” he added noticing the puzzled expression on my puss.

  I wrote Wheatcroft’s name down, then nodded and turned back to the lady chefs. “Who did you see in there besides ‘poor’ Mr. Wheatcroft?”

  “No one, Sir,” they replied in unison.

  That flummoxed me. “Weren’t you in the kitchen when the . . . murder was committed?”

  “No, Officer. We must have been in the washroom at the end of the car changing into our uniforms when . . . it happened,” volunteered Chef Sarah.

  “We were preparing to come on to the dinner shift,” Chef Ann supplemented.

  “So, you came in the back way?” They both nodded. “And you didn’t see anyone else?” I challenged. I guess I raised my voice a bit too loud because they both jumped.

  Chef Ann gathered up her courage and countered with an exasperated air, “Not until you came barging in waving that gun or yours.”