textfiles/magazines/TAYLOROLOGY/taylor27.txt

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*                         T A Y L O R O L O G Y                             *
*  A Continuing Exploration of the Life and Death of William Desmond Taylor *
*                                                                           *
*  Issue 27 -- March 1995       Editor: Bruce Long           bruce@asu.edu  *
*                   TAYLOROLOGY may be freely distributed                   *
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                            CONTENTS OF THIS ISSUE:
                            Juanita Hansen, Part II
                       Wallace Smith:  February 24, 1922
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                             What is TAYLOROLOGY?
TAYLOROLOGY is a newsletter focusing on the life and death of William Desmond
Taylor, a top Paramount film director in early Hollywood who was shot to
death on February 1, 1922. His unsolved murder was one of Hollywood's major
scandals.  This newsletter will deal with: (a) The facts of Taylor's life;
(b) The facts and rumors of Taylor's murder; (c) The impact of the Taylor
murder on Hollywood and the nation; (d) Taylor's associates and the Hollywood
silent film industry in which Taylor worked. Primary emphasis will be given
toward reprinting, referencing and analyzing source material, and sifting it
for accuracy.
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                            Juanita Hansen, Part II

Here is the conclusion of silent film star Juanita Hansen's compelling
account of her battle against drug addiction, originally published in 1923.

                                                      April 5 - April 12, 1923
                                                                Juanita Hansen
                                                             NEW YORK AMERICAN
                                    Part 8
                                       
     BLACKMAIL!
     Now, I was to find out the full meaning of the word blackmail.
Experience was my bitter teacher.
     A few days after my precipitate break with the grasping peddler--my only
dope "connection" in New York--Uncle Sam's mail brought a letter to my
apartment.  I did not recognize the scrawling handwriting.
     I opened it.  As I remember, it read (and I am rendering it grammatical):
     "I cannot understand why you have not been to see me.  I am holding candy
for you?  See (C) what I mean?"  (Note--"C," of course, stood for cocaine.)
     The note continued;
     "I expect to hear from you."
     This curious communication was signed "T."
     A few days ago I had received another of these epistles.  I had paid no
heed to the first.  The second read:
     "You probably have forgotten your indebtedness of $150 to me.  I wish to
hear from you and am still holding the package.  T."
     Probably two days later came a third communication:
     "Why haven't you phoned me?  Why haven't you been to see me?  What do you
intend to do about this money?  I need it and intend to get it!  You cannot
leave me like this.  You know that I depended on you.  this is the last time
I'm going to write this kind of letter.
     "Send me some money.  T."
     Of course I owed this man nothing.  His demand was a trumped up ruse to
get me in his power again.  The next letter showed this.  This communication
capped the climax for me.
     "You have not called me and I have written several times.  Do you intend
to pay me or not?  Or do you want me to see your manager?  I want my money!
Guess you don't want your whole studio to know."
     Now he was in the open.
     Blackmail!
     That very night I got Mr. T. on the telephone.  I intended to call his
bluff, though in my heart of hearts I was afraid.  I knew he couldn't stand
investigation.  I knew he wouldn't do anything himself.  But he could cause me
a lot of trouble by sending anonymous letters to my studio.  So I called his
bluff.  On the phone I said:
     "You may not think anything of your life but I think something of mine.
Now, if you want to end behind the bars, you just keep up writing these
letters and I'll put you there!"
     A cringing note crept into his voice.  I think now for the first time he
realized his once Easy Mark would and could fight.  I told him:
     "I don't want ever to see you and I don't want you ever to communicate
with me again."
     I hung up.  I never heard from him again.  I heard of him, however.  This
same man is the peddler I told you of, now spending his time in the Federal
Penitentiary in Atlanta, Ga.
     During this period I had established a new agreement.
     The quarrel with Mr. T. had set my head reeling.  The day I walked out of
his office I knew the cocaine was slowly devouring the very best that was in
me.  I MUST give it up; I WOULD give it up.  That was my one thought when I
walked raging from the peddler's apartment.
     My repeated efforts to cut down had always failed.  Somehow I just
couldn't do without it.
     When I left T.'s apartment I wondered where I would make another dope
deal.
     I went home and complained to my maid and my secretary of not feeling
well.  My secretary well knew by this time that I was using narcotics.  She
wanted me to see a doctor.  I had lost faith in doctors.  I had resolved never
to consult one again, and I told her so.  She said:
     "Juanita, you had just as well tell me yourself, because I know what you
are doing.  You know that only love prompts me when I tell you that you must
see a doctor.  You can't go on in this way; you just can't!  I have been to
see a doctor, and he can help you.  Won't you let me take you to him?"
     It was the first time any one associated with me, outside the fraternity
itself, had spoken to me about narcotics.  This was a subject I never wished
to discuss.  It was my secret and I always intended it should be.
     But somehow that particular night I was willing to listen to advice.
I sort of felt I needed someone to take the reins out of my hands.  Yes, I
would try to believe in a doctor once more.
     This doctor I hoped would be different.
     That same night my secretary and I drove down to see the doctor.  He is
one of New York's best known physicians.
     I was rather reluctant in telling him everything, but you know you must
tell your doctor everything if you wish him to help you.  When I told him the
maximum amount I took every day--twenty grains of morphine and an eighth of an
ounce of cocaine--he fairly gasped.
     "IMPOSSIBLE!"
     Then he questioned regarding where I was getting my stuff, whether it was
pure or not, and all the usual questions physicians ask.  I told him I had
lost my cocaine "connection," but I had half an ounce of morphine.  Very
emphatically I told him:
     "I must have cocaine!  I must have cocaine!"
     Then the impossible happened.  At least I had always thought it
impossible.  My doctor said he would see that I got my precious dope!
     Eureka!
     If I must have my dope, he would see that I got the pure narcotic--no
more of this doctored-up peddler's stuff.
     At last, "luck" was with me!
     Actually thinking myself in luck shows how morally cross-eyed dope can
make you.


                                    Part 9
                                       
     The doctor kept his word all right.
     I got my cocaine.
     The doctor introduced me to a man.  Who he was or what he was I was never
able to find out.  But I was content to get pure cocaine at last "without
asking any questions."  This cocaine bore the label of one of our largest
wholesale drug companies.
     I purchased for the first time pure morphine and pure cocaine.  Indeed,
it was wonderful for me to get the pure narcotic, but I paid an awful price.
By this I mean it almost caused my death.  For I took an overdose.
     One cannot tell by looking at the narcotic whether it is fifty, seventy-
five or one hundred per cent pure.  It all looks the same.  The narcotic that
crosses our borders, undoubtedly, when first brought into this country is
pure. But by the time it has changed hands, perhaps twenty times before
finally reaching the addict consumer, what other ingredients the narcotic
contains God alone only knows.
     Take, for example, a man purchasing twenty ounces.  Out of the twenty,
why should he not make twenty-five?  This process is very simple, if the
original narcotic is in powder form.  This is especially true of heroin, which
is usually in powder form.
     Perhaps of the twenty-five ounces the wholesaler will sell ten to another
peddler, probably a wholesaler on a smaller scale.  Now, this small wholesaler
decides he will make fifteen ounces out of ten by adding sugar or milk or one
of fifteen other ingredients having the same appearance as the drug.
     Now this lesser wholesaler, let's say, will divide these fifteen ounces
among three or perhaps four peddlers.  Take, for example, one peddler who
purchases three ounces.  Of three ounces surely he can make at least four.
Perhaps you think I am exaggerating when I tell you that each transaction not
only means a considerable profit, but the temptation to fool the next
purchaser is something that is very hard to resist.
     So you can readily understand by the time this original narcotic, labeled
"pure," has changed hands at least half a dozen times, it reaches the addict
far from pure.
     As I stated above, one cannot tell by the tone or the looks of the thing
itself what it contains.  Only the taking of the narcotic will prove that.
     Years ago, when you were able to purchase narcotics at any corner drug
store for the asking, I am sure that overdoses and deaths caused by narcotics
were not nearly so frequent.  For example:
     An addict becomes accustomed, or perhaps even forms a habit, of taking a
certain quantity, which he places in a spoon in the little water to "cook," if
he takes it hypodermically; or if he takes it through his nostrils, he forms
the habit of taking a certain amount on the end of a nail file or a pen-knife.
     You can readily understand, if the addict has been taking a narcotic that
is 60 per cent pure and finds he needs a certain amount for his dose, it is
very easy for him to take an overdose--if he is fortunate enough to get a pure
narcotic, 100 per cent pure.  No dealer or peddler ever tells you the narcotic
he sells is anything but 100 per cent pure.  Mr. Peddler will always tell you
that he handles the finest stuff that can be purchased, and Mr. Addict always
takes his word for it.
     In the first part of this article I spoke of taking an overdose myself.
This was due to the quality of the cocaine I was "fortunate" enough to secure
through the doctor above mentioned.  He himself had told me he would see that
I got pure cocaine, and he most assuredly kept his word!
     One afternoon, about four o'clock, I was preparing to go to Atlantic City
to attend a house party.  My maid had packed my bag, and my car had been sent
over from the garage.  Perhaps four or five people were in my apartment at the
time--two prominent film players, a well-known portrait painter and a very
prominent author were among those present.
     They may all have had their suspicions that I was using narcotics, but I
have told you this was a secret I always tried hard to hide.  None of my
guests ever used narcotics, so far as I know.  From the day I became an addict
I had sworn never to attend parties with addicts or associate socially with
any one who used drugs.
     If I had to use narcotics, I would use them alone.
     Was this a sin or a virtue?  I wonder!
     At least, I am grateful I never have forged another link binding a new
victim to the devil's chain, which usually is a result of "parties."
     This particular afternoon I speak of, when I took my first overdose,
I was dressed for motoring--my bag was packed, my car was waiting.  But before
making my departure I excused myself and entered the bathroom.  I prepared a
"shot" with the usual amount of cocaine that I had been accustomed to taking
of "Mr. Peddler's stuff," never giving a thought to the fact the doctor had
warned me that this cocaine was pure.
     The result:
     Within a very few minutes, I was "out."  I fell on the floor of the
bathroom unconscious.  I remained unconscious for twenty minutes.
     My guests became alarmed at my long absence and one of the girls entered
the bathroom to ascertain what was detaining me.  I was unconscious, with the
hypodermic syringe still in one hand.  Of course, I do not remember all that
happened.
     But they summoned my secretary and my maid and called a doctor--not my
physician, but the hotel doctor.  He was bending over me when I finally was
aroused from my stupor.
     I cannot find words to express my humiliation when I realized what had
happened and that those present in my apartment at the time all knew MY
SECRET.
     My mind was in a whirl.  It seemed I had come to the end of things.
     I DID NOT GO TO ATLANTIC CITY.
     My guests were kind enough and thoughtful enough to save me a great deal
of embarrassment by leaving me alone.  After they had left, to myself I
thought this must be the end of everything.  Now the whole world would know my
secret!  WHAT WAS THE USE OF GOING ON?
     I could not give up narcotics, and I couldn't live or work without them.
I am sure I regretted that I ever came to that day.
     For two days I remained home abed.  I refused to answer the phone or see
any one that called.  But on Monday morning I was off to the studio to carry
on my work.
     At this particular time I speak of I had lost considerable weight.
I only weighed 115 pounds.
     Every day at the studio for the next two months I was a woman alive, yet
a woman dead!  I had become a mere automaton, just going through the motions.
     How I ever carried on my work I have often wondered, merely kept alive by
the stimulant I was taking.  Do not think that my doctor approved of this, for
he thought it was criminal that any woman should be compelled to work in the
condition that I was in at that time.  All my life revolved around MY WORK.
I must FINISH THE PRODUCTION!
     I fought time and time again against purposely taking an overdose, for I
was tired of it all; but I believed so firmly and I knew I would have to work
out this curse of narcotics, if not on this plane of existence, it would be on
another.  Death, of my own volition, would not help me.
     Life to me was simply work, studio, home, studio again, an endless round.
     Then, one evening, in his office, my doctor said:
     "Juanita, you will not live another month at the rate you are going!  If
you wish to live, you will have to give up this cocaine."
     I laughed in his face.  I needed cocaine to keep me awake, and I needed
morphine to put me to sleep, and I surely couldn't work when I was asleep and
the "PRETENDER'S HEALTH," which cocaine gave me, enabled me to WORK.
     The same doctor urged me, begged me to leave the studio and go to a
sanitarium where he could give me a cure with the proper care and attention,
otherwise my life was limited to one month!
     ONE MONTH TO LIVE!  That was my death sentence.

                                    Part 10
                                       
     The doctor had pronounced his sentence.
     One month in which to live.!
     I had been given my sentence, but I would prove that it would never be
carried out.  Live only another month?  Well, I would show them all!
     I had three months still in which to finish my contract.  I must finish
the production.
     To do this would take two months.  The doctor was very kind to me and I
might even say patient.  For I really became unreasonable.  I knew that it was
an impossibility to attempt a cure under the conditions that confronted me.
     Every day I seemed to be growing weaker.  The change was now very
noticeable.  My cheeks were very sunken and I had lost a great deal more
weight.  I weighed probably 105 pounds.
     I will never forget the day I finished the production--three weeks before
my contract expired with this Eastern firm.  The very day I finished my last
scene, all trunks had been packed, my apartment I had given up, and with my
doctor, secretary and a friend, I left for up-State.
     Once more I attempted a cure!
     We drove for probably two hours in a limousine.  This was in December,
1920.  Our destination was a sanitarium located on the hills overlooking the
Hudson.
     We were received by Dr. X, rather an elderly man, who seemed very kind
but very stern.  I afterwards found out that this doctor's word was law.  He
was the captain, the sole commanding officer of this sanitarium.
     I was immediately shown to a little suite upstairs.  My day nurse
undressed and put me to bed.  This was the beginning of the cure for morphine
addiction.
     I must explain here that one month previous to this I had voluntarily
given up cocaine.
     My doctor had urged me so many times and begged me so many times to give
up cocaine.  He tried to convince me that it was possible to give up this
particular narcotic if I was strong enough in will and desire.  Believe me, he
did not convince me in a day.
     Cocaine is not a necessity.  Morphine becomes part of you.  No person
with any intelligence on the subject of narcotics will ever advise one to lay
aside morphine or heroin instantaneously.  But cocaine is entirely different.
With determination and strong will power, cocaine can be given up very easily.
     One evening, after I had finished my work, about 6 o'clock, I went down
to see my physician.  I remember we had a long talk that night.  I was in the
mood to talk, rather unusual for me.
     Narcotics had taken such a strong hold on me that it seemed useless for
me to try and give it up.  So when my doctor attempted for the ninth time to
persuade me to give up cocaine, I guess he was too surprised when I said
suddenly:
     "What makes you believe it is possible for me to give up cocaine?  My
repeated efforts have failed.  It is impossible!"
     His answer was quite convincing:
     "Young lady, if you sincerely wish to break away from the destructive
power of cocaine, I will show you how.  It all rests with you."
     He outlined the following plan.  I was to make up my mind completely that
I was through with cocaine--get that into my consciousness--firmly believe it.
I was to give him, that very night, every grain of cocaine I had.
     If I would agree to do this, he would be within my call the entire next
day.  I was to keep up with my morphine, however.  He did not urge me to
attempt giving that up while working.
     I agreed to this plan.  We made a bargain.  The next morning I got out of
bed, knowing that I had no cocaine and remembering my promise of the night
before, I said to myself:
     "Juanita, you haven't any cocaine.  You are through with it."
     The plan I had entered into was a success.
     I dressed myself for the first time in months without the aid of cocaine!
I went to the studio!  I worked all day.
     I can't say I had no desire for it, but I worked so hard I didn't have
much time to think it over.  That night I reported to the doctor.  He was
delighted.
     This was the end of cocaine, for the time being.  For three weeks I
continued to work, very, very hard, and I never touched cocaine!
     The doctor was right in this instance.
     Now, at last, I had reached the sanitarium for my morphine cure.  To be
cured of taking twenty grains a day.
     The cure:  Reduction.
     I wish to make the statement right here:
     There is no successful reduction cure.
     I do not know of one successful cure accomplished by this plan.  I do say
that you can reduce considerably the amount of narcotics you may be accustomed
to taking, but you cannot take the drug entirely away by the reduction
process.
     However, it cost me $2,500 to find this out!
     The doctor I had brought with me from New York talked with the doctor in
charge of the sanitarium for perhaps an hour.  He then came upstairs to see
me.  I had brought the doctor with me from New York because I had confidence
in him.  He had agreed to stay with me at least three or four days, until I
really was well on the way to my hoped-for cure.
     This hope was blasted.  After his talk with the doctor downstairs, he
came up to tell me that he had decided to go back to New York, that Dr. X
would have sole charge.  When I asked why, he answered:
     "I feel Dr. X is as capable as I in handling your case."
     To my mind, neither of them knew very much about narcotic cases.  Yet the
"cure" was to cost $2,500.
     I remained three weeks in this sanitarium.  The first week I was in bed
all the time.  The second week I was able to sit up, perhaps an hour a day.
The last week, I rapidly regained my strength and was allowed to take short
walks.  During the first week at the sanitarium, I asked Dr. X what sort of a
cure they intended to give me.  But that was his secret.
     I was given many pills and medicine, which was supposed to be part of the
cure.  I think most of the medicine consisted of harmless, sugar-coated pills.
Dr. X promised me, however, I would be taking pure water within three weeks in
my hypodermic.
     One day he sent a note up to my room, stating:
     "You have been taking aqua pura for seventy-two hours."
     The previous seventy-two hours I had been receiving my hypodermics every
few hours on scheduled time.  In fact, if my nurse was a little negligent,
I reminded her of the fact that it was time to have a shot.  Now, it can be
readily seen, that one's state of mind has a great deal to do with this.
     Imagine, asking for my hypodermics of aqua pura!
     Aqua pura for seventy-two hours, and I thought I was getting narcotics.
     True, I had been weaned from narcotics for seventy-two hours.  But merely
taking the narcotic away does not mean that a cure has been effected.
     Now I will tell you why this "cure" was a failure.  The pains in my
stomach kept up constantly.  The pains in my limbs were so intense that all
the massaging that two nurses could give me did not relieve.  Of course, my
appetite was much better, but I rested very poorly at night.
     I had gained quite a little in weight, and my general appearance was
considerably better.
     I left the sanitarium free from narcotics but not free from the terrible
curse that narcotic addiction of two years had stamped upon my whole physical
organism.
     I was not cured.
     I came back to New York.  I made final arrangements to leave for
California; but, before doing so, I went out looking for a "connection."  With
the assistance of the "pretender's health," I would be able to stand the long
journey ahead of me.
     I was going home.  That was all I could think of--home and mother.
     No matter in what condition, nor how, cure or no cure, I was going home.
If narcotics could help me get there, then I would use narcotics.


                                    Part 11
                                       
     As I told you in an earlier article, I had made up my mind to go home.
Two days in New York, after the REDUCTION "CURE" I have described, and I was
on a westbound train.
     However, It was only with the aid of narcotics that I was able to carry
out my plan.
     Do you think the drugs were easy to get?  Remember, I had lost my drugs
purveyor.  The doctor would not help me.  He really thought I was cured.  I
didn't dare ask him.  I have often wondered if this doctor really believed he
cured me.
     My "cure" was actually a failure!
     I needed more than the doctor's word to prove that I was cured.  The
pains in my limbs and the gnawing pain in my stomach told me another story.
My dope need remained.
     One false step; and I was right back on the stuff.
     I could not resist the temptation to say good-by to a girl member of the
"fraternity" of drug users.  She was happy at the sight of my, I was so
improved.  But when I told her of the long journey, and that I seemed to have
a continual craving, she said:
     "Better take a little stuff.  I've got some.  It's an awful long trip."
     I was not strong enough to resist her friendly proffer.  When I boarded
the train, I was fortified with a little "bindle" of heroin and a little
"bindle" of cocaine!  How I enjoyed the journey!
     California at last!
     My mother and daddy were there to meet me.  It was a guilty little girl
that embraced her mother so lovingly in the bustling Los Angeles station.
Never before in my life had I been so happy to see anyone as I was to see my
mother that day.
     You readers who are innocent or ignorant of the effects narcotics have on
the eyes, countenance and general appearance would never have been able to
tell I had gone back to the stuff.  But my mother I cannot fool.
     She, too, was very happy to see me.  I noticed a very sad look in her
eyes.  She said nothing--but in her eyes I could read everything.
     Not even with my mother would I ever discuss the subject of narcotics.
     I told you in a previous article that it probably would take several
weeks to acquire a real narcotic habit; but this is not true of an addict who
has been temporarily "cured."  It took me five days to reach California.
     FIVE DAYS--ANOTHER HABIT.
     Again the Devil had pulled me back and once more I was linked to his
chain!
     At this time I weighed about 115 pounds.
     My mother and daddy had just driven down from San Francisco.  They were
looking for a home.  In the meantime I lived at the Alexandria Hotel.  As much
as I wanted to live with my mother and daddy, I was afraid.  I had something
to hide.  Their temporarily unsuccessful efforts to find a home came as a
relief to me.
     I wanted to be ALONE!  A trait you will find in nearly all addicts.  It
isn't that you're afraid of people.
     It's just that you don't want them to know.
     My family did not locate for three months.  Then they took a pretty home,
a beautiful little bungalow.  They asked me to come home and live.  Oh, how
much I wanted to!
     But I didn't dare.  Then one day a surprise greeted me when I entered the
house.  I was told my entire family had discussed me and my secret.  Whether I
had attempted cures they did not know, but they told me they were going to
"take the reins."  My mother broke down and cried and pleaded:
     "My little girl must stop this thing."
     It almost broke my heart to hear my mother sob out my secret.  I was too
bewildered to answer.  My mother did not understand then as she does today.
She knew about as much about narcotics as I did the first night I went to a
"party."  She knew absolutely nothing.
     Still, it was only natural that she should think I could give up
narcotics just for the asking.  She did not understand.
     I moved home that very day.  But I had my "bindles" with me.  I had no
difficulty in finding a new purveyor in Los Angeles.
     For three or four days I lived at home.  They tried very hard to make me
happy.  But I was heartbroken.  The one I most loved in all the world was with
me, but she must never see me take narcotics.  And she never has!
     All of my intimate family, those who lived in my mother's home, were
interested in Christian Science.  Science was not unknown to me.
     In the surroundings of my mother's lovely home, and with all the love she
showered on me, I could not refuse to be treated when my mother requested it.
     My mother did not act hastily.
     For a few days she just sort of paved the way.  I can be coaxed into
walking many miles, my mother has often said.  But I can't be forced a foot.
She told me about a practitioner she had been to see.  Would I see him that
afternoon and tell him everything and let him try to help me?
     Of course, I would.  I would make one more attempt.
     It was a very kind, wonderful man who called that afternoon.  He was to
be my practitioner--the one who patiently watched and worked day and night
with me for more than three months.
     "Greater love hath no man than that he lay down his life for his friend."
     And for three long months, this man, my practitioner, laid down his life
for me.  I mean by this that he lived so unselfishly, with no thought of
himself or of his desires or joy--"he laid down his life" that I might live.
For, surely, my life for three months was held by a tiny thread.
     Surrounded by the love of my people, nurses and practitioner, three
months I spent in another attempt to break the chain.
     For three months I fought with just my belief in a Supreme Intelligent
Mind.
     For three months I suffered like my dear friend, Wally Reid.  He gave up
his life, but I feel he died a victor. [1]
     I am alive and I am telling my story, that I might warn you.
     That I did not sacrifice life itself I attribute to the faith and love
and patience of my Science practitioner and nurse.  To please my dear mother,
I would make another attempt--
     With my handbag and a few personal belongings, I entered a very pretty
little bungalow that radiated love.  It was a little white bungalow, with
pleasing green lawn and cute little veranda, on the outskirts of Los Angeles
half way to the beach.
     I had said good-by to my mother at noon.  My practitioner did not wish to
have my mother go with me to the "Science Home" as it was called.  I was
received by such a dear, sweet woman.  the atmosphere was adorable.  I felt
confident that at last I had found the place I had been looking for.
     If ever I was to break the Devil's chain, here was the place!
     This place was not at all like the other hospitals or sanitariums I had
been in.  It was just a little home, prettily furnished.
     Once more I must fight, fight, fight.
     I did.  I fought.  With all the determination of one who was on the verge
of despair, I FOUGHT.
     Before I entered my pretty little bedroom, furnished in ivory, with
little yellow and white curtains and yellow and white pillows, my practitioner
stopped me and said:
     "Now you may give me all the narcotics you have."
     I obeyed.  I gave him, reluctantly, what little morphine I had.  Also a
syringe and a couple of hypodermic needles.  Then he said:
     "You will never see these again.  Make up your mind, Juanita, you are
through with narcotics."
     I entered my room and went to bed.  He had given me the Science
Quarterly.  I had my Bible and my textbook.  He had told me to read my lesson
and talked to me kindly.  I was not afraid.
     I got through the first day all right.  I slept quite well the first
night.  However, the second day is written in my memory book so strongly I
shall never forget the torture, the agony, the horrible nerve strain.
     Again it seemed to me I had just reached the end of things.
     When would this thing stop?  Why should I live?  I wanted to die.
I shouted.  I screamed.  The treatment was not human!
     I wanted to arouse the world.  In this neighborhood where all seemed
peaceful, I wanted everyone to know a human soul was being tortured.  I tried
to fight my way out.  I succeeded finally in getting out of the house.  Three
persons could not hold me.
     I ran down the hill.  A few hundred yards.  I collapsed.  I fainted.
They carried me back.  Carefully, kindly, they put me in bed, alone in the
room.  I was conscious--yet not conscious.
     I heard voices in the next room.  How I managed to get out of bed and
walk in there I know not.  It took all my will, all my strength (where it came
from, God knows) but I walked into the next room, faced my practitioner and
nurse and exclaimed:
     "I want to get out of this place!"
     My practitioner said:
     "Oh, Juanita, be patient just a little while.  It is always darkest just
before dawn.  The Devil puts up the biggest bluff in the world, when he knows
he's about to be beaten.  If you could just find something to be grateful
for!"
     My reply was an outpouring against Fate.
     With that I turned and made my way back to my bedroom.
     Then a strange feeling came over me.  I looked out through the window.
The sun was shining brightly on the flowers, little yellow poppies, and the
pretty lawn.  Up in the tall eucalyptus trees I could hear the birds sing.
Then something seemed to catch hold of me.  I felt ashamed of my previous
impatience.  How I begged God to forgive me!
     PRAYER.
     TRUST.
     I could hear the birds sing.  And I could see the pretty flowers in the
garden.
     I rushed into the presence of my practitioner and exclaimed:
     "Oh, I have found something to be grateful for; Forgive me for what I
said.  For God is good."
     Two hours and then--
     PEACE.
     GOD'S PEACE.
     Two days and my craving was gone.
     But the pains were there to stay.  Words can never describe the torture--
for truly it was torture.  For three long weeks I never had a moment free from
pain!  Sleepless nights, all of them.  I had gotten so thin, my nurse said I
did not weigh more than ninety-six pounds.  Thirty-nine pounds below normal!
     During this time no one was allowed to see me--not even my own mother.
     One week I remained in bed.  For one week I sat up a few hours each day.
The third week I was able to walk about 300 yards at a time.
     I had seen my mother perhaps three or four times during this period.
     I got homesick.  I wanted to be with my mother.  The days were so long in
regaining my strength.  I felt I never would be strong again.  Only a thread
held me to earth.  My last days I wanted to spend with my mother.
     It required a great deal of persuasion, but I accomplished my desire.
I overcame my practitioner's objections finally and one evening my daddy
called for me and drove me home.
     HOME AND MOTHER!
     For a week I remained at home.  Surrounded only by love and by those who
were trying to help me work out my terrible problem scientifically.  But my
pains, strangely, seemed to gain a more vicious grip upon me.  I tried to hide
the true facts of my condition.
     I could not sleep, but I would lie very quiet in my bed fearful lest my
dear mother should discover my secret.  I didn't want to be sent back to the
home.  I tried to fool everybody.  I succeeded for a time.
     One night my mother heard me groan in torment.  The next day she told my
practitioner all about it.  That night I was back in the Home to learn another
lesson.
     Another week found me well on the road to recovery.  I was slowly
regaining my strength.  But the days were long--so long!
     Three months in all I spent in the Science Home, and I STEPPED OUT WELL.
No craving!  No pain!  Drinking from a spiritual well that has nourished me
ever since.
     Once more I stepped out into the world to take my place.  I felt strong
this time, full of ambition, and determined to rectify all I had destroyed.
     BUT I PLAYED IN THE SUNSHINE SUCH A LITTLE WHILE!


                                    Part 12
                                       
     To play in the sunshine!
     I was free!
     I felt so well fortified, so strong.
     I thought I had thwarted the Devil. But I was mistaken.  My antagonist
was still stronger than I.  He set about to resume his work.  He caught me
asleep one day.  He caught me off my guard.
     How he worked his fiendish will I will narrate presently.
     In the meanwhile, I was happy.  I played and laughed and enjoyed the
sunshine, free from narcotics.  My one loyal playmate in these happy hours was
a little pinto pony, "Freckles."
     Dear Freckles!  Long, intimate rides over the mountain roads about Los
Angeles.  Our daily routine in the quest of permanent health; eight miles on
the Melrose dirt road, along the ridge of Hollywood Mountain, twenty-five
miles a day, Freckles and I.
     We were free of the "Devil's Toys."  We were free.  Free!  Freckles was
my one and only playmate and he believed in me.
     THEN TO WORK AGAIN!
     A production.  Finished in three weeks.
     A vaudeville offer.  One week of rehearsals.  I was off for the East to
open my tour.
     Minneapolis.
     This was my first vaudeville trip.   My entire tour proved a great deal
more successful than I had anticipated.
     But this success meant hard work and plenty of it.
     Of course, I was very happy to be able to work again.  I felt so strong.
But--
     I did not allow for overwork.  I ask you to judge for yourself.  Up every
morning, dressed and ready to be photographed at nine-thirty for local
publicity.  Reporters to interview, and many, many people waiting for me at
the theatre.
     A matinee every afternoon.  Two performances every night.
     Home at midnight at my hotel.  Supper, dictation of important letters to
my secretary, to sleep perhaps by 2 o'clock.
     One week in Minneapolis, another full week in Winnipeg.
     THE DEVIL SET HIS TRAP AGAIN.
     Dinners, luncheons, banquets, an endless round of amusement, in which I
played the principal part.  I MUST AMUSE.
     My life was lived in a hurry again.  Dress, undress, make-up, off with
the make-up!
     By the end of my second week, the Devil was at work again.  He offered me
a little more of the "Pretender's Health."  Again I quaffed the cup of
temptation.  Nerves went taut again.
     Exhaustion!
     It was then that I set about to find a member of the "fraternity," a new
purveyor of drugs.
     I thought myself cured.  But this was a false idea.
     It is true I had given up the narcotic.  But how about the poison that
still remained in my system?  That had not been extracted.  I had been trying
to work out my life scientifically.  But I fell asleep, as I told you.
     THE DEVIL CAUGHT ME UNAWARES.
     I do not offer this as an alibi.  For if I had been strong in my science
I would have been fortified.  The Devil would not have been able to overpower
me.
     I should have been on my guard.  I knew better.  Still--
     I went looking for a purveyor.
     Here I was, on foreign soil.  How?  Where?  The old problem.  But I had
made up my mind to get it; and I did.
     In the corner drug store around from the theatre; a cigar clerk.  One
glance and I gook a chance.  In the vernacular of the "fraternity":
     "Could you give me an address?"
     "Of whom?"
     "A purveyor."
     "Of what?"
     "Cocaine, of course."
     I guess he knew by my manner and the firm way in which I requested it
that I knew what I was talking about.  But that was not all.  He recognized
me.  He asked me several other little questions, and said he would meet me at
the theatre if he could come back stage in about fifteen minutes.
     He kept his word.  He was there.
     ONE TASTE OF WHAT I PURCHASED AND--
     Of course I promised myself that I would buy myself this one "bindle,"
and that would be all.
     Fooling myself again.  Playing with fire!  And deliberately playing with
it!
     That one purchase in Winnipeg led to another and then others.  Many of
them.
     The Devil lost no time.
     From Winnepeg, in far Canada, to San Diego, Cal., I found a peddler in
every town.
     THIS IS THE TRUTH.
     The shameful truth.
     In fourteen weeks I played in perhaps twenty-five towns.  A peddler in
every one.
     I flatly make the statement:  I found a purveyor in every town, without
the aid of an introduction or an address.
     DISGRACEFUL.
     How about our laws and those who should enforce them?  Where were they?
I needed their interference then--
     Still I was allowed to play with "the Devil's toys."
     Allowed--perhaps not exactly by the law.
     BUT THE LAW DID NOT STOP ME!


                                    Part 13
                                       
     FOURTEEN WEEKS IN VAUDEVILLE!
     My contract was finished--almost the finish of me also.
     In spite of the Devil's playthings, the tour was a success.  This
prompted offers to play other vaudeville circuits.  But fourteen weeks of
vaudeville was quite enough for me.
     Again my one thought was home and mother.
     Tired and worn out, sick at heart, exhausted, I returned to Los Angeles.
     WHY SHOULD I BE BOUND TO THIS CURSED CHAIN?
     I was tired of it all, of everything.  What was the use?  Many hours I
spent in thought over this problem.
     WOULD I NEVER BE CURED?
     When I returned to Los Angeles, it was but a few days before the
Christmas holidays, 1921.  I spent the holidays with my mother.  But they were
not "holidays" for me.  I tried to bring Christmas joy to the people I loved;
but there was no joy in my life at that time.
     Pretense, only pretense again!  What would be the end?
     But two weeks of rest, California sunshine and my mother's love in spite
of my recently renewed habit, and I gained in weight.  I had an offer then of
a film production in San Francisco.
     After I had finished this production, I returned home for a few days;
then back to San Francisco.
     I had been in San Francisco only a few days when I read in the papers of
the William Desmond Taylor murder in Hollywood.  Pages were devoted to this
terrible crime, and the Narcotic Ring was connected with it in a way that has
never been explained.
     I read these articles day after day.  Reporters were pressing me for
interviews regarding people involved, merely because I was from Hollywood.
But I had nothing to say.  It was during these days that I was most
despondent.
     I WAS AFRAID!
     I was out on the beach alone one day, when I firmly made up my mind that
I would best this thing once and for all.
     AND I WOULD DO IT ALONE.
     I would not confide in a doctor.  I had considerable knowledge of
Christian Science.  I would go away to the mountains, alone, and work out my
problem as best I could, without the aid of anyone.
     I WOULD NEVER COME BACK UNTIL I WAS CURED!
     Without a word to anyone, other than that I was going to some hot
springs, I quietly packed my trunk, stored my other belongings, and set out
for--Hot Springs.
     At that time I was using only cocaine.  But a maximum amount.
I registered under my own name, which caused me much trouble.  I didn't think
to change my name.  The result was that I was annoyed constantly by curious
people who questioned me continually regarding HOLLYWOOD.
     The work I had gone there to do was postponed, for I would have had to be
alone to do that.  I have told you in previous articles that cocaine is not a
necessity.  If you are strong enough in will power you can break away from it.
     I mean that cocaine is unlike heroin or morphine.  These two become part
of you.  I was weak, and I knew it; and I was ashamed.
     I remained at this Hot Springs only a week.  One night and two days I
spent pacing the floor of my room, trying to find a way out.  I liked the Hot
Springs all right.  The surrounding country was beautiful.  But to win my
battle I had to be alone, and privacy was impossible there.
     Then I formed a plan; deliberately I chose another path.  Cocaine was
ruining my health.  I could not eat.  I could not sleep.  I was getting so
thin, and I knew very well how I looked.
     The plan I formed was a dangerous one.  But I would go through with it.
I packed my things, took a bus to the railroad station.  The train was an hour
late.  I was nervous.  I was nearly crazy.  I had made up my mind to take
morphine.  I knew it would quiet me.
     I had an hour to spare.  I had found a peddler in every town from one end
of the country to the other.  Why not try my luck here in this little village?
It was what is commonly termed a one-horse town.
     YET, AS USUAL, THE DEVIL LED THE WAY!
     Out of a population of 500 people I picked the right man.  How?
I learned there were two doctors in town.  I never will forget how I stood on
the corner by the general store, debating over which one I should go and see.
     But I found the right one!
     The doctor was out.  He had a nurse, though.  She admitted me.  I had
time to look over his stock.  I couldn't resist the temptation.  I never have
stolen a thing in my life--except a tube of morphine from that village doctor.
     I had just tucked the little vial of morphine away in my bag when the
doctor came in.  With a little persuasion. the doctor gave me another vial.
I really felt guilty, but I didn't dare tell him the truth.
     Then I went to San Francisco.  I remained only one day.  Just long enough
to look up Mr. Peddler, procure an ounce of morphine and find the name of
another Hot Springs.  During my journey, I had formed another plan which I
proceeded to carry out.
     I destroyed every identification mark on my clothing and baggage and set
out for another Hot Springs near Chico, Cal.
     I took another name.  And I was let alone.
     Now to carry out the rest of the plan!
     I had morphine, and inside of two weeks I was taking six grains a day.
But I was sleeping well every night, eating three meals a day, exercising,
taking long walks.  And the hot baths helped me to gain a great deal in
weight.
     When I had returned to San Francisco, to get more drugs and a new Hot
Springs location, I had not forgotten the promise I had made to myself:
"I would never come back until I was cured."
     Now I was bound to morphine.  I would have to beat that, too.  I looked
much better, I felt much better; but, in reality, I was bound tighter to the
narcotic chain that I had been two weeks previous on cocaine.
     NOW FOR THE CURE!
     Reduction first, of course!  A doctor will never tell you the cure he is
giving you.  But in those days alone in the mountains, I had plenty of time to
figure out what really constituted a reduction cure.  I realized it would be a
slow process of reduction; but it must be systematic.
     THE PLAN.
     I was taking six grains a day.  I placed sixty grains in a large-necked
bottle.
     I had figured out that this reduction must be systematic.  I must take a
shot every two or three hours, whether I needed it or not.  I also had figured
out that I probably would be awake sixteen hours a day.  So, to this same
bottle into which I had put the morphine, I added eighty hypodermic syringes
of water--carefully measured.
     Another part of the plan:  Every time I took a syringe full of water out
of the large-necked bottle I put back a half syringe of plain water.  If I
have made my plan clear to you, you can see that I was slowly reducing the
amount of the narcotic, because I was diluting it with water every time I took
a shot.
     At the end of two months, I had cut down my shots from a total of six
grains a day to one quarter of a grain!
     Tomorrow I will tell you of the terrific fight I had to break away from
that final little quarter grain.
     One little tiny quarter grain bound me STILL to the Devil's chain.

                                    Part 14
                                       
     For one month I fought the hardest battle I have ever known--fought to
break the tiny but powerful little thread that held me to the chain of
narcotics.
     One tiny quarter grain of morphine a day!
     Could this be possible?  I often asked myself.  Why was I not strong
enough to break away once and for all?  I had cut down from six grains a day
to a quarter of a grain.  Yet, in reality, I was still a victim, no matter
whether the link be large or small!  I was still bound.
     For one month I put up this fight.  I walked every day--sometimes fifteen
miles.  I was up every morning at 6, to bed not later than 9:30, and to all
appearances I was cured.
     I ALONE KNEW THE REAL TRUTH.  I WAS NOT FREE.
     This is what tortured my soul and at times made me feel that I was going
mad.
     Then I met a man who was to help me believe once more in doctors.  This
man had at one time been an addict.  He had been cured by a doctor in Oakland
four years before I met him.  The moment I looked into his face I knew he was
speaking the truth.  The 'indefinable something' told him that I was battling
to free myself from drug addiction.
     Twenty-four hours later I was in this doctor's sanitarium in Oakland.
Twenty-four hours more and I was off.  I WAS FREE OF THE NARCOTIC CHAIN.
     What was the secret this doctor alone held?  Here he had done the work in
twenty-four hours that I had been fighting for three months to accomplish.
     THE CURE--THE ONLY REAL CURE I HAD EVER KNOWN!
     To this doctor and his marvelous cure, his kindness and patience with me,
I attribute my success in finally severing the very last link that bound me to
this cursed narcotic chain.
     Just what this cure consists of, what all the little pills and the
medicine are for, I do not know.  But I do know that twenty-four hours after I
placed myself under his care the desire for narcotics was completely gone.
     This cure, unlike so many others is absolutely painless.
     Why was this cure so absolutely painless?  This doctor knew not only how
to cure the addiction and kill the desire, but also how to extract the poison
that remained in my system after three years of drugs.
     This meant a rigid diet.  One week with a ravenous appetite.  With just a
little tea or broth and one cracker every day to satisfy it.  How I used to
beg the doctor for just one more little cracker, but I NEVER ONCE ASKED THE
DOCTOR FOR ANY NARCOTICS.
     When I sought to explain how much I appreciated what he had done for me
in the fortnight I was in his sanitarium the doctor would say:
     "The success of this cure lies with you.  You are the first one that I
would really call 100 per cent cured.  Your own desire to break away from this
curse is responsible for everything.
     "So many addicts come to me for my cure!  How much I want to help them!
But I become discouraged at times.  Very few have come voluntarily and out of
these very few have tried to help themselves.  You have been in the mountains
doing all you could for yourself.
     "You stood upon your own resources as long as you could.  You fought on
until there was but one tiny barrier between yourself and your cure.  Then you
came here to me.  You have gone over the top beautifully.  I merely helped
you.
     "Most of the addicts that come here are forced either by relatives or by
the law.  I cure them, yes.  I take away the narcotics.  I try to urge each
and every one to be careful on leaving here.
     "Of this I warn you, Juanita.  Be careful of your associates.  Do not get
near anyone who uses narcotics.  Forget them."
     The many talks that I had with the doctor helped me to fortify myself.
I was able to cope with the situation when I left the sanitarium.  The doctor
used to say:
     "Tomorrow, Juanita, tomorrow you will be stronger and maybe you can go
into the garden for a little while."
     But the "tomorrows" always seemed so far away and one day a little
thought occurred to me.  I set it down in my diary:

          TOMORROW.
Within four small walls is a shadow
  Of me, I am all alone.
Waiting for tomorrow--
  I wonder if you will come.

To be free to play in the sunshine
  For only a little spell.
I would gladly come back to the darkness
  Of this poor little lonely cell.

     Finally "TOMORROW" came!  The door opened and I was free to play in the
sunshine.
     I was free, absolutely free, from the narcotic chain.
     Now home to mother!  I caught the first train going South.  I did not
wire my mother.  I wanted to surprise her, and I surely did.  I think mother
was the happiest woman in the world when she saw me.  One look into my eyes
and my mother knew the truth.
     Great tears of thankfulness rolled down her cheeks.  I stayed home for
three weeks and played as I never played before.  How happy I was in the
sunshine!
     Free!  Free at last!
     The desire for narcotics had left me.  I had served my sentence.  At last
I had severed the last link.


                                    Part 15
                                       
     Cured!
     Seven months had passed.  All desire for narcotics had left me.  Why
shouldn't I believe that I was cured?
     I was being rewarded at last.  My contracts, as I told you in a previous
article. were nearly arranged.  How happy I was.  My struggle of two years was
over!
     And then--
     Fate, perhaps, played her part.  Again the world turned upside down.  For
a narcotic commissioner in New York didn't believe I was cured.  Why?
     It is my one desire to encourage all narcotic addicts, urge them to give
up this curse.  For such it is.  And to assure them there is a reward.  I
expect the assistance though of all narcotic boards.  They must help me--not
destroy the work I am trying to do.
     My arrest nearly broke my heart.  It almost crushed everything I believed
was good.  Would it not have been a little more human, a little more Samaritan-
like, to have come to me, and quietly asked:
     "I am not quite sure of you, Miss Hansen.  I have read of your 'cure.'
But I want to make sure.  Will you come to my office for an examination before
a medical board?"
     Had I been approached this way, I would gladly have gone to the
Commissioner's office.  My examination would have proved that I was cured.  No
publicity.  No experience with cells and detectives.  I might have been spared
all this.
     NO!
     The men who enforce the narcotic law don't believe in handling things
that way.  IS IT NOT HIGH TIME TO START A NEW SYSTEM?
     Let us all be a little more human.  Addicts, commissioners and
detectives.  AND THEN WE SHALL STOP IT!
     Having my name heralded from one end of the country to the other did not
encourage and help me.  Instead it left me absolutely helpless.  Hopeless.
AFRAID.  Always afraid of the law.  The arm that should protect and love me
struck a blow that made me wonder whether it was worth while to keep up the
fight against narcotics.
     But, right is right and wrong is wrong.  And I am on my way up the ladder
again.  THERE IS A REWARD!  I am cured.  I KNOW IT!  And I am no longer
afraid, because truth has power and I am telling you the truth.
     We read every day in the papers of the evil of drugs.  In Washington they
are awakening to the evil.  Even the President has time to take recognition of
the fact.  Why not you?
     How about the hundreds of thousands of addicts in this country alone?
What about them?  Can we leave them to die?  No.  This is not stopping it.
     Cure the addicts in this country; then stop your source of supply.  How?
Here is a little plan I have thought out:
     Let the entire control of the narcotic problem rest in the hands of the
Federal Government.  In the past the problem has been handled like a
kindergarten class.  But we must grow up.
     Let the Government handle all cures.  Let the Government conscript only
doctors who are specialists in the treatment of narcotic addiction.  Wipe out
all fake "cures" and fake doctors.
     Let the Government build and operate sanitariums in all parts of the
country.  Let the Government have sole control.
     Organize a great medical corps to fight this problem, just as was done in
the last war.  We won that war by organization.  Now let us declare war on
drugs and all who exploit this deadly curse.
     Let us all combine forces.  Work together like we did a few years ago.
We were like one then--press, pulpit, people.
     Wipe this thing out!  Stamp it out!  Once and for all!
     Knit these tiny little ineffective threads into one vast rope that will
crush the life out of DOPE.
     In Washington alone this thing can be handled.  Some day soon, I pray.
I should love to see newspapers and "twenty-four sheet" posters shout at you
from every corner:
     "Addicts, we warn you!  We urge you to step forward voluntarily.  Come to
us.  We are the law.  Do not be afraid.  We want to help you.  We want to
protect you.  Confide in us.   We will not herald your secret.  No matter
whether you be pauper or millionaire.  WE WILL CURE YOU!  WE INTEND TO STOP
NARCOTIC ADDICTION!  But--
     "BEWARE!  We give you only six months to do this.  Only six months.  Come
voluntarily, and we will free you from the chain.  If you do not voluntarily
come forward, we will find you.  Cure, you, yes.  But you must pay the
penalty.  TEN YEARS' IMPRISONMENT."
     WE SHALL STOP IT!
     Absolute Government control, fearless and impartial enforcement, fair
warning, inflexible punishment!
     Cure your addicts first, then limit your source of supply.
     Then, and only then, can you hope to break this chain, link by link.
Dope will be dead!
     To break up this chain is one thing.  But to keep other little links from
forging is quite another.
     Every educational force and medium in the country, teachers, schools,
periodicals, screen, ministers, all must unite.  Warn every child in the
country, just as you warn them to keep away from fire.  Not only love them,
but protect them.
     "Let not your heart be troubled; do not be afraid."
     Face this thing today!
     Today I am pronounced cured--one of the few known to medical science.
But only my death, at the will of God, will prove it so. [2]
                                   (The End)
                                       
*****************************************************************************

                       Wallace Smith:  February 24, 1923

The following is another of Wallace Smith's sensationalizing dispatches on
the Taylor case.
                                                            February 24, 1922
                                                                Wallace Smith
                                                             CHICAGO AMERICAN
     Mabel Normand, who called on William Desmond Taylor just before he was
shot to death, was reported "gravely ill" today by physicians attending her
at her home in Altadena.
     So serious was her condition considered that extra guards were placed
about the estate to fend off visitors.  She is said to be suffering a severe
attack of influenza, augmented by her nervous collapse since the killing of
the director.
     Instead of showing improvement, it was stated, Miss Normand lost
strength during the night.
     Two nurses are in constant attendance on the noted comedienne, and only
her physicians are allowed to see her.
     Telephone inquiries at the home of Miss Normand brought this brief
statement:
     "Miss Normand's condition is grave.  She is critically ill."
     It was reported she has been partially paralyzed and that her
temperature shows a tendency to the subnormal.
     An earlier statement by Dr. J. M. Wilson of Pasadena, one of the
attending physicians, said:
     "Miss Normand is critically ill.  She is at the peak of a severe attack
of influenza, aggravated by a most serious nervous breakdown.  She has two
nurses in constant attendance and all visitors are being kept from her.
Everything is being done to keep her quiet, though her nervous condition,
which preceded the influenza attack, is such as to make it hard to quiet
her."
     Some days ago she was taken secretly from her home in Los Angeles to the
Altadena residence.  At that time it was announced that she merely needed a
rest.
     Three days ago it was announced by her management that she intended to
renew work in the studios on the production interrupted by the Taylor
tragedy.
     The news of her new collapse came, therefore, as a shock and a surprise.
     It will be recalled that Miss Normand, shortly after the slaying was
discovered, returned to the Taylor home and demanded her letters to Taylor.
     At his funeral she fainted at the side of the coffin.  Her photography,
bearing the inscription "to my dearest" was found in the locket Taylor wore
over his heart.  As the world waited for reports from the bedside of the
stricken comedienne, District Attorney Woolwine sent detectives rushing by
motor to check up the story that Taylor was slain by drug peddlers when he
sought to shield a woman from their slavery.
     As the investigation swept forward it appeared that "Harry the Chink"
Fields, he of the picturesque pen name and the unsavory record, might be
drawing his story of Taylor's death straight from the bamboo pipe in which
opium dreams are "cooked." [3]
     But he has lashed the hunt for the mysterious assassin of the eccentric
director into the swiftest gait it has struck since the find of Taylor's body
in the house in Alvarado St.
     "Harry the Chink" has turned this hunt to a trail at the end of which,
the most active officials declare, they will find the solution of the
sensational mystery.
     He has brought terror to the dope smuggling gangs skulking in the
shadows of the tragedy as well as to the salves of the drug ring.
     Out of the activity that has followed the yarn of "Harry the Chink" the
Los Angeles officials were satisfied they would at least find the killer,
whether it was Wong Lee, the notorious dope peddler with his old-fashioned
pearl handled revolver, or the woman who was Taylor's last love.
     The prime theory today was that Taylor's life was ended when he
attempted to stand between this woman and the blackmailing gang that has
wrung a considerable fortune from her through her slavery of the drug and the
indiscretions it inspired.
     This theory first was outlined in The Chicago Evening American
dispatches.
     Every detective returning from raids in drowsy, dangerous Chinatown and
from more polite "trips of investigation" brought back startling tales of the
grip which the drug ring had taken at the throats of some of the men and
women.
     State agents and federal officials joined in the search being made by
the sheriff's men, special investigators and police officials.
     It was from the United States district attorney's office that it was
learned that Taylor had appealed for help more than a year ago to stop the
activities of the dope ring.  Taylor was interested in the woman he loved --
the woman who had fought to cure herself of the habit, and who today is still
in slavery to drugs.
     Taylor's fight may be won with the price of his life.
     Before this there seemed no way of halting the dread traffic.  Despite
the activities of all agencies, from the bronzed men who seek to trap
smugglers at the Mexican border and along the coasts to those who spied on
the peddlers and those who purchased the hour's pleasure at the cost of
broken bodies and shattered minds, the traffic went on.
     Among some of the detectives, it is known, there is a feeling that the
woman named in Taylor's slaying should be taken into custody and given "a
real talking to."  She has been questioned but, according to the detectives,
it was just a sort of polite tea party in which higher officials allowed her
to tell her smiling alibi complaint of a severe cold, and let it go at that.
     "If it was anybody else but her, she would have been taken as soon as
Taylor's body was found," declared one of the men close to one of the highest
officials investigating the case.  "They say they have no power to take her
into custody, but look what they did to Madalynne Obenchain in the Kennedy
case.
     "This woman would talk plenty if she was treated as she should be.
Everything we have found out so far shows that she is the logical one to know
about the crime.  She's full of hop right now.  If they put her in a cell,
and keep the heroin she uses away from her a day or so, she'd be ready to
tell everything she knows. [4]
     "But she's been too strong so far.  She is prominent and she has big
friends.  We have to wait for more information."
     This is the woman who is known to have received a shipment of heroin ten
weeks ago and by paying a tremendous sum, a supply of the drug sufficient to
last three months.
     Her name was among the first on the list recently turned over to
investigators containing the names of film stars who dealt with dope
peddlers.
     The investigation of the federal, state and county officials, revealed
the astounding fact that at least half of the dope peddlers are women, young,
well dressed, and personable.  They have either by their position or by
insinuating themselves through friends at "parties" won their way into the
confidence of the victims of the drug slayer.
     Their work is one of constant temptation.  They "make it easy" for the
victims -- easy to destroy beauty, body and brains.  Their work, too, is
"reclaiming" the drug slaves who make the heart breaking attempt to smash the
shackles that bind them in thrall to the blackmailing smugglers.
     Taylor's efforts to fight the drug ring, and especially that group who
had victimized the woman he loved, was told by United States Deputy District
Attorney Thomas Green.  Over a year ago, he declared, a man came to him and
arranged in interview with Taylor.
     After talking with Taylor about the invasion by the dope peddlers, the
attorney turned the matter over to an expert in the narcotic department.  An
operative was assigned to the place where Taylor worked and there he gathered
information upon which a number of raids were based.
     This, in itself, according to those experienced with the ways of the
drug ring, would have been sufficient to have sealed Taylor's death warrant,
even if he had not, as it is now theorized, stepped between the ring and the
victim whose slavery meant much gold.
     Another angle of the investigation which assumed great importance today
was the fact that on the evening of the killing the woman Taylor loved had
put in a desperate long distance telephone call to some one in a San
Francisco hotel.
     "I'm in trouble," she cried over the phone.  "I need help."
     That "help" was forthcoming was evidenced by the shelter that was placed
around the woman next day.  Guards kept away those who sought to question her
and advisers were handy at every point to guide her in her conduct with the
investigators and officials.
     The guard is still maintained.  The woman's collapse, at first looked
upon as rather a naive dodge, now is looked upon as genuine.  If she did not
kill Taylor, it is said, she fears that the exposure of her drug slavery will
mean her ruin before the public.
     The detectives sought, among others, a man known mostly as "Johnny," who
is said to have been the dope agent for this woman.  They would not say
whether he was the "Johnny" Clarke mentioned in Fields' "confession."
     Undersheriff Eugene Biscailuz was in direct charge of the investigation
of Fields' story and, frankly, a big skeptical about it.  Undersheriff
Biscailuz has from the first suspected the woman in the case.  But the "dope"
theory was one closely allied with the activities of the woman.
     One of the first points of doubt in Fields' story to attract those
familiar with the ways of the Oriental in crime was the fact that Fields
insisted the Chinese, Wong Lee, had gone on the trip of death with two white
men and a white woman.  The Chinese, according to these veterans, never "do a
gun job" or any other crime of major proportions with those of another race.
     Then some one thought of applying the test of simple arithmetic and
train schedules to Fields' story.  He says he left Los Angeles on late on
February 2.  He was arrested in Buffalo on February 6.  He says he traveled
by way of Seattle and Chicago.  Such a schedule is utterly impossible, using
railroad trains for the trip.
     Altogether Fields' story seemed to be fading confusedly into the fumes
of the poppy.  Whence, likely as not, it came.
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NOTES:
[1] A few months before this series was written, film star Wallace Reid had
died of illness related to his drug addiction.
[2] Unfortunately, Juanita Hansen relapsed later in the decade.  After an
accident in which she was severely burned with scalding water and was in
severe pain, doctors administered morphine to relieve her suffering and she
became hooked again.  Her final cure came later.  For more details on her
tragic story see CONTINUED NEXT WEEK by Kalton Lahue.
[3] As stated last issue, Harry Fields was not Chinese, and it is not known
why this derogatory nickname was applied to him. It is included here only for
historical purposes, to reprint Smith's article as it originally appeared.
[4] Again these references are supposedly to Mabel Normand.
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                    For more information about Taylor, see
           WILLIAM DESMOND TAYLOR: A DOSSIER (Scarecrow Press, 1991)
         Back issues of Taylorology are available via Gopher or FTP at
                            etext.archive.umich.edu
                    in the directory pub/Zines/Taylorology
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