Tinseltown: Murder, Morphine, and Madness at the Dawn of Hollywood Read online

  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.