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

going down to the bar, to keep Housey company for a few minutes? He has some revisions for the radio show to share with me, and I’ll be down shortly—Mrs. Welles and I are nearly finished.”
    The latter seemed obvious.
    In less than five minutes, Walter Gibson was sharing a booth with John Houseman in the St. Regis’s famed King Cole Bar, opposite Maxfield Parrish’s equally famous mural behind the bar, its faces smirking enigmatically their way.
    “Cheers,” Houseman said, lifting his Bloody Mary to clink with Gibson’s.
    The Mercury producer had insisted that they order this particular drink, because it had been invented here, albeit under the sobriquet “Red Snapper.”
    “Orson claims to have coined the new phrase,” Houseman said. “After Mary Tudor, of course.”
    “Did he?”
    “Very unlikely. But I would be remiss not to warn you, Walter, that Orson’s tendency to take all the credit for himself is not his best trait...though it may well be the defining one.”
    Gibson shrugged. “I’m a writer for hire. My publishers even own the Maxwell Grant pen name. If Orson needs to feel he’s ‘created’ our project, I’ll get over it...if the check doesn’t bounce.”
    A tiny smile formed. Again Houseman wore his uniform of checked jacket and bow tie, this one a light blue. “Not everyone feels as generously inclined as you, Walter. I know that Howard...Howard Koch, our writer?”
    “Yes. We met yesterday.”
    “That’s right, that’s right.... At any rate, Howard has been rather bitter about Orson’s refusal to credit him on the air with scripts. They’ve had...words.”
    “Seems Orson has ‘words’ with lots of people.”
    “He does indeed. Since childhood he’s been assured by all concerned that he is a genius; it’s never occurred to him to doubt that opinion.”
    “Well, he is a kind of genius.”
    “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