Max Collins - The War of the Worlds Murder

“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 police man!”

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.”