The War of the Worlds Murder - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,55
interviewing Wilson....”
“Grandpa!”
Grandfather, irritated by the younger boy’s lack of sophistication, raised a hand, signaling him to stop. The child did—folding his arms, smirking in sullen silence.
The farmer was answering Carl Phillips’s questions. “I was listening to the radio and kinda drowsin’, that professor fellow was talkin’ about Mars, so I was half-dozin’ and half...”
“Yes, yes, Mr. Wilmuth. And then what happened?”
Les said, “He said ‘Wilmuth’ again, Grandpa.”
Grandfather said, “Cityslickers always get it wrong.”
“I was listenin’ to the radio kinda halfways....”
“Yes, Mr. Wilmuth, and then you saw something?”
“Not first off. I heard something.”
“And what did you hear?”
“A hissing sound. Like this—” The farmer hissed for the reporter. “Kinda like a Fourth of July rocket.”
“Yes, then what?”
“I turned my head out the window, and would have swore I was to sleep and dreamin’.”
“Yes?”
“I seen that kinda greenish streak and then, zingo! Somethin’ smacked the ground. Knocked me clear out of my chair!”
Leroy was staring at the side wall, turned away from the radio, as if it had betrayed him. He said, firmly for such a little boy, “That...is...just...a...storeee!”
Grandfather had never struck any of his grandchildren (though of course their father, also an insolent pup, had met the razor strop many a time, as a boy), and he told himself tonight would be no exception. He rose and knelt by the child and put a kindly hand on Leroy’s shoulder.
“Not everything on the radio is a story, my boy. You have to learn to know the difference between the news commentators and the storytellers.”
“Look who’s talkin’.”
Grandfather felt red rise into his face. But he said nothing more, and merely returned to his armchair.
Carl Phillips was saying, “Hundreds of cars are parked in a field in back of us, and the police are trying to rope off the roadway, leading into the farm, but it’s no use. They’re breaking right through. Cars’ headlights throw an enormous spotlight on the pit where the object’s half buried.”
With the exception of Leroy, the Chapmans sat forward. Little Susie had cuddled up next to her older brother and was holding his hand. Tight.
“...some of the more daring souls now are venturing near the edge. Their silhouettes stand out against the metal sheen. One man wants to touch the thing—he’s having an argument with a policeman. Now the policeman wins.... Ladies and gentlemen, there’s something I haven’t mentioned in all this excitement, but...it’s becoming more distinct. Perhaps you’ve caught it already on your radio. Listen, please...”
The Chapmans leaned forward—and even Leroy turned back toward the radio. A scraping sound, faint but distinct, crackled over the air waves.
The reporter was asking, “Do you hear it? Curious humming sound that seems to come from inside the object. I’ll move the microphone nearer. Here...now, we’re not more than twenty-five feet away. Can you hear it now?”
The Dorn sisters had heard all of it.
They, too, had turned up the volume (the younger sister, Miss Eleanor, doing the honors) and their knitting was dropped to their laps, unattended, as their wide eyes stared toward the radio.
Ironically, neither woman had much interest in the news, normally—they took pride in not reading much of anything in the local paper except the church news. Neither sister read current magazines; why waste their time reading trash? History, the Bible, education, religion.
Miss Jane’s hands were folded. “God is in His Heaven,” she said.
Having resumed her chair, Miss Eleanor said, “And all’s right in the world.”
But neither of them sounded terribly sure of either statement.
In the modest living room of an apartment in Brooklyn, an out-of-work housepainter named Dennis Chandler, 36, sat with his wife, Helen, listening to the radio. The childless couple had guests—Helen’s younger brother Earl and his wife Amy and their five-year-old Douglas. Dennis and Helen had neither a car nor a telephone. He and his wife went to a local Methodist church about once a month. They’d gone this morning.
Like many listeners, Dennis had switched from Charlie McCarthy only to accidentally land on the station reporting the fall of a meteor. He and his wife and their guests had heard exactly the same thing that the Chapmans had, and most of what the Dorn sisters had.
Dennis, too, was excited and concerned, though not as frightened as his wife and their guests, who were sitting forward, trembling. Douglas was on his mother’s lap, arms draped around her neck.
“You know, Earl,” Dennis said, “we could drive out in your car to where the meteor hit. Could be something to see.”