The War of the Worlds Murder

Chapter FIVE





NOW YOU SEE IT





WITHIN THE CONTROL BOOTH, THE three men pressed against the glass, like children at a department store window; but unlike those dreamy-eyed kids, this trio of adults stared aghast, at a nightmare.

“The poor child,” Houseman said. Then he rushed from the room.

Gibson followed, and saw Houseman at the studio door, reaching for the knob. He clutched the producer’s arm and said, “What about fingerprints?”

“What if the girl is still alive?” Houseman’s normally unflappable expression was replaced by one of wide-eyed horror.

“With her throat cut? With all that blood...?”

“Are you a doctor, man?” Houseman snapped, and he clutched the knob, and twisted.

The door did not open.

“Locked!” Houseman blurted. He touched a hand to his forehead as if checking for a fever. “The goddamned thing is locked....”

Gibson took the few steps back to see what had become of Welles. Through the open doorway of the control booth, Welles could be seen, moon face as white as its namesake, the long tapering fingers touching his lips, those normally rather Chinese-looking eyes now as wide as a Cotton Club dancer doing stereotypical shtick.

Gibson stood in the doorway. “Orson—are you all right?”

Welles’s body remained facing the window, but his head swivelled and the huge eyes under raised eyebrows stared unblinkingly at the writer.

Very softly, Welles said, “I am decidedly not all right. That poor young woman—that sweet young woman.... ‘For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come?’ ”

Gibson thought if Welles was going to quote Shakespeare, it ought to be that line from Macbeth about how surprising it was, how much blood there’d been.

“Orson—join us in the hallway.”

He drew a deep breath, nodded gravely, but did not otherwise move, remaining as frozen as Lot’s wife.

In the hall, Gibson faced Houseman. “I believe she’s past help.”

Houseman had found his usual calm demeanor, if a troubled version thereof. “It would be difficult to break the thing down—all of these studios have heavy, soundproofed doors.”

Gibson pointed toward the small room from which Welles had yet to emerge. “What about that window?”

“Again,” Houseman said, shrugging fatalistically, “it’s heavy glass, perhaps unbreakable—part of the necessary soundproofing between control room and studio. Poor thing...poor thing....”

“Her name was Donovan.”

Houseman’s eyes tightened, in surprise. “That’s right—how did you know her, Walter?”

“I was here for the Thursday run-through. We spoke. She was friendly, efficient...an intelligent girl.”

“Yes.” Houseman seemed to taste his next two words: “But ambitious.”

Sensing something judgmental, Gibson asked, “By that you mean, she wanted to make it in show business?”

The producer nodded slowly, a priest pronouncing a benediction. “She’d performed in the front of our Mercury microphone, in minor roles.” Another tasting of words followed: “Thanks to Orson.”

“She was...?”

“One of his little conquests, yes. He has assembled quite a ‘cast’ of nubiles—actresses, dancers, ballerinas.”

Remembering, Gibson said, “A certain renowned ballet master signed Miss Donovan’s reception book, today.”

Frowning, Houseman said, “What? Are you sure? I haven’t seen the man anywhere around. Balanchine, you say?”

“Yes. And Virginia Welles signed in, too.”

Houseman shook his head. “Well, I haven’t seen her.”

Gibson nodded toward the locked door. “Well, Miss Donovan did—as I say, they both signed her book, but did not sign out....”

Gibson quickly explained about the security guard who’d taken over Miss Donovan’s post.

Houseman stood motionless, like a figure in a wax museum; when he spoke, his lips moved so slightly, the statue effect remained in place: “I do not have the pulp sensibilities of yourself, Mr. Gibson, nor of my gifted young partner. But in seeing...I suppose the term is, ‘the scene of the crime’...it would seem clear that either Orson himself performed a particularly senseless, sloppy crime of passion upon that child, or—”

“Or someone framed him for it.”

Houseman’s mouth twitched a smirk. “Using a weapon literally signed by the designated ‘killer.’”

Gibson’s eyes narrowed. “Jack, that murder weapon does limit the suspects.”

“How, pray tell?”

The writer thumped the producer’s chest gently with a forefinger. “It has to be someone who has access to your office at the Mercury Theatre—who could lift that grisly memento off its nails from its place of honor on your wall.”

The lipless smile that formed on Houseman’s face was like a cut in his flesh. “How much difficulty did you have, Walter, entering the Mercury unheeded at an odd time?”

“Well...” Gibson thought back to the slumbering Miss Holliday in the box office window. “...none, really.”

“Precisely. And there is no lock on the door of our eagle’s-nest office. Actors, crew, reporters, total strangers, come in and out of the Mercury at all hours.”

“But who would know about that knife?”

Houseman’s brow tightened slightly. “Well, certainly Virginia has been there, often enough, and likely saw it. And Mr. Balanchine, for that matter.”

“What was Balanchine doing there?”

Houseman’s eyebrows rose but his voice did not. “Threatening Orson’s life.”

“How about Owney Madden? Did he ever come around?”

Houseman blinked and grunted a single laugh. “The gangster? Why ever would he be in our office?”

Gibson raised an eyebrow. “How about that dancer Orson and Owney...shared? Was she ever in that office?”

“I believe...several times.”

“That gives her knowledge of the knife that she could have passed along to Madden, however innocently.”

Houseman shook his head, confused. “Walter, why does this gangster come to your mind? Did he sign in at Miss Donovan’s station, as well?”

“No—but wasn’t he cuckolded, in a manner of speaking, by Orson?”

Houseman drew in a breath; his eyes were alive with thought. “If having your way with another man’s mistress could fall under that description...yes.”

Gibson pointed toward the locked door. “I’m not saying Madden did it himself—but one of his people could have, and that social class knows all about framing people, and they aren’t squeamish about a little blood, either.”

“Again, Walter—why do you suspect Madden, when we know that both Balanchine and Virginia Welles were in the building? Perhaps one, or both, still are!”

Gibson told Houseman of the incident in the alley last night, outside the Cotton Club.

Finally, Welles came shambling out of the control booth, his expression mournful. No tears, however, Gibson noted.

The three men stood in a tight circle.

Houseman faced his partner and said, “Is this true, Orson? Were you accosted last night by ruffians?”

Blinking, Welles said, “What?... Oh. That. Yes. Yes, of course. Walter and I, uh, went to the Cotton Club, which perhaps was ill-advised, considering Mr. Madden’s temper....”

Houseman thrust a finger toward the door—the gesture had an accusatory aura, even though the digit did not point at Welles himself. “ ‘Ill-advised’ indeed, if what happened to Miss Donovan is the handiwork of Madden’s minions.”

Welles swallowed. His tone was strangely apologetic. “You know of course, I did not—”

Houseman waved that off. “That goes without saying.”

Gibson said, “You did have opportunity, Orson.”

The grief in Welles’s face turned to outrage, the white flesh to scarlet. “What are you saying, man?”

Patting the air, Gibson said, “Not that you did this—I don’t believe for an instant that that’s the case. But looking at it, objectively...you could have done this early this morning, before you and I breakfasted—”

“No,” Houseman said. “That blood is still glistening.”

Welles closed his eyes, shivered.

“Still shimmering wet,” Houseman continued. “This could not have happened long ago, elsewise it would have congealed, dried to a black patina, not that terrible red river.”

Welles glared at Houseman. “A little less poetry, Jack, and a little more help! Please!”

Softly Houseman said, “My apologies. But I think we’re all agreed that this young lady is beyond anyone’s help, now, save the Almighty.”

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....”

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 Balanchine. 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.”

Welles looked somber now; that flash of a pixie smile had been only a mild interruption in his desperate state. “It isn’t much, Walter—but it’s all I have. I’ve been framed for murder, dear boy. And the only Shadow that can help me now is a shadow of doubt cast over my guilt...which I am counting on you to conjure.”