The War of the Worlds Murder - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,37
put it back on, smoothed his shirt front with his palms and said, indignantly, “You can’t treat me like that! I don’t care who you are! You may be a big shot, but I’m...I’m like a policeman!”
Welles, coolly, signed in. “You are indeed ‘like’ a policeman—in every way except the following: you carry no gun, your authority is minimal, you do not work for the city, and are not in fact a policeman.... Where is Miss Donovan?”
The guard swallowed and said, “I dunno. She was supposed to be working today. I think she was here earlier, actually.”
“Continue.”
“I got a call from one of you Mercury guys saying come fill in on her desk. We can’t have just anyone walking in and out of here, y’ know.”
Welles was frowning. For some reason he had lifted the reception book into his hands, standing there like a preacher in a wedding ceremony, wondering whether this union was worth sanctioning.
Slowly, Welles said, “Are you quite sure? What’s your name?”
The guard blinked. “My name?”
“It’s not a trick question. Your first name will do. We can save the harder part for later, if necessary.”
“Bill. My name is Bill. Williams.”
“A redundant name for a redundant individual.”
“What does that mean?”
Welles turned the reception book toward him, pointing to a specific name. “Bill, were you here when this person signed in?”
“Who?... Oh. No. ‘Virginia Welles.’ What’s that, your wife?”
“She hasn’t signed out again, I see.”
“No. But then, this desk was unattended for a while.”
“How long, Mr. Williams?”
“Couldn’t say. From whenever somebody noticed Miss Donovan left her post, and thought to call for a sub.”
“Yes.” Welles gestured with an open hand, as if paying honor to the man. “And you do qualify as a ‘sub,’ Mr. Williams. I will concede that.”
Mr. Williams smiled, warming to Welles. “Thanks.”
Welles returned to the book. “And what about this individual?”
“ ‘Buh...buh...’ ”
“Balanchine. Were you at this post when this man signed in?”
“No.”
“I note he did not sign out, either.”
“That’s right. But like I said, this desk was unattended for a while. Who knows who left? Who knows who got in?”
Welles nodded to the man, twitching a smile. “Not the Shadow, Mr. Williams.” He tossed the book on the desk with a clunk. “Would you do me a kindness, despite my poor show of temper?”
“Well, sure. I was...I was outa line, Mr. Welles. They don’t pay me to be a smart-ass.”
“How could one put a price on it?... I’ll be in Studio One, for the most part, but may well be anywhere on this floor, in the various studios and offices, until after we’ve broadcast this evening.” Welles leaned across the desk and asked, in a conspiratorial fashion, “If either of these individuals sign out, would you send someone to let me know?”
“Sure!”
“But in that case, call for another one of your troops—don’t leave your post unattended.”
“I’ll do what I can—but there’s just a handful us on duty on a Sunday, Mr. Welles.”
“I understand. All I ask, Mr. Williams, is your best effort.” And he gave the guard a half-bow.
Mr. Williams blinked and half-bowed back.
Gibson had never seen anything quite like Welles’s performance—from receiving an insult, answering it with a physical threat, to winning over his adversary, charming him into another acolyte—only Orson Welles could have pulled off that magic trick.
Falling in alongside Welles, Gibson said, “Isn’t Balanchine that ballerina’s boyfriend? Guy who threatened you?”
They were walking down the hall, toward Studio One.
“He is indeed.”
Welles opened the door to the sound-proofing vestibule of the studio, and Gibson followed.
“Does, uh, your wife often drop by the studio?”
“Not unless she’s acting in a given week’s production.”
“She isn’t in this show, is she?”
Welles glanced back with an arched eyebrow. “No. She is not.”
Inside the studio, the spectacled owlish conductor, Benny Herrmann—like so many of the men, in suspenders and shirtsleeves—was again at the piano, a small conductor’s podium nearby (in addition to the large one intended for Welles); musicians, a larger contingent than at Thursday’s rehearsal, were taking their places—Gibson quickly counted twenty-seven—warming up with scales and such. Actors were milling in the carpeted microphone area, a script in one hand, ear in the other.
In a reporterish fedora, the mustached gigoloish Frank Readick was the first to approach Welles, nodding hello to Gibson, then saying with an excited edge, “I’ve been at it just like you said.”
“And what is your opinion?”
“Great idea! Great idea, Orson.... This’ll knock their damn socks off.”
Then Readick wandered off to join the other rehearsing-to-themselves actors, adding to the general din.