Max Collins - The War of the Worlds Murder

They left a somewhat dejected-looking Houseman, who was ordering another Bloody Mary, to return to Welles’s suite.

For the next several hours, however, the subject of their collaborative Shadow film got sidetracked. Welles, on a passing mention of Hallowe’en in reference to their “War of the Worlds” prank, came to recall that Houdini had died on that day; this launched the showman into a lengthy discussion of magic.

Since this was Gibson’s own favorite subject, he found himself unable to resist the off-the-track journey.

“You know,” Welles said, seated in a chair next to his bed, getting a shave from a hotel barber, “as a child, I received magic lessons from Houdini.”

Gibson had pulled up a chair, his position similar to that of an interviewer. “Really? I saw him for the first time when I was seventeen-he asked me up on stage to examine his Chinese Water Torture Cell!”

“Wonderful! Details, man! Details!”

And Gibson provided details of the various times he’d seen Houdini, and of his own relationship with the famous magician, starting with a meeting at Houdini’s brownstone in New York in 1920, having to do with the Society of American Magicians (of which Houdini was president at the time). The friendship developed over the years, with Gibson a frequent backstage guest at Houdini shows. (Perhaps significantly, Welles offered no details of his childhood magic lessons from the magician.)

Later, as Welles received a manicure from a lovely girl in nurse’s whites, Gibson demonstrated several tricks Houdini had taught him, including “Instanto,” which involved swiftly cutting the cards and then identifying the cut-to card before turning it.

Welles was particularly intrigued to learn that Houdini had seen Gibson perform, and had wanted the young magician to teach him a certain trick.

“The Hindu wand trick,” Gibson told the rapt Welles, who was now getting a pedicure from the same girl in white. “Houdini wanted to buy the routine, but I presented it to him as a gift…only, he died before doing it.”

“I’d love to see it!”

“It’s an apparatus I don’t have with me-two wands with tassels that get cut but magically remain attached.”

“You must show me!”

“Next time we’re together, I’ll bring it.”

“If I like it, could I use it? Could I buy it?”

“Well…certainly, Orson. I’d be glad to give it to you, as a friend and fellow magician.”

Welles’s eyes floated skyward. “Imagine-to have a trick Houdini sought to perform, but never got the chance….”

“Are you anticipating doing an act, professionally, Orson?”

The boy-man nodded vigorously. “I’m hoping to mount an elaborate vaudeville show, someday soon.”

“You do have your…goals. Your ambitions.”

“I came to this party to have a good time.” The eyes twinkled, cheeks dimpled. “Didn’t you, Walter?”

A good time, certainly; but Gibson had also “come to the party” to work…and no more work was accomplished. The afternoon-between magic talk and Orson’s grooming-flew.

Just past six-thirty, darkness gathering at the windows, Welles showed Gibson to the door of the suite. “We’ll have breakfast tomorrow, and then go over to the studio together. You’ll get to see whether or not this ‘War of the Worlds’ can really fly.”

Feeling like the portable typewriter in his hand was purely decorative, Gibson asked, “What about our project?”

A hand settled on the writer’s shoulder, and his host said warmly, “A big part of what we’re doing this weekend, Walter, is getting to know one other. Establishing a bond. If you can stay over through Monday-”

“I could. I can.”

Welles patted Gibson’s shoulder, and took a step back, opening the door wider onto the waiting hall. “Well, we’ll squeeze in some work tomorrow, but Monday is yours, until rehearsal time. And we’ll be rehearsing well into the morning again, tonight…you’re welcome to drop by the Mercury and kibitz, of course.”

“Actually, I’m working on a story. I’ll be in my room, should you need me.”

“Highly unlikely. Why don’t you go out and enjoy yourself? The nightclub scene is incredible, these days.”

“I might.”

In his room, Gibson-not bothering with supper, after the huge lunch-continued punching the keys writing “Old Crime Week.” By midnight he was finished, and he lay on his bed in his high-ceilinged room, studying the chandelier, wondering if it was too late to follow Welles’s advice and go out to a club for a drink, a show and a late bite….

Again, Welles was right on cue.

The phone rang and the showman had an invitation for his writer friend. “Walter, the damn elevator has broken down again…”

“Elevator?”…

“In the tower on stage! For Danton’s Death !..Rehearsal is over, for tonight, while we turn the damn thing over to the mechanics.”

“Ah.”

“So-let’s get together. Have you ever been to the Cotton Club?”

“Not the new one.”

“This one lacks the primitive charm of the Harlem original, but there’s a twelve-thirty show with Cab Calloway. Are you up for it?”

“Sure!”

“My ride will pick you up in five minutes.”

“A cab?”

“An ambulance.”

So, sitting in the back of a screaming ambulance, next to an unused gurney, Gibson rode from the St. Regis to the Mercury, where Welles was picked up. Together, siren wailing, they took the short ride to Times Square and the Cotton Club.

Their table was off to one side, but with a fine view of the stage, and after Calloway had concluded, Welles ordered a “light” late supper: a plate of fried chicken for Gibson, and two plates of the same for Welles. Welles, still on a diet, had only a single helping of mashed potatoes and gravy, and a mere four biscuits.

The remains of this latest repast had been cleared away when Gibson risked a personal question.

“If you don’t mind my asking,” he said, “why aren’t you gun-shy about coming to this place?”

“Why should I be?”

“Well…Jack mentioned that you’ve been seeing a dancer who Owney Madden considers his private property….”

Welles sipped a glass of beer. “That’s possibly true.”

“Aren’t you afraid you might run into the guy? I mean, he’s no kid, but his nickname is ‘the Killer.’ Which he earned because, well…he’s a killer.”

“That is the rumor.”

“I don’t think it’s a rumor. He did time for it.”

With grandiose patience, Welles said, “Walter, since Mr. Madden got out of ‘stir,’ as his crowd calls it-on his most recent sojourn of several years-he’s been doing his best to stay out of Winchell’s newspaper column.”

“You mean-he owns the joint, but doesn’t hang around here.”

“That’s right. His cronies may pass along my having frequented his establishment, which I’m sure will give Mr. Madden a few moments of…irritation. Just as I’m enjoying a few moments of amusement, contemplating as much.”

“But you don’t think he’ll do anything about it.”

“What can he do? I’m a public figure. He lays a hand on me, threatens me in any way, and, poof…he’s back in, yes, ‘stir.’ Anyway, I haven’t been seeing Tilly in some time. Weeks. I have other interests now.”

“Like your wife, you mean?”

Welles’s head tilted to one side; he sighed, but smiled as he did. “Do my excesses offend you, Walter?”

“I shouldn’t have said that. My apologies.”

“No, no, I understand. But I ask you to understand-I married too young. Before I’d sown my fair share of wild oats. And my nature is simply not monogamous. I’ve explained this to Virginia, and she must either learn to accept me, as I am, or we will, sadly, have to go our separate ways.”