“Sure, son,—didn’t I tell you us humans were all crooks!” the old man said appeasingly. “But, sure, there never was a crookeder chief of detectives than Bradley. You certainly showed nerve when you started out to get him—and you certainly showed your class when you finally trapped him, publicly, with the goods on. Only—”
“That’s it—only!” Clifford exclaimed sourly. “It’s quite some little word, that only.”
“Sure—only. Son,”—and the old man spoke gravely,—“I’m twice as old as you are, but you should know as well as I know that you really can’t get a copper. I mean a clever copper. Count the big coppers that have really been sent away—the smart boys, I mean—and you’ll see you have several fingers left to check up your laundry on. That was grand business you pulled on Bradley, and it showed all New York he was a crook. It was worth doing—God, yes! But I said to myself, as soon as I heard of the swell arrest you had made of him, that a classy guy like Bradley would have himself covered and would beat the case when it came to trial. And he sure did beat it!”
“On a technicality!” Clifford was still bitter at the manner in which his old enemy and old superior officer had slipped from what had seemed the sure clutches of the law.
“A technicality, sure. But it got him off, and what more does a crook ever ask for?”
“But he got reinstated in the Police Department!”
“But didn’t he retire right afterwards, claiming broken health? And don’t you and I know his real reason was that his old game was done for and that the public was wise to him? The big trouble with you, son,” the old man declared severely, “is that you want a one hundred per cent victory. The best you can hope for with a guy like Bradley is to split the thing fifty-fifty.”
“You seem to admire Bradley a lot!” half growled Clifford.
“I do. I hand it to the guy with brains wherever I meet him.”
“I don’t see how you can be friends with me, then!”