The War of the Worlds Murder - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,39

above me feel you’ve stepped over the line here—we have another list of name changes for these real places, and there can be no compromise where that tasteless creature sound effect is concerned. It’s out.”

Welles reddened. “You’re willing to go on the air without me?”

With a sorrowful shrug, Taylor said, “Most reluctantly, yes.”

Welles put his face in Taylor’s, though the exec did not flinch. “I’ll be goddamned if I’ll let the CBS bureaucrats run me off my own goddamned show! I will be performing tonight—directing and performing, as usual. Is...that...understood?”

Taylor nodded solemnly. “Yes, Orson.”

“Good.” Welles exited, head high, as if he had just won the argument. Gibson saw Taylor smile to himself and resume his seat at the desk, where a clipboard waited.

As Welles and Gibson returned to the studio floor, Herrmann was directing his fine musicians in a rendition of “Stardust” the likes of which the world had not heard before: tempo shifted as emotions swelled. Gibson found it quite remarkable, and glanced toward Welles to say something complimentary when he noticed the babyish face was contorting to a scowl.

“Benny!” Orson howled. “Benny! Mister Hermuhn!”

The orchestra skidded to a stop, and the owlish man turned on his podium and showed Welles a bite-of-grapefruit expression.

“And what’s wrong this time?” Herrmann demanded, as he left the musicians behind to clomp over and confront the director. He planted himself two inches from Welles, fists on his hips. “That piece-of-shit song has never before been played so beautifully!”

Welles’s voice softened. “My dear Benny—you are entirely right.”

With a sigh of triumph, Herrmann nodded, and began to return to his post; but before he could, a long-fingered white hand dropped on his shoulder and clutched.

In the conductor’s ear, Welles whispered, “It’s not meant to be a symphony, Benny—it’s dance music. Mundane, unimaginative, and quite run of the mill.”

Herrmann whirled, and gestured to himself, as if wounded, the baton like a weapon, ready. “You ask this of me? To be run of the mill? You, who always speak of excellence?”

Paul Stewart came over and joined the fray. “Orson’s right, Benny—it’s supposed to be some lousy two-bit dance band playing in a second-rate hotel ballroom. Gotta be like this...”

And Stewart began to snap his fingers, to demonstrate the steady uninspiring tempo.

Herrmann’s close-set eyes widened, an effect magnified by the thick lenses of his glasses. He thrust the baton at Stewart, and glared at Welles. “Then one of you bastards conduct it!”

Stewart smirked humorlessly at Welles, who nodded in a deferential fashion.

Baton in hand, Paul Stewart walked to the small podium next to Herrmann’s piano, and looked out at the musicians and gave them the downbeat. The musicians understood immediately what was required, and a steady, substandard rendition of “Stardust” followed.

Herrmann watched agape. Welles, arms folded, hid a smile behind a hand. Several measures in, Stewart stopped, stepped down and returned the baton to the conductor.

“Now that’s how to do it!” Stewart said.

Herrmann, crestfallen, turned to Welles, who said, “We are telling a story, Benny. You are an actor in that story. You must play the leader of a mediocre danceband.”

Herrmann swallowed his dignity and returned to the small podium and tried again. Perfect—perfectly mediocre.

When Herrmann dejectedly returned, he said to Welles and Stewart, standing side by side, “Is that bad enough to suit you?”

Stewart nodded and said, “Exactly right.”

Welles said, “For a musical genius like you, Benny, and I know this is a sacrifice.”

Herrmann pouted. “They were trying to make me look bad,” he said, apparently meaning the musicians allowing Paul Stewart to show him up. “I’ve known it all along...all along....”

Welles frowned. “Known what, Benny?”

Herrmann sneaked a dark look at his players, then turned and softly said, “There’s a strong fascist element in the woodwinds....”

Again Orson hid a smile behind his hand, as he seemed to nod gravely, saying, “We all have much to contend with.”

What followed was a stop-and-start rehearsal, paying no attention to the radio-driven demands of the clock. Welles was fine-tuning the broadcast, and he was up and down off his podium, helping actors with lines, conferring with Ora about sound effects, cajoling Herrmann to continue to do second-rate renditions of “Stardust” and “La Cumparasita.”

Seated not in the control room but in a chair near the sound-effects station, Gibson watched Orson Welles whip into shape what had been a decidedly lackluster production. Welles alternated between charm and martyrdom, the latter state expressed through periodic ravings and rantings about the treachery, ignorance, sloth, indifference, incompetence and “downright sabotage!” that surrounded him.

Herrmann smashed three batons.