Never-Fail Blake

by Arthur Stringer

  III

  It was not until the advent of Copeland, the new First Deputy, thatBlake 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 restlesswith no actual promise of being penetrating, he was of thatindeterminate type which never seems to acquire a personality of itsown. The small and bony and steel-blue face was as neutral as thespare and reticent figure that sat before a bald table in a bald roomas inexpressive and reticent as its occupant. Copeland was not onlyunknown outside the Department; he was, in a way, unknown in his ownofficial 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 asa "blind." While he was given the "cold" trails, younger men went outon the "hot" ones. There were times when the Second Deputy suspectedthat his enemy was Copeland. Not that he could be sure of this, forCopeland himself gave no inkling of his attitude. He gave no inklingof anything, in fact, personal or impersonal. But more and more Blakewas given the talking parts, the role of spokesman to the press. Hewas more and more posted in the background, like artillery, tointimidate with his remote thunder and cover the advance of more agilecolumns. He was encouraged to tell the public what he knew, but he wasnot allowed to know too much. And, ironically enough, he bitterlyresented 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 park gun for kids to play 'round!"

  Blake raged at that, impotently, pathetically, like an old lion withits teeth drawn. He prowled moodily around, looking for an enemy onwhom to vent his anger. But he could find no tangible force thatopposed him. He could see nothing on which to centralize his activity.Yet something or somebody was working against him. To fight thatopposition was like fighting a fog. It was as bad as trying toshoulder 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 lossof time, for he felt that he was about to be put on trial, that theywere making the Binhart capture a test case. And he had rejoicedmightily when his dragnet had brought up the unexpected tip that ElsieVerriner had been in recent communication with Binhart, and withpressure from the right quarter could be made to talk.

  This tip had been a secret one. Blake, on his part, kept it wellmuffled, for he intended that his capture of Binhart should be not onlya personal triumph for the Second Deputy, but a vindication of thatSecond Deputy's methods.

  So when the Commissioner called him and Copeland into conference, theday after 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,lapsed into the background, cracking his dry knuckles and blinking hispale-blue eyes about the room as the voices of the two larger menboomed back and forth.

  "We 've been going over this Binhart case," began the Commissioner."It's seven 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 was n't the man to go out on that case," saidthe Second 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 wasout of place; but it was a sign of his independence. He had long sincegiven up plug and fine-cut and taken to fat Havanas, which he smokedaudibly, in plethoric wheezes. Good living had left his body stout andhis breathing slightly asthmatic. He sat looking down at his massiveknees; 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 have n't got a man who can turn the trick! We have n't gota man 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 andhis tricks and his hang outs!"

  "Well, who does?"

  "I do," declared Blake.

  The Commissioner indulged in his wintry smile.

  "You mean if you were n'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 would n'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 ofa second.

  "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 allthis monkey 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 intohis hands exactly as he had manoeuvered they should. His reluctancewas merely 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 'sgot to go out and _get_ him!"

  "The bank raised the reward to eight thousand this week," interposedthe ruminative 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 interposedthe Commissioner. "The city wants Binhart. The whole country wantsBinhart. And they will be willing to pay for it."

  Blake rose heavily to his feet. His massive bulk was momentarilystirred by the prospect of the task before him. For one brief momentthe anticipation of that clamor of approval which would soon be hisstirred his lethargic pulse. Then his cynic calmness again came backto him.

  "Then what 're we beefing about?" he demanded. "You want Binhart and I'll get 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,vague and insubstantial, which he could not understand. But he nursedto his heavy-breathing bosom the consciousness that he himself was notwithout his own undivulged powers, his own private tricks, his owninner reserves.

  "I say I 'll get him!" he calmly proclaimed. "And I guess that oughtto be enough!"