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 Studio 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.
To Gibson’s left, beyond the podium, a small orchestra was arrayed, seven pieces plus a grand piano; their leader, a bespectacled, rather odd-looking man, sat at the piano, frowning as he made notes on his score, paying no heed to the musicians filing in and taking their seats and going through little practice scales and other warm-ups.
Across the room, beyond and behind the carpeted MICROPHONE AREA, lurked a sound-effects station, including a table with two turntables for Victrola records, a wooden door on a heavy frame (for opening or closing as a script demanded), a bench with an odd assortment of items (saw and hammer, milk-bottle rack, coconut shells, etc.), a flat box of sand on the floor, and a rack of electronic gizmos. A statuesque middle-aged woman, who in her floral-print frock might have been a housewife, sorted through the inventory of this area, assembling things in order—cellophane for the crackle of fire, a bundle of straw for noises in underbrush, a large potato with a knife stuck in it—her pleasant face mildly contorted with intensity.
Though this was a fairly massive studio, it lacked audience seating. Gibson knew elsewhere in this building, the ground floor most likely, would be at least one theater-style studio, for programs like tonight’s Major Bowes Amateur Hour. Game shows and comedies benefitted from spectators: those presenting the dramatic fare The Mercury Theatre on the Air specialized in might find that a distraction.
A door adjacent to the one he’d come in opened suddenly, and Gibson—mildly startled—whirled to see a small, dark man with salt-and-pepper hair lean out, his striped tie hanging like the flag on a football play. Indeed, the entire manner of this fellow was that of a referee, calling foul at this stranger’s interference.
“Can I help you?” Though diminutive, the man had an intimidating bearing—including an actor’s strong baritone, and eyes that bored into you.
“I’m Walter Gibson—I had an appointment with Mr. Welles.”
The man—like so many here, in suspenders and rolled-up shirtsleeves—stepped onto the landing and his features softened but his eyes remained skeptical, a maitre d’ not convinced you should be seated.
“Mr. Gibson, I don’t doubt what you say.... Orson is fairly cavalier about not keeping me informed about guests he’s invited...but we’re about to rehearse and record Sunday’s show.”
“I take it Orson isn’t here.”
The man twitched a smile. “No. He always says he’s going to participate in these recorded rehearsals, and we always wait half an hour past the time he sets, before starting without him.”
“How often does he actually show up?”
“So far, never.” Gibson’s reluctant host frowned, the cacophony of musicians, actors and sound effects making it hard to converse. “Step in here, would you?...I’m Paul Stewart, by the way.”
The two men shook hands as they pushed through a portholed door. They entered a cubicle adjacent to the control booth, where a desk faced a window out onto the studi
o; this, Gibson knew, was where the network rep would likely sit.
With no rep present, however, this cubicle made a good place to talk.
Through a doorless doorway was the actual control booth, with its bank of slanted panels with switches and dials against a generous horizontal window onto the studio. An engineer in earphones was already seated there, ready to “mix” the show, i.e., bring voices and sound effects up or down. A chair next to the engineer, with a microphone and headset waiting, would be the director’s post, Gibson knew.
But what, then, was that podium out there for? And where was their famous “child” director? As if reading his guest’s mind, Stewart spoke.
“Mr. Gibson, I’m the program director, and my hands are going to be very full. Maybe you’d like to sit here and watch—there’s always an off chance Orson might stop by.”
“I wouldn’t mind at that. I’m a writer, by the way—you may know me better as Maxwell Grant.”
Stewart’s eyes narrowed. He sighed, shook his head, his expression softening with chagrin. “My apologies—Orson did mention you—the Shadow author. He’s planning a project with you, I’m told.”
“That’s right.”
Friendly now, Stewart put a hand on his guest’s shoulder. “You’ve made me a few pennies, Mr. Grant.”
“Gibson. How so?”
“I’ve played half a dozen villains on your Shadow show.”
“Ah.”
Stewart raised an eyebrow. “If this mug of mine ever gets in front of a camera, maybe I better get used to that. Gable doesn’t have anything to worry about.”
The ice broken, Gibson said, “Uh, I can either sit and be an eavesdropper for a few minutes...this is my first time at a major network setup like this...or I can head over to the St. Regis. Whatever’s you pleasure, Mr. Stewart.”
“Call me Paul, and I really would love to have you join us. Might even trouble you for an opinion or two—we’re having some real problems with this one.”
“This week’s program, you mean? Why, what piece are you doing?”
Gibson knew the Mercury usually adapted a famous literary work.
Stewart was lighting up a cigarette. “One by that other Wells...H.G. War of the Worlds.” He waved his match out, made a face. “I’m sure it seemed fresh and frightening at the turn of the century, but we’re having no little tough time making it something a modern audience can appreciate.”
“It’s a great story, Paul...and you people always do a fine job. I’m sure it’ll be a real crowd pleaser.”
“Let’s hope.” Stewart snapped his fingers. “You know, there’s a couple people who’ll want to meet you! We’re a good fifteen minutes away from starting this thing.... Mind if I send ’em up?”
“Not at all.”
Stewart disappeared out the door, and Gibson sat at the network rep’s desk and looked out the window where his host was approaching one of those actors milling around. The director pointed to Gibson’s window and did some explaining, and the actor—a mustached fellow with slicked-back black hair, who looked like he might specialize in slightly gone-to-seed gigolos—was nodding and smiling.
Then the actor—one of the few not in shirtsleeves, tie not even loosened—came Gibson’s way, heading up the small flight of steps, and within seconds the author was on his feet shaking hands with the man.
“At last we meet!” the actor said, in a silky baritone.
Gibson smiled a little. “I’m afraid you have the advantage on me, sir....”
“I’m the Shadow!...The first Shadow, that is.”
After a single laugh, the author said, “Frank Readick! The man who put me on the map. That voice and delivery of yours got me the Shadow assignment in the first place.”
Readick chuckled. “Small world, huh? Two Shadows on the same show? And me, the original, working for my replacement, yet!...Ah, but I was just a glorified announcer, until you made a character of the guy, and then of course Orson brought him to life.”
“But they’re still using your laugh and your opening: ‘Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men!’ ”
“Well, the Shadow may know,” Readick said, head tilted, “but don’t bring that up with Orson. It’s a sore point.”
The two men sat, Gibson at the desk.
“What’s your role in ‘War of the Worlds,’ Frank?”
“Mostly I’m a reporter on the scene of the alien landing. I have a couple roles, actually, which is typical for voice actors on an ensemble show like this. But it’s a good part, the Carl Phillips reporter one, I mean. I’m the one describing the monsters, plus I get to be burned alive on the air!”
“What fun,” Gibson said, appreciatively. “Not just your ordinary death scene. But Mr. Stewart doesn’t seem as enthusiastic about the piece.”
“Well, Paul’s a tough taskmaster. But the thing is a little...I don’t know, it’s missing something. Just kinda lays there. You know, when Orson did ‘Dracula,’ that vampire came alive...or as alive as the living dead can come. But these monsters just aren’t making the grade. What the hell—it’s early yet.”
“Early? You broadcast on Sunday!”
Readick shook his head, grinned. “Oh, Welles and his buddy Jack Houseman, and Paul...and for that matter Howard, their writer...they’re maniacs, polishing and goosing these things up till the last second.” He pointed out the window to the podium. “Hell, Orson rewrites and cuts and shapes while he’s on the air. He’s a madman! A wonderful madman, but a madman.”
“Frank, one thing I don’t get—isn’t Orson the director? Paul introduced himself as that, and as far as I can see, he’s the one running things.”
“Paul directs the rehearsals—he does the casting, gets these things on their feet. You see, Orson is busy with this latest play the Mercury is putting on—it opens in about a week—and anyway, the boy wonder is always involved in multiple things. But on Sunday, believe me, it’ll be Orson’s show, all right. Top to bottom.”
“Then Orson is the director.”
Readick’s eyes tightened. “I’d say more...conductor. He stands up there on that podium like Toscanini and wrings the ‘music’ outa these scripts.”
“So it’s not an ‘in-name-only’ thing.”
“You mean like Cecil B. DeMille on the Lux Radio Theatre? Not at all—ol’ C.B. just plays the director on that show. Strictly an actor. Orson...he’s a real DeMille around this place.”
The author and actor chatted a few more minutes, then the latter took his leave. And his place in the mike-area rectangle.
A few minutes later, while Gibson sat smoking a Camel and watching through the window—as Stewart moved around the room giving instructions to actors, sound-effects technicians and even the orchestra conductor—another figure slipped into the cubicle.
An Ichabod Crane of a spindly six-two or -three, in his early thirties, with a spade-shaped face and unruly blond hair, in a rumpled tan suit and dark-brown tie, the fellow had the abashed manner of someone reluctantly knocking on your door for charity. He also had hollow, tired eyes and the pallor of one who rarely got outside.
In other words, a writer.
“Mr. Gibson?” The voice was earnest and even a little timid, which was almost a relief after all these sonorous radio tones.
“Yes?” Gibson got to his feet.
“I’m Howard Koch—the one-man Mercury writing staff.” He extended his hand, which Gibson promptly shook. “I’ve been turning these sixty-page shows out at a rate of one a week, all season so far. And you must be the only man on the planet who thinks I’m a piker.”
With a burst of a laugh, Gibson sat back down, gesturing for Koch to pull up a chair and join him. “We pulp writers do make you hardworking radio writers look like you’re loafin’...but then, I don’t have to put up with the endless meetings and rewrites.”
Koch rolled his eyes. “It does get a little hairy around here. Welles and Houseman consider sleep a luxury—their saving grace is they deny themselves
, too.”
“Even I don’t envy you your time schedule, Howard...considering you’re adapting and carving up huge novels, most of the time, to fill a little old hour.”
Koch chuckled wryly. “It’s either that or pad out a short story to the same purpose. Butchered or bloated, those are the options.”
“Say what you will, but my wife and I would never miss your show.”
With half a smile, Koch said, “Even when you’re on deadline?”
“Howard, I’m like you—always on deadline.”
With a sigh, the radio writer said, “I just wish I had something better this afternoon, to share with you. This one’s kind of a...a mess, I’m afraid.”
“Don’t know why. Destroying the world ought to fill an hour perfectly well. And hell, you’ve got Martians doing it!”
“That’s the problem. It’s so goddamn unbelievable. With what’s going on in the world right now, fantasy has its appeal, all right...but it can be a hard sell to people beaten down by horrific realities.”
“Maybe the fact that it takes place forty years ago will make the fantasy go down smoother.”
Koch shifted in his seat. “Walter, tell ya the truth, that was the first change I made: I thought that hurt the reality of it—radio has an immediacy. Sure, we can go back to the foggy London of Sherlock Holmes and lose ourselves there; or to Treasure Island with Long John Silver and Jim Hawkins. But to do science fiction, something futuristic, that’s set forty years back? I don’t think so.”
“So, then, you’ve modernized it?”
“Yes—it’s happening today, and it’s happening in America, not London.”
“Ah!” Gibson stubbed out his Camel in a glass ashtray, with CBS in it. “So where do the Martians land, now? Times Square?”
“Actually, I thought somewhere out in the obscure countryside would be better. Something rural, where the contrast would be great...and where an invading army might logically deploy itself.”
Nodding, Gibson said, “I like that. You’ve thought about this, really thought it through. Sounds to me you’re doing fine—where exactly then did you have them land?”
The War of the Worlds Murder Page 4