Gibson stood in the doorway. “Orson-are you all right?”
Welles’s body remained facing the window, but his head swivelled and the huge eyes under raised eyebrows stared unblinkingly at the writer.
Very softly, Welles said, “I am decidedly not all right. That poor young woman-that sweet young woman…. ‘For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come?’ ”
Gibson thought if Welles was going to quote Shakespeare, it ought to be that line from Macbeth about how surprising it was, how much blood there’d been.
“Orson-join us in the hallway.”
He drew a deep breath, nodded gravely, but did not otherwise move, remaining as frozen as Lot’s wife.
In the hall, Gibson faced Houseman. “I believe she’s past help.”
Houseman had found his usual calm demeanor, if a troubled version thereof. “It would be difficult to break the thing down-all of these studios have heavy, soundproofed doors.”
Gibson pointed toward the small room from which Welles had yet to emerge. “What about that window?”
“Again,” Houseman said, shrugging fatalistically, “it’s heavy glass, perhaps unbreakable-part of the necessary soundproofing between control room and studio. Poor thing…poor thing….”
“Her name was Donovan.”
Houseman’s eyes tightened, in surprise. “That’s right-how did you know her, Walter?”
“I was here for the Thursday run-through. We spoke. She was friendly, efficient…an intelligent girl.”
“Yes.” Houseman seemed to taste his next two words: “But ambitious.”
Sensing something judgmental, Gibson asked, “By that you mean, she wanted to make it in show business?”
The producer nodded slowly, a priest pronouncing a benediction. “She’d performed in the front of our Mercury microphone, in minor roles.” Another tasting of words followed: “Thanks to Orson.”
“She was…?”
“One of his little conquests, yes. He has assembled quite a ‘cast’ of nubiles-actresses, dancers, ballerinas.”
Remembering, Gibson said, “A certain renowned ballet master signed Miss Donovan’s reception book, today.”
Frowning, Houseman said, “What? Are you sure? I haven’t seen the man anywhere around. Balanchine, you say?”
“Yes. And Virginia Welles signed in, too.”
Houseman shook his head. “Well, I haven’t seen her.”
Gibson nodded toward the locked door. “Well, Miss Donovan did-as I say, they both signed her book, but did not sign out….”
Gibson quickly explained about the security guard who’d taken over Miss Donovan’s post.
Houseman stood motionless, like a figure in a wax museum; when he spoke, his lips moved so slightly, the statue effect remained in place: “I do not have the pulp sensibilities of yourself, Mr. Gibson, nor of my gifted young partner. But in seeing…I suppose the term is, ‘the scene of the crime’…it would seem clear that either Orson himself performed a particularly senseless, sloppy crime of passion upon that child, or-”
“Or someone framed him for it.”
Houseman’s mouth twitched a smirk. “Using a weapon literally signed by the designated ‘killer.’”
Gibson’s eyes narrowed. “Jack, that murder weapon does limit the suspects.”
“How, pray tell?”
The writer thumped the producer’s chest gently with a forefinger. “It has to be someone who has access to your office at the Mercury Theatre-who could lift that grisly memento off its nails from its place of honor on your wall.”
The lipless smile that formed on Houseman’s face was like a cut in his flesh. “How much difficulty did you have, Walter, entering the Mercury unheeded at an odd time?”
“Well…” Gibson thought back to the slumbering Miss Holliday in the box office window. “…none, really.”
“Precisely. And there is no lock on the door of our eagle’s-nest office. Actors, crew, reporters, total strangers, come in and out of the Mercury at all hours.”
“But who would know about that knife?”
Houseman’s brow tightened slightly. “Well, certainly Virginia has been there, often enough, and likely saw it. And Mr. Balanchine, for that matter.”
“What was Balanchine doing there?”
Houseman’s eyebrows rose but his voice did not. “Threatening Orson’s life.”
“How about Owney Madden? Did he ever come around?”
Houseman blinked and grunted a single laugh. “The gangster? Why ever would he be in our office?”
Gibson raised an eyebrow. “How about that dancer Orson and Owney…shared? Was she ever in that office?”
“I believe…several times.”
“That gives her knowledge of the knife that she could have passed along to Madden, however innocently.”
Houseman shook his head, confused. “Walter, why does this gangster come to your mind? Did he sign in at Miss Donovan’s station, as well?”
“No-but wasn’t he cuckolded, in a manner of speaking, by Orson?”
Houseman drew in a breath; his eyes were alive with thought. “If having your way with another man’s mistress could fall under that description…yes.”
Gibson pointed toward the locked door. “I’m not saying Madden did it himself-but one of his people could have, and that social class knows all about framing people, and they aren’t squeamish about a little blood, either.”
“Again, Walter-why do you suspect Madden, when we know that both Balanchine and Virginia Welles were in the building? Perhaps one, or both, still are!”
Gibson told Houseman of the incident in the alley last night, outside the Cotton Club.
Finally, Welles came shambling out of the control booth, his expression mournful. No tears, however, Gibson noted.
The three men stood in a tight circle.
Houseman faced his partner and said, “Is this true, Orson? Were you accosted last night by ruffians?”
Blinking, Welles said, “What?… Oh. That. Yes. Yes, of course. Walter and I, uh, went to the Cotton Club, which perhaps was ill-advised, considering Mr. Madden’s temper….”
Houseman thrust a finger toward the door-the gesture had an accusatory aura, even though the digit did not point at Welles himself. “ ‘Ill-advised’ indeed, if what happened to Miss Donovan is the handiwork of Madden’s minions.”
Welles swallowed. His tone was strangely apologetic. “You know of course, I did not-”
Houseman waved that off. “That goes without saying.”
Gibson said, “You did have opportunity, Orson.”
The grief in Welles’s face turned to outrage, the white flesh to scarlet. “What are you saying, man?”
Patting the air, Gibson said, “Not that you did this-I don’t believe for an instant that that’s the case. But looking at it, objectively…you could have done this early this morning, before you and I breakfasted-”
“No,” Houseman said. “That blood is still glistening.”
Welles closed his eyes, shivered.
“Still shimmering wet,” Houseman continued. “This could not have happened long ago, elsewise it would have congealed, dried to a black patina, not that terrible red river.”
Welles glared at Houseman. “A little less poetry, Jack, and a little more help! Please!”
Softly Houseman said, “My apologies. But I think we’re all agreed that this young lady is beyond anyone’s help, now, save the Almighty.”
Welles swallowed.
Gibson nodded.
With a heave of a sigh, Houseman said, “Walter, however, is correct, Orson: you did have the opportunity.”
“Nonsense, Housey! I was in that studio all afternoon!”
Houseman waggled a finger. “No. Not ‘in’-in and out of that studio, yes.”
Welles shook his head. “No. No, I was-”
Gibson said, “Orson, you left for at least two lengthy bathroom breaks. You also exited to get a sound-effect gizmo for Ora, at one point.”
Eyes closed as if in prayer, Welles nodded. “Yes. Yes, goddamnit, you’re right. And I stepped into the hall two other times, to smoke and think away from the chaos. I did have opportunity.”
“And means,” Houseman said. “You certainly had access to the weapon.”
Welles threw his hands in the air. “But would I be so idiotic as to contrive a crime and leave my very signature?”
“It might be argued,” Houseman said, chin up, “that you had brought the knife here to present Miss Donovan with a keepsake of your relationship, which I understand reached a somewhat acrimonious apex, just days ago.”
Welles swallowed thickly. “We did-break up, so to speak. I told her that…well, it’s none of your business, either of you, what I told her.”
“Perhaps not,” Houseman said, “but it will be the business of the police.”
“The police,” Welles echoed numbly, as if the existence of the law enforcement entity had only just now occurred to him.
Houseman continued, his voice emotionless: “And as for what you said to Miss Donovan, you were quarreling in the hallway outside Studio One, most vocally, certainly publicly, and any number of people heard you-myself included. Any number saw her run away in tears, shattered by your rejection, by your accusations of her ‘craven gold-digging,’ if I correctly recall your colorful turn of phrase.”
Softly Welles said, “You do.”
Houseman shrugged. “I also recall that, in the early stages of the dalliance, Miss Donovan had made a special point of praising your performance in ‘Julius Caesar,’ which makes the seemingly unlikely gift of that signed blade at least marginally plausible.”
“I was going to present her that knife,” Welles said with acid sarcasm, “as a going-away present? Absurd. Utterly absurd.”
Houseman granted him a nod. “I would tend to agree. But juries have believed less likely tales.”
Welles turned pale again. “Juries…”
Gibson had been adding it all up. “So you had motive…for a crime of passion, at least…means…and opportunity. A circumstantial case could easily be built against you, Orson. Surely you see that.”
The big boy-man turned from one friend to another, desperation in his eyes. “I swear to you, John. Walter-I did not do this evil thing.”
The words were spoken with the rounded eloquence of Welles at his oratorical best.
Houseman held up a hand, traffic-cop fashion. “I assure you, Orson, that we both believe you. But you need to gather your thoughts, and be prepared for the official inquisition that is likely to follow.”
“Oy,” Welles said.
Gibson said, “We’d better stop jawing, and call the police.”
Houseman held up the traffic-cop palm again, thought for a few moments, then said with authority, “We do have a security force here, however meager, and I would suggest we bring one of those in-house representatives of the law to this room and let him see what we have seen. It would be his place to make that fateful phone call.”
“Quit it, Housey,” Welles snapped.
“Quit what?”
“All that arch phraseology. This is not some script you’ve cobbled together for me from ‘Treasure Island.’ A murder has been committed, and what you both seem to overlook is that the murderer is very likely still in this building.”
Houseman’s head tilted, his eyes became slits. “Are you saying-we’re in danger?”
Welles gestured to himself with one hand and with the other from Houseman to Gibson. “Aren’t we? Someone’s obviously after me!”
“The evidence of our eyes indicates,” Houseman said calmly, “the killer was after Miss Donovan. Surely you’re not suggesting a madman is among us…”
“Who else,” Welles snorted, “could have done such a thing?”
“… and that a homicidal maniac is running through the halls of the Columbia Broadcasting Building looking for…for more victims? Orson, it’s unbelievable.”
Welles thrust a thumb toward the studio door. “Why don’t you ask Miss Donovan how believable it seems to her about now?”
This time a Gibson palm stopped traffic, and the writer said, “Orson, we may have a murderer among us, yes…but if you were framed for this crime, then the likelihood of a second murder is slight.”
Houseman was nodding. “But I second the notion that the murderer may well be among us-that studio is filled with your fellow artisans, Orson, many of whom you have humiliated and attacked.”
Welles seemed taken aback by this remark. “Well, I hardly think that’s fair! I also lavish love on the sons of bitches!”
Houseman shot a small knowing look Gibson’s way.
Gibson asked, “May I make a suggestion?”
“Certainly,” Houseman said.
“Please,” Orson said.
“Well, can I assume there’s a janitor on duty, from whom we can get the key to this studio?”
“Of course,” Houseman said.
“One of us should fetch him, or at least his keys.”
“Agreed,” Welles said. “And I could get Mr. Williams.”
Houseman blinked. “Who?”
Gibson said, “The security person I told you about, Jack-the one who took over Miss Donovan’s desk.”
“Ah,” Houseman said. “By all means, Orson, fetch Mr. Williams.”
“Good-you fellas have your assigned tasks, and…”-Gibson gestured to the locked door-“…I’ll stand guard on the crime scene.”
“Probably wise,” Houseman said.
“Why?” Welles asked darkly. “Are we expecting the corpse to make a break for it?”
Holding up two fingers, Gibson said, “Two reasons for me to take this post-first, I don’t have any other task. John, you’re getting the keys; Orson, you’re bringing the house law. Second, we don’t need anyone else coming along and stumbling onto this horrible thing, before we can be seen to have acted responsibly.”
Houseman half-bowed. “I concur. Well reasoned.”
Putting a hand on the writer’s shoulder, Welles said, “I do appreciate this, Walter. I appreciate your belief in me-after all, we’ve only known each other a short time….”
Gibson found a grin. “Which means I’m not a suspect, ’cause I’m on the short list of those you have not as yet alienated.”
Welles looked hurt for an instant, then came up with a dry chuckle. “Nonetheless-Lamont Cranston thanks you, sincerely.”
The big boy-genius started down the hall, making his way toward the studio; then he paused and looked back to say, “And do be careful, Walter! Remember the old saw, ‘The murderer always returns to the scene of the crime.’ ”
“Just a cliche,” Gibson said.
“All cliches,” Welles called, before disappearing around the corner, “have a kernel of truth.”
Then Gibson was alone with Houseman in the hall. The latter said, “I agree with Orson. Do be careful.”
“I’ll keep my back to the wall-literally. Are we making a mistake not going into the main studio, and telling everyone there’s been a…a murder?”
“What, and start a panic? No, my friend, we’ll operate on the assumption that the invasion from Mars goes on as scheduled.”
Gibson grunted a sort of laugh. “Do you really think the show will go on?”
Houseman thought about that for a moment. “Oddly, I do. That’s another cliche with truth in it: ‘The show must go on.’ I can rather imagine the police standing by while Orson and his cast complete the show, and then our poor gifted changeling being dragged off to the pokey. Radio has a strange power over people-police included.”
Gibson half-smiled. “You do look at all of this with a…jaundiced eye, don’t you, Jack?”
Houseman’s gaze lifted; it was as if he were searching some far-off horizon. “I love that talented young man. He may well be the genius showman of our generation. And his heart is, largely, a good one. But he is also a spoiled brat, who has treated everyone around him wretchedly…at
least, from time to time. So I am not surprised by this, not really.”
Gibson reared back. “You’re not surprised by the murder of Miss Donovan?”
Houseman was already shaking his head. “You misunderstand-I am shocked and dismayed by this loss. She was a sweet child, and demonstrated considerable talent, as well.” The producer looked down his nose at the writer, literally if not figuratively. “No, I refer to Orson’s poor judgment and his…the word you used, correctly, was I believe ‘alienation’…of those who respect and follow and even worship him. That he has been…to again invoke melodrama, but meaning no disrespect to the unfortunate deceased…‘framed’ for murder is, in the sense that Orson has paved the way for such a thing, not a surprise.”
Houseman gave Gibson a head-bob of farewell, and walked down the hall, in his measured manner, going the opposite way from Welles.
Gibson leaned his back against the wall, facing and staring at the door behind which a young woman lay, slaughtered like a beast. Shaking his head, he lighted up a Camel, folded his arms, and contemplated the realities of crime and murder-which he had occasionally encountered in his reporter days-and the odd fact that storytellers like himself could find this unpleasant source material so useful in entertaining a mass audience.
Faced with a real murder, the creator of the Shadow felt a twinge of guilty embarrassment for trivializing such dire, somber matters in his yarns. And yet what better subject for a story than life and death, crime and punishment? Perhaps the saddest reality was that in real life, no Shadowesque avenger existed to right such a wrong.
Welles was the first to return. Because of the puppy-like manner in which security guard Williams tagged after Welles, the guard did not seem to Gibson to be aware that he was approaching a murder scene, or indeed anything of significance. It was as if Welles had reported spotting a mouse running down the hall.
Gibson’s reading proved correct, when Welles-chagrin in his eyes-said to the writer, “I told Mr. Williams we have a problem, and that I thought a man of his perspicacity was called for.”
The War of the Worlds Murder d-6 Page 12