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

word!...But I’m dieting...”) and Gibson requested none.
    Talk during the meal departed from work, and was intermittent—Welles approaching the feast fairly single-mindedly—with the chief subject “War of the Worlds.” He seemed both annoyed and amused that his friend Houseman, whom he loved, was such a “stick in the mud” and “stuffed shirt” where his prank was concerned. What did Walter think?
    “Well,” Gibson said, stuffed to the gills, “if the news bulletins are convincing, and frequent, and maintain a believable time line...you may fool some of the people...”
    “But not for all of the time! As the piece becomes more ridiculous, which it inherently is, they’ll know we’ve just sneaked up behind them and said, ‘Boo’!”
    Welles called for the butlers to come clear the table, and soon—as they sat across from each other, the remains of the meal between them like the aftermath of a battlefield—a knock came to the door.
    Frowning, Welles—who was sipping his coffee—said, “What’s wrong with this hotel? They know I don’t want to bebothered with answering the door! They know to come and take this garbage away without asking permission!”
    Gibson was already on his feet, putting his napkin on the table. “I’ll get it....”
    “Would you mind?”
    But when Gibson opened the door, the butlers were not there: instead, a slender, very lovely—and unhappy-looking—young woman faced him. Blonde, blue-eyed and rather patrician in manner, in a sable jacket with matching cap and a dark green dress with matching heels, she eyed Gibson with undisguised suspicion.
    “Are you a new slave?”
    “Excuse me?”
    She brushed past Gibson, saying, “Maybe not—he prefers little men, weasels like Vakhtangov, and you appear to be standing on two legs, not four.”
    Gibson closed the door, swallowed, and tried to think of something to say.
    She wheeled toward the writer, raised an eyebrow. The blue eyes were streaked red. For all her aloof poise, she could not hide that she’d been weeping.
    “I am Virginia Welles,” she said. “ Mrs . Welles. Is the great man in?”
    “His wife?”
    “Not his mother—though it is a fine line, I grant you.”
    Still in his white terry robe, Welles appeared at the French doors, with a curious frown quickly turning to a displeased one.
    “Virginia...dear. You know I’m working....”
    “I’m delighted to see you, too, darling. Your daughter sends her best.”
    “I doubt that. She can’t speak yet.”
    “How would you know?”
    Embarrassed, Welles looked past his wife to say, “Dear, this is Walter Gibson—he created the Shadow. We’re developing a film project.”
    She again turned her head toward Gibson. Thin, pretty lips managed a thin, pretty smile. “Mr. Gibson,” she said with a tiny nod. “Forgive the melodramatics.”
    “Not at all,” Gibson said, and risked a grin. “My stock in trade.”
    The smile disappeared. “I need a few words with my...better half. Would you excuse us for a while, Mr. Gibson?”
    “Certainly.”
    Welles held the door open for her, rolling his eyes at Gibson behind Mrs. Welles’s back, as she slipped inside. The French doors shut, the conversation grew to a confrontation quickly, her voice shrill, his booming—a marital dispute of epic proportions.
    Gibson did his best not to eavesdrop, but it was hard not to hear the accusations of the husband’s infidelity; among the most memorable phrases flung by the wife were “that little ballerina bitch,” “you two-timing self-inflated bag of hot air,” “that gold-digging little dancer,” “you self-important, psychopathic philanderer,” and “that simpering receptionist sitting on her brains all day.”
    This had been going on for perhaps ten minutes when a phone rang in the bedroom, and Mrs. Welles allowed her husband a brief intermission to answer it. About a minute later, Welles again stuck his head out between French doors.
    “Walter? Would you mind