Max Collins - The War of the Worlds Murder

“And you think the Shadow would lend itself to this?”

A small smile twitched. “Well…if I may be frank…”

Gibson grinned. “You’re buying lunch, aren’t you?”

“Well, Housey’s checkbook is…. My goal would be to do on screen the kinds of things I’m attempting on stage. Nobody’s seriously tried to do Shakespeare, for example, since Mickey Rooney was Puck in that MGM fiasco.”

“I liked that movie.”

“You have to strip these classics down, reimagine them, for the masses. I did Hamlet in an hour on the radio!”

And left out the ‘To Be Or Not To Be’ speech , Gibson thought, but said nothing.

“I intend to do Conrad’s Heart of Darkness…Lear…The Life of Christ !”

“If you have these…” The writer almost said “pretensions,” but substituted: “…goals-why the Shadow?”

Welles’s expression seem to melt into a mask of chagrin. “I’ve insulted you…”

“No. No!”

“… Please don’t think I undervalue your contribution to either my career or the medium of radio.”

“I didn’t think-”

“I am no snob.” Then, in a tone so arch it undercut everything he said, Welles continued: “In fact, I am so resolutely middlebrow as to want to bring the highbrow down to my meager level.”

“Some would call the Shadow lowbrow.”

“Not Orson Welles. I kept myself alive, in Spain, back in ’33, plying your trade-writing pulp detective yarns! And you know of my love for magic-for the carnival-like thrill of prestidigitation, for velvet cloaks, for rabbits in hats, for aces of spades that appear in pockets! No, I love melodrama, and your hawk-nosed avenger…I’m working on my own false nose already, wait until you see me with a snoot worthy of this face!..Your creation is ideal for the cinema of dreams-come-to-life, my radio for not just the ears, but the eyes!”

Breakfast arrived, a small army of butlers bringing such a banquet that Gibson had first wondered who Welles might have invited to join them.

But it was all for them, a finnan haddie with baby red shrimps in a cream sauce for Gibson, an enormous serving of lobster Newburg for his host, plus appetizers including frog legs, scallops and oysters, with fresh-baked dinner rolls and a side salad with garlic dressing. No dessert had been ordered (“I can have them bring you something, Walter, just say the word!..But I’m dieting…”) and Gibson requested none.

Talk during the meal departed from work, and was intermittent-Welles approaching the feast fairly single-mindedly-with the chief subject “War of the Worlds.” He seemed both annoyed and amused that his friend Houseman, whom he loved, was such a “stick in the mud” and “stuffed shirt” where his prank was concerned. What did Walter think?

“Well,” Gibson said, stuffed to the gills, “if the news bulletins are convincing, and frequent, and maintain a believable time line…you may fool some of the people…”

“But not for all of the time! As the piece becomes more ridiculous, which it inherently is, they’ll know we’ve just sneaked up behind them and said, ‘Boo’!”

Welles called for the butlers to come clear the table, and soon-as they sat across from each other, the remains of the meal between them like the aftermath of a battlefield-a knock came to the door.

Frowning, Welles-who was sipping his coffee-said, “What’s wrong with this hotel? They know I don’t want to be bothered with answering the door! They know to come and take this garbage away without asking permission!”

Gibson was already on his feet, putting his napkin on the table. “I’ll get it….”

“Would you mind?”

But when Gibson opened the door, the butlers were not there: instead, a slender, very lovely-and unhappy-looking-young woman faced him. Blonde, blue-eyed and rather patrician in manner, in a sable jacket with matching cap and a dark green dress with matching heels, she eyed Gibson with undisguised suspicion.

“Are you a new slave?”

“Excuse me?”

She brushed past Gibson, saying, “Maybe not-he prefers little men, weasels like Vakhtangov, and you appear to be standing on two legs, not four.”

Gibson closed the door, swallowed, and tried to think of something to say.

She wheeled toward the writer, raised an eyebrow. The blue eyes were streaked red. For all her aloof poise, she could not hide that she’d been weeping.

“I am Virginia Welles,” she said. “ Mrs . Welles. Is the great man in?”

“His wife?”

“Not his mother-though it is a fine line, I grant you.”

Still in his white terry robe, Welles appeared at the French doors, with a curious frown quickly turning to a displeased one.

“Virginia…dear. You know I’m working….”

“I’m delighted to see you, too, darling. Your daughter sends her best.”

“I doubt that. She can’t speak yet.”

“How would you know?”

Embarrassed, Welles looked past his wife to say, “Dear, this is Walter Gibson-he created the Shadow. We’re developing a film project.”

She again turned her head toward Gibson. Thin, pretty lips managed a thin, pretty smile. “Mr. Gibson,” she said with a tiny nod. “Forgive the melodramatics.”

“Not at all,” Gibson said, and risked a grin. “My stock in trade.”

The smile disappeared. “I need a few words with my…better half. Would you excuse us for a while, Mr. Gibson?”

“Certainly.”

Welles held the door open for her, rolling his eyes at Gibson behind Mrs. Welles’s back, as she slipped inside. The French doors shut, the conversation grew to a confrontation quickly, her voice shrill, his booming-a marital dispute of epic proportions.

Gibson did his best not to eavesdrop, but it was hard not to hear the accusations of the husband’s infidelity; among the most memorable phrases flung by the wife were “that little ballerina bitch,” “you two-timing self-inflated bag of hot air,” “that gold-digging little dancer,” “you self-important, psychopathic philanderer,” and “that simpering receptionist sitting on her brains all day.”

This had been going on for perhaps ten minutes when a phone rang in the bedroom, and Mrs. Welles allowed her husband a brief intermission to answer it. About a minute later, Welles again stuck his head out between French doors.

“Walter? Would you mind going down to the bar, to keep Housey company for a few minutes? He has some revisions for the radio show to share with me, and I’ll be down shortly-Mrs. Welles and I are nearly finished.”

The latter seemed obvious.

In less than five minutes, Walter Gibson was sharing a booth with John Houseman in the St. Regis’s famed King Cole Bar, opposite Maxfield Parrish’s equally famous mural behind the bar, its faces smirking enigmatically their way.

“Cheers,” Houseman said, lifting his Bloody Mary to clink with Gibson’s.

The Mercury producer had insisted that they order this particular drink, because it had been invented here, albeit under the sobriquet “Red Snapper.”

“Orson claims to have coined the new phrase,” Houseman said. “After Mary Tudor, of course.”

“Did he?”

“Very unlikely. But I would be remiss not to warn you, Walter, that Orson’s tendency to take all the credit for himself is not his best trait…though it may well be the defining one.”

Gibson shrugged. “I’m a writer for hire. My publishers even own the Maxwell Grant pen name. If Orson needs to feel he’s ‘created’ our project, I’ll get over it…if the check doesn’t bounce.”

A tiny smile formed. Again Houseman wore his uniform of checked jacket and bow tie, this one a light blue. “Not everyone feels as generously inclined as you, Walter. I know that Howard…Howard Koch, our writer?”