After all, a writer couldn’t sell a story he hadn’t written. So Gibson’s motto was: Write till it hurts; then write some more.
As he rode through Manhattan in the back of a Yellow Cab, wraithed in his own cigarette smoke, Gibson sat with a small valise on the floor and his portable Corona typewriter on the seat next to him, a rider as important as himself-at least.
With his salt-and-pepper hair neatly combed back, his round-lensed wire-frame spectacles, his oval face with the regular, intelligent features, he looked more like a lawyer or a businessman than the master of intrigue who dispatched the cloaked avenger known as the Shadow to take on campaigns against crime (any time he visited New York, he only half-consciously scouted locations for such gangster tales), and to bring down world-domination-minded masterminds like the Voodoo Master and Shiwan Khan.
He’d come down this morning by train from Maine-his home was in Philly, but he and Jewel had a cabin up north, on Little Sebago Lake, where they were spending more and more of their time. No stranger to Manhattan, he and his wife had lived in an apartment on West 46th for about a year, so he could be closer to the editorial offices of Street and Smith.
But he’d found the city distracting, too many plays and movies and restaurants to tempt a writer away from work; plus he was spending not nearly enough time with his son Robert (who lived with first wife Charlotte). Returning to Philadelphia and then building the cabin in Maine had made seeing Bobby more practical; the boy had been summering with his father and stepmother these past several years.
The cabin provided a kind of knotty-pine womb for Gibson’s ideas to grow within. He would sit at a large pinewood desk in a corner of the central room with its vaulted ceilings, chain-smoking (cigarettes his chief stress reliever) and dreaming up yarns. No phone was allowed (calls came in to the cabin next door, where his cousin Eaton lived) with the silence punctuated only by the calls of loons and other birds out on the lake.
Not that silence was required for him to create: he’d written one Shadow novel while the carpenters built his office around him. He’d written much of another at a party in New York, with other guests reading the yarn over his shoulder-the experience had only exhilarated him.
Trips to New York were commonplace to Gibson, who enjoyed delivering plot synopses in person to editor John Nanovic, who’d become a good friend. Nanovic made useful suggestions, and Gibson felt the editor had come to know the Shadow as well as his creator.
Unlike a lot of editors, Nanovic did not stint on the compliments. He frequently told Gibson (in varying words), “You’ve got the newspaperman’s knack for giving me just enough facts to take me into the next paragraph…and the magician’s flare to intrigue me with hints of what’s to come.”
Later this afternoon, he would meet with Nanovic. Right now (it was just after one-thirty) he had his first stop to make-at the Columbia Broadcasting Building at Madison Avenue and 45th Street. The Shadow had been born in this building, and yet the father of the character had never visited the birthsite before.
Technically, of course, Gibson was the character’s stepfather. In 1930 a radio show had been introduced at CBS, Detective Story, that based its episodes on stories from the Street and Smith pulp magazine of the same name; a sinister-voiced narrator-dubbed the Shadow-presented the tales. A voice actor named Frank Readick gave the narrator a haunting laugh and a spooky presence that had made something of a national sensation.
Instead of serving to promote Detective Story Magazine as intended, however, the show inspired listeners to request at their newsstands “that Shadow detective magazine.”
Which was where Walter Gibson came in. Frank Blackwell, then the Street and Smith editor, challenged Gibson to come up with a character to go with the memorable name and the spooky voice.
Already Gibson had been toying with the idea of doing a mystery-story hero who was himself mysterious, and a little nasty, unlike the straightforward goody-two-shoes heroes of other mystery series-an avenger who would wear not a white hat, but a black one. He reflected upon his magician friends and came up with a character who combined the hypnotic power of Thurston and Blackstone with Houdini’s penchant for escapes. By early 1931, “Maxwell Grant” had begun his punishing, profitable run, charting the adventures of this tall, black-cloaked figure with the broad-brim black felt hat tucked over a hawkish countenance.
And by 1937, the radio show had dropped its narrator-version of the Shadow to adapt Gibson’s avenging hero-embodied by a new young actor with a magical second-baritone: Orson Welles.
Though Gibson had helped develop the radio version of the Shadow with scriptwriter Edward Hale Bierstadt (it had been gratifying to hear Ed say how much he loved Gibson’s yarns), the creator of the character was contractually tied up with Street and Smith to produce those twenty-four novels a year. So the radio Shadow had gone its own way, deviating somewhat from Gibson’s vision-rather over emphasizing the character’s rich-man-about-town secret identity, Lamont Cranston (admittedly a perfect fit for Welles)-but staying mostly on course…and becoming a household word among radio listeners.
Which meant-everybody in America.
The Columbia Broadcasting Building was no longer home to the Shadow show-it was a Mutual program now, and broadcast out of New York’s powerhouse WOR-but the skyscraper remained home to Orson Welles, whose amazingly resonant voice and ironic delivery had much to do with the radio Shadow’s success.
Welles had just finished his two-season run as the Shadow to take on a more ambitious project-The Mercury Theatre on the Air, an extension of the wunderkind’s acclaimed Broadway theater company-and so Gibson had been surprised to be contacted by the showman himself, to discuss a Shadow project.
Not as surprised as Jewel, however, when she came rushing breathlessly into the cabin with news that a phone call from the famous young radio actor awaited next door…
…where Gibson gave both his wife and his message-screening cousin a long cool look that told them this was business and that they were dismissed, and the two were reluctantly taking their leave when the writer brought the receiver to his ear.
“Do I have the honor of speaking to my illustrious father?”
The deep voice on the other end of the line, filtered through long-distance, had the processed sound of the Shadow on the air, attempting to frighten that week’s evildoer.
Gibson, however, neither frightened nor impressed easily.
“Hello, Mr. Welles,” he said.
The two men had met exactly once, at a Society of Magicians gathering in Manhattan where the radio actor had performed as a perfectly respectable amateur magician-respectable for a celebrity, at least.
“This is a much overdue call,” Welles said, amusement and something like chagrin in his formidable voice. “I have been told that…in the beginning…” The latter had proper Biblical weight. “…you personally recommended me to the Shadow’s sponsor.”
Gibson had indeed pointed the way toward Welles as an ideal radio Shadow-he had been impressed with Welles’s stagecraft (even if his magic was merely competent) and by his rich, worldly voice. Also, Welles had done work on The March of Time radio show that had bowled both Gibson and Jewel over; so when the Shadow creator’s counsel was sought in matters of casting, he’d thought immediately of Welles.
In fact he had said, “There’s only one actor on the face of the earth who, using only his voice, can do justice to the Shadow.”
Nonetheless, this was Gibson’s first direct contact (since that Society of Magic gathering, where they’d been introduced and shared a few words) with the actor who had brought his character to life, and to radio fame.
“I may have played a small role in getting you that part, Mr. Welles,” Gibson admitted. “But you’ve more than made up for it by boosting the circulation of The Shadow Magazine with your fine work.”
“Very kind of you, Walter-may I call you Walter?”
“If I might risk Orson, certainly.”
“Please
!” Welles’s warm laugh had nothing to do with the Shadow’s sinister one. “Walter, I know we’re going to be great friends.”
Gibson shook his head-actors. “The last time I saw you…Orson…was on the cover of Time. What’s the occasion?”
Welles dove right in: “Walter, I have an interesting offer from Hollywood. They’ve made several lousy pictures out there about our character, as I’m sure you know.”
Our character apparently meant the Shadow. Gibson smiled to himself at this presumption, but kept this reaction out of his voice as he replied: “You’re telling me? The wife and I walked out on both of ’em.”
Welles chuckled. “Frankly, I didn’t bother going. People I trusted warned me off. I mean, honestly, Walter, with a character as wonderful and famous as ours, how could they? I mean, Rod LaRocque! Didn’t he single-handedly kill off silent pictures?”
“I don’t know about that, Orson-but he made a good stab at killing off talkies with those two crummy Shadow pictures.”
“Agreed! Warner Brothers agrees, as well. They are prepared to make up for those B-movie embarrassments, if we can come up with a worthy scenario.”
“A top-budget affair this time? With a first-rate director, and a real star, you mean?”
“Precisely!”
“What director?”
“Why me, of course.”
“And the star?”
“You’re speaking to him!”
“…Have you ever directed before, Orson? I mean, a moving picture?”
Welles did not miss a beat: “Actually, my dear fellow, I have taken a few experimental steps-I made a short film as a student, and recently I dabbled in the art for a stage production we did of Gillette’s farce, Too Much Johnson, with the Mercury players.”
“Ah,” Gibson said noncomittally.
“But the point is I have been staging plays with a cinema director’s eye from the beginning-you’ve heard of my voodoo Macbeth, and my Nazi-ified Julius Caesar, no doubt?”
Gibson had; he followed the radio Shadow’s career with a certain proprietary interest…and anyway, the Time magazine article had covered all of that and more.
“Where would I come in?” Gibson asked.
“I’m told there’s nothing you can’t write.”
Smiling to himself again, Gibson thought: he knows this secondhand; he doesn’t read the magazine featuring “our” character, apparently….
“Well, that’s true,” Gibson said. Welles wasn’t the only one who could afford to be immodest. “But where did you hear it, Orson?”
“Our mutual friends among the magic community, of course.”
“Ah,” Gibson said again. Nothing noncommital about it, this time.
“I believe,” Welles said, with the richness of voice and surety of a revival-tent preacher, “that only the creator of my famous character can help me properly conceive it…reconceive it…for the screen. Are you willing to try?”
“I’m…interested.”
“And your schedule, Walter?”
“I’ll be done for the year, with my Shadow work, within days.”
“How is next week, then?”
“Feasible.”
“I would of course be paying for first-class travel and hotel accommodations-you’ll be here at the St. Regis, where I’m living currently. Full expense account. How…‘feasible’ is that, Walter?”
“Entirely.”
Hanging up the phone, Gibson had the feeling that he’d just spoken to a man of wisdom and experience far beyond the author’s own. And yet he knew that Orson Welles was almost ten years younger than himself….
The cab drew up to 485 Madison Avenue, and Gibson-typewriter handle in one bandaged hand, valise in the other-was deposited (for an outrageous fifty cents including tip-he mentally noted that for his expense account) on the sidewalk above which loomed the massive overhang of the marquee that boldly stated CBS RADIO THEATRE. The Welles program, though, received no boost, as the side panels touted:
THE CHRYSLER CORPORATION PRESENTS MAJOR BOWES ORIGINAL AMATEUR HOUR.
By craning his neck like any other rube of a tourist, he could see the vertical sign stretching nine or ten stories above:
C
B
S
R
A
D
I
O
T
H
E
A
T
R
E
but he could also see that lower floors of the impressive building had windows bearing less grandiose imprimaturs, such as CARLOS TAP AND BALLET and MIDTOWN TAX SERVICE.
The uniformed guard in the lobby found Gibson’s name on a list, had him sign in, and sent him over to an elevator, where he and the elevator operator rode up to the twentieth floor. Mildly disappointed by the lack of show biz trappings-he might have been inside any nameless office building, to get a tooth drilled or have a wife followed-Gibson found nothing to get excited about at his destination, either: the twentieth-floor lobby was an unimpressive, sterile world of walls covered in a light-green industrial paint broken up by the occasional potted plant and some art-moderne chairs and sofas out of the latest Sears and Roebuck catalogue.
Next to a bulletin board-covered in schedules and lists that might just as easily have referred to bus-station not radio-station timetables-sat an attractive strawberry-blonde receptionist of perhaps twenty-five. In her smart white blouse with navy buttons and a navy scarf with white polka dots knotted at her throat, and with her heart-shaped face and light-blue eyes and fair lightly freckled complexion, she was a heart-stopper, even to a married man. Or was that, especially to a married man? Candy-apple red lipstick made her guardedly professional smile as dazzling as one you might see in a Sunday supplement toothpaste ad.
“Walter Gibson to see Mr. Welles.”
She checked a clipboard and said, “Your name is here, Mr. Gibson…but I’m afraid Mr. Welles isn’t.”
“He said to meet him in Studio One at one-thirty. I’m a tad early.”
“Ah. Well, it’s right through there.” With a tapering finger whose scarlet nail polish matched the lush lipstick, she pointed toward a doorless doorway just to Gibson’s left. “Studio One is the first door down…. If the ‘On the Air’ light is on, don’t go in.”
Gibson frowned. “My understanding is the show isn’t broadcast till Sunday night.”
“It isn’t-but every week, Mr. Welles makes an acetate recording of the Thursday afternoon rehearsal. To review the week’s program.”
“Is everyone around here as knowledgeable as you, miss?”
“It’s Miss Donovan, Mr. Gibson. Probably not-but like every receptionist or secretary you’re likely to meet in this building, I’m an aspiring actress.”
“Ah. Any luck?”
“I fill in on several of the soaps, as needed, and I’ve had some bits with the The Mercury Theatre, too, and even The Columbia Workshop. Guess you’d say I’m kind of an understudy.”
“An understudy in radio. That’s a new one on me.”
“Well, you have to understand that the voice actors in this town have to bicycle all over the place-NBC’s over at Sixth Avenue and Fiftieth, and Mutual’s on the other side of the world-Broadway and Fortieth. You know, Orson…Mr. Welles…he sometimes travels by ambulance.”
Gibson grinned. “Sounds like Mr. Welles is as big a character as they say?”
“Oh, he’s wonderful. You’ll fall in love with him.”
Something in the girl’s expression made Gibson wonder if she might be speaking from experience.
Miss Donovan allowed the author to leave his valise and typewriter with her, behind her desk, and was kind enough to inquire about how he’d hurt his “poor fingers.” To prevent this from dominating every other conversation of the day, Gibson ducked into the men’s room and removed the bandages from his fingertips, which looked reddish but nearly healed.
The ON THE AIR sign over the Stu
dio One door was not alighted, so Gibson moved on through a vestibule that separated the hallway from the studio, apparently for soundproofing purposes. He pushed open a door whose window was round, like a porthole, and found himself on a small landing, with a chrome banister, five steps above the floor of a large noisy chamber bustling with men who mostly had their suitcoats off-a sea of suspenders, rolled-up sleeves and puffing cigarettes.
Gibson was no stranger to radio: well over ten years ago, the writer had appeared on station WIP in Philly, presenting puzzles and their solutions. And he’d written and helped produce a series for magician Howard Thurston early in the decade.
But an operation of this scale was beyond his experience, and he felt a bit like Dorothy having her first look at Oz.
The walls of the big, high-ceilinged room were light gray, and the few doors sky-blue with those porthole-style windows. The far left wall and the facing one alternated dark drapes with sound-baffling panels the color of caramel. To Gibson’s left was a plywood, carpeted podium a little larger than a cardtable with a microphone and a music stand. The podium faced the short end of a twelve-foot by twenty-four-foot space marked off with white words on the dark-painted cement floor saying, on all four sides, MICROPHONE AREA. Within this carpeted rectangle resided four well-spaced microphones on stands (every mike in the room wore either a little metal CBS hat or dickey).
Just outside the microphone rectangle a couple of tables were home to coffee and sandwiches, or the aftermath thereof, along with scripts, magazines, newspapers, and ashtrays. Cigarettes bobbling, half a dozen actors wandered with folded-open script in hand, fingers pressed to an ear, reading aloud, and adding to the general chaos.
The War of the Worlds Murder d-6 Page 3