Free Knight Without Armour by James Hilton Page A

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.
    He drank some brandy to steady his nerves and spent the rest of the night
in his easiest armchair. He did not care to enter the bedroom. Now that the
police had left him, personal apprehensions were again overshadowed by
grief.
    He had fallen into a troubled doze when he was awakened by the sound of
scuffling on the landing outside, punctuated by shrill screams from the woman
who usually came in the mornings to clear up his room and prepare breakfast.
She was evidently being compelled to give up her keys, and a moment later the
door was unlocked and two police guards strode into the room. They were of a
very different type from those of the previous visit. Huge, shaggy fellows,
blustering in manner and brutal in method, A.J. recognised their class from
so many stories he had heard in that underground beer-hall. “You are to
come with us immediately,” one of them ordered gruffly. “Take any
extra clothes and personal articles that you can put into a small
parcel.” A.J. felt a sharp stab of panic; the routine was dreadfully
familiar. “By whose orders?” he asked, feeling that a show of
truculence might have some effect with men who were obviously