The War of the Worlds Murder

Chapter FOUR





SHANGHAIED LADY





THOUGH HE’D HAD A GOOD (if dream-troubled) night’s sleep—his breakfast with Orson at the director’s suite had not been till ten A.M.—Walter Gibson felt logy, almost groggy, in the aftermath of the Welles morning repast. Enough orange juice, coffee, eggs, sausage, hash brown potatoes with melted cheese, and assorted muffins and sweet rolls had been delivered by St. Regis butlers to attend the gastric needs of your average lumberjack camp.

Perhaps in an ill-advised effort to keep up with his host, Gibson ate around a Paul Bunyan’s worth. Welles ate easily two Bunyan’s plus one Babe the Blue Ox’s worth to boot, conversation scant, the food commanding the boy-man’s full attention. What conversation had preceded and followed the feast touched little on the Shadow project, concentrating instead on their mutual fascination with magic. Welles inquired how Gibson had developed that interest.

“Just before my tenth birthday,” Gibson said, sitting back, the meal finished, having to work to think, his body and all the blood in it occupied with a major digestive task, “I attended the birthday party of a friend—typical kind of kid celebration, you know....”

Welles, also sitting back, hands folded on his belly (he was again wearing the bathrobe with the hotel crest), said, “I don’t remember attending any birthday parties as a child.”

“Pin the tail on the donkey, games of tag, plenty of cake and ice cream...”

Welles—who loved being on either end of a story, and listened with keen, obvious interest—lighted up one of his pool-cue cigars.

Gibson was saying, “The parents of my young friend, a girl, knew that my birthday was coming up fast, as well, and perhaps out of deference to me, they came up with a special game: each child was presented with a long ribbon that disappeared out of the parlor into the house—a two-story house, Victorian in style. Some ribbons slithered like snakes around the furnishings, to go up and down the stairs, others led out the front and back doors....”

“Walter,” Welles said, sighing smoke, “you paint a vivid picture—as always.”

“Thank you. Anyway, each child followed the ribbon through the house...and we all were led to a present of our very own!”

“Ah!”

“Mine led up the stairs and into a guest bedroom, where under the bed I discovered my prize...” Gibson leaned forward, milking it. “...a box of magic tricks.”

Welles’s eyes widened, as if his guest had reported discovering Blackbeard’s hidden treasure.

“It was German-made, with all the standard tricks of the day—I suppose, objectively speaking, it was nothing special. But it changed my life. It was as if that ribbon had led me to my future.”

Welles, smiling with delight, eyes sparkling, said, “No wonder we’re kindred spirits! My godfather gave me a professional magician’s box of stage tricks—I was five! And it was my godfather, my guardian—Dr. Bernstein—who took me backstage to meet Houdini, when I was six!”

Finally, Gibson thought, the Houdini story. Would it be true?

“I apparently impressed the great man with my childish enthusiasm—I blurted out virtually everything I knew about magic in a matter of a minute or two—and that was how I came to be taught a simple but effective trick with a red handkerchief, presenting me with everything I needed to pull it off myself—the vanishing coin trick?”

“I know it well.”

Placing a handkerchief over the left hand, the magician pokes a pocket in the cloth, so that the coin can be dropped there; then the magician shakes the handkerchief...and the coin has vanished! (This was achieved by having a rubber band around the fingers and thumb of the left hand, which closed the “pocket” the coin was pushed into, so that the coin remained caught and hidden when the handkerchief was shaken out.)

Welles leaned forward, one eye narrowed. “I was always a quick study, so I followed Houdini to his dressing room like a stray puppy. He glanced around at me, not knowing whether to be irritated or amused. ‘Look, sir!’ I said...and I performed the trick for him!”

Gibson chuckled and clapped, once.

Welles lifted his eyebrows. “Well...let us say that the great Harry Houdini was less than overwhelmed by my childish legerdemain. He gave me a stern scolding: never, ever was a trick to be performed until it had been practiced a thousand times!”

“Not bad advice.”

“Splendid advice...but there’s more. I practiced and practiced the vanishing coin trick, and a few months later, when Houdini returned with his stage act, we again went backstage, before the show...this time it was with my father accompanying me, on a rare visit home...and were welcomed warmly. Houdini remembered my obnoxious, precocious little self. I was about to demonstrate my improved stagecraft when a certain Carl Brema arrived—”

Gibson grinned. “Of course—the manufacturer of magic tricks.”

“Yes. Brema had a vanishing lamp trick he’d just perfected. He demonstrated it for Houdini, who beamed and said, ‘Wonderful, Carl—I’ll put it in the show tonight!’ ”

Welles’s roar of laughter was worthy of Henry the Eighth, and Gibson—despite the overeating-inspired discomfort—joined in heartily.

Now Gibson believed Welles had really met Houdini—the story sounded just like the man....

“There’s a coincidence,” Gibson said, “that further cements our destiny together.”

“What’s that?”

“The trick of mine I mentioned the other day—the Hindu wand trick Houdini requested from me, but died before he could use it...?”

“Yes?”

“It was Carl Brema who executed my design—who built the wands for Houdini to use.”

“But never did.”

“No.”

His expression intense, Welles sat forward. “Walter, I must have that trick. When I take out my magic act on the road, that trick must be included!”

“You haven’t even seen it yet, Orson...”

“If it’s good enough for Houdini and Gibson, it’s good enough for Welles. Name your price!”

Gibson raised his palms in surrender. “I already told you, Orson, it’s yours—and I wouldn’t take a dime for it. The experience of this weekend is payment enough.”

Welles glowed, the fat cigar in his teeth at a rakish angle. He lifted a coffee cup for a toast; Gibson clinked cups with him.

“To us,” Welles said. “To our collaboration....”

Soon—looking every bit the magician with his Shadowesque cloak, slouch hat, black suit, bow tie and walking stick, Welles escorted Gibson to the elevators. As they waited, Welles blurted, “Walter—do you really believe in magic?”

“As an art?”

“As a science...even a religion. What we do with stagecraft—whether it’s the Mercury transforming some musty classic into a vital contemporary experience, or sawing a woman in half who then gets up and walks around—is tap onto the public’s fascination with the unknown, the occult. Fakers we may be, but what we touch in people is genuine.”

Gibson was nodding. “I do believe in some force, something greater than the human mind.”

“I ponder that frequently.” Welles watched the dial on the floor indicator above the elevator doors; their ride was on its way. “Of course, our friend Houdini spent much time debunking psychics....”

“He did indeed—but that was all part of a search to find real evidence of psychic phenomenon.”

A bell dinged and in a moment they were stepping onto a car otherwise empty but for a young elevator attendant.

On the way down, Welles said to his companion, “Would you care for anecdotal evidence, to support the existence of genuine magic?”

“Certainly.”

“You know of our so-called ‘voodoo’ Macbeth...?”

“I do. I regret not seeing it.”

Welles smiled wistfully. “It was a wonderful production.... Nothing is likely to top it in my experience....” Then he shifted gears. “Did you know that only one New York critic wrote an unfavorable review?”

“I recall the show was a huge success, well-received.”

Nodding, Welles said, “Yes, but Percy Hammond was dismissive, and hurt the feelings of our Lady Macbeth. We had a number of real Haitians in the show, you know...”

“I didn’t.”

“In fact, we even had a sort of company witch doctor, who decided to treat the critic in question to a particularly virulent curse.”

Gibson chuckled. “You’re not saying the voodoo bit took hold, are you?”

With an altar boy’s smile, Welles said, “I leave that for you to decide, Walter—but the facts are these: Percy Hammond’s review appeared on Tuesday, he fell sick on Thursday and was dead by Sunday.”

A bell announced the lobby, and the young elevator operator opened the door for them, but made no announcement, looking agape as the tall man in the cape and his companion stepped off.

No ambulance was needed today—they took a cab.

Leaning back in the backseat, arms folded, traffic gliding by his window, Welles said, “You know for all the fuss we’re making about this show, tonight—we have one of the worst Crossley ratings around. Why do we try so hard?”

“For the satisfaction?”

With a shrug, Welles said, “I suppose. The blessing of having a low-rated program is that we don’t have to please the lowest common denominator among listeners. Still, one craves a wider audience....”

Gibson was aware that The Mercury Theatre on the Air was a “sustaining” program—unsponsored, supported only by the network itself (The Shadow’s longtime sponsor was Blue Coal). No one wanted to advertise on a program opposite something as popular as Charlie McCarthy and Edgar Bergen. But CBS had earned a reputation as a prestige network because these low-rated shows were considered artistic and creative oases in a medium ruled by sponsors who asked only, “Will it play in Peoria?”

By half past noon, Gibson was following Welles off another elevator, this time onto the twentieth floor of the Columbia Broadcasting Building, as the uniformed attendant held the door open for them both.

“Thank you, Leo my boy,” Welles said to the attendant.

Leo—a diminutive “boy” of perhaps fifty-five—beamed as if God had heard his prayer. “Thank you, Mr. Welles!”

They had barely stepped into the lobby when Welles’s shrimp of an assistant, Alland a.k.a. Vakhtangov, was suddenly just there...as if he’d materialized, to lift the cloak from Welles’s shoulders, remove his suitcoat exposing the black suspenders on the white shirt, take charge of his hat and walking stick, and then disappear somewhere. This all happened so quickly, Gibson couldn’t even manage a, “Huh?”

Then Welles moved quickly across the lobby, only to stop so short Gibson almost bumped into him. The great man had paused at the receptionist’s desk, where a uniformed CBS security guard sat leaning back, reading the Sunday funnies. He was about thirty, brown eyes, brown hair, average build, the textbook definition of nondescript.

“You are not Miss Donovan,” Welles said, arching an eyebrow.

The security guard peered over the front page—Dick Tracy—and revealed an oval unimpressed face, eyes half-lidded, a typical blank cop mask.

“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. Lines 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!”

“It may well prove to be the radio equivalent thereof. If you would not indulge yourself in these drawn-out musical passages, and the...pauses, the silences...and all of these real-sounding places, official-sounding institutions...”

“CBS is satisfied with our changes. I instituted all of Dave’s last-minute ones, too.”

“Such as removing Franklin Roosevelt, and substituting the Secretary of Interior? You know goddamned well you’re directing Kenny Delmar to do his FDR impression!”

The smile turned downright devilish. He whispered, “It’s dead-on, isn’t it, Housey? Talented boy, our Kenny.”

“Orson, I’m warning you—you may get that lesson you’ve been asking for....”

“Oh, Housey—I’m going to need more than one lesson, don’t you think?”

Houseman sighed. “I’ve made my point of view known—nothing more I can do. But for your knowledge, I have Paul’s stopwatch tally. We’re way over.”

Welles cocked his head. “Where are we, Jack? How much cutting do we need to do?”

“You’re a good seven minutes long. If you’re not willing to trim back those endless musical interludes, I’d say the last section—the narrative bit about the professor wandering in the city—that can and must be pruned.”

Welles put a hand on Houseman’s shoulder. “Well, let’s get to work, then. You have your copy of the script handy?”

Houseman nodded. “It’s in the control booth. And I’ve annotated it. I’ll get it.”

He went off to do that, and Welles said, “Jack’s a great editor. You up for helping out, Walter?”

“Of course.”

With the exception of a theater on the ground floor, the studios (Gibson learned in passing) were confined to the twentieth and twenty-first floors. Another large one, the identical twin of Studio One, was on the twenty-first, directly above them; right now the highly regarded Norman Corwin was rehearsing a drama that would go on at nine P.M., after the Mercury Theatre.

Welles led Houseman and Gibson down the hallway, away from the lobby and Studio One, deep into the building.

Walking alongside Houseman, the writer asked, “Are we heading to your offices?”

Without looking at Gibson, Houseman said dryly, “You were in our offices on Thursday. At the theater.”

“You have no office space here at CBS?”

“Of course not. They only have four or five floors of them. Why should they spare us any?... We tend to use Studio Seven, a small studio that isn’t terribly well-equipped and hence not in much use...as a makeshift office. Or that is, we use the control room in that fashion.”

Welles, without glancing back, added, “Such as now, when we need to do some rewriting, away from the cast and techs. And to give Paul some breathing room to give the actors some last-minute tips.”

Gibson asked, “Why isn’t Howard Koch going along, if this a writing session?”

They had arrived at the end of the hall, which ended at Studio Eight, a hallway cutting to the left. Next to them at right were two doors, practically side by side, labelled: STUDIO SEVEN (left door) and CONTROL ROOM (right one).

Welles opened the latter door, reached a hand over to flick on the light switch, and with a gracious after-you gesture, said, “Because this isn’t so much a writing session as a cutting one—and I hate it when writers bleed.”

The joke wasn’t a particularly good one, but Gibson might have forced a chuckle if his eyes hadn’t been filled with something that turned the witticism into an unintentional lapse into poor taste.

This control room—not nearly as elaborately outfitted with electronics, and absent the adjacent smaller sub-control room—nonetheless had a large horizontal window looking out on a studio that was perhaps a tenth the size of Studio One.

The lights in the studio were off, but (sharing the control-room illumination) revealed itself bare of anything but a table and a chair, a few microphones on stands, and a few more chairs against a wall. Nothing very exceptional, really, except for the woman seated at the table.

Or rather, slumped there, like a schoolgirl napping at her desk.

Gibson didn’t recognize her at first—she was pale and her eyes were closed and her strawberry-blonde hair was askew, concealing a good portion of her face. But then it came to him: they had located the missing Miss Donovan, absent without an excuse from her receptionist post.

Only now she had an excuse, and a damned good one: her throat was slit and blood had pooled all over the tabletop, some of it dripping down the sides; and from their slightly elevated position in the control booth, the hunting knife...with the signature ORSON WELLES on its hilt...could be seen, swimming in red.