Max Collins - The War of the Worlds Murder

“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.