The War of the Worlds Murder - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,42

Walter?”

“I was here for the Thursday run-through. We spoke. She was friendly, efficient...an intelligent girl.”

“Yes.” Houseman seemed to taste his next two words: “But ambitious.”

Sensing something judgmental, Gibson asked, “By that you mean, she wanted to make it in show business?”

The producer nodded slowly, a priest pronouncing a benediction. “She’d performed in the front of our Mercury microphone, in minor roles.” Another tasting of words followed: “Thanks to Orson.”

“She was...?”

“One of his little conquests, yes. He has assembled quite a ‘cast’ of nubiles—actresses, dancers, ballerinas.”

Remembering, Gibson said, “A certain renowned ballet master signed Miss Donovan’s reception book, today.”

Frowning, Houseman said, “What? Are you sure? I haven’t seen the man anywhere around. Balanchine, you say?”

“Yes. And Virginia Welles signed in, too.”

Houseman shook his head. “Well, I haven’t seen her.”

Gibson nodded toward the locked door. “Well, Miss Donovan did—as I say, they both signed her book, but did not sign out....”

Gibson quickly explained about the security guard who’d taken over Miss Donovan’s post.

Houseman stood motionless, like a figure in a wax museum; when he spoke, his lips moved so slightly, the statue effect remained in place: “I do not have the pulp sensibilities of yourself, Mr. Gibson, nor of my gifted young partner. But in seeing...I suppose the term is, ‘the scene of the crime’...it would seem clear that either Orson himself performed a particularly senseless, sloppy crime of passion upon that child, or—”

“Or someone framed him for it.”

Houseman’s mouth twitched a smirk. “Using a weapon literally signed by the designated ‘killer.’”

Gibson’s eyes narrowed. “Jack, that murder weapon does limit the suspects.”

“How, pray tell?”

The writer thumped the producer’s chest gently with a forefinger. “It has to be someone who has access to your office at the Mercury Theatre—who could lift that grisly memento off its nails from its place of honor on your wall.”

The lipless smile that formed on Houseman’s face was like a cut in his flesh. “How much difficulty did you have, Walter, entering the Mercury unheeded at an odd time?”

“Well...” Gibson thought back to the slumbering Miss Holliday in the box office window. “...none, really.”

“Precisely. And there is no lock on the door of our eagle’s-nest office. Actors, crew, reporters, total strangers, come in and out of the Mercury at all hours.”

“But who would know about that knife?”

Houseman’s brow tightened slightly. “Well, certainly Virginia has been there, often enough, and likely saw it. And Mr. Balanchine, for that matter.”

“What was Balanchine doing there?”

Houseman’s eyebrows rose but his voice did not. “Threatening Orson’s life.”

“How about Owney Madden? Did he ever come around?”

Houseman blinked and grunted a single laugh. “The gangster? Why ever would he be in our office?”

Gibson raised an eyebrow. “How about that dancer Orson and Owney...shared? Was she ever in that office?”

“I believe...several times.”

“That gives her knowledge of the knife that she could have passed along to Madden, however innocently.”

Houseman shook his head, confused. “Walter, why does this gangster come to your mind? Did he sign in at Miss Donovan’s station, as well?”

“No—but wasn’t he cuckolded, in a manner of speaking, by Orson?”

Houseman drew in a breath; his eyes were alive with thought. “If having your way with another man’s mistress could fall under that description...yes.”

Gibson pointed toward the locked door. “I’m not saying Madden did it himself—but one of his people could have, and that social class knows all about framing people, and they aren’t squeamish about a little blood, either.”

“Again, Walter—why do you suspect Madden, when we know that both Balanchine and Virginia Welles were in the building? Perhaps one, or both, still are!”

Gibson told Houseman of the incident in the alley last night, outside the Cotton Club.

Finally, Welles came shambling out of the control booth, his expression mournful. No tears, however, Gibson noted.

The three men stood in a tight circle.

Houseman faced his partner and said, “Is this true, Orson? Were you accosted last night by ruffians?”

Blinking, Welles said, “What?... Oh. That. Yes. Yes, of course. Walter and I, uh, went to the Cotton Club, which perhaps was ill-advised, considering Mr. Madden’s temper....”

Houseman thrust a finger toward the door—the gesture had an accusatory aura, even though the digit did not point at Welles himself. “ ‘Ill-advised’ indeed, if what happened to Miss Donovan is the handiwork of Madden’s minions.”

Welles swallowed. His tone was strangely apologetic. “You know of course, I did not—”

Houseman waved that off. “That goes without saying.”

Gibson said, “You did have opportunity, Orson.”

The grief in Welles’s face turned to outrage, the white flesh to scarlet. “What are you saying, man?”

Patting the air, Gibson said,