Knight Without Armour

Till that moment A.J. had felt nothing but, pity for his friend; but afterwards he began to realise that he was himself in an extraordinarily difficult and dangerous situation. How could he explain the death of the boy that night in his apartment? What story could he invent that would not connect himself with the attack on Daniloff? The deep red stain in the midst of his sitting-room carpet faced him as a dreadful reminder of his problems. He had no time to solve them, even tentatively, for less than a quarter of an hour after the boy’s death he heard a loud commotion in the street outside and a few seconds later a vehement banging on the door of the porter’s office. Next came heavy footsteps up the stairs and a sudden pummeling on his own door. He went to open it and saw a group of police officers standing outside, with the porter in custody.

“We understand that a young man visited you a short time ago,” began one of the officers, with curt precision.

“Yes,” answered A.J.

“Is he here now?”

“Yes.”

“We must have a word with him.”

“I am afraid that will be impossible. He is dead.”

“Ah—then, if you will permit us to see the body.”

“Certainly. In there.”

He pointed to the bedroom, but did not follow them. One of the officers stayed behind in the sitting-room. After a few moments the others returned and their leader resumed his questioning. “Now, sir,” he said, facing A.J. rather sternly, “perhaps you will be good enough to explain all this.”

A.J. replied, as calmly as he could: “I will explain all I can, which I am afraid isn’t very much. I was sitting here just over an hour ago, about to go to bed, when the young man was brought up to see me—”

“The porter brought him up?”

“Yes.”

“Continue.”

“I invited him to come in, and as he looked ill, I asked him what was the matter. Besides, of course, it was peculiar his wanting to see me at such a late hour.”

“Very peculiar indeed. You must have been a very intimate friend of his.”

“Hardly that, as a matter of fact. He used to drop and see me now and again, that was all.”

“Continue with the story.”

“Well, as I was saying, I asked him what was the matter, but he didn’t answer. He was holding his hand to his chest—like this.” A.J. imitated the position. “Then he suddenly took his hand away and the result was—that.” He pointed to the stain on the carpet. “Then he collapsed and I took him into my bedroom. I discovered that he had been shot, but I could not get him to explain anything at all about how it had happened. I made him as comfortable as I could and was just about to send for a doctor when he died. That’s all, I’m afraid.”

“You say he told you nothing of what had happened to him?”

“Nothing at all.”

“And you could make no guess?”

“Absolutely none—it seemed a complete mystery to me during the very short time I had for thinking about it.”

“You know who the young man is?”

“I know his name. He is Alexis Maronin.”

“And your name?”

“Peter Vasilevitch Ouranov.”

“How did you come to know Maronin?”

“We met in connection with some work I am engaged upon. I am writing a book of history and Maronin was interested in the same period. We used to meet occasionally for an exchange of ideas.”

“What was he by profession?”

“A student, I rather imagined. He was always very reserved about himself and his affairs.”

“Were you surprised to see him an hour ago when he came here?”

“I certainly was.”

“You know it is against police rules for strangers to be admitted at that hour?”

“Yes.”

“Had the porter ever admitted visitors to your apartment at such a time before?”

A.J., from the porter’s woebegone appearance, guessed that he had already made the fullest and most abject confession, so he replied: “Yes, he had—but not very often.”

“Had he ever admitted Maronin before at such a late hour?”

“I believe so—once.”

“Why, then, were you surprised to see him when he came to- night?”

A.J. answered, with an effort of casualness: “Because on that last occasion when he paid me a call after permitted hours I gave the boy such a scolding for breaking rules and leading me into possible trouble, that I felt quite sure he had learned a lesson and would not do so again.”

“I see…And you still say that you have not the slightest idea how Maronin met with his injury?”

“Not the slightest.”

“May we examine your passport?”

“Certainly.”

He produced it and handed it over. While it was being closely inspected two police officers carried the boy’s body to a waiting ambulance below. Finally the leading officer handed the passport back to A.J. with the words: “That will be all for the present, but we may wish to question you again.” The police then departed, but A.J. was under no illusion that danger had departed with them. When he looked out of his sitting-room window he could see and hear the march of a patient watcher on the pavement below.