The War of the Worlds Murder - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,4
nephew.
He approached me with the grace of the trained stage performer he was. His blue eyes holding eye contact with me, he said to Steinbrunner, “Chris, why don’t you introduce me to this young man?”
But Gibson’s hand was already outstretched.
I shook it; the grasp was firm. “Mr. Gibson,” I said, “it’s an honor. I’m a big fan.”
That might have been overstating it: I was not a collector of the valuable old pulp magazines, but I’d read some of the reprints, as well as that recent Shadow paperback I’d mentioned to Chris.
And this was the man who created one of the most famous characters in popular fiction: the Shadow, the sometimes-invisible crimefighter who clouded men’s minds, and knew what evil lurked in their hearts.
Chris made the introductions, and then Gibson said, “I admire you for standing up to that pompous fool.”
“Really? Are you a Spillane fan?”
He shrugged. “Not particularly. He’s done very well updating the Black Mask pulp technique—Carroll John Daly originated that kind of thing with Race Williams, of course. And there’s some of the Shadow in Mike Hammer, too, don’t you think?”
“Well, yes.”
“The old idea of an avenging figure is just as good today as it ever was—the best mysteries always center around one character. Look at Sherlock Holmes, and Dracula.”
“But if you’re not a Spillane fan—”
He patted my shoulder. “You were absolutely right to defend a writer you admire. Writers shouldn’t go around bad-mouthing other writers. And I don’t much like hearing disrespect to pulp writers, either. That was my world, you know.”
I nodded; sipped my Coke. “How much work did you do for the radio Shadow show?”
“Not much—conceptual stuff in the beginning. Sort of helped map it out.” He shrugged. “I like my stuff better.”
Spoken like a true writer!
Gibson’s face creased with amusement. “But you don’t look old enough to’ve heard the Shadow on the radio.”
“It was still on in the mid-fifties,” I said. “I was five or six...I’d listen to it, and Yours Truly, Johnny Dollar, and Dragnet. In bed at night.” I gave a mock shiver. “The Shadow was the first good guy who ever scared my little behind.”
Gibson gave a grudging nod. “Well, that sinister laugh was a good touch. I’ll give ’em that. But you are too young for the pulps.”
“I read your Shadow paperback. Really liked it. And the reprints. A lot of fun.”
“Good—that’s what they were meant to be.... That Shadow laugh, you know, it wasn’t Orson Welles.”
“Really?”
“Everybody thinks it was, and Orson always claimed it as his...but it was a fella called Readick, Frank Readick. He was the first Shadow, when the character was just a spooky narrator, not active in the stories. They used Readick’s opening till the end, I think. But Orson got the credit—typically.”
“Did you know Orson Welles?”
The Citizen Kane wunderkind had famously played the Shadow on the radio in the ’30s, barely out of his teens.
“Oh, I knew him all right,” Gibson said.
Chris’s owlish countenance brightened. “Really? You never mentioned you met Welles.”
Gibson’s shrug was as grand as it was casual. “I don’t believe you ever asked, Chris.”
“You have me there, Walter. But I knew you didn’t have much to do with the radio version, so I never thought to ask.”
Gibson smiled in a way that said he had nothing more to add to this subject.
The conversation turned to Gibson’s enduring penchant for magic, and how he could still do a mean card trick. He showed us a couple, and they were suitably mystifying—cards appearing in one of Gibson’s pockets, the apparent mind reading of a card I’d selected. Finally, Chris—who’d seen this magic many times—wandered off and got involved in another conversation; and by now Bob Randisi had disappeared somewhere.
Suddenly it was the Shadow creator and the kid from Iowa, alone in the crowded suite.
“I’ve always loved Orson Welles,” I said, returning gingerly to the topic. “What were the circumstances of you knowing him, if you weren’t very involved with the radio program?”
“Well...” Gibson, who was nursing a beer, glanced about the smoky room, as if to make sure no one was around; of course, thirty or thirty-five people were around....
“If I’m overstepping...”
Gibson studied me; something about him seemed at once ancient and childlike. “It is a hell of a story.”
“And you’re a hell of a storyteller, Mr. Gibson.”
He let out a single laugh. “And don’t think I wouldn’t get a kick out of sharing it with somebody. It’s just...well, a lot of the people are still alive.”