Max Collins - The War of the Worlds Murder

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 cliche,” Gibson said.

“All cliches,” 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 cliche 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.