When I unlocked my door, the lights were on. Damned sure I hadn't left any bulbs burning when I left that morning, I reconnoitered. It didn't take me long to see that the place wasn't right. Things had been tidied up. The poker and thongs were back in their stand next to the fireplace. Glass rings had been scrubbed off the end tables with care. Baby Ruth wrappers no longer littered the carpet.

Maid service?

Doubtful. I specifically requested no maid service when I checked into the hotel. Always do when traveling. Having a stranger clean my room is an invasion of my privacy, and for over a month my orders had been religiously obeyed.

So who did it, Winters?

The telltale clue was the black camelhair redingote draped over the chair Orson sat in when he read my telegram from...

Chinaman. I called out his name.

He stepped out of the bedroom a moment later, like the character of an evil twin during the second reel of a bad melodrama. He was togged in his working clothes, his butler's suit steamed and pressed to a razor's edge as always. His pepper hair was slicked back in its pompadour, and the white skin of his large schnoz reflected the light from the chandelier like a dance hall’s mirror ball.

"So good to see you again, Mr. Winters," he said, smiling pleasantly.

"Hi." Shmuck.

"I was just taking the liberty of making your rooms a bit more presentable. Hotel help is notoriously unreliable. As a matter of fact, even though the bed is made, the sheets refuse to hold a crease. They seem not to have been changed in some little time."

"I wouldn't be at all surprised..." A shudder ran rampant through the depth of my soul as I glanced at the couch. Its cushions had been patted down and smoothed out. "Oh, goddamn it!"

"Mr. Winters?"

"I spent a month breaking in these cushions!" I leapt onto the fray and tried to smoosh the familiar dent back into the sofa. But it was useless. Chinaman had done his job too well. "Great."

"Am I to assume you've slept only on this divan since your arrival in New York?"

I moaned.

"Shall I get the Dover's powder?" He sounded sincere. He always did.

"Did I tell you to straighten my digs up? Huh? Did I?"

"I was merely performing my duties as your gentleman's gentleman."

"Yeah. Right." There was a time when I would argue with Chinaman that he was not really my valet, but I had long since learned the folly in that. I was a letterman back in college, but the Big C had been president of his alma mater's forensic team.

"Are you hungry perchance, Mr. Winters?"

"Oh, no! Don't try to weasel out of this by bringing up my stomach." Honestly, you would had to have been deaf not to hear my gut rumbling then.

"Of course. I was only going to mention that I made a cold plate and put it in the refrigerator. I thought you might want a snack. My mistake. Now, if you'll excuse me, there are some rather nasty things in your bathroom I was about to dispose of."

Cold plate? Chinaman makes a great cold plate.

He turned to get back to his chores. I lay on the couch, pouting, and listened to his footsteps as they padded away. Hey! I'm no sissy. I waited until I could hear the water running before I got up.

A few minutes later I told Chinaman I had to leave and pick up Orson at CBS. To my surprise he insisted on tagging along. "Okay, but just until we get to the Lafayette. Welles doesn't like outsiders at rehearsals. He doesn't even let his producer watch a practice if he can help it. So you're only going for the ride. Got it?"

"Absolutely, Mr. Winters. It'll be an honor simply to meet Mr. Welles for only a few minutes."

I switched into a turtleneck and grabbed my jacket, a cap stuffed into its pocket for later. Chinaman slipped on his redingote and we left to catch a cab. Fifteen minutes later we were at CBS. I made the introductions.

Welles tended to be shy around strangers, but he did make a half-hearted attempt to be polite. Chinaman, meanwhile, could barely conceal his pent up excitement. "This is a tremendous honor, Mr. Welles. Oh yes, a very great honor." The Big C's Boston twang warbled like a jew’s harp.

"Thank you." Orson was flustered and tried to regain the upper hand. "So you're the reason Sassafras doesn't drink anymore, eh?"

"Half the reason. Yes, sir." Chinaman was very proud of this.

"I don't suppose you'd care to fill me in on some of the more personal details about that?"

Oh-oh. He's going for the double play, trying to tag out Chinaman and me.

"Oh, that wouldn't interest a man such as yourself, sir." Nice break up, Chinaman. "I must say that I've wanted to meet you ever since your debut at the Gate in Jew Suss back in...let me think...oh my! Five years ago. That was a long time ago, wasn't it? And look how far you've come! I'm most impressed, Mr. Welles. Most impressed indeed."

One out on Orson by virtue of the infield-fly rule.

"You read the review in the Times?"

Chinaman shook his head. "I'm sorry. I'm afraid you misunderstood me. I was in the audience on the very first night you ravaged poor Miss Betty Chancellor. It was a magnificent debut."

Orson actually gasped. Game called on account of rain.

By mid-March I had spent more than enough time listening to Welles the wunderkind talk about himself to know what effect Chinaman's confession had on him. After all, it was only after a series of improbable incidents that Orson stumbled into his acting debut at the age of sixteen at the Gate Theatre in Dublin.

Back in July 1931 a war of the wills was declared between Orson's guardian…his late mother's physician and suitor, Dr. Maurice Bernstein, who insisted his ward call "Dadda"…and Welles, a recent graduate of the Todd School for Boys in Illinois. The battle was over money. Specifically, how Orson should spend his inheritance. Dadda wanted the boy, who he considered a prodigy, to go to college. Orson wanted to invest his jack in the theatre. It was the classic case of the wind hitting the rock.

On the showdown’s third day Orson, who suffered from asthma, was overcome by hay fever. Worried about his ward's health, Bernstein turned the attack to his advantage and used it to stave off their feud. He suggested Orson go somewhere far away until pollen season was over. Orson fell for it in the P.T. Barnum tradition, and by August he was on a donkey cart riding west from Galway, ready for the adventures of a walking and painting tour of Ireland.

One month later Orson was busted and hiking to Dublin to wire for more money. His love for the theatre led him like a divining rod to the Gate, where Orson caught the eye of Hilton Edwards, the theatre's co-director. Edwards had almost given up hope of finding the right actor to play Karl Alexander, the Duke in Jew Suss, but the pale, raven-haired boy was everything the director had envisioned.

Edwards took a risk with Welles and it paid off. Orson's debut left Dublin gaga over the Gate's American discovery, and critics in newspapers as distant as the New York Times unanimously applauded the young Yank's performance.

Orson remained in Ireland long enough to appear in a few more productions at the Gate, then jumped on a steamliner for the States, confident his glorious reviews would pave the way for his Broadway debut.

But his dreams were dropkicked in New York by a Shubert’s Agency office boy, who assured Orson that nobody at his agency had ever heard of the actor in Jew Suss and none of their agents wanted to talk to Welles. Dejected, Orson Welles, darling of the Gate Theatre, returned to Dadda and Illinois, still nearly a half-decade away from his debut on Broadway. Not as an actor, but as an unprecedented young director. Quite an accomplishment, but I could tell by the way Orson had recollected the Schubert incident to me that that no-account brat's insults still haunted him. Chinaman's compliments must have been a salve from Heaven.

"Surely you're joking! Why...why...this is inconceivable. Absolutely inconceivable!"

"Astonishing to say the least," I said. You tend to get used to these sort of coincidences if you stand near Chinaman long enough.

"Oh, it's not so incredible, sir. There was a very large audience at the Gate that night. Don't you remember?"

"Yes, in a way. I didn't notice the audience at all during the play, you see. I was completely wrapped up in my performance and quite nervous. Your applause rather took me by surprise. I'd actually forgotten where I was! I also had a crush on Miss Chancellor, and getting the chance to ravage her, as you put it, even off scene, had monopolized my concentration."

"Oh, she is a beautiful lass, isn't she? You should see her, Mr. Winters."

"That's true enough," Welles chimed in, still obviously smitten. "She is one of those absolutely black-haired girls, with skin as white as Carrara marble, you know, and eyelashes that you could trip on, and all that. An absolute joy to rape!"

"Yes," I said, "we'll all have to get together and ravish her some night real soon."

I don't think I was ever so overjoyed to see the Lafayette in all my life, but I had seriously underestimated the impression Chinaman made on Orson. I could not believe my ears when Welles broke his own commandment to invite Chinaman inside! "I'd be very interested in hearing your opinions of this production as compared to Jew Suss. You may want to know, Hilton Edwards has had a tremendous influence on my directorial style."

"Oh, has he? Well, that would only make sense, wouldn't it? He is quite a visionary, isn't he?"

I groaned. There was no alternative but accept my fate.

It was nine fifteen. As the cab pulled in front of the curb I was grateful to see only twenty die-hard protestors rambling on our sidewalk, packed together under the marquee in an attempt to share body heat. It was like watching a forty-legged-sign-carrying-chant-crying ameba unable to make up its mind which way it wanted to move.

I hadn't got around to telling Chinaman about all my duties for the WPA, but the small crowd's hungry eyes were enough to warn him that Welles wasn't their favorite person. We each took a position on either side of the director, ushering him into the Lafayette. I was glad to see Canada Lee waiting at the doors, holding them open.

"Is everybody here?" Orson asked brusquely, all business.

A familiar voice intruded before Canada could answer. "Yes, Orson. We're all here."

Welles grimaced as if he had busted his tooth on a jawbreaker. He knew without looking that the velvety, determined voice belonged to the Federal Theater Project's producer, John Houseman.

"What are you doing here at this hour, John?" Orson, in spite of his tone, was Houseman's friend and theatrical collaborator, and had been for several months. It was Houseman, an immigrant gentleman in his early 30s, who had talked the WPA into hiring Welles.

"I am here at the behest of Ed Perry."

"Perry called you? Why?" Edward Perry was Orson's associate supervisor. His duties, among other things, included opening the theater and getting it ready for the actors, musicians, and technicians before every rehearsal. Perry was a reliable and trustworthy person, not given to making hasty decisions. "What's wrong? Did the Communists break in and vandalize the sets?"

"Nothing so tragic. When he opened the Lafayette tonight a reporter managed to push his way inside. Ed tried to ring you at CBS, but you never came to the phone, so he had to call me to attend to the chap."

"I was busy on the air! So what did you do with the newshound?"

The man in question answered for himself. "I'm right here, Mr. Welles." A middle-aged man with a vulpine face and a buzzard's teary eyes came out of the amphitheater into the lobby. "I'm Gary Groth with the Brooklyn Chronicle." Groth shoved his hand at Orson to shake, a gesture the director ignored. "I was hoping you'd answer a couple of questions about your lover's triangle."

"My what?"

Houseman explained. "Ben Kanter, Rose Ramsey, and the late Norton Denbrough. Surely you've heard of them. They've been in all the papers."

Apparently Orson didn't read the newspapers. "Have they?"

Everyone in the lobby, except Welles and Chinaman, dutifully nodded our heads.

"Oh, my."

"That's yesterday news," said Groth. "The Chronicle wants to get the inside scoop on what really happened. The juicy behind-the-scenes stuff. 'Jilted Negro Actor Kills White Society Dude Over Colored Mama.' It'd make great publicity for a bloody play like Macbeth, don't you think?"

Canada and Houseman couldn't help laughing, but Orson appeared to be dumbstruck for the second time that evening. I didn't think it was possible! It's a miracle! Fortunately the producer was there to pick up the slack.

"Mr. Groth, our production of Macbeth is a cause célèbre unto itself. If it weren't for our notoriety, you wouldn't be here haranguing us."

"Oh, come on, Mr. Houseman. A show can always use more publicity, eh?"

Welles found his voice. "Not this kind of publicity!"

"Maybe we should escort this gentleman outside?" Canada suggested.

"Now settle down, shorty," the reporter said, unimpressed with Canada's bravado. "Don't get in an uproar."

That didn't set well with my old friend. As quick as I could I cleared my throat and said, "Excuse me, but maybe I should introduce you two. Mr. Groth, this short guy is Canada Lee."

"Hey, s'that a fact? There used to be a pretty good boxer by that name. You guys ever heard of him?"

"We are him," Canada said.

The light bulb went on over Groth's head. "Well, maybe I should be going now."

"We think that would be wise."

"Of course, if you change your mind about an interview, Mr. Welles, just get on the horn and let me know. I'm at the Chronicle."

Orson said he would try to remember.

After Canada conducted Groth to the door, Welles asked a second time if the troupe was all present and accounted for.

"Rose isn't here yet."

Orson glared at me, and I shrugged my shoulders. "She said she'd be here. That's all I know."

"Fine. She'd better get here soon. Now let's hop to it. First things first. Canada, do you know if we're ready to begin sacrificing the goats?"

Chinaman's expression was priceless.

* * *

While Welles scurried about the Lafayette, doing his best to pretend Houseman wasn't following him on his rounds, I tried to explain what was going on to Chinaman.

When Orson agreed to become the Shakespearean director for the Federal Theatre Project's Harlem Unit, he was confronted with an obvious problem. Since the Bard of Avon hadn't written many roles for Negroes, which of his plays could be performed by the Unit's all-black cast?

Virginia Welles saved the day when she suggested transplanting Macbeth from Glamis Castle to the Citadel of Henri Christophe. It made perfect sense, Orson loved to point out, because the exploits of the mythical thane and the Haitian slave-turned-despot were practically identical blow for blow. When presented with the idea, Houseman proclaimed Virginia's idea as utter genius.

Harlem's reaction, however, was mixed. Everybody was happy Shakespeare was coming to the borough but, as Canada told me that first day, a lot of folks were suspicious the WPA's Macbeth was going to poke fun at Negroes. And they had reason to think that way. Not just because Orson was twenty, white, and had never directed professionally before, but because a tyrant like Christophe was hardly a role model.

The musical unit of the Harlem Unit eased tensions somewhat when its first production, Walk Together Chillun!, opened to acceptable praise on February 5. But doubts continued to linger about that "little white boy's mumbo-jumbo," which most people along Seventh Avenue had started calling Voodoo Macbeth.

Chinaman was astounded by the orderly chaos going on inside the Lafayette. There were hundreds of costumes, ranging from trim Napoleonic uniforms for the king's soldiers, to gnarled and hairy hides for the witches. The sets, designed by Welles, were real eye-poppers. The moors of Scotland had been pushed aside for a new backdrop, a lush and claustrophobic tropical jungle. Virgil Thomson had whipped up a moody score spooky enough to make Bela Lugosi's blood run cold. And for a dash of authenticity…a detail Welles was fanatical about…a troupe of five African drummers had been hired to sit in with Thomson's orchestra.

The leader of the troupe, Asadata Dafora Horton, was a pip to talk to with his impeccable Oxford accent. Horton's four companions knew very little English, but that didn't keep one fellow, Abdul, from becoming the percussion section's number one personality. Abdul was an honest-to-goodness, real-life witch doctor with diamonds inlaid in every one of his teeth, each tooth cast in gold.

As I went on filling Chinaman in on what went with what and why, Orson and his producer stopped to look over some lighting changes with Abe Feder, the technical director. After that we trotted over to the orchestra pit where Thomson was having a go-around with Asadata about the music. The Africans had just laid down a chant that was supposed to accompany the rhythmic beating of their drums during one of the witches' scenes. Thomson had been less than impressed.

"May I hear it?" Welles requested.

The Africans obliged, and Orson exchanged unsatisfied glances with Thomson, who asked, "Are those chants really voodoo?"

"Oh, yes. Yes, indeed, Sirs. That is absolutely real, authentic voodoo."

"They don't sound wicked enough," Thomson said.

"Sirs, I..."

"Sometimes for the theatre you have to exaggerate."

"I am sorry, Sirs. You can't be any more wicked than that!"

"Asadata," Houseman asked, "just what are the chants? Really."

"Well, Sirs, what they are...they are strong spells."

"Spells for what intended purpose? To conjure up demons?"

"Oh, no, Sirs!" Asadata was horrified. "These chants are to ward off the beriberi, not encourage it. We dare not call upon Baron Semadi. He might come!"

Thomson slapped his palm against the top of his podium while Welles sighed and tugged on his right ear.

"Yes, I can see your problem, Asadata," Orson said. "But we need something darker. Can't you give us something a bit moodier if not as potentially apocalyptic? I'll take the responsibility for anything that happens."

"And I as well," Houseman added.

Asadata stared at his director and producer as if he had heard few braver if not less intelligent words. "We can try, Sirs."

"Thank you. And Virgil?"

"Yes, Orson?"

"Try and take care of your own problems from here on. Music is your department after all." We strolled swiftly away, Thomson's palm popping the podium again and Welles grinning mischievously.

As usual Orson checked in with the principal actors last. Gathering them together he introduced them to "This rather charming fellow. Calls himself Chinaman. Works with Sassafras."

Chinaman had already met Canada Lee, Welles' cigar-chomping Banquo. Then there was Edna Thompson, who played Lady Macbeth. Miss Thompson, a genteel fixture of Harlem theatre, was returning to the stage from a two-year absence after a near-tragic automobile accident. Getting her to perform in Macbeth had been one of Orson's early ambitions, her presence a signal to his peers that this was going to be a quality production.

Welles introduced the Macduffs, "Maurice Ellis and Marie Young. Then there's Hectate, Eric Burroughs, a graduate of the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts. Jack Carter is Macbeth."

Like Miss Thompson and the absent Kanter, Carter was a light-skinned mulatto. All three actors, in fact, had to wear make-up on stage to darken their complexions. Carter's tastes ran to bespoke shoes, custom-made English suits, and alcohol. Too much alcohol. Drinking had driven him into an early retirement after Porgy. Orson was determined from the get-go that the talented and popular Carter would play Macbeth, however, and the director's persistent coaxing finally landed the actor.

"Pleased to meet you," Carter greeted Chinaman, the pink of courtesy. "You know, we don't get the opportunity to meet many strangers at rehearsals. How did you manage to wrangle an invitation out of Orson here?"

Chinaman blushed but said nothing, and was saved by Miss Thompson's brief, "Hello," then, "Orson, I have to talk to you about the goats."

"Don't worry, Edna. They'll be out of your way soon."

"That's my point. Some of the girls in the cast, myself included, would rather not watch the butchering."

"All right. Go down to the dressing rooms and I'll let you know when Abdul is finished with the sacrifice."

"But we'd still hear the poor things bleating."

"So what would you have me do, Edna?"

"I'd just as soon you not have them slaughtered at all. You should see their eyes, Orson. They're so cute. One of them looks like you."

Welles didn't seem to know if Miss Thompson was complimenting him or insulting the goat.

"We need the goat skins if we're going to have authentic voodoo drums," he said. "Authenticity is essential. You can understand that."

"Certainly. But do we have to remain in the theatre and listen while those animals are having their throats slit?" Miss Thompson shivered.

"You want to leave? The theatre? You and the cast?"

"Only some of the women. Well, there were a couple of men who mentioned to me that they would prefer giving up their seats."

"We're starting a long rehearsal tonight. You all knew that!" Orson was not at all happy. "I can't have half my cast running around loose right now. Edna, please!"

Before she could speak, Carter put in his two cents. "Now, Orson, the stage is going to be occupied while Abdul and his friends make the Lafayette into an abattoir. Where is the harm if the cast takes a couple of hours to get themselves in the right frame of mind for the long row ahead?"

"You mean let them get tanked up at the nearest joint, Jack Carter, that's what you mean." That was precisely what Carter meant, but Welles knew he had lost this argument.

Orson went to the orchestra pit, followed by Houseman, where the two men prattled for a few moments with the Africans. It reminded me of a players' conference at the pitcher's mound. Coming to an agreement, the director and producer took over center stage and called for everyone's attention. The cast and crew listened while Welles announced that anyone not interested in watching the goats sacrificed may leave the Lafayette until midnight.

"By that time Abdul assures me he will have completed the ritual and the goats shall be skinned. But be forewarned." Here Orson seemed to slip out of his director's character and into Lamont Cranston, the hero he played once a week on The Shadow radio series, somehow getting his voice to sound as if he were whispering into a bucket. For added effect he tucked in his chin so his forehead blocked the overhead lights and cast his eyes in shadows. "As professional actors I will hold each and every one of you accountable for your actions. Any of you who do not return by the stroke of midnight, or who do so in an inebriated condition, will find yourself in a predicament like Cinderella's. That is to say, you will be unceremoniously sacked, which will put you one rung lower than the goats if you stop to think about it. That's all. I'll see you at the witching hour."

Welles exorcised Cranston and led Houseman away to other matters. I decided take advantage of Chinaman's presence and grabbed him by the arm to lead him out to the lobby.

"Look," I said, "I'm stuck with you here, so I want you to do some good for once."

"Your gratitude has always been my remuneration, Mr. Winters."

"Yeah. Right. Listen, I have some business to attend to downtown. You may have noticed that our protesters do not react kindly to Orson. He should be safe inside the theatre, but I want you to keep an eye on him. Make sure he never steps foot outside of the Lafayette until I get back. Can you do that?"

"As you request. And when should I expect you to return?"

"Oh, jeez, not until after midnight. Good God, I don't want to see those poor goats with their guts spilled out all over the stage. Ugh! Icky!"