The War of the Worlds Murder - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,19
with a single exception: on the wall, riding some nails, was a large sharp-looking hunting knife with a gleaming blade and a light-brown wooden handle bearing a bold ORSON WELLES autograph.
The space itself had been divided by a beaverboard partition into two even smaller offices—the nearer was a secretarial area, with a small gray metal desk and typewriter, unattended, a row of filing cabinets behind; the other side had a glorified card table with a chair behind it and several chairs in front of it, a daybed hugging the left wall. On the table were two telephones, and a small portable Victrola, and seated behind the table, hands folded like a school teacher patiently waiting to reprimand a wayward student, was a formidable fellow who projected various contradictory messages.
His yellow-and-black checkered sportcoat said casual, his black bow tie said formal; his dark slashes of eyebrow on an egg-shaped noggin (well on its way to being completely bald), sent signals of strength, while a languid weakness was implied by a feminine, sensuous-lipped mouth that seemed permanently formed in a mild condescending smile. Or was it a sneer?
And his eyes seemed at once drowsy and keenly alert.
“Thank you, Judy,” their host said, in a British-tinged voice—was the tone kind, or patronizing?—and rose, extending a soft hand across the table. “John Houseman, Mr. Gibson. Please call me Jack.”
“And I’m Walter,” the writer said, Houseman’s soft hand providing a firm handshake.
The stocky study in contrasts sat and gestured to the chair opposite for Gibson. In the background, Welles’s voice droned on and on about a hundred details, while Miss Holliday was frozen in the doorway, like Lot’s wife.
“Is that all, Mr. Houseman?” she quavered.
“It is not.” Houseman lifted his arm, slid back a sleeve, and gave a royal look to his wristwatch. “My sense is that our resident genius is winding down, and we’re expecting both Mr. Stewart and Mr. Koch within the next ten minutes. Would you be so kind, Miss Holliday, as to go next door to Longchamps and order Mr. Welles’s usual repast, and...is standard eggs and bacon and potatoes suitable, Mr. Gibson?”
“Sure.”
Houseman twitched a polite smile the writer’s way, and to Miss Holliday intoned, “Three standard breakfasts plus my usual lox, onion and scrambled eggs. Only a single baked potato for Mr. Welles—he informs us that he’s dieting.”
Miss Holliday was moving from shoe to shoe. Her hands were fig-leafed before her and she seemed clearly distraught. “But Mr. Houseman...I told you before—Longchamps won’t give us credit anymore. I had to pay cash myself for his ice cream tonight.”
“For which you will be reimbursed.”
Her eyes widened. “Mr. Houseman—Mr. Welles owes them over two hundred dollars.”
“Shit!” The word exploded from Houseman, as if trying to escape from the prissy prison of the man. “You tell those fucking people that I will personally vouch for Mr. Welles.”
Tears were flowing down the girl’s apple cheeks. “But Mr. Houseman...”
“God-damn-it!” Houseman stood, fished a billfold from inside his jacket, and handed Gibson a twenty-dollar bill, which the stunned writer passed to the girl, who padded over for it.
Arm outstretched like the pope blessing the masses, Houseman said, “Pay the bastards in cash, and don’t mention Mr. Welles by name!”
“But Mr. Houseman,” she sobbed, “they’ll know it’s for him....”
“Order the steaks separately, my dear—as if for two people—and if they ask if the two meals are for Mr. Welles, lie through your delightful pretty teeth.”
“Oh, Mr. Houseman...”
“Do it.”
She swallowed, nodded, and disappeared, her footsteps on the metal stairs ringing like gunshots punctuating Welles’s ongoing harangue.
Gibson nodded toward where she’d stood. “Does she always cry like that?”
“Only when I swear.”
“Ah.”
“I do it for her own good—swear at her, that is.”
“Is that so?”
Houseman nodded sagely. “She’s a nice girl, from a respectable family, but...sad to say...she wants to be in show business. So I’m breaking her in, so to speak. If she wants to make it in this trade, she’ll need to acclimate herself to coarseness.”
Gibson was shaking his head. “A kid that nervous? You really think she could make it in show biz?”
“Don’t underestimate Judy, Walter. She’s smarter than either of us...and her sense of finance is admirable.” Houseman shifted in his chair. “That is, frankly, why I asked to see you, prior to our little Mercury on the Air staff meeting. Which I understand you’ve agreed to attend?”
“I have. I figure I’m on Orson’s dime, no matter how you look at it.”
An eyebrow arched. “Actually—you’re on the Mercury Theatre’s dime...which is how I look at it.”