Brought in Dead

him, shouting and laughing.

Miller followed at his own pace, hands in pockets. The morning was cold and grey and yet the wind was bracing and he felt alive again for the first time in weeks.

The boys had reached the line of iron railings that marked the boundary of the park. Suddenly Roger gave a cry that was echoed by Tommy and they disappeared over the skyline.

Miller hurried after them and when he squeezed through a gap in the fence and looked down into the sports arena, a man in a black track suit was running round the grass track, Fritz in hot pursuit. Roger and Tommy were hopping about in the centre calling ineffectually.

By the time Miller reached the bottom of the hill the runner had secured a grip on Fritz’s collar and was leading him to the boys. They stood together in a little group and Miller heard a burst of laughter.

“Sorry about that,” he said as he approached.

The man in the track suit turned and grinned. “Surprise, surprise.” It was Duncan Craig.

“You’re right, it is,” Miller said. “You’re up early.”

“The best part of the day. Besides I like to keep fit.” He ruffled Roger’s hair. “These two imps yours?”

“My nephews,” Miller said. “For my sins. Roger and Tommy. Boys, this is Colonel Craig.”

They were enormously impressed. “Were you in the war?” Roger demanded.

Craig grinned. “I’m afraid so.”

“Commandos?”

“Nothing so romantic.”

They looked disappointed and Miller snapped the lead to Fritz’s collar. “Don’t you believe him. Colonel Craig was something a whole lot more romantic than any commando.”

Craig glanced sharply at him. “Been doing a little research, sergeant?”

“You could say that.” Miller brought Fritz to heel and nodded to the boys. “We’d better be getting back.”

They turned and ran across the arena and Miller nodded to Craig. “I’ll be seeing you.”

“I’m sure you will.”

When he reached the top of the hill, the boys were waiting for him and Miller paused to catch his breath. Below, Craig was already half-way round the track.

“I say, Uncle Nick,” Roger said, “he certainly likes running, doesn’t he?”

“I suppose he does,” Miller said, a slight frown on his face, and then he smiled. “I don’t know about you two, but I’m starving. Come on, I’ll race you to the car.”

Their excited laughter mingled with the dog’s barking died into the distance and below in the silent arena, Duncan Craig started on his second circuit, running strongly.

There was a time when Nick Miller had aspired to a black belt in karate or judo, but the pressure of work had interfered with that pursuit as it had with so many things. When he entered the premises of the Kardon Judo Centre on the following morning, it was his first visit in a month.

Bert King, the senior instructor, was dressed for the mat, but sat at his desk reading the morning paper, a cup of coffee in his hand. He was a small, shrunken man whose head seemed too big for his body and yet in the dojo, he was poetry in motion, a third dan in both judo and aikido.

“Hello, Mr. Miller, long time no see,” he said cheerfully.

“I don’t seem to have time to turn round these days,” Miller said, “but I’ve got an hour to spare this morning. Any chance of a private lesson?”

Bert shook his head. “Sorry, I’ve got a client in the dojo now warming up. I was just going to go in.”

“Anyone I know?”

“I don’t think so, he isn’t one of the regulars. A chap called Craig.”

Miller paused in the act of lighting a cigarette. “Colonel Duncan Craig?”

“That’s right. Do you know him?”

“We’ve met. Is he any good?”

“You’re telling me he is,” Bert King said emphatically. “His aikido is murder — brown belt standard at least. Maybe even first dan and the strange thing is, he isn’t even graded. He’s been coming in two hours each day for a fortnight now and it’s taking me all my time to hold him, I can tell you.”

“Mind if I watch?”

“Help yourself.” He moved out of the office, opened the door to the dojo and went inside. Miller hesitated for a moment and then followed him.

Craig and King faced each other in the centre of the mat. The Colonel was wearing an old judogi and looked fit and active, vibrant with energy like an unexploded time bomb.

“Free practice?” Bert King said.

Craig nodded. “All right by me.”

The contest which followed lasted just under fifteen minutes and was one of the finest Miller had seen. When it finished, both men were damp with sweat and Bert King looked shaken for the first time since Miller had known him.

“I must be getting old,” he said. “Ten minutes’ rest and then we’ll brush up on some of the finer points.”

“That’s fine by me.” Craig picked up his towel from the bench to wipe the sweat from his face and noticed Miller in the doorway. “Hello, sergeant, we seem to be running into each other all over the place.”

“We’ll have to get Sergeant Miller on the mat with you one of these days,” Bert said.

Miller shook his head. “No thanks. He’s too rich for my blood.”

“Don’t you believe it,” Bert told Craig. “He’ll give you a run for your money.”

“I’m sure he will.” Craig dropped his towel on the bench. “I’ll go through a few routines till you’re ready, Bert.”

There was a full-length mirror on the wall and he stood in front of it and started to practice karate kicks, knee raised, flicking each foot forward in turn with lightning speed.

“He’s good, isn’t he?” Bert King observed.

“Too damned good for comfort,” Miller said and he turned and went out quickly, his face grim.

“So he likes to take early morning runs in the park and he’s keen on judo,” Grant said. “So what? Plenty of men of his age like to keep fit. Wish I had the time myself.”

“But Duncan Craig is no ordinary man,” Miller said. “I’ve been doing a little research on him. He took a B.Sc. in Electrical Engineering at Leeds University in 1939, joined a tank regiment at the outbreak of war and was captured at Arras when the Panzers broke through in 1940. His grandmother was French and he speaks the language fluently, which helped when he escaped from prison camp and walked to Spain. Special Operations Executive recruited him when he got home and dropped him into France on four separate occasions to organise the maquis. On his last job, he was betrayed, but managed to slip through the net again. They posted him to the Middle East after that and he spent the rest of the war working for the Special Air Service organising guerrillas in the Cretan Mountains.”

“He must have been a pretty hard apple,” Grant observed.

“You’re telling me. When the war ended he was twenty-seven and a Lieutenant-Colonel. D.S.O. and bar, M.C., Legion of Honour — you name it, he’s got it.”

The early March wind drove hail like bullets against the window of Grant’s office and he sighed. “Look here, Nick, don’t you think you’re getting this thing completely out of proportion?”

“Do I hell,” Miller said. “Can you imagine a man like that sitting back while his daughter’s murderer walks the streets a free man?”

“Now you’re being melodramatic.” Grant shook his head. “I don’t buy this one, Nick. I don’t buy it at all. Not that I don’t want you to stop keeping a fatherly eye on Max Vernon. He’ll make his move sooner or later and when