The War of the Worlds Murder - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,20
I understand, Jack.”
The permanent sneer twitched, and Houseman folded his hands on the table again. His head tilted to one side, and his eyes were hooded as he said, “My young partner has no sense of money. He throws it to the wind. You’ve seen the production he’s mounting, currently?”
“I have. It’s...”
“Impressive. And a bewildering exercise in pretention, as well...but he is the artistic director, not I. This theater, this old warhorse, needed renovation—one of the first things, first expenses, we undertook was to put in a new stage.”
“Ah. And Mr. Welles ripped much of that stage out, for this production, for that fancy tower he rigged.”
The drowsy eyes flared; the sneer took on a tinge of pleasure. “You are bright man, Mr. Gibson, and perceptive.”
“And you have called me here to request that I not abuse my expense account.”
Houseman nodded once; he exuded the wisdom of Buddha. Also the stature.
“Jack, it’s not in my nature to take advantage. Mr. Welles made the St. Regis reservation...”
Another nod. “For his own convenience, since he’s living there, more or less.”
“More or less?”
“He’s a married man, you know—with a baby girl, as well as a wife. They live on Sneden’s Landing, well out of the city. But Orson, while he’s working, has decided to stay mostly in town.”
“And he’s always working.”
“You already have a grasp of the situation, Walter.”
Gibson shrugged. “Don’t worry yourself, Jack—I am not by nature extravagant. I need to take cabs, because I don’t have my car here in the city; and I have to eat. But I won’t be running up any elaborate bills to stiff the Mercury.”
Houseman’s tiny smile seemed somehow huge. “You are a gentleman. And I understand Orson owes you much.”
“All I did was recommend him to the producers of the Shadow show, once upon a time.”
“Yes, but that was the Welles watershed—without his success as the Shadow, we’d have no radio program. I know he is very grateful to you.”
Gibson did not point out that Welles had waited until just a few days ago to thank him. For some reason, he glanced at the hunting knife, displayed on the wall, just to his left.
“You’ve noticed our little memento from Julius Caesar, I see,” Houseman said with a smile as sly as it was slight. “That’s our eternal reminder to our enthusiastic leader that even a genius must contain his enthusiasm.”
“How’s that?” Gibson asked.
“Well, all of the other conspirators in our production were satisfied with heavy rubber daggers, with aluminum-painted blades. Not good enough for Brutus, that is, Orson, who felt the final confrontation with the tyrant required the reality of a gleaming blade.”
Houseman gestured casually to the mounted hunting knife.
“For more than one hundred performances, Brutus held that sharp point against our Caesar’s chest; then as, actor Joe Holland clung to Orson, in beautifully performed death agonies, Brutus would make the final thrust, with a turn of his body.”
The producer tented his fingertips and continued.
“One spring night—without either Orson or Mr. Holland being aware of it—the blade went through the cloth and slipped...quite painlessly...into Joe Holland’s chest, and through an artery in the region of his heart. No one realized anything had gone awry, until Orson himself slipped in the blood.... In the blackout following Antony exclaiming, ‘Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war,’ we were able to cart Joe’s inert form from the stage. As the show continued, he was taken by taxi to the nearest hospital.”
“My God, but he survived?”
“After several days...and several transfusions. Orson initially experienced a brief spasm of guilt, but soon managed to convince himself it was Joe’s fault, for turning incorrectly and impaling himself.”
“You’re lucky you weren’t sued.”
“We paid Joe Holland’s bills. Our Caesar even wound up apologizing to Brutus...but I never saw it that way. So I mounted that dagger in an attempt to provide our gifted boy with a conscience of sorts.”
“How’s that working out?”
Houseman twitched a wry smile. “Not terribly well, so far. As you can see, his response was merely to sign the weapon....”
Footsteps on the iron stairs announced a new arrival—and it couldn’t be Welles, because his alternate scolding and praise continued from below—and then Paul Stewart, looking mournful and tired, his sunken cheeks blue with beard, stepped inside. An acetate recording in a brown-paper sleeve was tucked under his arm. His gray suit looked rumpled, his blue tie already loose at his collar.
“Mr. Gibson,” Stewart said with a nod, as the writer rose briefly, returning the nod. Stewart handed the shellac