<h2 id="c3">III</h2>
<p>It was not until the advent of Copeland, the
new First Deputy, that Blake began to suspect
his own position. Copeland was an out-and-out
“office” man, anything but a “flat
foot.” Weak looking and pallid, with the sedentary
air of a junior desk clerk, vibratingly
restless with no actual promise of being penetrating,
he was of that indeterminate type
which never seems to acquire a personality of
its own. The small and bony and steel-blue
face was as neutral as the spare and reticent
figure that sat before a bald table in a bald
room as inexpressive and reticent as its occupant.
Copeland was not only unknown outside
the Department; he was, in a way, unknown
in his own official circles.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_59">[59]</div>
<p>And then Blake woke up to the fact that
some one on the inside was working against
him, was blocking his moves, was actually using
him as a “blind.” While he was given the
“cold” trails, younger men went out on the
“hot” ones. There were times when the Second
Deputy suspected that his enemy was
Copeland. Not that he could be sure of this,
for Copeland himself gave no inkling of his attitude.
He gave no inkling of anything, in fact,
personal or impersonal. But more and more
Blake was given the talking parts, the rôle of
spokesman to the press. He was more and
more posted in the background, like artillery,
to intimidate with his remote thunder and
cover the advance of more agile columns. He
was encouraged to tell the public what he
knew, but he was not allowed to know too
much. And, ironically enough, he bitterly resented
this rôle of “mouthpiece” for the Department.</p>
<p>“You call yourself a gun!” a patrolman who
had been shaken down for insubordination
broke out at him. “A gun! why, you’re only
a <i>park</i> gun! That’s all you are, a broken-down
bluff, an ornamental has-been, a park
gun for kids to play ’round!”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_60">[60]</div>
<p>Blake raged at that, impotently, pathetically,
like an old lion with its teeth drawn. He
prowled moodily around, looking for an enemy
on whom to vent his anger. But he could find
no tangible force that opposed him. He could
see nothing on which to centralize his activity.
Yet something or somebody was working
against him. To fight that opposition was like
fighting a fog. It was as bad as trying to
shoulder back a shadow.</p>
<p>He had his own “spots” and “finders” on the
force. When he had been tipped off that the
powers above were about to send him out on
the Binhart case, he passed the word along to
his underlings, without loss of time, for he felt
that he was about to be put on trial, that they
were making the Binhart capture a test case.
And he had rejoiced mightily when his dragnet
had brought up the unexpected tip that
Elsie Verriner had been in recent communication
with Binhart, and with pressure from the
right quarter could be made to talk.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_61">[61]</div>
<p>This tip had been a secret one. Blake, on
his part, kept it well muffled, for he intended
that his capture of Binhart should be not only
a personal triumph for the Second Deputy,
but a vindication of that Second Deputy’s
methods.</p>
<p>So when the Commissioner called him and
Copeland into conference, the day after his
talk with Elsie Verriner, Blake prided himself
on being secretly prepared for any advances
that might be made.</p>
<p>It was the Commissioner who did the talking.
Copeland, as usual, lapsed into the background,
cracking his dry knuckles and blinking
his pale-blue eyes about the room as the voices
of the two larger men boomed back and forth.</p>
<p>“We’ve been going over this Binhart case,”
began the Commissioner. “It’s seven months
now—and nothing done!”</p>
<p>Blake looked sideways at Copeland. There
was muffled and meditative belligerency in the
look. There was also gratification, for it was
the move he had been expecting.</p>
<p>“I always said McCooey wasn’t the man to
go out on that case,” said the Second Deputy,
still watching Copeland.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_62">[62]</div>
<p>“Then who <i>is</i> the man?” asked the Commissioner.</p>
<p>Blake took out a cigar, bit the end off, and
struck a match. It was out of place; but it
was a sign of his independence. He had long
since given up plug and fine-cut and taken to
fat Havanas, which he smoked audibly, in
plethoric wheezes. Good living had left his
body stout and his breathing slightly asthmatic.
He sat looking down at his massive knees; his
oblique study of Copeland, apparently, had
yielded him scant satisfaction. Copeland, in
fact, was making paper fans out of the official
note-paper in front of him.</p>
<p>“What’s the matter with Washington and
Wilkie?” inquired Blake, attentively regarding
his cigar.</p>
<p>“They’re just where we are—at a standstill,”
acknowledged the Commissioner.</p>
<p>“And that’s where we’ll stay!” heavily contended
the Second Deputy.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_63">[63]</div>
<p>The entire situation was an insidiously flattering
one to Blake. Every one else had
failed. They were compelled to come to him,
their final resource.</p>
<p>“Why?” demanded his superior.</p>
<p>“Because we haven’t got a man who can
turn the trick! We haven’t got a man who
can go out and round up Binhart inside o’
seven years!”</p>
<p>“Then what is your suggestion?” It was
Copeland who spoke, mild and hesitating.</p>
<p>“D’ you want my suggestion?” demanded
Blake, warm with the wine-like knowledge
which, he knew, made him master of the situation.</p>
<p>“Of course,” was the Commissioner’s curt
response.</p>
<p>“Well, you’ve got to have a man who knows
Binhart, who knows him and his tricks and his
hang outs!”</p>
<p>“Well, who does?”</p>
<p>“I do,” declared Blake.</p>
<p>The Commissioner indulged in his wintry
smile.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_64">[64]</div>
<p>“You mean if you weren’t tied down to your
Second Deputy’s chair you could go out and
get him!”</p>
<p>“I could!”</p>
<p>“Within a reasonable length of time?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know about the time! But I could
get him, all right.”</p>
<p>“If you were still on the outside work?” interposed
Copeland.</p>
<p>“I certainly wouldn’t expect to dig him out
o’ my stamp drawer,” was Blake’s heavily
facetious retort.</p>
<p>Copeland and the Commissioner looked at
each other, for one fraction of a second.</p>
<p>“You know what my feeling is,” resumed
the latter, “on this Binhart case.”</p>
<p>“I know what <i>my</i> feeling is,” declared
Blake.</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“That the right method would’ve got him
six months ago, without all this monkey
work!”</p>
<p>“Then why not end the monkey work, as you
call it?”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_65">[65]</div>
<p>“How?”</p>
<p>“By doing what you say you can do!” was
the Commissioner’s retort.</p>
<p>“How’m I going to hold down a chair and
hunt a crook at the same time?”</p>
<p>“Then why hold down the chair? Let the
chair take care of itself. It could be arranged,
you know.”</p>
<p>Blake had the stage-juggler’s satisfaction of
seeing things fall into his hands exactly as he
had manœuvered they should. His reluctance
was merely a dissimulation, a stage wait for
heightened dramatic effect.</p>
<p>“How’d you do the arranging?” he calmly
inquired.</p>
<p>“I could see the Mayor in the morning.
There will be no Departmental difficulty.”</p>
<p>“Then where’s the trouble?”</p>
<p>“There is none, if you are willing to go out.”</p>
<p>“Well, we can’t get Binhart here by pink-tea
invitations. Somebody’s got to go out and
<i>get</i> him!”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_66">[66]</div>
<p>“The bank raised the reward to eight thousand
this week,” interposed the ruminative
Copeland.</p>
<p>“Well, it’ll take money to get him,” snapped
back the Second Deputy, remembering that he
had a nest of his own to feather.</p>
<p>“It will be worth what it costs,” admitted the
Commissioner.</p>
<p>“Of course,” said Copeland, “they’ll have to
honor your drafts—in reason.”</p>
<p>“There will be no difficulty on the expense
side,” quietly interposed the Commissioner.
“The city wants Binhart. The whole country
wants Binhart. And they will be willing to
pay for it.”</p>
<p>Blake rose heavily to his feet. His massive
bulk was momentarily stirred by the prospect
of the task before him. For one brief moment
the anticipation of that clamor of approval
which would soon be his stirred his
lethargic pulse. Then his cynic calmness again
came back to him.</p>
<p>“Then what’re we beefing about?” he demanded.
“You want Binhart and I’ll get
him for you.”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_67">[67]</div>
<p>The Commissioner, tapping the top of his
desk with his gold-banded fountain pen,
smiled. It was almost a smile of indulgence.</p>
<p>“You <i>know</i> you will get him?” he inquired.</p>
<p>The inquiry seemed to anger Blake. He
was still dimly conscious of the operation of
forces which he could not fathom. There were
things, vague and insubstantial, which he could
not understand. But he nursed to his heavy-breathing
bosom the consciousness that he himself
was not without his own undivulged
powers, his own private tricks, his own inner reserves.</p>
<p>“I say I’ll get him!” he calmly proclaimed.
“And I guess that ought to be enough!”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_68">[68]</div>
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />