Free The War of the Worlds Murder by Max Allan Collins Page A

himself.”
    “You’re lucky you weren’t sued.”
    “We paid Joe Holland’s bills. Our Caesar even wound up apologizing to Brutus...but I never saw it that way. So I mounted that dagger in an attempt to provide our gifted boy with a conscience of sorts.”
    “How’s that working out?”
    Houseman twitched a wry smile. “Not terribly well, so far. As you can see, his response was merely to sign the weapon....”
    Footsteps on the iron stairs announced a new arrival—and it couldn’t be Welles, because his alternate scolding and praise continued from below—and then Paul Stewart, looking mournful and tired, his sunken cheeks blue with beard, stepped inside. An acetate recording in a brown-paper sleeve was tucked under his arm. His gray suit looked rumpled, his blue tie already loose at his collar.
    “Mr. Gibson,” Stewart said with a nod, as the writer rose briefly, returning the nod. Stewart handed the shellac disc across to Houseman. “Here it is, Jack. Any chance Orson will finish that harangue by Sunday?”
    Placing the disc neatly next to the record player on the table, Houseman said, “I believe he’ll release his prisoners, any moment now.”
    Stewart deposited himself on the daybed, nearer Houseman than Gibson. “Breakfast on the way?”
    With a nod that took about three seconds, Houseman replied, “Breakfast is indeed on the way. The mission is Miss Holliday’s.”
    “We oughta put that kid on the Mercury program,” Stewart said. “I think she’s a natural comedienne.”
    “Despite her constant tears,” Houseman said, “I tend to agree...ah. Here’s Howard.”
    Koch had clanged up the stairs and was in the cubbyhole’s doorway. He, too, looked haggard and unshaven, his tan suit and yellow tie like clothes he’d removed from a hamper, after wadding.
    The two writers exchanged warm greetings, and Koch dropped himself on the daybed next to Stewart. He eyed the transcription disc grimly.
    “So,” Koch said to Stewart. “You’ve brought the evidence.”
    Stewart smirked humorlessly. “Some is found at the scene of every crime.”
    Welles’s voice had ceased. The sound of movement below indicated the cast had finally been dismissed. Everyone in the electrician’s booth office lighted up a cigarette and a swirl of blue smoke was waiting when Welles’s heavy trod could finally be heard coming up those iron stairs.
    Gibson didn’t know what to expect—an exhausted tyrant, most likely.
    And yet the figure framed in the doorway appeared energetic and strangely cherubic. His big body, both tall and borderingon heavyset, his arms limp at his sides, his head rather large for even this formidable frame, with a small mouth in the round face no less a baby’s for the cheeks needing a shave.
    Most amazing were the vaguely Asian eyes which seemed to light with delight upon the sight of Gibson.
    “My dear Walter,” he said, moving quickly to the writer, who got quickly to his feet. Welles’s expression might have been that of a man reunited with his oldest friend after a painful separation. “How kind of you to sit in with us on this postmortem.”
    “Glad to help,” was all Gibson could think to say. The charm, the charisma of this twenty-three-year-old seemed to consume Gibson’s very air, his ability to think clearly.
    Welles strode to the vacant chair next to Gibson, opposite the seated Houseman—whose expression seemed to define boredom—and said to everyone but Gibson, “Our poor friend has already put up with far too many indignities from me.”
    Seeking out one face at a time, Welles continued his tale.
    “I bring Walter in yesterday, out of his own busy schedule, and then have the wretched rudeness not even to show up at our rehearsal, much less seek him out at our mutual hotel!”
    He deposited his weight on the chair next to Gibson, motioning for the writer to sit. Now Welles’s gaze was back on Gibson, and his tone was intimate as he said, “I’m afraid it was unavoidable.