Max Collins: The War of the Worlds Murder

Welles remained on his podium, a king surprised by revolting peasants, as his actors instinctively moved away, backing up almost against the far studio wall, and the blue invaders swarmed the platform. The police said nothing, but they were breathing hard, nostrils flared, nightsticks poised.

Then a plainclothes officer in a raincoat and fedora pushed through and looked up indignantly at the confused-looking figure and demanded, “Are you Welles?”

“Guilty as charged. What is-”

Gibson was following Houseman and Paul Stewart, who were on the heels of the CBS executive, Davidson Taylor, out of the control booth and down the handful of stairs onto the studio floor. The four men knifed through the small mob of blue uniforms.

The tall, slender, patrician exec faced the plainclothes officer, who was chewing on an unlit cigar.

“I’m in charge here,” Taylor said. “May I ask who you are, sir?”

“Inspector Kramer,” the copper said, flashing a badge, rolling the dead cigar around. “Don’t you people know you’ve incited a riot?”

Alland helping him on with his suitcoat, Welles came down off the podium, men in blue parting grudgingly to make way, and his expression remained confused though indignation was edging in. “Inspector, we’ve just finished a broadcast, of a fantasy piece. How in God’s name could we-”

The inspector had the remarkable faculty to squint and bug his eyes simultaneously. “You fake an invasion, with real-sounding newscasts, and you have the nerve to ask that? ”

“How could anyone mistake what we were doing for reality?” Welles demanded. “It was little green men from Mars! We announced several times it wasn’t real!”

Taylor put himself between the two men like a referee, hands outstretched. When he spoke, the exec’s faint, gentlemanly Southern accent seemed suddenly more prominent. “Inspector, I understand you are responding to a genuine public crisis-”

Welles frowned. “Public…?”

The executive threw his star a quick hard look, then his face softened as he turned toward the stogie-chomping detective. “But this building and this studio remain private property, and I do not believe you have a warrant.”

The inspector had a water-splashed-in-the-face expression; the fragment of cigar almost fell out. “Warrant! Are you kidding?”

“No. I’m not. I’m going to advise Mr. Welles and everyone else involved not to answer any more of your questions until Mr. Paley arrives.”

“Who the hell is Mr. Paley?”

“The president of the network. He lives in Manhattan, and he’s on his way. These are our employees, and they have legal rights, like any other American.”

The inspector poked a thick finger at Welles. “Well, you keep these jokers handy, understand? Till we can talk to ’em. The citizens they terrorized have rights, too!”

“Fair enough,” Taylor said. “Would you mind taking your people out into the lobby, for the time being?”

The inspector frowned. “What, downstairs?”

“No-just right outside. The area by the elevators on this floor will do nicely.”

The inspector twitched a scowl, but he herded his nightstick troop back out again. Though space was again available for the actors to move back up, they stayed put, apparently hoping that they were bystanders and not accomplices.

Welles said, “Dave, what the hell is this?”

Taylor reached a hand into a suitcoat pocket and came back with a fat pile of notes. “This is just a sampling, Orson, of what the switchboard’s been getting since you finally broke in, after forty minutes, and identified the broadcast as fiction-outrage, indignation, death threats. You may especially enjoy the most recent one-it’s from the mayor of Cleveland.”

“Whatever have I have done to the fine city of Cleveland?”

“Oh, nothing much-apparently just unleashed mobs into the streets, sent women and children huddling in church corners, incited violence, looting. His Honor says he’s coming to pay you a visit, Orson-to punch you in the nose.”

Welles looked pale, much as he had when he spotted the body of the murdered woman. “I…I admit I thought we might light a firecracker under a certain lunatic fringe, but I…I apparently seriously underestimated the size of that group. And, Dave, I never dreamed it would go all across the country!”

Arching an eyebrow, Taylor waggled a finger in Welles’s face and let him know what company policy was going to be: “You never dreamed anything like this-on any scale-would happen. Correct?”

Welles swallowed. “Correct.”

“Now, brace yourself…”

“There’s more?”

“Some of these calls indicate there may have been deaths-something about a fatal stampede in a New Jersey union hall, a suicide, some automobile fatalities as people fled the city…”

“My God. Is that possible?”

“None of it’s confirmed, but I mention it so that you grasp the seriousness of the matter-none of your cheek, understand? You could face criminal charges-criminal negligence, even homicide.”

“…for a radio broadcast?”

“For a hoax. A kind of fraud on the public trust.”

Welles said nothing; his eyes were unblinking, his mouth a soft pucker, as if he were about to kiss someone or something-perhaps his future-good-bye.

Taylor looked around and caught Paul Stewart’s mournful gaze. “Paul! Front and center, please.”

Stewart came to Taylor’s side, as Welles faded back.

“Paul,” the executive said, “you’re in charge of rounding up every script and scrap and every record…. Were we making a transcription?”

“Yes,” Stewart said.

“Is there a rehearsal acetate?”

“Yes.”

Taylor pointed a stern finger at the assistant director. “You find every piece of paper and recording involved with this broadcast, timing sheets, casting calls, the works.”

“What do I do with them?”

“I don’t want to know.”

Stewart frowned disbelievingly. “You want them destroyed?”

“No. Just…make them go away. Make them go somewhere these police can’t find. And, oh by the way-Ben Gross of the Daily News is out in the lobby, and seven or eight other newshounds are with him.”

Stewart’s smile was sickly. “You know what they say-any publicity is good publicity.”

Taylor’s eyes were hooded. “Then ‘they’ are insane. Paul, get to it, and don’t let that material fall into enemy hands-and I don’t mean the Martians. Is the author around?”

Shaking his head, Stewart said, “No, Howard was beat-he heard the start of the show, then took off to catch a cab. He’s probably asleep back in his apartment by now.”

“Give him a call and warn him what’s up. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Stewart rushed off to call Koch, and do the assigned housecleaning.

Taylor pointed to Welles, Herrmann, Houseman and Gibson, tic tic tic tic . “Your four-come with me.”

Gibson, touching a hand to his chest, said, “I’m not part of this.”

“You were in on the rewrites, and you were around for everything, as I understand. Let’s keep you off the firing line with these others, all right?”

Gibson nodded.

Taylor turned to face the actors and crew, who were quietly hugging the far studio wall, looking like Lusitania passengers waiting for a shot at a lifeboat.

“You people-if anyone from the police asks you a question, just say you reserve the right to speak to your lawyer, first. We have a whole fleet of Perry Masons to back you up.”

Ray Collins stepped forward. “We didn’t do anything wrong, Dave.”

“None of us did-understand? None of us did. But not a peep to a cop, and any actor who talks to a reporter, looking to get his name in the paper, I’ll see to it that you never appear on CBS radio again.” He gave them a Southern gentleman’s smile and nod. “Thank you.”