The War of the Worlds Murder - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,10

with the richness of voice and surety of a revival-tent preacher, “that only the creator of my famous character can help me properly conceive it...reconceive it...for the screen. Are you willing to try?”

“I’m...interested.”

“And your schedule, Walter?”

“I’ll be done for the year, with my Shadow work, within days.”

“How is next week, then?”

“Feasible.”

“I would of course be paying for first-class travel and hotel accommodations—you’ll be here at the St. Regis, where I’m living currently. Full expense account. How...‘feasible’ is that, Walter?”

“Entirely.”

Hanging up the phone, Gibson had the feeling that he’d just spoken to a man of wisdom and experience far beyond the author’s own. And yet he knew that Orson Welles was almost ten years younger than himself....

The cab drew up to 485 Madison Avenue, and Gibson—typewriter handle in one bandaged hand, valise in the other—was deposited (for an outrageous fifty cents including tip—he mentally noted that for his expense account) on the sidewalk above which loomed the massive overhang of the marquee that boldly stated CBS RADIO THEATRE. The Welles program, though, received no boost, as the side panels touted:

THE CHRYSLER CORPORATION PRESENTS MAJOR BOWES ORIGINAL AMATEUR HOUR.

By craning his neck like any other rube of a tourist, he could see the vertical sign stretching nine or ten stories above:

C

B

S

R

A

D

I

O

T

H

E

A

T

R

E

but he could also see that lower floors of the impressive building had windows bearing less grandiose imprimaturs, such as CARLOS TAP AND BALLET and MIDTOWN TAX SERVICE.

The uniformed guard in the lobby found Gibson’s name on a list, had him sign in, and sent him over to an elevator, where he and the elevator operator rode up to the twentieth floor. Mildly disappointed by the lack of show biz trappings—he might have been inside any nameless office building, to get a tooth drilled or have a wife followed—Gibson found nothing to get excited about at his destination, either: the twentieth-floor lobby was an unimpressive, sterile world of walls covered in a light-green industrial paint broken up by the occasional potted plant and some art-moderne chairs and sofas out of the latest Sears and Roebuck catalogue.

Next to a bulletin board—covered in schedules and lists that might just as easily have referred to bus-station not radio-station timetables—sat an attractive strawberry-blonde receptionist of perhaps twenty-five. In her smart white blouse with navy buttons and a navy scarf with white polka dots knotted at her throat, and with her heart-shaped face and light-blue eyes and fair lightly freckled complexion, she was a heart-stopper, even to a married man. Or was that, especially to a married man? Candy-apple red lipstick made her guardedly professional smile as dazzling as one you might see in a Sunday supplement toothpaste ad.

“Walter Gibson to see Mr. Welles.”

She checked a clipboard and said, “Your name is here, Mr. Gibson...but I’m afraid Mr. Welles isn’t.”

“He said to meet him in Studio One at one-thirty. I’m a tad early.”

“Ah. Well, it’s right through there.” With a tapering finger whose scarlet nail polish matched the lush lipstick, she pointed toward a doorless doorway just to Gibson’s left. “Studio One is the first door down.... If the ‘On the Air’ light is on, don’t go in.”

Gibson frowned. “My understanding is the show isn’t broadcast till Sunday night.”

“It isn’t—but every week, Mr. Welles makes an acetate recording of the Thursday afternoon rehearsal. To review the week’s program.”

“Is everyone around here as knowledgeable as you, miss?”

“It’s Miss Donovan, Mr. Gibson. Probably not—but like every receptionist or secretary you’re likely to meet in this building, I’m an aspiring actress.”

“Ah. Any luck?”

“I fill in on several of the soaps, as needed, and I’ve had some bits with the The Mercury Theatre, too, and even The Columbia Workshop. Guess you’d say I’m kind of an understudy.”

“An understudy in radio. That’s a new one on me.”

“Well, you have to understand that the voice actors in this town have to bicycle all over the place—NBC’s over at Sixth Avenue and Fiftieth, and Mutual’s on the other side of the world—Broadway and Fortieth. You know, Orson...Mr. Welles...he sometimes travels by ambulance.”

Gibson grinned. “Sounds like Mr. Welles is as big a character as they say?”

“Oh, he’s wonderful. You’ll fall in love with him.”

Something in the girl’s expression made Gibson wonder if she might be speaking from experience.

Miss Donovan allowed the author to leave his valise and typewriter with her, behind her desk, and was kind enough to inquire about how he’d hurt his “poor fingers.” To prevent this from dominating every other conversation of the day, Gibson ducked into the men’s room and removed