The War of the Worlds Murder - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,45
such a thing, not a surprise.”
Houseman gave Gibson a head-bob of farewell, and walked down the hall, in his measured manner, going the opposite way from Welles.
Gibson leaned his back against the wall, facing and staring at the door behind which a young woman lay, slaughtered like a beast. Shaking his head, he lighted up a Camel, folded his arms, and contemplated the realities of crime and murder—which he had occasionally encountered in his reporter days—and the odd fact that storytellers like himself could find this unpleasant source material so useful in entertaining a mass audience.
Faced with a real murder, the creator of the Shadow felt a twinge of guilty embarrassment for trivializing such dire, somber matters in his yarns. And yet what better subject for a story than life and death, crime and punishment? Perhaps the saddest reality was that in real life, no Shadowesque avenger existed to right such a wrong.
Welles was the first to return. Because of the puppy-like manner in which security guard Williams tagged after Welles, the guard did not seem to Gibson to be aware that he was approaching a murder scene, or indeed anything of significance. It was as if Welles had reported spotting a mouse running down the hall.
Gibson’s reading proved correct, when Welles—chagrin in his eyes—said to the writer, “I told Mr. Williams we have a problem, and that I thought a man of his perspicacity was called for.”
“Riiight,” Gibson said.
Welles and Williams had barely arrived when Houseman came bustling up the hall, alone, but with a key in hand.
“The janitor shared this passkey with me,” Houseman said. “Should do the trick...”
The producer stood before the door, and drew a deep breath, perhaps gathering courage to unlock so ominous a passageway. Then he inserted the key, a click was heard, and Houseman gently pushed the door open, and all three men stepped inside, to find...
...the room was empty.
Oh, the table was there, all right; but no young woman.
And no blood.
Houseman whirled on Gibson, saying, “You pledged you would stand guard!”
Gibson extended his hands, palms up. “I did—I swear I did! No one went in or out.”
The security guard, looking about as bright as a potted plant, asked, “What was it you wanted me to see, anyway, Mr. Welles?”
Welles turned to Williams and patted him on the shoulder of his powder-blue uniform. A little too pleasantly, Welles said, “Bill, I made a small wager with Mr. Houseman here that I could go summon you on a crisis and that you could get here before our esteemed producer could acquire the key from the janitor. Leaving at the same time, you understand.”
Gibson and Houseman exchanged glances; neither man had ever heard such incoherent inanity in all their lives.
But Bill the security guard just grinned in a horsey fashion and said, “So I won you some money, huh, Mr. Welles?”
“Yes, Bill,” Welles said, walking him to the door, an arm around the man, “and I mean to share the wealth with you.”
“Ha! Just like Huey Long, right, Mr. Welles?”
“Just like him, Bill—like the man says, ‘Every man a king.’ ”
The guard was in the hall now, Welles in the doorway, turning toward Gibson to say, “Walter—do you have a five spot for this gentleman?”
Gibson dug out his wallet and handed a five-dollar bill to Bill, who grinned in his Seabiscuit way, and trotted off, chuckling as if he’d really put one over.
His expression grave, Welles shut the door.
The three were now alone in the small studio.
To Gibson, Welles said, “No one in, or out?”
“No! That fiver’s going on the expense account, by the way.”
Houseman, who’d been prowling the room, was over in the lefthand corner. “This connecting door to Studio Eight—it’s locked, too.”
Impatiently, Welles said, “Well, hell, Housey—you have the janitor’s passkey!”
Absentmindedly, Houseman looked at the key, still in his hand, and said, “Ah, yes, of course,” and unlocked the door.
The adjacent studio, whose own control-booth window was across the room, was even emptier than Studio Seven—not even a table, much less a corpse. Various microphone stands and stools and various junk lined and littered the walls, indicating the room saw more storage than production, these days.
Dazed, the trio returned to the studio where they’d seen the dead girl.
“Maybe she did get up and walk out,” Welles said hollowly.
Gibson was having a look at the table and chair. “There was blood here! Look, you can see the faint smearing on this tabletop—somebody used a cloth or towel or something, and sopped and wiped it