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 cliché,” Gibson said.
“All clichés,” 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 cliché 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.”
“Riiight,” Gibson said.
Welles and Williams had barely arrived when Houseman came bustling up the hall, alone, but with a key in hand.
“The janitor shared this passkey with me,” Houseman said. “Should do the trick...”
The producer stood before the door, and drew a deep breath, perhaps gathering courage to unlock so ominous a passageway. Then he inserted the key, a click was heard, and Houseman gently pushed the door open, and all three men stepped inside, to find...
...the room was empty.
Oh, the table was there, all right; but no young woman.
And no blood.
Houseman whirled on Gibson, saying, “You pledged you would stand guard!”
Gibson extended his hands, palms up. “I did—I swear I did! No one went in or out.”
The security guard, looking about as bright as a potted plant, asked, “What was it you wanted me to see, anyway, Mr. Welles?”
Welles turned to Williams and patted him on the shoulder of his powder-blue uniform. A little too pleasantly, Welles said, “Bill, I made a small wager with Mr. Houseman here that I could go summon you on a crisis and that you could get here before our esteemed producer could acquire the key from the janitor. Leaving at the same time, you understand.”
Gibson and Houseman exchanged glances; neither man had ever heard such incoherent inanity in all their lives.
But Bill the security guard just grinned in a horsey fashion and said, “So I won you some money, huh, Mr. Welles?”
“Yes, Bill,” Welles said, walking him to the door, an arm around the man, “and I mean to share the wealth with you.”
“Ha! Just like Huey Long, right, Mr. Welles?”
“Just like him, Bill—like the man says, ‘Every man a king.’ ”
The guard was in the hall now, Welles in the doorway, turning toward Gibson to say, “Walter—do you have a five spot for this gentleman?”
Gibson dug out his wallet and handed a five-dollar bill to Bil
l, who grinned in his Seabiscuit way, and trotted off, chuckling as if he’d really put one over.
His expression grave, Welles shut the door.
The three were now alone in the small studio.
To Gibson, Welles said, “No one in, or out?”
“No! That fiver’s going on the expense account, by the way.”
Houseman, who’d been prowling the room, was over in the lefthand corner. “This connecting door to Studio Eight—it’s locked, too.”
Impatiently, Welles said, “Well, hell, Housey—you have the janitor’s passkey!”
Absentmindedly, Houseman looked at the key, still in his hand, and said, “Ah, yes, of course,” and unlocked the door.
The adjacent studio, whose own control-booth window was across the room, was even emptier than Studio Seven—not even a table, much less a corpse. Various microphone stands and stools and various junk lined and littered the walls, indicating the room saw more storage than production, these days.
Dazed, the trio returned to the studio where they’d seen the dead girl.
“Maybe she did get up and walk out,” Welles said hollowly.
Gibson was having a look at the table and chair. “There was blood here! Look, you can see the faint smearing on this tabletop—somebody used a cloth or towel or something, and sopped and wiped it up....”
The others came over, had a look and confirmed the writer’s opinion.
Gibson, however, was already crouched on the floor, kneeling, Sherlock Holmes-style. “And blood drops—starts on the chair and dribbles onto the floor. The killer missed these.”
Welles, hands on his knees, bent down. “By God, you’re right—it’s a trail...”
Houseman saw it, too. “Leading away...toward that door to the other studio....”
The blood drops had been sopped into the soundproof-friendly carpet and led into the adjacent Studio Eight, where the droplets continued to the side of the room and a coat tree (empty), next to which lay a stack of tarps, from some recently finished painting job.
The trail drizzled to the tarps, then started up again, ending at the doorway to the hall.
Gibson, hand on his chin, said, “I’m sure I’m merely saying what you’re all thinking, but it needs to be spoken...”
“Do,” Houseman said.
“Please,” Welles said.
Gibson went to the door that connected the studios and reenacted it from there: “The murderer heard us entering the control booth, and scooted next door, to Studio Eight. But he...or she...couldn’t slip into the corridor, to make a getaway, because, Jack—you and I went back out into the hall almost immediately. So the killer waited, hearing us speaking...and we spoke quite a while, truth be told.”
“We did not,” Houseman dryly said, “spring into action, no.”
Gibson continued: “When the killer heard your voice in the hall, Orson, he, or she, knew the control booth with its window was free of observers. So the killer returned, sopped up the blood with something...what I don’t know...and dragged the corpse into the adjacent studio. The killer wrapped up the body in a tarp, ready to transport it, and—”
“No,” Welles said, raising a finger. “I believe the killer waited until hearing John and me go to get the security man...and a key...and, realizing that you were outside standing watch, Walter, the killer had to stay trapped in these adjacent studios, otherwise risk a confrontation.”
Gibson was nodding. “I think you’re right, Orson. But the killer must have figured out that when help—and a key—did arrive, we would all rush into Studio Seven!”
Picking it up, Welles said, “That is when the killer cleaned up the table, moved the body, wrapped it for transport, and...when he...”
“Or she,” Houseman said.
“—heard help arrive, and all of us enter Studio Seven—prompting the killer with tarp-wrapped cargo in tow to quickly exit Studio Eight and make it away, down the hall.”
“A killer who by now,” Gibson said, “thanks to our blathering, is well away from here.”
“But probably still in the building,” Welles said.
“Well...” Gibson thought about that. “...possibly still in the building. Certainly, Orson, you were right in that assumption you made earlier, and I was wrong to pooh-pooh it.”
“But what now?” Houseman said, hands widespread. “We have no murder, because we have no body.”
“We have blood droplets,” Gibson said, pointing floor-ward, “and a table with what I believe to be smeared traces of cleaned-up blood.”
In full tragedian mode, Welles asked, “Would you have me call the police?”
Gibson shrugged. “Yes. Sure. Of course.”
Houseman seemed puzzled. “What do we have to show them?”
“The traces I mentioned,” Gibson said. “And our report of what we saw.”
“Including,” Welles said aghast, “a murder weapon with my name attached?”
Gibson shrugged again, more elaborately. “What else is there to do?”
Welles, quietly, reasonably, and conspiratorially, said, “We go on with the show. We have our broadcast in...” He checked his wristwatch. “... less than fifteen minutes. If we call the authorities now, I may well be tied up with them, and we’ll let CBS down.”
“I would think,” Gibson said, edgily, “that the welfare of Miss Donovan is rather more important than that of the Columbia Broadcasting System.”
Welles looked properly abashed, but nonetheless said, “While I understand that sentiment, the truth is, Miss Donovan in no way benefits from our scuttling the broadcast.”
“If we call the police now,” Gibson said, “the chance of the killer’s apprehension is greater...much greater. The first several hours of a murder investigation are key—”
“But,” Welles said, lifting a lecturing forefinger, “our killer is either in the building, or not in the building...would you agree?”
Gibson frowned. “Well, aren’t those the only two options?”
“Indeed. But if the killer is gone, the killer is gone, and bringing the police here sooner doesn’t catch him...or her...any the sooner. But if the killer is in the building, perhaps one of our own broadcast family, then we may have the opportunity to nab him, or her, ourselves.”
“Ourselves?” Houseman said, eyes popping. In other circumstances, this reaction from the low-key producer would have amused Gibson; right now, it merely seemed grotesque.
“Think about it,” Welles said. “The killer knows that we are aware a murder has been committed. If we go about our business as if nothing has happened—and, again, if the killer is one of our own—he or she may well tip their hand...express in some fashion surprise, behave nervously, or even blurt something incriminating.”
“Possibly,” Gibson granted.
“Also,” Welles said, “while I undertake to go on with my broadcast-business-as-usual, you, Walter...if I am not imposing...could make a few discreet inquiries around the building.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
Welles made an expansive gesture. “Well, on Sunday this building is something of a skeleton operation...so to speak. The offices, whether clerks or executives, are shut down—really, only the seventeenth floor, which is the news department, and the twentieth and twenty-first floors, where the studios are, are in use.”
Gibson asked, “What about the eighteenth and nineteenth floors?”
“Strictly offices. Some are assigned permanently, others are for general use.”
Lifting his eyebrows, Gibson said, “Plenty of places for a killer to hide.”
“Yes, but I’m not suggesting you search a twenty-two-floor office building.”
“Thank you so much. What are you suggesting, Orson?”
“Seek out the other security people, the actors and crew on the floor above us...working on Norman Corwin’s show, for instance...and say that Mr. Welles wondered if any of them have seen his wife, Virginia, today. Then ask the same thing about George Balanch
ine. In addition, ask if they saw Dolores Donovan at all today, away from her desk—and who she might have been speaking with.”
Finally Gibson was starting to buy in. “And whether or not any suspicious characters are around? Madden’s boys?”
Welles thought about that. “Maybe limit that query to the security guards. They’d note a presence like that, and you could say ‘Mr. Welles has had some death threats’ or some such.”
Fumbling for a fresh Camel, Gibson said, “So let’s say I agree to gather this info, Orson. Then what?”
“Right after the broadcast, you let Jack and me know what, if anything, you’ve discovered. Then...by all means...we call the authorities.”
“How do we explain waiting more than an hour to report a murder?”
With a gesture reminiscent of a ringmaster introducing an elephant act, Welles said, “We tell the truth—that we saw what appeared to be the dead body of our receptionist. That we found the door to be locked, and went after the key, and fetched our security guard...but found the studio empty.”
“What about the evidence traces we discovered?”
“That,” Welles said, raising a forefinger, “would be best discreetly left unremarked upon. The police are quite capable, I’m sure, of discovering clues for themselves.”
“What do we say to the cops,” Gibson said, “when they ask us what we thought when the corpse disappeared?”
“We say,” Welles said, with a pixie smile, and a mock-innocent tone, “that we simply didn’t know what to think...that we got quite naturally caught up in the pressures and deadlines of putting on our weekly broadcast, but that after the show, we determined we needed to inform them of what we’d seen.”
Sighing, Gibson asked, “Isn’t Howard Koch a lawyer? Maybe he could advise us as to whether we’d be breaking any laws, waiting to make that call—”
“I would suggest not,” Houseman said. He was clearly on Welles’s side in this. “Howard is indeed an attorney, which means he’s an officer of the court. He would be legally required to make that call, immediately.”
Gibson was shaking his head, not in a “no” fashion, rather indicating his uncertainty. “The odds of us...of me...solving this thing in the next hour is, well, it isn’t much, Orson.”
The War of the Worlds Murder Page 13