Max Collins - The War of the Worlds Murder

Faced with a real murder, the creator of the Shadow felt a twinge of guilty embarrassment for trivializing such dire, somber matters in his yarns. And yet what better subject for a story than life and death, crime and punishment? Perhaps the saddest reality was that in real life, no Shadowesque avenger existed to right such a wrong.

Welles was the first to return. Because of the puppy-like manner in which security guard Williams tagged after Welles, the guard did not seem to Gibson to be aware that he was approaching a murder scene, or indeed anything of significance. It was as if Welles had reported spotting a mouse running down the hall.

Gibson’s reading proved correct, when Welles-chagrin in his eyes-said to the writer, “I told Mr. Williams we have a problem, and that I thought a man of his perspicacity was called for.”

“Riiight,” Gibson said.

Welles and Williams had barely arrived when Houseman came bustling up the hall, alone, but with a key in hand.

“The janitor shared this passkey with me,” Houseman said. “Should do the trick…”

The producer stood before the door, and drew a deep breath, perhaps gathering courage to unlock so ominous a passageway. Then he inserted the key, a click was heard, and Houseman gently pushed the door open, and all three men stepped inside, to find…

…the room was empty.

Oh, the table was there, all right; but no young woman.

And no blood.

Houseman whirled on Gibson, saying, “You pledged you would stand guard!”

Gibson extended his hands, palms up. “I did-I swear I did! No one went in or out.”

The security guard, looking about as bright as a potted plant, asked, “What was it you wanted me to see, anyway, Mr. Welles?”

Welles turned to Williams and patted him on the shoulder of his powder-blue uniform. A little too pleasantly, Welles said, “Bill, I made a small wager with Mr. Houseman here that I could go summon you on a crisis and that you could get here before our esteemed producer could acquire the key from the janitor. Leaving at the same time, you understand.”

Gibson and Houseman exchanged glances; neither man had ever heard such incoherent inanity in all their lives.

But Bill the security guard just grinned in a horsey fashion and said, “So I won you some money, huh, Mr. Welles?”

“Yes, Bill,” Welles said, walking him to the door, an arm around the man, “and I mean to share the wealth with you.”

“Ha! Just like Huey Long, right, Mr. Welles?”

“Just like him, Bill-like the man says, ‘Every man a king.’ ”

The guard was in the hall now, Welles in the doorway, turning toward Gibson to say, “Walter-do you have a five spot for this gentleman?”

Gibson dug out his wallet and handed a five-dollar bill to Bill, who grinned in his Seabiscuit way, and trotted off, chuckling as if he’d really put one over.

His expression grave, Welles shut the door.

The three were now alone in the small studio.

To Gibson, Welles said, “No one in, or out?”

“No! That fiver’s going on the expense account, by the way.”

Houseman, who’d been prowling the room, was over in the lefthand corner. “This connecting door to Studio Eight-it’s locked, too.”

Impatiently, Welles said, “Well, hell, Housey-you have the janitor’s passkey!”

Absentmindedly, Houseman looked at the key, still in his hand, and said, “Ah, yes, of course,” and unlocked the door.

The adjacent studio, whose own control-booth window was across the room, was even emptier than Studio Seven-not even a table, much less a corpse. Various microphone stands and stools and various junk lined and littered the walls, indicating the room saw more storage than production, these days.

Dazed, the trio returned to the studio where they’d seen the dead girl.

“Maybe she did get up and walk out,” Welles said hollowly.

Gibson was having a look at the table and chair. “There was blood here! Look, you can see the faint smearing on this tabletop-somebody used a cloth or towel or something, and sopped and wiped it up….”

The others came over, had a look and confirmed the writer’s opinion.

Gibson, however, was already crouched on the floor, kneeling, Sherlock Holmes-style. “And blood drops-starts on the chair and dribbles onto the floor. The killer missed these.”

Welles, hands on his knees, bent down. “By God, you’re right-it’s a trail …”

Houseman saw it, too. “Leading away…toward that door to the other studio….”

The blood drops had been sopped into the soundproof-friendly carpet and led into the adjacent Studio Eight, where the droplets continued to the side of the room and a coat tree (empty), next to which lay a stack of tarps, from some recently finished painting job.

The trail drizzled to the tarps, then started up again, ending at the doorway to the hall.

Gibson, hand on his chin, said, “I’m sure I’m merely saying what you’re all thinking, but it needs to be spoken…”

“Do,” Houseman said.

“Please,” Welles said.

Gibson went to the door that connected the studios and reenacted it from there: “The murderer heard us entering the control booth, and scooted next door, to Studio Eight. But he…or she…couldn’t slip into the corridor, to make a getaway, because, Jack-you and I went back out into the hall almost immediately. So the killer waited, hearing us speaking…and we spoke quite a while, truth be told.”

“We did not,” Houseman dryly said, “spring into action, no.”

Gibson continued: “When the killer heard your voice in the hall, Orson, he, or she, knew the control booth with its window was free of observers. So the killer returned, sopped up the blood with something…what I don’t know…and dragged the corpse into the adjacent studio. The killer wrapped up the body in a tarp, ready to transport it, and-”

“No,” Welles said, raising a finger. “I believe the killer waited until hearing John and me go to get the security man…and a key…and, realizing that you were outside standing watch, Walter, the killer had to stay trapped in these adjacent studios, otherwise risk a confrontation.”

Gibson was nodding. “I think you’re right, Orson. But the killer must have figured out that when help-and a key- did arrive, we would all rush into Studio Seven!”

Picking it up, Welles said, “That is when the killer cleaned up the table, moved the body, wrapped it for transport, and…when he…”

“Or she,” Houseman said.

“-heard help arrive, and all of us enter Studio Seven-prompting the killer with tarp-wrapped cargo in tow to quickly exit Studio Eight and make it away, down the hall.”

“A killer who by now,” Gibson said, “thanks to our blathering, is well away from here.”

“But probably still in the building,” Welles said.

“Well…” Gibson thought about that. “… possibly still in the building. Certainly, Orson, you were right in that assumption you made earlier, and I was wrong to pooh-pooh it.”

“But what now?” Houseman said, hands widespread. “We have no murder, because we have no body.”

“We have blood droplets,” Gibson said, pointing floor-ward, “and a table with what I believe to be smeared traces of cleaned-up blood.”

In full tragedian mode, Welles asked, “Would you have me call the police?”

Gibson shrugged. “Yes. Sure. Of course.”

Houseman seemed puzzled. “What do we have to show them?”

“The traces I mentioned,” Gibson said. “And our report of what we saw.”

“Including,” Welles said aghast, “a murder weapon with my name attached?”

Gibson shrugged again, more elaborately. “What else is there to do?”