The War of the Worlds Murder d-6

by Max Allan Collins

  Then Readick wandered off to join the other rehearsing-to-themselves actors, adding to the general din.

  Gibson asked, “Mind my asking what that was about?”

  Welles flashed a smile. “Not at all-I simply advised Mr. Readick to dig out from the news library the transcriptions of the Hindenburg crash at Lakehurst, New Jersey.”

  “Why?”

  “To use as a model! Remember how the reporter began to weep, as he reported the scores of people dying before his eyes? Well, our reporter should have that same response to the Martian death ray.”

  Mournful-looking Paul Stewart-in a brown sport coat with a green tie loose at his neck-approached and, without a greeting, jerked a thumb over his shoulder and said, “I’ve got Ora waiting. We’ve got the sound gimmicks pretty well licked.”

  Stewart, who seemed low-key by nature, had a touch of pride in his voice.

  Gibson accompanied Welles over to the sound-effects station, where the middle-aged housewifely Ora waited with quiet but obvious anticipation. Again she wore a floral dress, with pearls as a Sunday touch. Her male assistant was on hand again, but Ora and Paul Stewart led the way in demonstrating to Welles the various acts of audio magic they’d assembled.

  Using the two Victrola turntables, Ora and her assistant played crowd sounds, a cannon roar and a moody New York Harbor aural collage, after which Stewart said, “That’s the last survivors, putting out to sea.”

  “Wonderful,” Welles said, eyes dancing. “What about the Martian cylinder opening?”

  This was not prerecorded: Ora demonstrated the effect, which consisted of slowly unscrewing the lid off a large empty jam jar.

  “Nice natural resonance,” Welles said with a nod. “But we could use an echo effect-might I suggest-”

  “We’re ahead of ya,” Stewart said. “We’ve already run a wire to the men’s room.”

  Welles noticed Gibson’s confusion, and he told his guest, “A john is a great natural echo chamber-we used it for the sewers of Paris in ‘Les Miserables.’ That, of course, was typecasting, whereas tonight the twentieth floor men’s room will display its versatility…. Terrific work, everyone. Ora, as usual, you are simply the best.”

  She beamed, and Gibson suddenly realized the sound “man” was naturally pretty, once her expression of intense concentration took a break.

  “I’m an old hand at science fiction, Mr. Welles,” she said, in a musical alto. “We used an air-conditioner vent on Buck Rogers for a rocket engine!”

  Welles let loose of a short explosive laugh, then said, “Well, then, I’m sure you have contrived something incredibly grotesque for the sound these creatures make.”

  Her expression fell. “Well, I did-it was actually my own voice, filtered and slowed down and…I could play it for you, but-”

  “Do-please do.”

  Stewart and Ora exchanged nervous glances.

  Resting a hand on Welles’s arm, Stewart said quietly, “Orson, the network won’t let us use it.”

  Welles’s forehead tightened. “Since when does the network preview our sound effects?”

  The dark eyebrows raised and lowered. “Since,” Stewart sighed, “they read Howard’s script, and found it too believable and too frightening…. Dave Taylor was in yesterday and had me play everything for him.”

  With a stern edge, Welles commanded of Ora, “Let me hear it!”

  She swallowed, nodded, and found the platter and placed it on the turntable; dropped the needle.

  “Ullia…ullia…ullia…ullia!”

  Gibson found the sound excitingly creepy, and said so.

  “I agree,” Welles said. “Lovely work, Ora…Paul, where is Dave Taylor?”

  “I think he’s in the sub-control booth, waiting to hear the rehearsal….”

  Within moments, leaving Stewart behind, Welles had stormed into the control booth to face a tall, reed-slender gentleman in an immaculate gray pin-striped suit that Gibson would’ve bet his next Shadow check was a Brooks Brothers. The moment Welles had entered the first and smaller of the interconnected control booths, this individual-seated at the desk from which Gibson had watched Thursday’s rehearsal-had calmly risen to a full six-two.

  The man stood with folded arms and hooded eyes, smiling very gently, as Welles railed on about censorship and interference. The well-groomed scarecrow faced the bear of a man, arms hurled in the air, snorting his rage.

  This went on for a good two minutes, concluding with, “David, the sounds those creatures make are vital to the performance, and if you insist on cutting them, I reserve the right to have my understudy take my role.”

  The executive-his name, Gibson later learned, was Davidson Taylor-replied gently, in a voice touched with a cultured Southern accent.

  “Orson, I remain your biggest fan. I have been your creative cheerleader from the very beginning, as you well know. And I think you and Howard Koch and Paul have done a remarkable job on what began as one of our weakest Mercury offerings.”

  Somewhat placated, Welles said, “Thank you,” but his chin was up, defensively.

  “But the network people above me feel you’ve stepped over the line here-we have another list of name changes for these real places, and there can be no compromise where that tasteless creature sound effect is concerned. It’s out.”

  Welles reddened. “You’re willing to go on the air without me?”

  With a sorrowful shrug, Taylor said, “Most reluctantly, yes.”

  Welles put his face in Taylor’s, though the exec did not flinch. “I’ll be goddamned if I’ll let the CBS bureaucrats run me off my own goddamned show! I will be performing tonight-directing and performing, as usual. Is…that…understood?”

  Taylor nodded solemnly. “Yes, Orson.”

  “Good.” Welles exited, head high, as if he had just won the argument. Gibson saw Taylor smile to himself and resume his seat at the desk, where a clipboard waited.

  As Welles and Gibson returned to the studio floor, Herrmann was directing his fine musicians in a rendition of “Stardust” the likes of which the world had not heard before: tempo shifted as emotions swelled. Gibson found it quite remarkable, and glanced toward Welles to say something complimentary when he noticed the babyish face was contorting to a scowl.

  “Benny!” Orson howled. “Benny! Mister Hermuhn!”

  The orchestra skidded to a stop, and the owlish man turned on his podium and showed Welles a bite-of-grapefruit expression.

  “And what’s wrong this time?” Herrmann demanded, as he left the musicians behind to clomp over and confront the director. He planted himself two inches from Welles, fists on his hips. “That piece-of-shit song has never before been played so beautifully!”

  Welles’s voice softened. “My dear Benny-you are entirely right.”

  With a sigh of triumph, Herrmann nodded, and began to return to his post; but before he could, a long-fingered white hand dropped on his shoulder and clutched.

  In the conductor’s ear, Welles whispered, “It’s not meant to be a symphony, Benny-it’s dance music. Mundane, unimaginative, and quite run of the mill.”

  Herrmann whirled, and gestured to himself, as if wounded, the baton like a weapon, ready. “You ask this of me? To be run of the mill? You, who always speak of excellence?”

  Paul Stewart came over and joined the fray. “Orson’s right, Benny-it’s supposed to be some lousy two-bit dance band playing in a second-rate hotel ballroom. Gotta be like this…”

  And Stewart began to snap his fingers, to demonstrate the steady uninspiring tempo.

  Herrmann’s close-set eyes widened, an effect magnified by the thick lenses of his glasses. He thrust the baton at Stewart, and glared at Welles. “Then one of you bastards conduct it!”

  Stewart smirked humorlessly at Welles, who nodded in a deferential fashion.

  Baton in hand, Paul Stewart walked to the small podium next to Herrmann’s piano, and looked out at the musicians and gave them the downbeat. The musicians understood immed
iately what was required, and a steady, substandard rendition of “Stardust” followed.

  Herrmann watched agape. Welles, arms folded, hid a smile behind a hand. Several measures in, Stewart stopped, stepped down and returned the baton to the conductor.

  “Now that’s how to do it!” Stewart said.

  Herrmann, crestfallen, turned to Welles, who said, “We are telling a story, Benny. You are an actor in that story. You must play the leader of a mediocre danceband.”

  Herrmann swallowed his dignity and returned to the small podium and tried again. Perfect-perfectly mediocre.

  When Herrmann dejectedly returned, he said to Welles and Stewart, standing side by side, “Is that bad enough to suit you?”

  Stewart nodded and said, “Exactly right.”

  Welles said, “For a musical genius like you, Benny, and I know this is a sacrifice.”

  Herrmann pouted. “They were trying to make me look bad,” he said, apparently meaning the musicians allowing Paul Stewart to show him up. “I’ve known it all along…all along….”

  Welles frowned. “Known what, Benny?”

  Herrmann sneaked a dark look at his players, then turned and softly said, “There’s a strong fascist element in the woodwinds….”

  Again Orson hid a smile behind his hand, as he seemed to nod gravely, saying, “We all have much to contend with.”

  What followed was a stop-and-start rehearsal, paying no attention to the radio-driven demands of the clock. Welles was fine-tuning the broadcast, and he was up and down off his podium, helping actors with lines, conferring with Ora about sound effects, cajoling Herrmann to continue to do second-rate renditions of “Stardust” and “La Cumparasita.”

  Seated not in the control room but in a chair near the sound-effects station, Gibson watched Orson Welles whip into shape what had been a decidedly lackluster production. Welles alternated between charm and martyrdom, the latter state expressed through periodic ravings and rantings about the treachery, ignorance, sloth, indifference, incompetence and “downright sabotage!” that surrounded him.

  Herrmann smashed three batons. Welles tossed his script in the air half a dozen times, and several actors did the same, albeit with less frequence. Doors slammed. Lines were rewritten on the fly in a frenzy of revision, Koch frequently emerging from the control booth for a quick line rewrite.

  Miss Holliday showed up from the Mercury Theatre around two o’clock, with arms filled with bulging paperbags from which milkshakes and sandwiches were dispensed and gobbled, as if the passengers and crew of the Titanic were trying to get in one final meal just as the ship was going down.

  By about three, as the show began really taking shape, a palpable sense of excitement pervaded the studio-as one of the participants would later say, it was like “a strange fever…part childish mischief, part professional zeal.”

  Two more run-throughs were conducted by Welles-and “conducted” was the word-with little or no thought to timing, occasional bathroom and/or smoking breaks, and little one-on-one sessions between Welles and this or that actor or with Herrmann or Ora.

  By six-fifteen the maestro of melodrama was ready to conduct the so-called “dress rehearsal,” though of course costumes for a radio show were not an issue. The timing of the piece, however, was, and at his post in the control booth, Paul Stewart was hunkered over his script with stopwatch in hand.

  Jack Houseman, visible in the main control room window next to Howard Koch, waited until the end of the dress rehearsal had been reached-it was twenty-some past seven, with the broadcast looming at eight-before seeking Welles out on the studio floor.

  Welles, lighting up a cigar, had met Gibson midway-they were actually in the MICROPHONE AREA-after finally reaching the end of the script. Gibson was telling his host how much he felt the piece had been improved, through the heightened realism of the news bulletins, when a grave-faced Houseman stepped up.

  “Orson-surely you don’t intend to stretch out those musical interludes in such a fashion. The show is terribly slow in its opening third!”

  “But it builds, Jack-it builds.”

  Houseman’s eyes tightened. “Teasing through tedium?…I know what you’re up to-you’re hoping to take advantage of the naivete of some listeners, to fool them into thinking a real broadcast is being interrupted.”

  The boyish face turned more boyish, thanks to Welles’s scampish smile. “Housey, please-you’d think I was crying ‘fire’ in a crowded theater!”

  “It may well prove to be the radio equivalent thereof. If you would not indulge yourself in these drawn-out musical passages, and the…pauses, the silences…and all of these real-sounding places, official-sounding institutions…”

  “CBS is satisfied with our changes. I instituted all of Dave’s last-minute ones, too.”

  “Such as removing Franklin Roosevelt, and substituting the Secretary of Interior? You know goddamned well you’re directing Kenny Delmar to do his FDR impression!”

  The smile turned downright devilish. He whispered, “It’s dead-on, isn’t it, Housey? Talented boy, our Kenny.”

  “Orson, I’m warning you-you may get that lesson you’ve been asking for….”

  “Oh, Housey-I’m going to need more than one lesson, don’t you think?”

  Houseman sighed. “I’ve made my point of view known-nothing more I can do. But for your knowledge, I have Paul’s stopwatch tally. We’re way over.”

  Welles cocked his head. “Where are we, Jack? How much cutting do we need to do?”

  “You’re a good seven minutes long. If you’re not willing to trim back those endless musical interludes, I’d say the last section-the narrative bit about the professor wandering in the city-that can and must be pruned.”

  Welles put a hand on Houseman’s shoulder. “Well, let’s get to work, then. You have your copy of the script handy?”

  Houseman nodded. “It’s in the control booth. And I’ve annotated it. I’ll get it.”

  He went off to do that, and Welles said, “Jack’s a great editor. You up for helping out, Walter?”

  “Of course.”

  With the exception of a theater on the ground floor, the studios (Gibson learned in passing) were confined to the twentieth and twenty-first floors. Another large one, the identical twin of Studio One, was on the twenty-first, directly above them; right now the highly regarded Norman Corwin was rehearsing a drama that would go on at nine P.M., after the Mercury Theatre.

  Welles led Houseman and Gibson down the hallway, away from the lobby and Studio One, deep into the building.

  Walking alongside Houseman, the writer asked, “Are we heading to your offices?”

  Without looking at Gibson, Houseman said dryly, “You were in our offices on Thursday. At the theater.”

  “You have no office space here at CBS?”

  “Of course not. They only have four or five floors of them. Why should they spare us any?… We tend to use Studio Seven, a small studio that isn’t terribly well-equipped and hence not in much use…as a makeshift office. Or that is, we use the control room in that fashion.”

  Welles, without glancing back, added, “Such as now, when we need to do some rewriting, away from the cast and techs. And to give Paul some breathing room to give the actors some last-minute tips.”

  Gibson asked, “Why isn’t Howard Koch going along, if this a writing session?”

  They had arrived at the end of the hall, which ended at Studio Eight, a hallway cutting to the left. Next to them at right were two doors, practically side by side, labelled: STUDIO SEVEN (left door) and CONTROL ROOM (right one).

  Welles opened the latter door, reached a hand over to flick on the light switch, and with a gracious after-you gesture, said, “Because this isn’t so much a writing session as a cutting one-and I hate it when writers bleed.”

  The joke wasn’t a particularly good one, but Gibson might have forced a chuckle if his eyes hadn’t been filled with something that turned the witticism into an unintentional lapse i
nto poor taste.

  This control room-not nearly as elaborately outfitted with electronics, and absent the adjacent smaller sub-control room-nonetheless had a large horizontal window looking out on a studio that was perhaps a tenth the size of Studio One.

  The lights in the studio were off, but (sharing the control-room illumination) revealed itself bare of anything but a table and a chair, a few microphones on stands, and a few more chairs against a wall. Nothing very exceptional, really, except for the woman seated at the table.

  Or rather, slumped there, like a schoolgirl napping at her desk.

  Gibson didn’t recognize her at first-she was pale and her eyes were closed and her strawberry-blonde hair was askew, concealing a good portion of her face. But then it came to him: they had located the missing Miss Donovan, absent without an excuse from her receptionist post.

  Only now she had an excuse, and a damned good one: her throat was slit and blood had pooled all over the tabletop, some of it dripping down the sides; and from their slightly elevated position in the control booth, the hunting knife…with the signature ORSON WELLES on its hilt…could be seen, swimming in red.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  NOW YOU SEE IT

  Within the control booth, the three men pressed against the glass, like children at a department store window; but unlike those dreamy-eyed kids, this trio of adults stared aghast, at a nightmare.

  “The poor child,” Houseman said. Then he rushed from the room.

  Gibson followed, and saw Houseman at the studio door, reaching for the knob. He clutched the producer’s arm and said, “What about fingerprints?”

  “What if the girl is still alive?” Houseman’s normally unflappable expression was replaced by one of wide-eyed horror.

  “With her throat cut? With all that blood…?”

  “Are you a doctor, man?” Houseman snapped, and he clutched the knob, and twisted.

  The door did not open.

  “Locked!” Houseman blurted. He touched a hand to his forehead as if checking for a fever. “The goddamned thing is locked….”

  Gibson took the few steps back to see what had become of Welles. Through the open doorway of the control booth, Welles could be seen, moon face as white as its namesake, the long tapering fingers touching his lips, those normally rather Chinese-looking eyes now as wide as a Cotton Club dancer doing stereotypical shtick.