III
It was not until the advent of Copeland, the new First Deputy, that Blakebegan to suspect his own position. Copeland was an out-and-out "office"man, anything but a "flat foot." Weak looking and pallid, with thesedentary air of a junior desk clerk, vibratingly restless with no actualpromise of being penetrating, he was of that indeterminate type whichnever seems to acquire a personality of its own. The small and bony andsteel-blue face was as neutral as the spare and reticent figure that satbefore a bald table in a bald room as inexpressive and reticent as itsoccupant. Copeland was not only unknown outside the Department; he was,in a way, unknown in his own official circles.
And then Blake woke up to the fact that some one on the inside wasworking against him, was blocking his moves, was actually using him as a"blind." While he was given the "cold" trails, younger men went out onthe "hot" ones. There were times when the Second Deputy suspected thathis enemy was Copeland. Not that he could be sure of this, for Copelandhimself gave no inkling of his attitude. He gave no inkling of anything,in fact, personal or impersonal. But more and more Blake was given thetalking parts, the role of spokesman to the press. He was more and moreposted in the background, like artillery, to intimidate with his remotethunder and cover the advance of more agile columns. He was encouraged totell the public what he knew, but he was not allowed to know too much.And, ironically enough, he bitterly resented this role of "mouthpiece"for the Department.
"You call yourself a gun!" a patrolman who had been shaken down forinsubordination broke out at him. "A gun! why, you're only a _park_ gun!That's all you are, a broken-down bluff, an ornamental has-been, a parkgun for kids to play 'round!"
Blake raged at that, impotently, pathetically, like an old lion with itsteeth drawn. He prowled moodily around, looking for an enemy on whom tovent his anger. But he could find no tangible force that opposed him. Hecould see nothing on which to centralize his activity. Yet something orsomebody was working against him. To fight that opposition was likefighting a fog. It was as bad as trying to shoulder back a shadow.
He had his own "spots" and "finders" on the force. When he had beentipped off that the powers above were about to send him out on theBinhart case, he passed the word along to his underlings, without loss oftime, for he felt that he was about to be put on trial, that they weremaking the Binhart capture a test case. And he had rejoiced mightily whenhis dragnet had brought up the unexpected tip that Elsie Verriner hadbeen in recent communication with Binhart, and with pressure from theright quarter could be made to talk.
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 personaltriumph for the Second Deputy, but a vindication of that Second Deputy'smethods.
So when the Commissioner called him and Copeland into conference, the dayafter his talk with Elsie Verriner, Blake prided himself on beingsecretly prepared for any advances that might be made.
It was the Commissioner who did the talking. Copeland, as usual, lapsedinto the background, cracking his dry knuckles and blinking his pale-blueeyes about the room as the voices of the two larger men boomed back andforth.
"We've been going over this Binhart case," began the Commissioner. "It'sseven months now--and nothing done!"
Blake looked sideways at Copeland. There was muffled and meditativebelligerency in the look. There was also gratification, for it was themove he had been expecting.
"I always said McCooey wasn't the man to go out on that case," said theSecond Deputy, still watching Copeland.
"Then who _is_ the man?" asked the Commissioner.
Blake took out a cigar, bit the end off, and struck a match. It was outof place; but it was a sign of his independence. He had long since givenup plug and fine-cut and taken to fat Havanas, which he smoked audibly,in plethoric wheezes. Good living had left his body stout and hisbreathing slightly asthmatic. He sat looking down at his massive knees;his oblique study of Copeland, apparently, had yielded him scantsatisfaction. Copeland, in fact, was making paper fans out of theofficial note-paper in front of him.
"What's the matter with Washington and Wilkie?" inquired Blake,attentively regarding his cigar.
"They're just where we are--at a standstill," acknowledged theCommissioner.
"And that's where we'll stay!" heavily contended the Second Deputy.
The entire situation was an insidiously flattering one to Blake. Everyone else had failed. They were compelled to come to him, their finalresource.
"Why?" demanded his superior.
"Because we haven't got a man who can turn the trick! We haven't got aman who can go out and round up Binhart inside o' seven years!"
"Then what is your suggestion?" It was Copeland who spoke, mild andhesitating.
"D' you want my suggestion?" demanded Blake, warm with the wine-likeknowledge which, he knew, made him master of the situation.
"Of course," was the Commissioner's curt response.
"Well, you've got to have a man who knows Binhart, who knows him and histricks and his hang outs!"
"Well, who does?"
"I do," declared Blake.
The Commissioner indulged in his wintry smile.
"You mean if you weren't tied down to your Second Deputy's chair youcould go out and get him!"
"I could!"
"Within a reasonable length of time?"
"I don't know about the time! But I could get him, all right."
"If you were still on the outside work?" interposed Copeland.
"I certainly wouldn't expect to dig him out o' my stamp drawer," wasBlake's heavily facetious retort.
Copeland and the Commissioner looked at each other, for one fraction of asecond.
"You know what my feeling is," resumed the latter, "on this Binhartcase."
"I know what _my_ feeling is," declared Blake.
"What?"
"That the right method would've got him six months ago, without all thismonkey work!"
"Then why not end the monkey work, as you call it?"
"How?"
"By doing what you say you can do!" was the Commissioner's retort.
"How'm I going to hold down a chair and hunt a crook at the same time?"
"Then why hold down the chair? Let the chair take care of itself. Itcould be arranged, you know."
Blake had the stage-juggler's satisfaction of seeing things fall into hishands exactly as he had manoeuvered they should. His reluctance wasmerely a dissimulation, a stage wait for heightened dramatic effect.
"How'd you do the arranging?" he calmly inquired.
"I could see the Mayor in the morning. There will be no Departmentaldifficulty."
"Then where's the trouble?"
"There is none, if you are willing to go out."
"Well, we can't get Binhart here by pink-tea invitations. Somebody's gotto go out and _get_ him!"
"The bank raised the reward to eight thousand this week," interposed theruminative Copeland.
"Well, it'll take money to get him," snapped back the Second Deputy,remembering that he had a nest of his own to feather.
"It will be worth what it costs," admitted the Commissioner.
"Of course," said Copeland, "they'll have to honor your drafts--inreason."
"There will be no difficulty on the expense side," quietly interposed theCommissioner. "The city wants Binhart. The whole country wants Binhart.And they will be willing to pay for it."
Blake rose heavily to his feet. His massive bulk was momentarily stirredby the prospect of the task before him. For one brief moment theanticipation of that clamor of approval which would soon be his stirredhis lethargic pulse. Then his cynic calmness again came back to him.
"Then what're we beefing about?" he demanded. "You want Binhart and I'llget him for you."
The Commissioner, tapping the top of his desk with his gold-bandedfountain pen, smiled. It was almost a smile of indulgence.
"You _know_ you will get him?" he
inquired.
The inquiry seemed to anger Blake. He was still dimly conscious of theoperation of forces which he could not fathom. There were things, vagueand insubstantial, which he could not understand. But he nursed to hisheavy-breathing bosom the consciousness that he himself was not withouthis own undivulged powers, his own private tricks, his own innerreserves.
"I say I'll get him!" he calmly proclaimed. "And I guess that ought to beenough!"