Brought in Dead

CHAPTER 8

Miller came awake slowly and stared up at the ceiling through the early morning gloom. He checked his watch. It was just coming up to six and then he remembered that he was on a rest day. He gave a sigh of pleasure and turned over.

The outside door opened suddenly and as he struggled up on one elbow, there was laughter and the pounding of feet across the floor of the lounge. A moment later, the bedroom door was flung open and his nephews erupted into the room, a large and very eager Airedale leading the way.

The dog scrambled onto the bed and Miller shoved it away with a curse. “Get down, you brute.”

Tommy was eight and Roger ten and they moved in on him from both sides gurgling with laughter. “Come on, Uncle Nick, we’re taking Fritz to the park for a run.”

“Not with me you aren’t,” Miller said, hitching the blankets over his shoulders.

“Uncle Nick, you promised.”

“When?”

“Oh, ages ago.”

Fritz leapt clear across the bed and circled the room briskly and Miller sighed. “All right, I know when I’m beaten. But get that brute out of here. You can wait for me in the yard.”

After they had gone, he went into the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face and dressed quickly in cord slacks, polo necked sweater and suède boots. He lit a cigarette and went outside.

His brother’s house stood in two acres of garden, a large Victorian villa in grey Yorkshire stone, and Miller’s flat was above the garage block at the rear. As he went down the fire escape, an engine roared into life inside the garage and the Mini-Cooper reversed into the yard.

Tommy and Fritz were in the rear, Roger at the wheel and Miller opened the door quickly and pushed him into the passenger seat. “Don’t you ever let your mother catch you doing that,” he said. “You’ll get me shot.”

When they reached the park, they left the car near the main gates, but instead of going inside, walked down the road to the public playing fields where Miller released Fritz. The Airedale bounded away and the boys ran after 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 he does, I want us to be ready for him. As for Craig — just forget about him.”

Miller crumpled the sheet of paper he was holding into a ball of paper and Grant lost his temper. “Just let me put you straight on one or two things before you go. In this town alone crime has quadrupled over the past seven years. We’ve a clear-up rate for housebreaking of sixteen per cent, the average week in the C.I.D. is seventy hours and you want to waste your time on a thing like this? Go on, get out of here and get on with some work.”

Miller went back into the outer office and sat down at his desk. Jack Brady came across, a sympathetic grin on his face, and leaned against the wall as he filled his pipe.

“You did ask for it, you know.”

Miller sighed and ran his hands over his face. “I’m right, Jack — I know I am.”

“Perhaps you are, but I fail to see what you can do about it until something happens. Did you see that note I left for you?”

“This one?” Miller picked a sheet of paper from his In-tray.

“That’s right. It came in half an hour ago. You did say you wanted to know of anything concerning Chuck Lazer’s place, didn’t you?”

Miller read the report quickly and then picked up the telephone. “Get me the District Inspector for the R.S.P.C.A.” He looked up at Brady. “This could mean trouble.”

“That’s what I thought.”

A voice clicked in on the other end of the wire. “Forbes here.”

“Good morning, inspector. Detective Sergeant Miller, Central C.I.D. You’ve sent us a routine report on two poisoned dogs — Dalmatians. I wonder if you’d mind telling me what happened?”

“We got a call from a Mr. Lazer of the Berkley Club in Cork Square at nine o’clock this morning. He found his dogs dead in the alley at the side of the club. Arsenical poisoning, which was why I reported it.”

“Did he have any idea who was responsible?”

“He said very little. He was obviously quite distressed — and I don’t blame him. They were beautiful animals.”

Miller thanked him and replaced the receiver.

“What do you think,” Brady said, “a declaration of war?”

“I should imagine so.” Miller stood up and took down his trenchcoat from the stand. “We’d better go round and see if we can damp down this little affair before it bursts into flame.”

Chuck Lazer was sitting at the piano in the empty casino, a glass at his elbow. He gave a tired grin when Miller and Brady entered and kept right on playing.

“Bad news travels fast.”

“It certainly does,” Miller said. “Why didn’t you let me know?”

“My affair.”

“Not in my book.” Miller pulled a chair forward and sat astride it, arms resting on the back. “He’s going to squeeze you out, Chuck. This is only the first step.”

Lazer shrugged and moved into a pushing, intricate arrangement of Blue Moon. “I can look after myself.”

“What with — a gun?”

Lazer cracked suddenly and completely. “What in the hell do you expect me to do? Bow out gracefully and let him take over? I’ve put a lot of sweat into this place, Nick. I run an honest game for a nice class of people, which suits me and suits them. I’m damned if I’m going to let Max Vernon walk all over me.”

Miller got to his feet, walked across to one of the green baize tables and picked up a pair of dice. He rattled them in his hand and turned, a frown on his face.

“When do you think they’ll start, Jack?”

“Probably tonight if what happened to the dogs is anything to go by,” Brady said. “Half a dozen heavies mingling with the regular members, complaining about the service, starting a punch-up or two. The usual pattern. Before you know where you are this place will be as dead as the Empire music hall.”

Lazer’s face had gone grey and his shoulders sagged as he stopped playing. “Okay — you win. What do I do?”

“You do nothing,” Miller said. “Just leave everything to us. What time do you open?”

“Eight o’clock, but things don’t really get moving till nine-thirty or ten.”

Miller turned to Brady enquiringly. “Feel like a night on the town, Jack?”

“Suits me,” Brady grinned. “Naturally I’ll expect my chips to be on the house.”

Lazer managed a faint smile. “I might as well get ruined that way as the other.”

Miller clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Chuck, we’ll have the heavy brigade standing by. Anyone who starts anything tonight is in for the shock of their lives.”

On returning to Headquarters, Miller went in to see Grant to report on this latest development and then sat down at his desk and started to work his way through some of the paper that had accumulated in his In-tray. It was just before one and he was thinking about going down to the canteen for a sandwich when the ’phone rang.

It was a woman’s voice, cool, assured and faintly familiar. “Detective Sergeant Miller?”

“Speaking.”

“Harriet Craig here.”

“What can I do for you, Miss Craig?”

“I was wondering if we could have a chat.”

“I don’t see why not. Are you free this afternoon?”

“No, I’m afraid not, and this evening I’m going to the symphony concert at the George Hall with friends.” She hesitated as if slightly uncertain. “It finishes at ten. I could meet you then or would that be too late?”

“Not at all,” Miller said. “Shall I pick you up outside?”

“No, I’d rather not if you don’t mind. There’s a bar in Gascoigne Square — the Romney. Do you know it?”

“I certainly do.”

“I’ll meet you in the lounge at ten fifteen.”

Miller replaced the receiver and stared into space, thinking about Gascoigne Square by night and the lounge bar of the Romney, the neon lights of the Flamingo Club flashing across from the other side.

“And now what’s she up to?” he asked himself softly.