“Shrewd deduction,” the guard said, his wiseguy tone indicating he did not share the elevator attendant’s awe of the young genius. “But then, hey—the Shadow knows, right?”
With a snorty laugh, he returned to his funnies.
Welles gripped the guard by his blue shirtfront and dragged him halfway across the desk; the funnies spilled from his hands and his cap fell off.
“When I have a yen for a smart remark,” Welles said, his nose a quarter of an inch from the guard’s startled face, “I won’t ask an imbecile like you.”
Then Welles thrust the man from his grip, and the guard bounced a bit in the swivel chair. Frightened, the guard plucked his cap from the floor, put it back on, smoothed his shirt front with his palms and said, indignantly, “You can’t treat me like that! I don’t care who you are! You may be a big shot, but I’m...I’m like a policeman!”
Welles, coolly, signed in. “You are indeed ‘like’ a policeman—in every way except the following: you carry no gun, your authority is minimal, you do not work for the city, and are not in fact a policeman.... Where is Miss Donovan?”
The guard swallowed and said, “I dunno. She was supposed to be working today. I think she was here earlier, actually.”
“Continue.”
“I got a call from one of you Mercury guys saying come fill in on her desk. We can’t have just anyone walking in and out of here, y’ know.”
Welles was frowning. For some reason he had lifted the reception book into his hands, standing there like a preacher in a wedding ceremony, wondering whether this union was worth sanctioning.
Slowly, Welles said, “Are you quite sure? What’s your name?”
The guard blinked. “My name?”
“It’s not a trick question. Your first name will do. We can save the harder part for later, if necessary.”
“Bill. My name is Bill. Williams.”
“A redundant name for a redundant individual.”
“What does that mean?”
Welles turned the reception book toward him, pointing to a specific name. “Bill, were you here when this person signed in?”
“Who?... Oh. No. ‘Virginia Welles.’ What’s that, your wife?”
“She hasn’t signed out again, I see.”
“No. But then, this desk was unattended for a while.”
“How long, Mr. Williams?”
“Couldn’t say. From whenever somebody noticed Miss Donovan left her post, and thought to call for a sub.”
“Yes.” Welles gestured with an open hand, as if paying honor to the man. “And you do qualify as a ‘sub,’ Mr. Williams. I will concede that.”
Mr. Williams smiled, warming to Welles. “Thanks.”
Welles returned to the book. “And what about this individual?”
“ ‘Buh...buh...’ ”
“Balanchine. Were you at this post when this man signed in?”
“No.”
“I note he did not sign out, either.”
“That’s right. But like I said, this desk was unattended for a while. Who knows who left? Who knows who got in?”
Welles nodded to the man, twitching a smile. “Not the Shadow, Mr. Williams.” He tossed the book on the desk with a clunk. “Would you do me a kindness, despite my poor show of temper?”
“Well, sure. I was...I was outa line, Mr. Welles. They don’t pay me to be a smart-ass.”
“How could one put a price on it?... I’ll be in Studio One, for the most part, but may well be anywhere on this floor, in the various studios and offices, until after we’ve broadcast this evening.” Welles leaned across the desk and asked, in a conspiratorial fashion, “If either of these individuals sign out, would you send someone to let me know?”
“Sure!”
“But in that case, call for another one of your troops—don’t leave your post unattended.”
“I’ll do what I can—but there’s just a handful us on duty on a Sunday, Mr. Welles.”
“I understand. All I ask, Mr. Williams, is your best effort.” And he gave the guard a half-bow.
Mr. Williams blinked and half-bowed back.
Gibson had never seen anything quite like Welles’s performance—from receiving an insult, answering it with a physical threat, to winning over his adversary, charming him into another acolyte—only Orson Welles could have pulled off that magic trick.
Falling in alongside Welles, Gibson said, “Isn’t Balanchine that ballerina’s boyfriend? Guy who threatened you?”
They were walking down the hall, toward Studio One.
“He is indeed.”
Welles opened the door to the sound-proofing vestibule of the studio, and Gibson followed.
“Does, uh, your wife often drop by the studio?”
“Not unless she’s acting in a given week’s production.”
“She isn’t in this show, is she?”
Welles glanced back with an arched eyebrow. “No. She is not.”
Inside the studio, the spectacled owlish conductor, Benny Herrmann—like so many of the men, in suspenders and shirtsleeves—was again at the piano, a small conductor’s podium nearby (in addition to the large one intended for Welles); musicians, a larger contingent than at Thursday’s rehearsal, were taking their places—Gibson quickly counted twenty-seven—warming up with scales and such. Actors were milling in the carpeted microphone area, a script in one hand, ear in the other.
In a reporterish fedora, the mustached gigoloish Frank Readick was the first to approach Welles, nodding hello to Gibson, then saying with an excited edge, “I’ve been at it just like you said.”
“And what is your opinion?”
“Great idea! Great idea, Orson.... This’ll knock their damn socks off.”
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 immediately 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. L
ines 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 naïveté 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!”
The War of the Worlds Murder Page 11