The Miracle

by Irving Wallace

  Experienced as she was at all sorts of mayhem, Liz instinctively recoiled at the sight. She came weakly to her feet, trying to understand. At first thought, the mundane passed through Liz's mind. An intruder, a robbery, and Gisele had tried to prevent it and failed. But then another thought surfaced. Yesterday Gisele had made it clear that she was onto a story ... a big, big one . . . the biggest . . . with international overtones . . . "It'll have to wait overnight I'll know tomorrow if you can have it. "

  Gisele had been "on the verge" of getting her story, just waiting for verification today.

  Verification had to come from someone. Yes, someone had been here in this apartment. Yes, Gisele probably had come upon a tremendous story. But someone had learned of it and someone wouldn't let Gisele have it. Someone had done her in, viciously, monstrously.

  Poor kid.

  Good-bye Gisele. Good-bye big story. And, selfish realization, good-bye Liz Finch and her chance to retain her job.

  Liz's immediate intent had been to flee from the corpse and the scene, but her squeamishness was subsiding and her reporter's curiosity was taking grip. If someone had been here, then someone might have left a clue. Probably not. But maybe. Nevertheless, worth a brief try. Liz felt inside her purse for her handkerchief, withdrew it and unfolded it. She wrapped it around her right hand. If she was going to make a search, she'd better not leave her own fingerprints and be implicated in the murder.

  Liz started her fast but thorough search, going from room to room. But everywhere she drew blanks. Not a hint of another human presence. Not a clue. Not a scrap of writing. The apartment was eerily anonymous.

  After fifteen minutes, Liz knew that she had been preceded by someone even more clever and professional than she.

  Nervous that a visitor might come calling, and find her here and compromise her, Liz tarried no longer. She walked out of the apartment into the street, and found a taxi to take her to her hotel near the domain.

  Arriving before the hotel, Liz decided on her next move. She felt that she owed Grisele Dupree a favor for having tried to help her. Liz owed the little guide girl one phone call. Liz meant to make it from her room, but concluded that it might easily be traced and unsafe. She asked the taxi driver where she might find a public telephone booth. He directed her to a location a half block away.

  While walking to the public phone, Liz ransacked her purse for a jeton, found a token, closed herself into the booth. She dropped thejeton into the slot, and dialed the operator.

  "Operator," she said in French into the mouthpiece, "connect me with the Commissariat de police. This is an emergency."

  "Police secours? Appelez-vous dix-sept "

  Liz hung up, then dialed 17.

  Seconds later, a young man's voice answered the phone, giving his rank and name and stating that this was the police emergency desk.

  Liz said, "Can you hear me, officer?"

  "Yes."

  "I must tell you something important, so please do not interrupt me." Liz continued rapidly and distinctly. "I went to a woman friend's apartment to meet with her. We were to go shopping together. Her door was open, and I went inside. I found her on the floor, dead, strangled to death. Let me repeat. I found her murdered. There is no question that

  she is dead. Take a pencil now and I will give you her name and address—"

  "Madame, if you will let me interrupt—"

  "I will not speak to you beyond what I am reporting. The victim's name is Gisele Dupree, a single woman in her twenties. Her address is —" Liz searched for the card on which Gisele had jotted her address, and she read it out more slowly. "You will find her body there," she added. "You have it all."

  "Yes, I do. But listen, madame—"

  Liz hung up the receiver, and left the public phone for some fresh air.

  Liz wandered aimlessly for half an hour, until her nerves had settled down, and then she began to think about her future. She had held off the feature piece on Bernadette, hoping that she would come up with something more spectacular, something sure-fire, from Gisele. But now that this hope was ashes, there was no choice but to give Bill Trask in Paris something, whatever she had ready.

  She changed her direction, and started toward the press tent. Ten minutes later, she reached it and went inside the temporary canvas cavern. There were at least a hundred desks in the tent, and unhappily she made her way to the used oak desk she shared with two other correspondents. The chair was unoccupied, and Liz hoped the others who shared the facility with her were having as poor a time of it as she was in finding something to write about.

  When she brought the telephone to her, and asked the switchboard to get her API in Paris, it occurred to her that she had not one story but two that might interest her boss. In moments, she had API, and asked to be connected with Bill Trask.

  Trask's gruff voice challenged her. "Yeah, who is it?"

  "Come off it. Bill, who'd be calling you from Lourdes? It's Liz here, no other."

  "I was wondering when you'd check in."

  "Bill, it's been absolutely dullsville for six days. I've been running my ass off, doing what I can, you can be sure."

  "Well, anyone seen the Virgin yet?"

  "Bill, cut it out."

  "I mean it."

  "You know the answer is a great fat No—N-O. But, well, I have dredged up two stories for you. Won't shake the world, but they are stories."

  "Okay, let me turn the machine on. I'll be listening, but meanwhile we're recording. Go ahead, Liz."

  "First story, right?"

  "Go on."

  Liz plunged. "Murder in Lourdes this morning. Brutal murder among the holies. Everyone here to get cured, and instead a local gets herself killed. Victim's name is Gisele Dupree, single, maybe twenty-six, found strangled in her apartment near the grotto at—well, at noon. She'd once worked as a secretary for the French ambassador to the United Nations Charles Sarrat. She was in New York with him, with the delegation."

  "When?"

  "Two years ago."

  "But now, what was she doing in Lourdes right now?"

  Liz swallowed. The Trask test. "Uh, she was working here as a tourist guide."

  "A what?"

  "She led guided tours around Lourdes, to all the historic sites."

  "All right, let's try another tack. Who murdered her?"

  Feeling helpless, Liz improvised. "I contacted the Lourdes police. Murderer still unknown. They say they're running down several clues, but no suspect has been announced. I'll stay on them, if you like."

  "Anything else about the killing?"

  "Well, I can tell you this about the victim. She was pretty, actually beautiful, very sexy. Also—"

  Trask stamped on her abruptly. "Don't bother," he said.

  "What?"

  "Don't bother to follow up. Come on, Liz, you know better. You know that's not a wire story for us. There are how many murders in France every goddam day? This is just another run-of-the-mill murder. What have you got there? A girl guide. A nobody killed by no one we know. That's for the French press. It wouldn't get us an inch in New York or Chicago or L.A., let alone Dubuque or Topeka. Of course, if the killer turned out to be somebody, or if somehow you dug up an international angle, we might make it work."

  "I can keep trying, and see if something more breaks."

  "Don't give it too much energy. I don't think this one is going anywhere. Okay, you mentioned another story. Shoot with it."

  "Well, since there's been no hard news in Lourdes on the Virgin or anything, I've been poking into a little expose on Bernadette, and what was really going on with her in 1858 and right after. Thought it might make a Sunday feature. Cause a little stir. I've banged it out."

  "You can dictate. All ears on this end."

  Liz exhaled. "Here goes."

  She began to read her feature story into the phone.

  The lead dealt with the fact that Lourdes, which normally enjoyed five million visitors a year, was in these eight days hosting the g
reatest number of persons ever to converge upon the holy site—and all because of the visions of a fourteen-year-old peasant girl named Bernadette, and a secret she had revealed.

  While the Catholic Church had elevated Bernadette to sainthood after her death, Liz went on, a minority of the clergy as well as many scholars had questioned the veracity of Bernadette's visions. Trying to build her case against Bernadette like a prosecutor, Liz rattled off all the suspicions that existed about the peasant girl's honesty.

  "Backers of Bernadette always insisted that she was not self-serving in reporting the apparitions," Liz read into the phone, "yet scholars have pointed out that as the crowds of spectators grew larger, Bernadette became an exhibitionist, playing to the crowds. On one occasion her father, Frangois, noting the large gathering in attendance, was overheard whispering to Bernadette as she kneeled before the grotto, 'Don't make any mistake today. Do it well.' "

  Pleased with that touch, Liz went on to report how Bernadette did not believe the grotto could cure her own ailments. Then Liz began to cover Bernadette's time in Nevers, where her superior, the mistress of the novices, doubted that Bernadette had seen the Virgin at all.

  As Liz continued dictating the story into the telephone, she began to feel increasingly uneasy. To her own ear it sounded terribly gossipy, almost scurrilous. She wondered how Bill Trask was reacting.

  She paused. "What do you think, Bill?"

  "It's interesting, of course. A bit surprising. Where'd you pick up that material?"

  "Well, much of it from defenders of the church -- from Father Ru-land here, Father Cayoux and Sister Francesca in other towns, some of the lesser clergymen in various places."

  "They told you all that? They were anti-Bernadette?"

  "No, mostly they were pro-Bernadette. I've been selective in what I've culled from the interviews in order to—well—to build the angle of my story. I still have another page to go. Want me to finish it?"

  "Don't bother," said Trask bluntly. "Good try, Liz, but we can"t possibly use it. Those so-called facts you've been reading may be valid, but somehow they add up to very little. Far too ifiy and speculative, and too insubstantial to stand up against the storm of controversy they're sure to generate worldwide. Danmiit, Liz, if you're exposing a saint.

  especially a red-hot and current saint, you'd better have the goods on her. You'd better have at least one piece of hard news with an unimpeachable source. I know you've done your best, but your story is built on sand and we need a more solid foundation. Do you understand?"

  "I guess so," said Liz weakly. She had no heart to oppose her boss because she had known all along that her story was a flimsy one based on a contrived angle intended to shock.

  "So let's forget it, and keep your eyes open," Trask said.

  "For what?"

  "For the really big story—the Virgin Mary does or does not reappear in Lourdes by Sunday. If you get that story, it won't be exclusive but I'll be satisfied."

  "I'll just have to wait and see."

  "You wait and see."

  Knowing he was about to hang up, Liz had to get in one more question, and hated herself for having to ask it. "Oh, Bill, one other thing—just curious—but how's Marguerite progressing on the Viron story?"

  "Just fine, I guess. She seems to have got very close to him. She's handing in the story tomorrow."

  "Well, good luck," said Liz.

  After hanging up, she wanted to kill herself. Good-bye job, goodbye career, good-bye Paris, and hello to a lifetime sentence of servitude in some small town in America's Midwest.

  Surely, this was the bleakest moment of her adult life.

  She heard the telephone ringing, and prayed for a reprieve.

  The voice was that of Amanda Spenser.

  "I'm so glad I caught you in, Liz," Amanda was saying. "I talked to Father Rilland, as I told you I would. Remember? He was most cooperative."

  "About what?"

  "Giving me the name of the person in Bartrds from whom he bought Bernadette's journal. I've got an appointment to see her, this Madame Eugenie Gautier. I'm just about to leave for Bartres. I thought you might want to come along."

  "Thanks, but no thanks," said Liz. "I'm afraid I've heard all I'll ever want to hear about Bernadette. The home office just isn't interested. I've had enough."

  "Well, you never can tell," said Amanda.

  "I can tell," said Liz. "Good luck. You'll need it."

  Dr. Paul Kleinberg had propped himself up on his bed in the Hotel Astoria, resting and reading, and expecting the phone call from Edith Moore with her decision. It exasperated him that there was a decision to make, since the poor woman really had no choice. His prognosis had been definite and unequivocal. Her illness was terminal. Unless she submitted to Dr. Duval's scalpel and genetic implant, she was as good as dead. It seemed impossible that she would risk her life depending on a second miracle, when the first had finally failed her. Yet, she was leaving her future to her husband, Reggie, who was selfish, unrealistic, and apparently insensible to his wife's fate.

  Utter madness, this delay, and Kleinberg wished he was out of the whole thing and back in his comfortable apartment in Paris.

  And then the telephone at his elbow, amplified by his introspection, rang out like a trumpet.

  He caught up the receiver, ready to hear Edith Moore, and was surprised that the speaker was male.

  "Dr. Kleinberg? This is Reggie Moore."

  Considering their last meeting and parting, Kleinberg was even more surprised at the friendliness of Reggie's tone.

  "Yes, Mr. Moore, I was rather expecting your wife to call."

  "Well, she delegated the call to me. So I'm calling. Edith told me about your visit to her at the hotel. She wasn't well, so I appreciate that."

  "You know then about Dr. Duval?"

  "I do. She told me all about his new surgery."

  "She couldn't make up her mind," said Kleinberg. "She wanted to talk it over with you first."

  "We talked it over at length," said Reggie enigmatically.

  "Have you arrived at a decision?"

  "I'd like to see you first. I'd like to discuss it with you. Are you free?"

  "Totally available. Your wife is why I'm here."

  "When can I see you?"

  "Now," said Kleinberg.

  "You're at the Astoria," said Reggie. "I know the hotel. They have a nice garden courtyard downstairs where they serve coffee. Why don't I meet you there in—say—let's make it fifteen minutes. How's that?"

  "That's fine. In fifteen minutes."

  Kleinberg threw down his book and got o£f the bed. He was as exasperated as ever, and mystified as well. Why in the hell did Reggie Moore have to see him? What was there to discuss? Why couldn't Reggie have given him the decision on the ph(»ie? Then he would have

  been able to reserve some time in a surgical room in a Lourdes hospital or otherwise be able to pack up and go home. Nevertheless, he went to wash up, comb his hair, put on his necktie and jacket. Once refreshed. Dr. Kieinberg went downstairs.

  He found the Hotel Astoria courtyard not unpleasant, the usual splashing fountain and the area enhvened by yellow shutters on the hotel windows above the green shrubbery. There were six circular plastic tables with white slat chairs distributed around the courtyard. All of them, save one, were empty. That table was occupied by one large man lighting a cigar. Puffing the cigar was Reggie Moore.

  Kieinberg hurried down the outside steps and crossed to the table. Moore shook hands without rising. Kieinberg sat down opposite him.

  Reggie said, "I ordered cofifee for both of us. That all right?"

  "Just what the doctor would have ordered," said Kieinberg.

  Reggie guffawed and sucked at his cigar. Gradually, his face transformed into something serious. When he spoke, he was almost abject, and sounded chastened. "Sorry about that little set-to we had in town. Not like me to go around shouting at anyone."

  "You had reason to be upset," said Kieinberg, who did
not trust small victories like this. "You seem considerably calmer now."

  "I am, I am," said Reggie.

  Reggie watched while the waiter set down the coffee, cream, sugar, bill, but he did not seem interested. Kieinberg discerned that Reggie had something else on his mind. And was being unhurried about speaking his mind.

  Reggie lifted the cup to his lips, pinkie finger incongruously extended, and sampled the coffee. He made a face, putting the cup down. "Hate French coffee, if you'll forgive me," he apologized.

  Amused, Kieinberg said, "I don't make it."

  Reggie took another puff of his cigar, and propped it neatly on the ashtray, obviously getting ready for business. "Yes," he said, "me and the Missus, we had a long talk. No second thoughts about your diagnosis?"

  "None. She's in trouble unless you act."

  "Doctor, what is this new surgery? Is it like any surgery?"

  "Yes and no," Kieinberg answered. He tried to think of how to frame it simply. "To make it more understandable, we could call the overall process surgery, because eventually there is surgery in the way probably famihar to you—cleaning away the diseased bone, implanting new bone tissue or a ball-and-socket ceramic prosthesis, or artificial hip joint, but the genetic engineering aspect is another matter. I don't know Dr. Duval's exact procedure, but I do know this crucial part would not

  require a surgical-style operation but actually would consist of transplanting healthy genes more in the manner of—let's say of a blood transfusion. Really, this part would consist of an injection or series of injections. Would you like me to explain a little about genetic engineering?"

  "Well, would I—would I understand it?"

  "You've heard about DNA, haven't you?"

  "I—I've probably read about it," Reggie said tentatively.

  From his tone, Kleinberg judged that he had not read about it and did not know if DNA was the name of a new government agency or a race horse. Kleinberg wondered how far he could go. "The human body consists of cells, and each cell contains 100,000 genes spread along some six feet of DNA, which is tightly coiled. When one cell goes bad, becomes an aberrant cell that triggers a cancer and starts multiplying, the body is in serious danger. Well, the findings in gene-sphcing research now enable speciahsts to use enzymes to slice DNA strands, and replace a defective gene with a healthy one. I'm oversimplifying, but you get the idea, don't you?"