The War of the Worlds Murder - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,70
of that group. And, Dave, I never dreamed it would go all across the country!”
Arching an eyebrow, Taylor waggled a finger in Welles’s face and let him know what company policy was going to be: “You never dreamed anything like this—on any scale—would happen. Correct?”
Welles swallowed. “Correct.”
“Now, brace yourself...”
“There’s more?”
“Some of these calls indicate there may have been deaths—something about a fatal stampede in a New Jersey union hall, a suicide, some automobile fatalities as people fled the city...”
“My God. Is that possible?”
“None of it’s confirmed, but I mention it so that you grasp the seriousness of the matter—none of your cheek, understand? You could face criminal charges—criminal negligence, even homicide.”
“...for a radio broadcast?”
“For a hoax. A kind of fraud on the public trust.”
Welles said nothing; his eyes were unblinking, his mouth a soft pucker, as if he were about to kiss someone or something—perhaps his future—good-bye.
Taylor looked around and caught Paul Stewart’s mournful gaze. “Paul! Front and center, please.”
Stewart came to Taylor’s side, as Welles faded back.
“Paul,” the executive said, “you’re in charge of rounding up every script and scrap and every record.... Were we making a transcription?”
“Yes,” Stewart said.
“Is there a rehearsal acetate?”
“Yes.”
Taylor pointed a stern finger at the assistant director. “You find every piece of paper and recording involved with this broadcast, timing sheets, casting calls, the works.”
“What do I do with them?”
“I don’t want to know.”
Stewart frowned disbelievingly. “You want them destroyed?”
“No. Just...make them go away. Make them go somewhere these police can’t find. And, oh by the way—Ben Gross of the Daily News is out in the lobby, and seven or eight other newshounds are with him.”
Stewart’s smile was sickly. “You know what they say—any publicity is good publicity.”
Taylor’s eyes were hooded. “Then ‘they’ are insane. Paul, get to it, and don’t let that material fall into enemy hands—and I don’t mean the Martians. Is the author around?”
Shaking his head, Stewart said, “No, Howard was beat—he heard the start of the show, then took off to catch a cab. He’s probably asleep back in his apartment by now.”
“Give him a call and warn him what’s up. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Stewart rushed off to call Koch, and do the assigned housecleaning.
Taylor pointed to Welles, Herrmann, Houseman and Gibson, tic tic tic tic. “Your four—come with me.”
Gibson, touching a hand to his chest, said, “I’m not part of this.”
“You were in on the rewrites, and you were around for everything, as I understand. Let’s keep you off the firing line with these others, all right?”
Gibson nodded.
Taylor turned to face the actors and crew, who were quietly hugging the far studio wall, looking like Lusitania passengers waiting for a shot at a lifeboat.
“You people—if anyone from the police asks you a question, just say you reserve the right to speak to your lawyer, first. We have a whole fleet of Perry Masons to back you up.”
Ray Collins stepped forward. “We didn’t do anything wrong, Dave.”
“None of us did—understand? None of us did. But not a peep to a cop, and any actor who talks to a reporter, looking to get his name in the paper, I’ll see to it that you never appear on CBS radio again.” He gave them a Southern gentleman’s smile and nod. “Thank you.”
Welles was standing like a big slope-shouldered lump. Gibson found it odd to see Welles in a situation where someone else had taken charge, particularly a seemingly mild-mannered sort like Davidson Taylor.
But right now Taylor was taking Welles by the arm like a naughty child being dragged to sit in the corner, and the exec looked over his shoulder and said, “You other three—come along.”
Soon Taylor was leading Welles down the hall, Houseman, Herrmann and Gibson tagging after.
“We need to stow you four out of the way,” the executive was saying. “You keep put till I come back for you—understood? If you need to use the john, that’s permissible, otherwise...consider yourselves under house arrest.”
Then Taylor came to a dead stop in front of Studio Seven.
Welles looked back desperately at Houseman, who patted the air with calming palms, as if to say, The body was gone, remember? Nothing to worry about....
The door was locked, however, and Taylor said, “Damn! I suppose we have to go after that idiot janitor Louis to be let in it.”
Gibson stepped forward. “No, Mr. Taylor. I believe Jack has a passkey.”
Houseman gave the writer a look that could be fathomed only by the two of them, then said, “I do indeed,” and got it out of his pocket and unlocked