Free Knight Without Armour by James Hilton

been a flight to his friend’s apartment, and
though that was over a mile from Daniloff’s house, he had walked there,
despite his agony, and even in the porter’s office had managed to make
his request with-out seeming to arouse suspicion. Now, in his friend’s
bedroom, he could only gasp out his story and plead not to be turned
away.
    There was no question of that, A.J. assured him; no question of that.
“You shall stay here, Alexis, till you are well again, but I must go
out and find a doctor—I have done all I can myself, I’m
afraid.”
    The boy shook his head. “No, no, you can’t get a
doctor—he’ll ask questions—it’s impossible. But I
have a friend—a medical student—I will give you his
address—to-morrow you shall fetch him to me—he will take out the
bullet—and say nothing…”
    “Tell me where he lives and I will fetch him now.”
    “No, no—the police would stop you—they will be all
everywhere to-night—because of Daniloff.” He added: “I am
sorry to be such a bother to you—I wish I could have thought of some
other way. If only I had taken better aim I might have killed him
instantly.”
    “Don’t talk,” A.J. commanded, huskily. “Try to be
quiet—then in the morning I will fetch your friend.”
    “Yes. I shall be all right when the bullet is taken out.”
    “Yes—yes. Don’t talk any more.”
    He held the boy in his arms, that boy with the face of an angel, that boy
who had just shot a government minister in cold blood; he held him in his
arms until past one in the morning, and then, very quietly and apparently
with a gradual diminution of pain, the end came.
    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.”