The beautiful, barefoot young Lady, draped in a white robe and blue sash, white veil, yellow rose on each foot, was carrying a rosary with white beads on a gold chain. When Bernadette tried to make the sign of the cross, she found that her arm was paralyzed. Instead, the vaporous Lady made the sign of the cross and instantly Bernadette's stricken arm was well and mobile. Bernadette, who had been saying her rosary, was still on her knees when her sister and friend came back. Bernadette told them of her vision. They mocked her and called her an imbecile. Bernadette's sister reported the adventure to their mother, who forbade Bernadette to return to the Grotto of Massabielle.
But no restriction could keep the fourteen-year-old girl from the grotto. She was drawn there time and again in the next five months. Nor could any imposition of secrecy keep word of the vision from the townfolk. Soon they began to follow Bernadette to the grotto. In that period, the Lady in white appeared before Bernadette eighteen times, but did not speak to her until the third visit. In subsequent visits, the Lady ordered Bernadette to drink from a fountain and to bathe in it. Guided by the apparition, Bernadette dug a hole in the ground and finally water appeared. Then she later discovered a spring that gushed from the back of the grotto. On Bernadette's fifteenth visit to the grotto 20,000 persons gathered to watch, held in order by uniformed soldiers. Three weeks later the Lady revealed her identity: "I am the Immaculate Conception." Shortly afterward seven seriously ill persons, praying at the grotto, enjoyed miracle cures.
Bernadette isolated herself from public view, spending the last twelve years of her life as a nun and a recluse. In her final three years she was gravely ill, suffering from tuberculosis of the lungs, until her death in 1879. She gained immortality in 1933 when canonized as a saint by the Roman Catholic Church.
Her birthplace, Lourdes, scene of these religious wonders, became a worldwide legend, the foremost miracle site on earth. Because the Lady had requested a chapel, the Upper Basilica and the Rosary Basilica were built near the Grotto of Massabielie. In the years and decades that followed, sixty-four miracles were recognized by the Church out of the five thousand cures attributed to the holy water flowing from this grotto.
Peeling through the clippings, Victoria found more of the same, and yet more. Lovely, colorful stuff, Victoria thought, and it would be a useful underpinning to her story. But largely unanswered was the question Armstead had emphatically posed: What was there in Lourdes that the Pope himself would see when he arrived for his visit in a few days?
There were indeed some present-day descriptions of Lourdes, mostly the Michelin guidebook sort of thing, but they were spare and colorless.
Putting the clippings away in the manila file folder, Victoria knew that it was not enough for her purpose, and she needed more by late tomorrow afternoon.
She went back to call upon bureau chief Sid Lukas once more. He was still hunched over his battered desk, a burning cigarette between the stained fingers of one hand, a pencil stub between the fingers of the other. Despite the efficient black aerator on a corner of his desk, a pall of smoke hung over him like a cloud.
Victoria stepped inside his cubicle. "Thanks, Sid."
"You're welcome," he said, without looking up.
"You're right. There wasn't much."
"It's not much of a story anymore. In these days of computer body scans, who gives a damn about Lourdes?"
"The Pope does. He's going to be there in a few days."
"That's his business. Who else gives a damn?"
"I do, Sid. Can you give a girl a hand?" She advanced tentatively toward his desk. "I need your help."
For the first time he straightened up from his work, and flattened his back against his swivel chair. "All right," he said, grinding out his cigarette. He peered at her through his thick lenses. "Name it. What can I do?"
"In my story, Armstead wants me to paint a picture of Lourdes today, what the Pope will see."
"Have you looked at Michelin?"
"There was an extract in the file. I need more and more human interest, something an expert on Lourdes could tell me firsthand."
"There are plenty of theologians in Paris who must know Lourdes upside down."
"Somebody, maybe one of your reporters, scribbled a note on a piece of paper attached to one clipping. It said, 'Try Dr. René Leclerc."
"Leclerc, Leclerc, yup that's your boy. I remember. Was about three or four years ago. We wanted to get material for a feature on Lourdes. A priest at Notre-Dame advised us to see Dr. Leclerc. He's the super authority on Lourdes. We located him, but he was out of Paris at the time and we couldn't wait. If he's still here, and he probably is, he has an apartment in the Sorbonne section. You won't have any trouble finding him. He'll give you what you want."
She blew a kiss at Lukas. "You're a dear, Sid."
"Never mind, get on with it," he said grouchily.
She was at his door, about to leave, when it occurred to her that this was a good time to ask him about the other priority matter on her mind. "Oh, Sid, one other matter—I hate to bother you, but there is one more thing."
He sat back again, resigned. "What is it?"
"Mark Bradshaw," she said.
"Who? What? Ah, you mean Armstead's hotshot new star."
"Remember, I dropped by here late yesterday afternoon for a little while. Actually, I was poking through your files to see some of the other by-lined stories Mark Bradshaw wrote. I couldn't find one written before the king of Spain's kidnapping. You were busy but I interrupted to ask you if you'd ever met Bradshaw."
"And I said no."
"Then I asked you to find out whether your staffers had ever met him or knew him. Did you?"
"I always do what I promise to do," said Lukas, lighting a cigarette. "If someone had known him, I'd have buzzed you. No one has ever laid eyes on him."
"Well, I'd like to talk to Bradshaw," said Victoria.
"Try the home office. They'll tell you where he is."
"I did, they wouldn't. I thought maybe you could do me a favor, query the other bureau chiefs from London to Baghdad. Learn where I can find Bradshaw."
"You want me to query all the bureau chiefs. Is it that important?"
"To me. Yes."
"Okay. Will do. Phone me back day after tomorrow." He paused. "Don't thank me. Just do me a favor."
"Anything."
"When you find Bradshaw, ask him for me how in the hell he does it. He's incredible."
She wanted to amend that to say, not incredible—he's simply not credible. But she held her tongue. "I'll ask him just that," she said, and left.
There had been little difficulty in locating Professor René Leclerc. He was one of the more eminent lecturers at the Sorbonne, indeed an expert on Lourdes, and he had readily taken Victoria's call. Although protesting that he had a busy teaching schedule, and that it would be difficult to see Victoria so soon, he had seemed eager for the publicity and granted the interview.
In the morning Victoria drove over the Seine to the Left Bank, and was able to parx a mere two blocks from the designated building of the Sorbonne University. Inside, an usher preceded her up "C" staircase into a hail that led to a public waiting room. The room was stuffy, poorly lit, and Victoria was shut into it. For twenty minutes she waited, .trying to occupy herself by reviewing her questions. Just as she had begun to worry that he would not keep his appointment, a frail, thin man, perhaps seventy years old, opened the door. "I am Monsieur Leclerc," he said in English. "You are Miss Weston? Please come along."
His small, spartan office, separated by a glass wall from the staircase, was furnished with no more than a bare wooden desk, one file, three chairs.
As Professor Leclerc eased into the chair at his desk, Victoria became aware that his face, deeply lined, looked as brittle as papyrus, and that he wore a hearing aid. His youngest feature was his eyes—clear brown, bright, alert. He apologized for his tardiness. He had been lecturing to a class of five hundred students on comparative religion, a two-hour c
lass that had unaccountably run over to nearly two and a half hours. "We become more garrulous as we age," he explained shyly. "Do not let me go on that way with you. I do not have the time."
Victoria plunged immediately into her prepared questions, skipping the ones on the history of Lourdes to make sure that she got in the ones on the layout of the shrine that the Pope would be visiting. Professor Leclerc, who apparently considered Lourdes his private preserve and the Pope's visit a personal one, presented his answers with clarity and enthusiasm.
Victoria listened and jotted notes for more than an hour. Professor Leclerc had begun by explaining that Lourdes lay at the foot of a valley that led up into the French Pyrenees. He described the Boulevard de la Grotte that brought pilgrims and tourists, and would bring the Pope himself, to the "Domaine de la Grotte." He described the benches in front of the shrine, and the interior of the cave, with the white and pastel blue statue (somewhat blackened by years of candle smoke) of the Lady herself set in a niche, and the holy stream below it covered by a glass panel. He discussed the Upper Basilica and the Rosary Basilica and the thirty-acre park that surrounded both.
He spoke now of the Underground Basilica, the St. Pius X Basilica, the most mammoth man-made subterranean structure on earth. "This basilica," he said, "completed in 1958, measures 81 meters by 201 meters and is covered by a grassy esplanade. It can hold 20,000 pilgrims, more than the entire permanent population of Lourdes. It is used for ceremonies in poor weather, in winter, or to hold excessive crowds. The Pope will bless the thousands who will convene in this Underground Basilica. But do not forget, the Pope will be only one of four million persons visiting Lourdes this year."
Victoria had recorded all of this, but her writing hand was becoming cramped.
Professor Leclerc seemed to be aware of her distress, for he stopped discoursing abruptly to inquire, "Forgive me, madame, but do you have a watch with the time?"
Victoria consulted her wristwatch. "Twelve thirty-two, Professor.
He pushed himself erect, wheezing. "I must take leave. I am late for a lunch appointment. I hope my descriptions were clear enough?"
Victoria scrambled to her feet. "More than clear. I can't tell you how grateful I am."
But Professor Leclerc was not wholly satisfied. "Too bad I did not have the map to show, an excellent map, the best, issued several years ago by the Lourdes Hotel de Ville. Unfortunately, I gave my only copy to another American who came by yesterday."
Victoria's concern was immediate. "Another American?"
"Yes, but have no fear, he was not a competing journalist. He informed me that he is a historian preparing a definitive work on world miracle sites, so-called."
Victoria remained suspicious. "Did he—did he give you his name? Was it Mark Bradshaw, by chance?"
"No, no, nothing like that. It was—" He tried to remember. "Voilà, Ferguson, Mr. James Ferguson, of a New York university. A rather lean young man with curly black hair, a prominent nose, a beard. An arresting appearance. I have no idea how erudite, since he spoke very little. Perhaps you know this Mr. Ferguson, and he might share with you his map of Lourdes?"
"I wish I knew him, but I don't," said Victoria.
But five minutes later, walking back to her car, the name James Ferguson kept coming back to Victoria like the refrain of an old song. She did not know James Ferguson, but she thought she had heard or seen the name somewhere.
But where?
After lunch in the Plaza Athénée, Victoria went up to her room, took out her portable typewriter, and examined the pages of notes that she had made on Lourdes. At last, when she had absorbed them all and organized them, she began to write.
In an hour her feature story was finished, and it was good. After editing it, she was ready to telephone the Record in New York. It would be nine-thirty in the morning in New York, and the offices would be filling. It was unclear to her whether she was supposed to file the story with Armstead or Dietz. Nevertheless she put in a call direct to the publisher. Neither Arm-stead nor Dietz was in his office, so Victoria had herself connected with McAllister. He was present and ready to have her dictate the story on a recorder.
No sooner had she hung up on McAllister than the telephone rang. The caller was Sid Lukas.
"Zilch," he said.
For a moment, Victoria, mind still on the Lourdes story she had delivered, was confused. "What do you mean?"
"Zero on MarkBradshaw," Lukas said.
Her disappointment was immediate. "You mean nothing?"
"I queried every damn bureau this side of the Atlantic and in the Middle East," said Lukas. "Asked each chief if Mark Bradshaw worked out of his bureau, or had ever worked for him, and if he knew Bradshaw could he give me a current address and telephone. The response was one hundred percent negative. None had ever employed him. None had ever met him. Several added that they could certainly use him out their way. Everyone was curious about him. For such a hotshot, you would think he'd have been more visible." As an afterthought Lukas added, "But maybe that's the point when you're pulling off beats like that. Being invisible, I mean."
"Maybe that's the way it's done," admitted Victoria.
"Sorry I can't be of help to you, Vicky."
"Gee thanks, Sid. I'll buy you a cigar someday."
After putting the receiver back on the hook, she sat contemplating the instrument. Disheartened but not defeated, she resolved not to quit so easily. She even felt a challenge. With growing determination, she decided to chase the elusive by-line down to its primary source.
Before leaving, Nick had told her that if she ran into trouble, to contact a good friend of his in the personnel department of the New York Record. She remembered that this friend of his, Mrs. Crowe, was trustworthy. Feeling better, Victoria did a direct overseas dial to the New York Record. The switchboard connected her with a female voice that announced, "Mrs. Crowe speaking."
"This is Victoria Weston," said Victoria. "I'm with the paper."
"Yes, I know. I remember you."
"Of course," said Victoria. "I'm phoning from Paris."
"You sound like you're next door. Can I do anything for you?"
"It's a personnel matter," said Victoria. "I've been working with Nick Ramsey, and he suggested I call you. He told me to say that it was confidential."
"And so it will be."
"I'm calling about another member on our staff. Mark Bradshaw. I have to contact him. Could you check—"
"What a coincidence," Mrs. Crowe interrupted. "You know, for weeks we've been getting at least one call a day inquiring about him. Everybody from Newsweek to the Columbia Journalism Review wants coverage. Doubleday and Simon and Schuster want to talk to him about a book. CBS wants to consider him for an anchor spot. Now, today, yours is the second call in a row concerning Mr. Bradshaw. About an hour ago someone, a reporter from Time magazine, wanted information on Mr. Bradshaw."
"Time magazine," said Victoria. "Why?"
"Apparently the editors are considering doing a cover story on Mr. Armstead and his fantastic string of exclusive terrorist stories. Of course, Mr. Bradshaw has been playing a major role in getting those stories. So they wanted to know something about him. I'm afraid I couldn't help them, any more than I can help you. We simply have no card on Mark Bradshaw. As far as we're concerned, he does not exist as a member of our staff."
"But he has to be," insisted Victoria.
"I know," replied Mrs. Crowe, with resignation. Suddenly her voice came alive. "Wait. I have one more idea. Hold on, dear."
Victoria held on, entertaining a bit more hope and wondering what Mrs. Crowe was up to.
It was a full minute before Katherine Crowe's voice came on again. "Miss Weston?"
"I'm still here."
"I gave it the old college try, but it didn't work. It occurred to me that the one person who might know where you could find Mark Bradshaw would be Estelle Rivkin, Mr. Annstead's secretary. So I took a chance and buzzed her. I told her I had you on hold in Pari
s, and that you wanted to know where you could locate Bradshaw. All Estelle could say was, 'I don't have the faintest idea. I'd guess Mr. Armstead has him under personal contract and works with Mr. Bradshaw himself.' I'm sure Estelle was leveling with me. She doesn't seem to know a thing. I believe her."
Victoria sighed. "Well, I guess that's it. Many thanks for the old college try, Mrs. Crowe."
Once more Victoria dropped the phone receiver into the hook. Her frustration was accentuated, and now overlapped by a patina of worry. Nick, at their parting, had suggested that she speak confidentially to Katherine Crowe, but not to reveal her quest for Bradshaw to any other person at the Record. Any other person might include Edward Armstead's private secretary, and Mrs. Crowe had gone ahead on her own and spoken to her. In a sense, Victoria's secret cat was out of the bag. But it was surely unlikely that Estelle Rivkin would find the incident important enough to repeat to her busy employer. Victoria relegated her worry to minor concern and, undaunted, tried to think whether there was anything more that she could do.
And then she realized that there was one last resort.
At his departure, Nick had suggested the names of two persons for her to consult, if she needed them, in her hunt for Mark Bradshaw. One had been Katherine Crowe at the Record, and that contact had been a failure. The other had been—she recalled Nick's exact words—Howie Dittman on the New York Telegraph. He moonlights as a researcher. He'll do anything for me and he's a whiz.
Howie Dittman would be her last shot.
The Plaza Athénée telephone had become like another limb, an extension of her body. She was on the telephone now, making one call, two calls, before she reached the Telegraph and was put through to Howie Dittman's desk. There had been seemingly countless rings, and Victoria had become discouraged and was about ready to hang up, when a male voice answered.
"Yeah?"
"Is this Mr. Dittman?"
"Naw. I'm at the next desk. He went home an hour ago. Any message?"
"I'd like to speak to him at home."
The Almighty Page 27