“Yes he is. And he has a great heart. But he does on occasion abuse those he loves. You like him?”
“Actually, I do. I get a real kick out of the guy. Real change of pace for me—usually, I have to create monsters to hang out with them.”
Houseman chuckled. “He is a kind of monster at that, albeit a benign one. I take it Virginia dropped by?”
“Yes. Thanks for the reprieve for yours truly. I was getting pretty damn uncomfortable.”
“A happy accident.... The poor girl. She’s as brilliant as she is lovely, you know; comes from a fine family. He treats her dismally.”
“Doesn’t he love her?”
“I think he did. He may still.” Houseman had another sip of Bloody Mary, and his eyebrows flicked up and down. “But it’s his...appetites. They are—as you may have noted yourself—large.”
“You have the British knack for understatement, Jack.”
“Thank you, Walter. But I’m not British.”
Gibson didn’t pursue that, saying, “Hell, I’m on my second wife. None of us are perfect. But with a rich, pretty, talented helpmate like that—well, it’s a shame.”
“That he couldn’t make do? I should say. But of late he’s developed a penchant for dancers.”
“Really?”
“I believe it’s the long legs.”
“His wife has long legs.”
Houseman twitched half a smile. “Most men cheat on their wives with physical replicas of those self-same wives. At least that’s been my observation. Right now Orson is seeing two dancers, one of them very famous.”
“No kidding?”
“Yes. The famous one—Vera Zorina, but do be discreet, my boy—has an equally famous fiancé...George Balanchine.”
“Well, of course—I’ve heard of them both....”
“Balanchine has threatened Orson’s life. But then, if Orson is to be believed at least, so has the other dancer’s steady beau.”
“You doubt the latter?”
Houseman sipped his Bloody Mary. “I do. I happened to witness Balanchine’s threat—at the Stork Club—but the other dancer, an exotic dancer from Austria, who has been a featured performer in a variety of nightclubs, reportedly has a gangster boyfriend.”
“This is starting to sound like I wrote it.”
“Actually, I think Orson wrote it. I do believe he’s seeing this young woman, and I know that the clubs she performs in are owned by this shady individual...a fellow named Madden, I believe...”
Gibson’s eyes popped. “Owney Madden! He’s one of the top gangsters!”
“So I’m given to understand. Orson insists that this young lady has been romantically aligned with this Madden, and that he’s been threatened physically by thugs at the ganglord’s bidding.”
“Why are you skeptical?”
With a sigh, the producer said, “I am skeptical because Orson has twice now used this as an excuse for his arriving hours late to theater rehearsals—his tardiness due to the necessity of avoiding killers dispatched to take revenge upon him by this renowned gangster.”
“So—it’s just baloney, in your opinion.”
“Thinly sliced, expertly stacked in a sandwich that Orson insisted on feeding all of us—twice.” Houseman sighed. “That’s the real irritation—not only is he late, but when he comes in to give his excuse, he gets caught up in the yarn he’s inventing, and everyone gathers around...myself included, goddamnit...and we all get caught up in his powers of storytelling.”
Gibson laughed. “He’s one of a kind, all right. But couldn’t the gangster story be true?”
“Certainly it could. Orson has an apparent self-destructive need to throw himself in the path of danger—to associate with recklessness and risk.”
“Now you’re sounding melodramatic, Jack.”
“Perhaps I am. But we must always remember that what we have here is, essentially, a middle-class midwestern boy, steeped in art, music and literature, who craves the respect of sophisticated men. No matter how much he rages, he is gentle at heart—his storms tear up the countryside, but they do pass quickly.”
Showman that he was, Welles apparently knew this was his cue, because—in a cream-color suit and loose yellow bow tie—he ambled into the bar, lighted up like Christmas upon seeing them both, and deposited himself in the booth, putting Gibson in the middle.
Welles greeted them both warmly—as if he hadn’t seen Gibson for hours (as opposed to minutes) and as if he hadn’t been cruelly dismissive of Houseman the night before. He waved a waiter over, ordered himself a Bloody Mary, took credit for naming it, then listened patiently as Houseman brought him up to speed. This morning’s rehearsal had gone well, and Paul Stewart was assembling an effective gallery of sound effects; then Houseman read him script changes that the CBS censors had insisted upon for “War of the Worlds.”
“Thanks to your news bulletin approach,” Houseman said, “a script that earlier in the week was deemed by all concerned too ‘unbelievable’ has now been found, by the network, much too believable.”
Welles took a gulp of his Bloody Mary, which had just arrived. “What are the vultures requesting?”
“They request nothing. They demand that we remove our real place-names.”
“What!”
Houseman patted the air, gently. “Not geographic names—Grovers Mill is fine, as of course is New York and various New Jersey environs. Howard has made some good suggestions to fictionalize these place-names just enough to satisfy the Columbia Broadcasting System, but—”
“Not enough to alert the listener to what we’re up to. Good. Examples, please.”
Houseman looked at a sheet of paper tucked into the front of his script. “Langley Field, for example, is now ‘Langham.’ Columbia Broadcasting Building is now simply ‘Broadcasting Building.’ United States Weather Bureau is ‘Government Weather Bureau.’ ”
“Good, good,” Welles said, hands tented now, eyes almost glowing.
“New Jersey National Guard is now ‘State Militia.’ Princeton University Observatory is now ‘Princeton Observatory.’ ”
“Fine, fine.”
Houseman closed the script cover, ominously. “There is one that you won’t like, I’m afraid.”
“Don’t shield me, Housey.”
“They won’t let us use Roosevelt as a character.”
Welles sat up, alarmed and dismayed. “But that’s vital—a message from the president in a moment of national crisis!”
“They’ll allow another official—they’re suggesting Secretary of the Interior. This one appears to be nonnegotiable.”
Welles was thinking. “I may have a way around that...”
Houseman’s eyes hardened. “Orson—you know that I don’t approve of this approach...”
“I seem to recall something to that effect.”
“...but we have to keep CBS happy. Because if this backfires in any way, we dare not take all of the responsibility on our own shoulders.”
Welles drew in a deep breath. Finally he expelled it, and said ambiguously, “I won’t compromise the Mercury.”
Houseman frowned. “Artistically? Or financially?”
Welles leaned forward and patted Houseman’s hand. “I won’t let you down, Jack.” Then he turned to Gibson and said, “We only have a few hours left, before my rehearsal at the theater. Let’s get to work!”
They left a somewhat dejected-looking Houseman, who was ordering another Bloody Mary, to return to Welles’s suite.
For the next several hours, however, the subject of their collaborative Shadow film got sidetracked. Welles, on a passing mention of Hallowe’en in reference to their “War of the Worlds” prank, came to recall that Houdini had died on that day; this launched the showman into a lengthy discussion of magic.
Since this was Gibson’s own favorite subject, he found himself unable to resist the off-the-track journey.
“You know,” Welles said, seated in a chair next to his bed, getting a shave from
a hotel barber, “as a child, I received magic lessons from Houdini.”
Gibson had pulled up a chair, his position similar to that of an interviewer. “Really? I saw him for the first time when I was seventeen—he asked me up on stage to examine his Chinese Water Torture Cell!”
“Wonderful! Details, man! Details!”
And Gibson provided details of the various times he’d seen Houdini, and of his own relationship with the famous magician, starting with a meeting at Houdini’s brownstone in New York in 1920, having to do with the Society of American Magicians (of which Houdini was president at the time). The friendship developed over the years, with Gibson a frequent backstage guest at Houdini shows. (Perhaps significantly, Welles offered no details of his childhood magic lessons from the magician.)
Later, as Welles received a manicure from a lovely girl in nurse’s whites, Gibson demonstrated several tricks Houdini had taught him, including “Instanto,” which involved swiftly cutting the cards and then identifying the cut-to card before turning it.
Welles was particularly intrigued to learn that Houdini had seen Gibson perform, and had wanted the young magician to teach him a certain trick.
“The Hindu wand trick,” Gibson told the rapt Welles, who was now getting a pedicure from the same girl in white. “Houdini wanted to buy the routine, but I presented it to him as a gift...only, he died before doing it.”
“I’d love to see it!”
“It’s an apparatus I don’t have with me—two wands with tassels that get cut but magically remain attached.”
“You must show me!”
“Next time we’re together, I’ll bring it.”
“If I like it, could I use it? Could I buy it?”
“Well...certainly, Orson. I’d be glad to give it to you, as a friend and fellow magician.”
Welles’s eyes floated skyward. “Imagine—to have a trick Houdini sought to perform, but never got the chance....”
“Are you anticipating doing an act, professionally, Orson?”
The boy-man nodded vigorously. “I’m hoping to mount an elaborate vaudeville show, someday soon.”
“You do have your...goals. Your ambitions.”
“I came to this party to have a good time.” The eyes twinkled, cheeks dimpled. “Didn’t you, Walter?”
A good time, certainly; but Gibson had also “come to the party” to work...and no more work was accomplished. The afternoon—between magic talk and Orson’s grooming—flew.
Just past six-thirty, darkness gathering at the windows, Welles showed Gibson to the door of the suite. “We’ll have breakfast tomorrow, and then go over to the studio together. You’ll get to see whether or not this ‘War of the Worlds’ can really fly.”
Feeling like the portable typewriter in his hand was purely decorative, Gibson asked, “What about our project?”
A hand settled on the writer’s shoulder, and his host said warmly, “A big part of what we’re doing this weekend, Walter, is getting to know one other. Establishing a bond. If you can stay over through Monday—”
“I could. I can.”
Welles patted Gibson’s shoulder, and took a step back, opening the door wider onto the waiting hall. “Well, we’ll squeeze in some work tomorrow, but Monday is yours, until rehearsal time. And we’ll be rehearsing well into the morning again, tonight...you’re welcome to drop by the Mercury and kibitz, of course.”
“Actually, I’m working on a story. I’ll be in my room, should you need me.”
“Highly unlikely. Why don’t you go out and enjoy yourself? The nightclub scene is incredible, these days.”
“I might.”
In his room, Gibson—not bothering with supper, after the huge lunch—continued punching the keys writing “Old Crime Week.” By midnight he was finished, and he lay on his bed in his high-ceilinged room, studying the chandelier, wondering if it was too late to follow Welles’s advice and go out to a club for a drink, a show and a late bite....
Again, Welles was right on cue.
The phone rang and the showman had an invitation for his writer friend. “Walter, the damn elevator has broken down again...”
“Elevator?”...
“In the tower on stage! For Danton’s Death!...Rehearsal is over, for tonight, while we turn the damn thing over to the mechanics.”
“Ah.”
“So—let’s get together. Have you ever been to the Cotton Club?”
“Not the new one.”
“This one lacks the primitive charm of the Harlem original, but there’s a twelve-thirty show with Cab Calloway. Are you up for it?”
“Sure!”
“My ride will pick you up in five minutes.”
“A cab?”
“An ambulance.”
So, sitting in the back of a screaming ambulance, next to an unused gurney, Gibson rode from the St. Regis to the Mercury, where Welles was picked up. Together, siren wailing, they took the short ride to Times Square and the Cotton Club.
Their table was off to one side, but with a fine view of the stage, and after Calloway had concluded, Welles ordered a “light” late supper: a plate of fried chicken for Gibson, and two plates of the same for Welles. Welles, still on a diet, had only a single helping of mashed potatoes and gravy, and a mere four biscuits.
The remains of this latest repast had been cleared away when Gibson risked a personal question.
“If you don’t mind my asking,” he said, “why aren’t you gun-shy about coming to this place?”
“Why should I be?”
“Well...Jack mentioned that you’ve been seeing a dancer who Owney Madden considers his private property....”
Welles sipped a glass of beer. “That’s possibly true.”
“Aren’t you afraid you might run into the guy? I mean, he’s no kid, but his nickname is ‘the Killer.’ Which he earned because, well...he’s a killer.”
“That is the rumor.”
“I don’t think it’s a rumor. He did time for it.”
With grandiose patience, Welles said, “Walter, since Mr. Madden got out of ‘stir,’ as his crowd calls it—on his most recent sojourn of several years—he’s been doing his best to stay out of Winchell’s newspaper column.”
“You mean—he owns the joint, but doesn’t hang around here.”
“That’s right. His cronies may pass along my having frequented his establishment, which I’m sure will give Mr. Madden a few moments of...irritation. Just as I’m enjoying a few moments of amusement, contemplating as much.”
“But you don’t think he’ll do anything about it.”
“What can he do? I’m a public figure. He lays a hand on me, threatens me in any way, and, poof...he’s back in, yes, ‘stir.’ Anyway, I haven’t been seeing Tilly in some time. Weeks. I have other interests now.”
“Like your wife, you mean?”
Welles’s head tilted to one side; he sighed, but smiled as he did. “Do my excesses offend you, Walter?”
“I shouldn’t have said that. My apologies.”
“No, no, I understand. But I ask you to understand—I married too young. Before I’d sown my fair share of wild oats. And my nature is simply not monogamous. I’ve explained this to Virginia, and she must either learn to accept me, as I am, or we will, sadly, have to go our separate ways.”
Welles was intent on walking back to the Mercury, to check on the status of the stage repairs, and asked Gibson to keep him company. Glad for the chance to walk off the big meal, Gibson quickly accepted.
Now approaching two A.M., Broadway was still alive but just starting to wind down a bit. As he strolled alongside the big man in the flowing black cape and slouch hat, Gibson contemplated how successful Welles (that baby nose hidden by a false hawk beak, anyway) might truly be at bringing the Shadow to life on screen.
Of course, the Shadow persona was actually secondary: the suave, sophisticated, man-about-town millionaire who was the Shadow’s secret identity—Lamont Cranston—Welles embodied perfectl
y, not only physically, but in life.
As they passed a particularly dark alley, a pair of hands reached out and plucked Gibson from Welles’s side, yanking the writer into the darkness. Two other large figures emerged from the shadows and thrust Welles into the alley as well.
Suddenly the two men had their backs to a brick wall and a trio of burly thugs in overcoats and battered hats—two fedoras and a porkpie—stood before them like a tribunal as imagined by Damon Runyon.
The trio was swathed in shadow, but one thing stood out clearly: the .45 automatic in the hand of the largest of them, the fleshy one in the middle, wearing the porkpie hat.
Welles, indignant, said, “What do you want with us? You want our money? You can have it! Then go, and go to hell.”
Gibson said nothing; he was trembling—scared out of his wits.
The man with the gun said, “We don’t want your money. We want your undivided attention—get it?”
“I’ve got it,” Welles said, sneering.
“Think you’re pretty cute, lording it up at the boss’s own place. Well, you lay off that little dancer, or the next time we talk, this rod’ll do the talking.”
“Cheap patter,” Welles said, “from cheap hoods....”
“Orson,” Gibson said. “Let it go...”
The guy with the gun said to the thug at his right, “Give him something to remember us by, Louie...”
Louie raised a fist, but Welles stepped forward and slammed his own fist into the man’s belly. As Louie crumpled, the man with the gun took a step forward and Welles knocked the gun from his grasp, slapping the man’s hand as if knocking a toy from a child’s hand.
The sound of it, spinning away on the cement into the blackness, gave Gibson courage. He shoved the third hood, the one who’d grabbed him in the first place, and then the entire trio of oversized goons were tripping over themselves, as Welles pushed Louie into the fellow with the porkpie.
Then Welles ran from the alley, calling, “Taxi!”
Gibson, right behind him, sharp footsteps on the pavement echoing, followed the flapping cape of Lamont Cranston as the hailed taxi screeched to a stop, and the actor and the writer scrambled into the backseat.
“St. Regis, please,” Welles said, regally casual, but breathing hard.
The War of the Worlds Murder Page 9
