In Manhattan, hundreds jammed bus terminals and railroad stations seeking immediate evacuation; one woman calling a bus terminal asked a clerk to “Hurry, please-the world is coming to an end!” In Harlem, hundreds more poured into churches to pray about that very thing. Every city in New England was packed with cars bearing refugees from New York. Many people living within sight of the Hudson River reported seeing the Martians on their metal stilts, crossing.
In Pittsburgh a husband discovered his wife about to swallow pills from a bottle marked POISON because she would “rather die this way than that!” A woman in Boston reported seeing the fire in the sky. In Indianapolis, a woman ran into a church, interrupting the service to scream that the world was coming to an end-she heard it on the radio! — and hundreds of parishioners scurried into the night. In sororities and fraternities, especially on the East Coast, students lined up at phones to call and tell their parents and boy- or girlfriends good-bye. In Birmingham, Alabama, the streets were rushed en masse.
In Concrete, Washington, the coincidence of a power failure served to convince the populace that the Martians had indeed landed.
James and Robert were nearing the city when the chilling, solitary voice of a ham radio operator emerged, pitifully, from their car radio’s speaker.
“Two X two L, calling CQ…. Two X two L calling CQ…. Two X two L calling CQ, New York. Isn’t there anyone on the air? Isn’t there anyone on the air? Isn’t there-anyone?… Two X two L…”
A horrible vacant silence followed, and James (at the wheel) glanced over at Bobby; both college boys looked bloodless white. In their minds was posed the question: Should they head north? Did they dare enter the ravaged city, to save Betty and her sister?
Then, suddenly, another voice emerged from the speaker, a pleasant, even good-natured one, saying, “You are listening to a CBS presentation of Orson Welles and The Mercury Theatre on the Air in an original dramatization of The War of the Worlds by H.G. Wells…. The performance will continue after a brief intermission. This is the Columbia Broadcasting System.”
The college boys, drenched in perspiration, looked at each other in astonishment. They didn’t seem to know whether to laugh or cry, feel relief or anger.
So they stopped at a diner and had burgers.
Leroy Chapman was laughing and laughing. His little sister was, too, somewhat hysterically.
Les was shaking his twelve-year-old fist at the radio, saying, “What a gyp!”
“I told you so! I told you so!” Leroy did a little wild Indian dance. “It was the Shadow! It was the Shadow! Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of man-yah hah hah hah hah! Leroy does! Leroy does!”
Meanwhile, Grandfather and his son Luke and several other farmers they had stumbled into, in the woods, managing not to shoot each other, were taking aim at a Martian, which rose above them on its giant metal legs, frozen against the sky, clearly about to strike.
Grandfather and Luke and the three other farmers let loose a volley of shotgun fire, but the water tower they attacked did not even seem to notice. The tower itself, with the Grovers Mill water supply therein, was safely out of firing range.
The remaining twenty minutes of the broadcast abandoned the “news bulletin” approach as Welles, playing Professor Pierson, recounted his adventures as one of earth’s lone survivors. The traditional conclusion as written by H.G. Wells was reached-the Martians defeated by “the humblest thing that God in his wisdom had put upon this earth,” bacteria-and Bernard Herrmann directed his orchestra in a dramatic crescendo, finally utilizing the power of the composer/conductor.
Houseman, becoming more and more aware of the chaos they had unleashed, had sent Welles a note on the subject.
This may have influenced Welles, who-having had to cut seven minutes on the fly-somehow managed to scribble a rewrite of his closing speech, even as he performed the bulk of the final section of the show, solo.
Now, Welles on his podium-smiling but perhaps a little shaky-again spoke into his microphone.
“This is Orson Welles, ladies and gentlemen-out of character to assure you that ‘The War of the Worlds’ has no further significance than as the holiday offering it was intended to be-the Mercury Theatre’s own radio version of dressing up in a sheet and jumping out of a bush and saying Boo!”
In the sub-control booth, Dave Taylor had his face in his hands. Gibson noted that Houseman’s expression was as unreadable as an Easter Island statue’s.
“Starting now,” Welles was saying, “we couldn’t soap all your windows and steal all your garden gates, by tomorrow night, so we did the best next thing-we annihilated the world before your very ears, and utterly destroyed the CBS Building…. You will be relieved, I hope, to learn that we didn’t mean it, and that both institutions are still open for business.”
The cast was on its feet, smiling at Orson. They had no idea what they had turned loose on America, and only knew that a mediocre show had been transformed into something special, by their gifted leader.
Who was saying, “So good-bye everybody, and remember please, for the next day or so, the terrible lesson you learned tonight-that grinning, glowing, globular invader of your living room is an inhabitant of the punkin patch, and if your doorbell rings and nobody’s there…that was no Martian, it’s Hallowe’en.”
Welles cued Herrmann for the Tchaikovsky theme, and Dan Seymour returned to his mike to make the farewell: “Tonight the Columbia Broadcasting System and its affiliated stations coast-to-coast have brought you ‘The War of the Worlds,’ by H.G. Wells, the seventeenth in its weekly series of dramatic broadcasts featuring Orson Welles and The Mercury Theatre on the Air…. Next week we present a dramatization of three famous short stories…. This is the Columbia Broadcasting System.”
When the clock hit nine P.M., the OFF THE AIR sign switched on.
That was when men in blue uniforms began to stream into the studio, and the grin on Welles’s face froze, like a jack-o’-lantern’s.
CHAPTER NINE
TIMES AT MIDNIGHT
Walter Gibson and Jack Houseman, along with everyone else in the control booth, watched agape in astonishment as a dozen cops, billy clubs in hand, poured into the studio, like raiders in Prohibition days rushing a speakeasy.
Welles remained on his podium, a king surprised by revolting peasants, as his actors instinctively moved away, backing up almost against the far studio wall, and the blue invaders swarmed the platform. The police said nothing, but they were breathing hard, nostrils flared, nightsticks poised.
Then a plainclothes officer in a raincoat and fedora pushed through and looked up indignantly at the confused-looking figure and demanded, “Are you Welles?”
“Guilty as charged. What is-”
Gibson was following Houseman and Paul Stewart, who were on the heels of the CBS executive, Davidson Taylor, out of the control booth and down the handful of stairs onto the studio floor. The four men knifed through the small mob of blue uniforms.
The tall, slender, patrician exec faced the plainclothes officer, who was chewing on an unlit cigar.
“I’m in charge here,” Taylor said. “May I ask who you are, sir?”
“Inspector Kramer,” the copper said, flashing a badge, rolling the dead cigar around. “Don’t you people know you’ve incited a riot?”
Alland helping him on with his suitcoat, Welles came down off the podium, men in blue parting grudgingly to make way, and his expression remained confused though indignation was edging in. “Inspector, we’ve just finished a broadcast, of a fantasy piece. How in God’s name could we-”
The inspector had the remarkable faculty to squint and bug his eyes simultaneously. “You fake an invasion, with real-sounding newscasts, and you have the nerve to ask that?”
“How could anyone mistake what we were doing for reality?” Welles demanded. “It was little green men from Mars! We announced several times it wasn’t real!”
Taylor put himself between the two men like a referee, ha
nds outstretched. When he spoke, the exec’s faint, gentlemanly Southern accent seemed suddenly more prominent. “Inspector, I understand you are responding to a genuine public crisis-”
Welles frowned. “Public…?”
The executive threw his star a quick hard look, then his face softened as he turned toward the stogie-chomping detective. “But this building and this studio remain private property, and I do not believe you have a warrant.”
The inspector had a water-splashed-in-the-face expression; the fragment of cigar almost fell out. “Warrant! Are you kidding?”
“No. I’m not. I’m going to advise Mr. Welles and everyone else involved not to answer any more of your questions until Mr. Paley arrives.”
“Who the hell is Mr. Paley?”
“The president of the network. He lives in Manhattan, and he’s on his way. These are our employees, and they have legal rights, like any other American.”
The inspector poked a thick finger at Welles. “Well, you keep these jokers handy, understand? Till we can talk to ’em. The citizens they terrorized have rights, too!”
“Fair enough,” Taylor said. “Would you mind taking your people out into the lobby, for the time being?”
The inspector frowned. “What, downstairs?”
“No-just right outside. The area by the elevators on this floor will do nicely.”
The inspector twitched a scowl, but he herded his nightstick troop back out again. Though space was again available for the actors to move back up, they stayed put, apparently hoping that they were bystanders and not accomplices.
Welles said, “Dave, what the hell is this?”
Taylor reached a hand into a suitcoat pocket and came back with a fat pile of notes. “This is just a sampling, Orson, of what the switchboard’s been getting since you finally broke in, after forty minutes, and identified the broadcast as fiction-outrage, indignation, death threats. You may especially enjoy the most recent one-it’s from the mayor of Cleveland.”
“Whatever have I have done to the fine city of Cleveland?”
“Oh, nothing much-apparently just unleashed mobs into the streets, sent women and children huddling in church corners, incited violence, looting. His Honor says he’s coming to pay you a visit, Orson-to punch you in the nose.”
Welles looked pale, much as he had when he spotted the body of the murdered woman. “I…I admit I thought we might light a firecracker under a certain lunatic fringe, but I…I apparently seriously underestimated the size 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 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.
We
lles 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 War of the Worlds Murder d-6 Page 19
