The Miracle Part 31

The instant she had it out, his hand slipped into his left jacket pocket and drew out a thin hard strand of rope.

He moved quickly, so quickly, crossing the room in several long strides, uncaring about the noise he made. She had heard him, and started to turn, when he was full upon her.

The last she clearly saw of Sergei Tikhanov was the wild eyes gleaming out of the murderous face. With the rapid skill of a Red Army commando, he had the rope around her neck and was twisting it. She emitted a hoa.r.s.e outcry that became a moan, and her fists beat at him to free herself and get air. Her strength surprised him, and as the nails of one hand clawed at his cheek, he weakened his grip to protect himself. In that moment, she tore away from him, and with the rope still dangling from her neck she stumbled out of the bedroom into the living room, fumbling for something in the pocket of her skirt. But he bounded savagely after her, as she backed into a table, knocking the telephone and a vase of flowers to the carpet.

He had the rope in his big hands again, and was twisting it tighter and tighter around her throat, steadily garroting her. Her hand stopped fumbling in her pocket, the other hand dropped limply to her side. Her eyes had bulged almost out of their sockets, her mouth had fallen open, dribbling spittle. Brutally, he continued to strangle her harder and harder.

Suddenly, her eyes closed, her head fell to one side, and her body was that of a rag doll. She began to collapse, then folded silently and slumped to the carpet. He followed her down, hands still vises on the knotted hang rope, going down with her and holding the rope taut until she was still.

At last, he released the rope ends. Kneeling, he stared down at her. He reached for one wrist to check her pulse. There was no pulse.

Satisfied, he slowly unwound the rope, lifting her loose, lifeless head off the floor and unwinding his rope. When he had all of the rope, he unceremoniously let her head fall back on the carpet. Stuffing the coil of rope into his left pocket, he took the wad of American dollars off the cofiiee table and shpped it into his right pocket. He saw that a small pistol-she'd actually had a pistol-had half fallen from her skirt pocket. He let it remain untouched.

Rising to his feet, Tikhanov swiftly returned to the bedroom. On the floor, at the foot of the bureau, he found the snapshot of himself without his mustache taken near the grotto, and the negative. He pocketed both. Yanking a pair of gloves out of his trouser pocket, he searched the open drawer above, confiscating the entire packet of snapshots and negatives, two large Tikhanov portrait photographs, and a newspaper clipping of himself. These he tore and tore again, jamming the sc.r.a.ps into a jacket pocket. Now, wiping all surfaces he might have contacted, he searched for any notepad or slip of paper that might give evidence of Talley or Tikhanov. There was nothing in the bedroom, nor in the kitchen, nor in the dining room, and finally he was in the living room once more.

He saw the telephone on the floor, and for the first time, beside it, a small red address book. Inside, under T, he saw noted in her hand the name, 'Talley, Samuel," and the name and address of his hotel. He confiscated the address book also.

A farewell glance at the corpse.

The deadest corpse he had ever seen.

He was without remorse. No matter how pretty, how young, she had been no more than a dirty little blackmailer. She had tried to murder him. He had liquidated her in self-defense.

He strode to the entrance door, opened it. The corridor, back and front was clear. He was alone, unseen. He stepped into the corridor, shut the door quietly behind him, and left the building.

At exactly the noon hour, as she had been instructed yesterday, Liz Finch dialed the telephone number that Gisele had given her. The phone on the other end was busy.

Mildly disconcerted, Liz dialed Gisele's number a minute later, and when she still got a busy signal, she dialed again and again at intervals of two minutes, and each time the line she was trying to reach was busy. Waiting for the line to clear, Liz kept wondering if she was going to get the big story from Gisele, wondering what it was about and if Gisele really knew what const.i.tuted a big story.

Liz's marathon phone calls continued for over twenty minutes. At last, concluding that something was wrong with Gisele's phone, Liz dialed the operator. After an interminable exchange in French, and cooling her heels in the hotel room while the operator investigated, Liz was able to learn only that either Gisele's phone was disconnected or out of order and that the problem would be attended to as soon as possible.

Realizing that a solution to the problem might take forever, and that Gisele, unaware of what was wrong, might still be awaiting her call, Liz decided to circ.u.mvent this modern system of communication by seeing Gisele in person.

Studying her map of Lourdes as she descended to the hotel lobby, Liz realized that Gisele was located on the other side of the domain and that it would take too long to cover the distance on foot.

In the street, she hailed a taxi and gave Gisele's address. Sitting on the edge of the back seat of the cab, Liz again speculated about what kind of story Gisele might be holding for her and was prepared to sell to her. It must be something special, Liz finally decided. After all, as these local youngsters went, Gisele was surprisingly worldly and sophisticated and she obviously read the Paris newspapers. She would know what was worthy of front page coverage. She would know a real news story, and she had been definite yesterday about having got her hands on a big one. True, the story probably had a high price on it, and Bill Trask would have to buy it for API, but Liz knew that frequently the syndicate laid out sizable sums for exclusive news beats.

The possibility of obtaining a sensational story was growing in importance in Liz's mind, because she needed a story so badly. The only feature story she had in the works was one on Bernadette's weaknesses. In it, she implied that the entire vahdity of Lourdes was built on a shaky foundation, but there was something flaky about this feature because it lacked hard evidence. Liz planned to phone the story in tomorrow, but she had the sinking feeling that it would not impress API sufficiently to keep her at the Paris bureau instead of the luckier Marguerite Lamarche with her potentially explosive Viron scandal.

Liz needed a smasher from Gisele.

Arriving at Gisele's address, Liz paid off the taxi driver and hurried into the building. Gisele's apartment number proved to be on the groimd floor, midway up the corridor. Liz hastened toward the apartment, found it, could not locate a doorbell, and so she rapped on the door.

No answer.

Perhaps Gisele was in the bathroom. Liz knocked harder, persistently, until her knuckles hurt.

She expected Gisele's response, but there was none.

From long conditioning as a reporter, Liz automatically tried the doork.n.o.b to see if the door was locked. The door eased open. It had not been locked. How thoughtless of Gisele.

Liz decided that she had the right, under the circ.u.mstances, to enter the apartment. She pushed the door aside and stepped into the living room. The room was empty.

"Gisele!" Liz shouted. "I'm here! It's Liz Finch!"

In response, there was no voice. There was silence.

At the moment, the apartment appeared to be unoccupied. Obviously, when Liz's phone call had not come through, Gisele had left either for work or to seek Liz out.

The d.a.m.n phone was out of order, that's what had caused the mix-up, thought Liz. She sought the phone on some surface, and her roving eye suddenly came upon it on the floor, almost at her feet, the receiver separated from the cradle, which explained the busy signal.

Kneeling to pick up the phone, Liz's eye lighted on something so unexpected that she gasped.

There was an outstretched hand and an arm visible at the edge of a bookcase divider that hid the sofa. Gaping, Liz came unsteadily to her feet and took another step inside the room for a fuller view.

Then she saw the supine body on the floor next to the coffee table and sofa.

It was Gisele, all right, and Liz approached her and kneeled to see if she had fainted and was merely unconscious. But even as she brought up Gisele's wrist, felt for the throb of her pulse, she could see that something more drastic had happened. Gisele's congested face had a puffy unnatural awful look.

Not unconscious, Liz realized, letting go of her wrist. Dead, plain dead. The red marks were evident on the neck. She'd been strangled, murdered.

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 pa.s.sed 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 sc.r.a.p 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 a.s.s 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 amba.s.sador 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 s.e.xy. 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 G.o.ddam day? This is just another run-of-the-mill murder. What have you got there? A girl guide. A n.o.body 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 greatest 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."