About midnight one October evening A.J. was reading in his sitting-room and thinking of going to bed when the porter tapped at his door with the message that a young man wished to see him. Such late visits were against police regulations, but the chance of a good tip had doubtless weighed more powerfully in the balance. A.J. nodded, and the porter immediately ushered in Maronin, who had been standing behind him in the shadow of the landing.
As soon as the door had closed and the two were alone together A.J. could see that something was wrong. The boy’s face was milky pale and his eyes stared fixedly; he was also holding his hand against his chest in a rather peculiar way. “What on earth’s the matter?” A.J. enquired, and for answer Alexis could do nothing but remove his hand and allow a sudden stream of blood to spurt out and stain the carpet.
A.J., in astonished alarm, helped him into the bedroom and laid him on the bed, discovering then that he had been shot in the chest and was still bleeding profusely. The boy did not speak at first; he seemed to have no strength to do anything but smile. When, however, A.J. had tended him a little and had given him brandy, he began to stammer out what had happened. He had, it seemed, fulfilled a secret task given him by revolutionary headquarters. He had shot Daniloff, Minister of the Interior. He had done it by seeking an interview and firing point-blank across the minister’s own study-table. Daniloff, however, had been quick enough to draw a revolver and fire back at his assailant as the latter escaped through a window. A ladder had been placed in readiness by an accomplice, and Alexis had been descending by it when Daniloff’s bullet had struck him in the chest. He had hurried down, unheeding, and had mingled—successfully, he believed—with the crowds leaving a theatre. He had been in great pain by then, and knew that he dare not let himself be taken to a hospital because in such a place his wound would instantly betray him. The only plan he had been able to think of had 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.” 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.”