Корнелл Вулрич - A Treasury of Stories (Collection of novelettes and short stories)

Then she ran like one possessed, slammed the door, turned the key in it and fled from the house, down the road — and all the gods of old Japan and all the ghosts of ancient warriors must have been rooting for her.

She flung herself in the car, without bothering to shut the door. The keys were in it, and she turned on the ignition and floored the starter...

He didn’t bother with the room door. He leaped out the window and cut through the dwarf firs diagonally for the car...

The motor turned over once, turned over twice, failed.

He had her.

“C’mon back, baby,” he said, wrapping her in a double-armed bear hug and lifting her bodily out of the car. He dragged her back toward the cabin, breathing heavily. “I don’t know whether to love you or kill you.” He laughed harshly. “Why not both?”

Her timing was what had destroyed her. It had worked out all wrong.

Her eyes remained closed for some time after. She almost seemed to be in a faint, from over-emotion. When she stirred at last and opened her eyes, he was all the way across the room from her. He had a closet door open and was standing by it, his hand inside the pocket of an old gabardine topcoat that was hanging there.

She tried to sit up, failed, then succeeded.

“Wasn’t it good?” she whispered exhaustedly, as though seeking to determine her own fate by the answer.

“Sure. Out of this world. That’s why I’m sending you there with it.”

She dropped her eyes demurely. “In Japan there are many old arts. Making love is one of them.”

“Ready, baby?” was all he said.

The gun came out.

She looked at him without expression. “Dying is another of our arts,” she said.

Outside the house there was a guttural shout of command. Then running feet started to converge on it from all sides, dozens of them it seemed, pattering over grass, scraping over gravel, slapping over flagstones.

The gun jerked spasmodically.

“I was almost going to let you go there for a minute,” he confided rapidly. “But this does it.”

They weren’t in time. He was too close, and they were too far.

He aimed at her face first, but then changed his mind, as though thinking it was too beautiful to spoil. He lowered it to her heart instead, and the bullet slammed her backward. The blood came out with an effect almost like an iridescent, finespun garden spray revolving on the grass, until she clapped both hands over it to try to hold it in. Then it simply ran down flat against her skin.

She toppled over sideward on the bed, and dropped from there to the floor, limp as a drunk.

Then they were in. They poured in like water through a sieve. They even seemed to come through the walls.

He tried to point it at his own head, but his immunity had run out, and they caught it from him and bore him down.

Then Colonel Setsu strode in, dress-uniform sword at his side. “Help this woman,” he ordered, pointing.

She made a warding-off gesture with one hand, its palm out toward them, shiny orange-red with her own blood but the creases in it still white.

Then she lifted herself — agonizedly, by sheer will power, almost miraculously — grasping the bed until she stood fully erect for a moment, for a moment only.

Not to face them, for her face turned straight upward overhead, to where Ameratsu the sun goddess, ancestress of all Japan, blazed in all her glory.

“For the divine Emperor I die!”

Then she fell and died there.

“Tomiko!” cried Colonel Setsu in a ringing voice, holding his sword upright before his face in salute. “Let every man remember her name and tell it to his sons. Let every man look upon her face and behold true love of country.”

They all bowed their heads mutely for a long moment.

Then Johanie Lyons was hustled violently out, staggering from side to side with the fury of their hatred.

The cell door grated open at the usual time, but instead of the guard with the daily tin breakfast tray, the Commandant of Sugamo Prison himself entered, holding two official-looking documents in his hand.

Lyons’ face whitened — he would have been more than human if it hadn’t — but at least it stayed steady enough. “Is this it?” he asked.

The Commandant didn’t answer. A turnkey brought in a folded campstool and set it up, and the official seated himself on it. The turnkey went out and relocked the cell door.

“You wish to eat breakfast first?”

Lyons sighed listlessly. “No. What is it?”

“Has been discussions going on for some time,” began the Commandant by way of introduction.

“I wondered what was taking it so long,” said Lyons, half to himself.

“Is politics involved. No harm if you know this. Politics can forgive anything, if necessary. Overlook everything, no matter what.”

“Why the briefing? I know I’m going to die,” said Lyons morosely. “This is no fun for me.”

“Finally, agreement has been reached, after long delicate negotiations. Russia have in prison two, three very valuable Japanese secret agents we would like back. Also, Japan for political reasons, have no wish to be bad friends with Russia at this time. Want to conciliate. We already fighting one all-out war. So, in exchange for two, three Japanese agents Russia hand back to us, you be taken out of here some time this week, go under armed escort to Valadivostock, and be turned free on Russian territory.”

It took several moments for it to sink in. Lyons blinked, and then blinked again. “In other words, I’m not going to hang at all. I’m being traded in for some Japanese agents Russia’s holding.”

“Exactly,” said the Commandant. “This is not made known, of course, to public or newspapers. Is bad for morale in wartime. But people soon forget your name, think you already been executed. Is higher politics, that’s all. Happen many times before in this world.”

“I’d be a liar,” Lyons admitted, “if I said I wasn’t glad. Anybody’d rather live than die.”

“Now all you have to do,” said the Commandant, producing a fountain pen and uncapping it, “you sign one of these two paper, and everything taken care of.”

“What is it? Can I read it?”

The Commandant handed it to him. It was short, just a bare couple of lines, and typed in English. He read it half aloud to himself.

“I, John Lyons, do hereby and for all future time to come renounce my citizenship in the United States of America.”

He looked up at the Commandant blankly. “What’s the other one, the one I don’t have to sign?”

“That automatically grant you Soviet citizenship as soon as you sign this first one. But first one must be signed before it can do so.”

“But why?” said Johnnie dazedly. “Why? I don’t get it.”

“Is very simple,” said the Commandant impatiently. “You haven’t heard about it here in prison maybe, but my country has been in state of total war with United States America since eight of December just past.”

“What!” said Johnnie, stunned.

“With Russia we still continue at peace. Is impossible exchange you as American citizen. As American citizen you must pay death penalty, for spying. Only as Soviet citizen can you be exchanged. Is only technicality, anyhow. You been working for Russia all along, for past several years.”

“Yeah,” said Johnnie dimly. “But there was no war then. And I hadn’t seen a girl named Tomiko die.”

He huddled forward and ran his hands through his hair.

“How much time have I got to decide?”

“How much time you need, to know if you want to live or die?” said the Commandant ironically.

“Give me one night’s time.”

The Commandant rose to his feet. “I return at exactly this time tomorrow morning. You let me know then which you decide.”