DEDICATION
FOR MY FATHER, WILLIAM H. MANN, 1925–2013
EPIGRAPH
There’s something wrong at Hollywood
The cause, O let us seek!
There’s something wrong at Hollywood
No scandal yet this week.
—LOUISVILLE (KY) TIMES, February 22, 1922
CONTENTS
DEDICATION
EPIGRAPH
PREAMBLE TO INTRIGUE
PROLOGUE: A COLD MORNING IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA
Part One: SUSPECTS, MOTIVES, AND CIRCUMSTANCES
Chapter 1A MAN CALLED CREEPY
Chapter 2BABYLON
Chapter 3THREE DESPERATE DAMES
Chapter 4THE ORATOR
Chapter 5A RACE TO THE TOP
Chapter 6MABEL
Chapter 7GIBBY
Chapter 8MARY
Chapter 9RIVALS AND THREATS
Chapter 10GOOD-TIME GIRL
Chapter 11LOCUSTS
Chapter 12THE MADDEST WOMAN
Chapter 13IMPUDENT THINGS
Chapter 14DOPE FIENDS
Chapter 15GREATER THAN LOVE
Chapter 16THE SEX THRILL
Chapter 17PRYING EYES
Chapter 18SO THIS IS WHAT IS GOING ON
Chapter 19FIVE THOUSAND FEET OF IMMORALITY
Chapter 20BUNCO BABE
Chapter 21AMONG THE LIONS
Chapter 22DEPRAVITY
Chapter 23QUESTIONS OF LOYALTY
Chapter 24A CLUSTER OF CALAMITIES
Chapter 25A PRODUCT OF THE GUTTERS
Chapter 26RIDING FOR A FALL
Chapter 27BAD CHECKS
Chapter 28THE HIGHEST POSSIBLE STANDARDS
Chapter 29ON EDGE
Chapter 30A WORK SO IMPORTANT
Chapter 31A GHASTLY STRAIN
Chapter 32A HOUSE IN THE HILLS
Chapter 33LAST DAY
Chapter 34A SHOT
Part Two: HUNTING, HUSTLING, AND HIDING
Chapter 35THE DEAD MAN ON THE FLOOR
Chapter 36REACTIONS
Chapter 37KING OF THE COPS
Chapter 38THE MORAL FAILURES OF ONE CONCERN
Chapter 39“DO YOU THINK THAT I KILLED MR. TAYLOR?”
Chapter 40POWDER BURNS
Chapter 41EVIDENCE FOUND
Chapter 42DAMES EVEN MORE DESPERATE
Chapter 43THE NEED FOR VIGILANCE
Chapter 44TAKING HIM FOR A FOOL
Chapter 45MR. HAYS GOES TO WORK
Chapter 46THE MORBIDLY CURIOUS
Chapter 47HER OWN BOSS
Chapter 48NO TIME TO TALK
Chapter 49A GREAT INJUSTICE HAS BEEN DONE
Chapter 50A QUESTION OF MOTIVES
Chapter 51A COMPANY OF OUTLAWS
Chapter 52THE SAVIOR
Chapter 53THE SKY’S THE LIMIT
Chapter 54THE SPIRITS SPEAK
Chapter 55LAST CHANCE
Chapter 56EVIDENCE MISSING
Chapter 57TRIGGER HAPPY
Chapter 58A COLD-BLOODED BUSINESS
Chapter 59NO HAPPY ENDINGS
Chapter 60RAISING CAPITAL
Chapter 61A NEW MAN ON THE JOB
Chapter 62UNFAIR COMPETITION
Chapter 63TRAPPED LIKE RATS
Chapter 64COMING OUT OF HIDING
Chapter 65THE END OF THE ROAD
Chapter 66READJUSTMENTS
Chapter 67UNEXPECTED DEVELOPMENTS
Chapter 68MANHUNT
Part Three: CLOSING THE CASE
Chapter 69THREE DAMES NO LONGER SO DESPERATE
Chapter 70END OF AN ERA
Chapter 71“WE ARE MAKING REAL PROGRESS”
EPILOGUE: A CONFESSION
WHAT HAPPENED TO EVERYONE ELSE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
NOTES
INDEX
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PHOTOGRAPHIC INSERT
ALSO BY WILLIAM J. MANN
CREDITS
COPYRIGHT
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
PREAMBLE TO INTRIGUE
This is the story of a murder, of a single soft-nosed bullet that traveled upward through a man’s rib cage, piercing his lung and lodging in his neck, after being fired by an unknown assailant ninety-two years ago on a cold Los Angeles night.
This is also the story of three beautiful, ambitious women, all of whom loved the victim and any of whom might have been his killer, or the reason he was killed. It is also the story of one very powerful man, who saw the future of a very profitable industry hanging in the balance and kept the truth about the murder obscured and camouflaged for nearly a century.
In many ways, this is also the story of the American dream factory, which was just being born in 1920—a time when the movies were still young and their power still taking people by surprise. It is the story of the clash between old and new, between tradition and innovation, between those who would have censored the movies and their facility to spread new ideas and those who were determined to bring about a new world of freedom, technology, power, and illusion.
I have not fictionalized these events. All scenes described come from primary sources: letters, telegrams, police reports, production records, FBI files, and contemporary news accounts. Nothing has been created for the sake of enhancing the drama, and I do not venture unbidden into the minds of my subjects. When I write “How terribly she missed him” or “Zukor seethed,” these descriptions are based on interviews or memoirs by the subject in question, wherein such feelings, attitudes, or motivations were disclosed or can be deduced. Anything within quotations comes from direct sources. Full citations can be found in the notes.
And in a nod to 1920s orthography, clue is herein spelled clew.
—WJM, New York
PROLOGUE
A COLD MORNING IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA
FEBRUARY 2, 1922
6:20 A.M.
Headlights punctured the early-morning darkness of the coastal highway between Los Angeles and Ventura. As the Pacific Ocean crashed against the beach, a solitary motorcar sped up the highway in the northbound lane.
Streaks of pink lightened the sky as the vehicle emerged from the shadows—an expensive touring car, its leather top folded down. Traveling at a dizzying speed—perhaps as fast as sixty miles an hour—the car likely originated in Los Angeles, where such flashy automobiles were popular among the movie people.
By the time it reached Ventura, the roadster was thirsty for fuel. As the sun peeked above the treetops of the coniferous forest surrounding the little town, the vehicle pulled off the highway and into a filling station. Dozing inside his office, the attendant opened his eyes to spot a shiny car idling beside the pumps. He was surprised to see that the driver was a woman, and a beautiful one at that, wearing an evening dress and a fur coat. Her hair was in disarray from the wind.
“Give me all the gasoline and oil my car will take,” the woman told the attendant when he hurried to her side. Her face was pale and drawn, and the attendant saw her biting at the fingertips of her gloves. As he filled the car’s tank, he thought the woman seemed “anxious and restless to be on her way.”
Having paid with a bill, the driver screeched out of the station without waiting for change. The attendant stared after her. The incident was unusual enough that he made a mental note of all the details, just in case someone came asking.
Someone would.
Six miles up the road, another motorist, this one heading south, spotted the speeding car. As the two vehicles neared each other, the second driver became alarmed. The touring car was heading directly at him, its driver seeming
ly oblivious to his presence. Finally, at the last possible moment, the southbound driver veered off the road as the touring car zoomed past in a cloud of dust.
Not once did the woman at the wheel look back. She continued at breakneck speed, her hair flying in the wind, toward her northern destination.
That was, if she had any destination at all.
7:00 A.M.
If he hadn’t hurried, Henry Peavey might have been late, and today of all days he didn’t want to disappoint his employer. Peavey’s workday officially began at seven thirty, but he’d gotten an early start this morning because he had an extra stop to make. Mr. Taylor, who suffered from frequent heartburn, had asked his faithful valet to pick up a bottle of milk of magnesia for him on his way to work. Peavey paid for such purchases out of his own money, and Mr. Taylor always reimbursed him. No receipt was ever necessary. Mr. Taylor would simply ask how much Peavey had “spent to keep him comfortable” and then gratefully hand over the amount in cash.
Such an arrangement would have made it easy to pull some fast ones on Mr. Taylor, but his valet wasn’t likely to engage in such shenanigans. Until coming to work for Mr. Taylor, Peavey had lived a rather hardscrabble life. As valet to William Desmond Taylor, one of the leading film directors in Hollywood, Peavey had landed a very good gig. He wasn’t about to jeopardize that—especially not after everything he and Mr. Taylor had been through these past few days.
Hurrying out of his $5-a-week lodging house on East Third Street, Peavey sashayed down the block to the Owl Drug at the corner of Fifth and Los Angeles Streets. Henry Peavey, it must be understood, never walked anywhere. He swished; he swayed; he swung his hips. At the Owl Drug, he traipsed through the aisles of elixirs and syrups, his many scarves fluttering, his hands in constant motion. At the counter he paid $1 for the blue magnesia bottle and a handful of peppermints.
Medium height, slightly overweight, Henry Peavey would turn forty years old in a month’s time, but he looked younger. He possessed a certain je ne sais quoi, a love of life that was entirely his own. He wore bold ties and colorful knickers with striped socks. If he was sometimes the object of stares on the trolley or catcalls on the street, Peavey didn’t care. When someone called him a name, he was apt to spin around, arms akimbo, and sass them right back.
The trolley ride to the fashionable Westlake district, where Mr. Taylor lived, took only a few minutes. Clutching the bottle of milk of magnesia inside his coat, Peavey stepped off the running board and braced himself against the chilly air. Temperatures had been in the low forties at five o’clock that morning and hadn’t risen much in the last couple of hours. Peavey hurried past the Mission Revival houses that lined Alvarado Street. No, he definitely did not want to be late to work today. Not after all Mr. Taylor was doing for him.
The valet’s troubles had begun several days earlier, after leaving Mr. Taylor’s house at the usual time, an hour or so after sunset. As he sometimes did when he was feeling a little frisky, Peavey had wandered down the block to Westlake Park instead of hopping back on the trolley to Third Street. There, an undercover policeman had appeared as if out of nowhere. The Los Angeles Police Department didn’t like Negroes in the park, let alone Negro queens wearing loud clothes making passes at other men. Cruising the parks was one of the very few options for gay men looking to meet each other, especially gay men of limited means like Henry Peavey. But such fraternization was actively discouraged by the LAPD, and so Peavey had been hauled down to the station, where he’d been booked on charges of vagrancy.
It was Mr. Taylor—dear, shining, sterling Mr. Taylor—who’d put up bail, and who’d promised to appear in police court this afternoon on his valet’s behalf. Peavey hoped that Judge Joseph Chambers might look a little more leniently on him with a man of Mr. Taylor’s reputation standing beside him. After all, Mr. Taylor was one of the most important movie men in America, the head of the Motion Picture Directors Association. His newest film—aptly titled Morals—was playing in theaters all across the country. If Mr. Taylor requested it, the judge might reduce the charges against Peavey. He might even dismiss them altogether.
In his many years of service, Peavey had “worked for a lot of men,” he’d say, “but Mr. Taylor was the most wonderful of all of them.” Certainly he felt fortunate that a man like William Desmond Taylor was standing up for him now, in Peavey’s time of need, and after only six months on the job. Some bosses wouldn’t do half as much for employees who’d given them many years of loyal service. But Mr. Taylor was a man among men, Peavey had come to believe.
Shortly before seven thirty, he arrived at Alvarado Court, the complex of eight semiclassical structures on the corner of Maryland Street, where his employer lived. Each building was divided into two duplex apartments, with pyramidal hipped roofs capping the white stucco facades. Boxwoods grew outside each apartment, and in the center of the courtyard, behind a line of date palms, an unfinished white-marble-columned pergola reflected the pink morning sun.
Walking through the courtyard, Peavey passed the homes of several other movie people. On his left was the bungalow of Edna Purviance, frequently Charlie Chaplin’s leading lady, most recently in the smash hit The Kid. Directly in front of him, at the end of the courtyard, resided Douglas MacLean, a popular actor Mr. Taylor had directed in two films costarring Mary Pickford, the biggest star in Hollywood. Less than a year ago, Peavey had arrived penniless on the train from San Francisco. Now he stood on the edge of a very glamorous world.
Reaching the last unit on the left side of the courtyard, number 404B, Peavey hurried up the three shallow steps to the door. As he did every morning, he retrieved the rolled newspaper from the stoop. The milkman had left a bottle of milk, but for now Peavey let it be; he had his hands full with the paper and the magnesia, and he needed to prop open the screen door with his shoulder as he fumbled for his key.
Suddenly it occurred to Peavey that something wasn’t quite right. As he slipped the key into the lock, he noticed that all of the lights in the apartment were blazing. Was Mr. Taylor already up? Had he been reading all night? Peavey knew this sometimes happened. As a busy director, Mr. Taylor never had enough time to keep up with his reading. Not long before, he’d gestured toward a pile of books and told Peavey in a weary voice, “I’ve got to read all these.” Such were the demands placed on important men, Peavey understood.
Putting aside his concerns, Peavey pushed open the front door and prepared for his usual morning routine. He would draw Mr. Taylor’s bath and give him a couple of spoonfuls of milk of magnesia, then fix his breakfast of two soft-boiled eggs, toast, and a glass of orange juice while his employer was soaking. But as soon as the valet got the door open and glanced inside the apartment, Peavey realized he’d been right to feel uneasy.
He saw Mr. Taylor’s feet.
Peering farther into the room, Peavey saw his employer lying on the floor, flat on his back, parallel to his writing desk. His feet were maybe a yard from the door, and his arms were straight at his side. Mr. Taylor was fully dressed in jacket, waistcoat, and tie; he was still wearing his shoes from the night before.
“Mr. Taylor?” Peavey asked.
At the sound of his valet’s voice, Mr. Taylor did not stir. He seemed almost stonelike.
“Mr. Taylor?” Peavey asked again.
That was when he noticed the blood under his employer’s head.
Henry Peavey screamed. The bottle of magnesia slipped from his hands and smashed on the steps as he turned and ran.
Peavey’s screams woke the neighbors. Up and down Alvarado Court, lights went on and window shades snapped up. People looked down into the courtyard to see Mr. Taylor’s valet running about like a madman, crying and waving his arms.
Later, it would be said that all of Los Angeles heard Peavey’s screams that morning—indeed, that his screams reached across the country and beyond. For the murder of William Desmond Taylor and the hunt for his killer would launch an odyssey of greed, ambition, envy, desire, betrayal, accusat
ion, heartbreak, intrigue, triumph, and revenge. And when it was finally over, Hollywood—and the world it had already begun to shape so profoundly—would never be the same.
But somewhere many miles north, a beautiful woman in an expensive automobile heard nothing at all. She may still have been driving like lightning even then, putting as many miles as possible between herself and Los Angeles. Or she may finally have stopped, pulling over to the side of the road and slumping over the wheel, running her fingers through her windswept hair and glancing up at her bloodshot eyes in the rearview mirror.
At some point she turned the car around and headed back toward home.
PART ONE
SUSPECTS, MOTIVES, AND CIRCUMSTANCES
CHAPTER 1
A MAN CALLED CREEPY
SIXTEEN MONTHS EARLIER
Like a cat, the little man with the unblinking eyes moved through the corridors of his company headquarters on New York’s Fifth Avenue, fleet of foot and all ears. His employees, clustered around file cabinets or taking refuge in stockrooms, didn’t hear him approach. They just turned around, midsentence, and there he was, his beady black eyes fixed upon them. Standing just five feet four, their boss had a narrow face, a sharp nose, and eyes one colleague would describe as “long like an Indian chief’s.” His name was Adolph Zukor, and he was president of the world’s largest and most influential film studio, Famous Players–Lasky.
But his employees called him Creepy.
On the morning of Thursday, September 2, 1920, the forty-seven-year-old movie chief watched silently as his staff scurried back to work. Rarely did Zukor speak to his underlings. He communicated mostly through a glance, a stare, a frown. When he did utter words, his voice was soft, precise, and deliberate. Today, as always, Zukor wore an expensive but understated bespoke suit and a gold pocket watch. He enjoyed conjuring an illusion of old money, though the cauliflower ear on his left side suggested rougher, more humble beginnings.
Soundlessly Zukor made his way to the elevator, where the operator knew better than to speak to the boss unbidden. The only sound as they ascended eight floors was the low metallic creaking of gears and pulleys.
Tinseltown: Murder, Morphine, and Madness at the Dawn of Hollywood Page 1