The War of the Worlds Murder (17 page)

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 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 Bill, 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....”