The War of the Worlds Murder - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,71

the door.

Herrmann—who had not been part of the evening’s earlier adventures involving the outdated studio—went in first. Gibson followed, and a shaken Welles entered tentatively, Houseman stepping in after.

From the doorway, Taylor said, “Lock yourselves in.”

Houseman nodded, Taylor disappeared, the door was shut and locked, and chairs from the sidelines were put into use. Herrmann pulled his up at the table, ignorant of a corpse having sat there earlier.

Welles conferred with Gibson and Houseman, away from the composer.

“Jack,” Welles whispered, “when I saw those blue uniforms, I thought surely—”

Houseman held up a hand. “Let’s keep this to ourselves. Benny doesn’t know anything about the, uh, other matter; and neither, apparently do the gendarmes.”

Welles was shaking his head, obviously trying to fight off despair. “But if they search the building, Housey, who knows what they’ll find? The body dumped somewhere? That bloody knife, with my signature?”

Houseman took Welles by the arm. “You have to trust me on this, Orson. Look at me. Do you believe me when I say there is no immediate danger?”

“Well, I...but...”

Houseman glanced at Gibson. “Walter, would you reassure him, please?”

Gibson said, “I can back Jack up on this. Those cops won’t stumble onto anything; they have their hands full.”

From the table, Herrmann stared over at the private trio with his owlish eyes wide behind the thick lenses. “Can anyone join the party? Aren’t I as guilty as the next guy in this conspiracy?”

Houseman managed a small strained smile and called over, “Just a bit of business to deal with, Benny! Patience, please.”

Gibson said, “You’ll have enough to deal with, Orson, if this panic is bad as it sounds.”

Welles sighed. “Housey, are we ruined?”

“We must weather this night, Orson. You must not say a word about...the other affair to that inspector, or to any reporters, should we encounter them. And Dave Taylor is right—you can’t grant even the most qualified admission to the prank you’ve pulled. If there’ve been deaths...”

Welles smiled faintly, bitterly. “Isn’t one murder enough?”

Houseman squeezed his friend’s arm. “You just steel yourself. No admissions, no flippant remarks. Yes?”

“Yes.”

Herrmann’s voice had an irritated edge as he called to them from his seat at the table, where earlier blood had pooled. “Why am I the odd man out? We’re all in this thing together, right?”

The confab over, the three pulled chairs up near Herrmann, but none of them could quite bring themselves to actually sit at the murder table.

“Maybe it’s in bad taste,” Herrmann said, hands folded on the tabletop like a schoolboy at his desk, “but I find this exciting.”

“It is poor taste,” Welles said.

“Still, it is exciting. Can’t wait to call Lucille.” His wife. “Jack, do you think they’ll arrest Orson?”

Houseman said, “I should hope not.”

“Would they arrest me?”

“Why, Benny?” Houseman said dryly. “Would you like them to?”

Herrmann chuckled. “Well, it might be an interesting experience. Composers don’t often get tossed in the clink, you know.”

Welles said, “Benny, shut up.”

Herrmann, blinking behind the glasses, got to his feet; his face flushed, he said, “You can’t talk to me like that!”

Houseman said, “Of course he can. He does it all the time. Sit down and do, please, shut up.”

Herrmann huffed and puffed, but sat himself down.

Perhaps fifteen endless minutes of silence had dragged by, when Gibson stood and stretched. “Jack, did you leave that connecting door unlocked?”

Houseman frowned. “I believe so.”

“I’ll be back in a moment.”

The writer got up.

Welles and Houseman both frowned at him, but Gibson said, “Don’t worry about it,” and a few moments later he was standing in the adjacent studio.

Something had been nagging him, and he went to the pile of painter’s tarps along one side and knelt. He sorted through them, and wrapped in one on the bottom, he found a heavy towel—large, like a beach towel—caked with dark red.

Obviously, this cloth had wiped up the blood on the table and been stowed here, before an escape had been made....

Gibson sniffed the bloody stain, then returned the cloth to its hiding place, grunted a single laugh, rose and reentered Studio Seven.

He’d barely reached his chair when a knock on the door was followed by Taylor’s voice, “I’m back—time to go, fellows.”

Houseman rose and unlocked the door and let the executive in.

“I have a cab waiting,” Taylor said. “We’ll use the service elevator, and we should head off the press.”

Welles said, “The police told us not to leave....”

“Bill Paley’s out there—in his pajamas and slippers with his topcoat over them, is how fast he came—and he’s told the police that we will