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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 66 -- June 1998 Editor: Bruce Long bruce@asu.edu *
* TAYLOROLOGY may be freely distributed *
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CONTENTS OF THIS ISSUE:
Interviews with Edna Purviance
Reporting the Taylor Murder: Day Six
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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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Interviews with Edna Purviance
Edna Purviance was Charlie Chaplin's leading lady for nearly a decade,
and was a close neighbor of William Desmond Taylor at the time of his murder.
The following are some interviews with her conducted between 1916 and 1924.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
June 24, 1916
REEL LIFE
[from an interview with Edna Purviance]..."When Mr. Chaplin signed his
$670,000 contract with the Mutual Film Corporation, he took most of his
company with him, and in March, 1916, we began work here at the Mutual
studios in Los Angeles. Our first picture was 'The Floorwalker,' followed by
'The Fireman.' The one you saw us working on just now is going to be
released under the title of 'The Vagabond.' I consider it the best we have
done so far for the Mutual.
"Yes, I am fond of sports, especially swimming and motoring. I dearly
love ice cream sodas, and strawberry short cake. My chief occupation outside
of posing for the camera is keeping down to 123 pounds. I have a perfect
horror of becoming overplump, and so I exercise every day as a precaution.
No, I don't believe in curling one's hair artificially. I believe that a
blonde is much more attractive with her hair naturally straight.
"Mr. Chaplin is calling me. I guess he is ready for that next scene.
Good-bye, and please don't print what I said about getting fat--it sounds so
prosaic."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
April 1918
Hazel Simpson Naylor
MOTION PICTURE
Little Miss Happiness
Tap-tap-tap.--No answer. Tap-rap-rap, louder and more impatiently.--No
answer.
Tap-bang-bang! (No, dear readers, this is not an imitation of Poe's
raven, but, like Mr. Poe's persistent bird, I was a-knock, knock, knocking at
Miss Purviance's door.)
Suddenly, back it swung, and a small figure, wrapped in a Japanese silk
kimono of sunkist-yellow and emerald green, gasped, "O-oh, come right in!
I'm so sorry! I overslept."
With superb unconcern for their fragileness, Edna Purviance gathered up
a heap of pink chiffon fluffy-ruffles from the most comfortable chair the
room boasted and motioned me to be seated. Then she curled herself up cross-
legged, in middle of the huge posted mahogany beg. One dear little pink
pajama leg just peeped from beneath her brilliant kimono. Her soft hair,
the color of sunflowers in moonlight, was wound about her beautifully shaped
little head, coronet fashion. Her large, forget-me-not-eyes gazed
questioningly at a world which she finds entirely fascinating. Their almost
preposterously long, dark lashes swept young cheeks as white and smooth as
marble.
But there is nothing of marble in the composition of Edna Purviance.
She makes one think of peaches and cream, of a white angora kitten, happy and
contented in the warm sunlight of love-- But, there, I am waxing poetic.
Back to the cold, black print.
Now, nine out of ten celebrities, when asked what they consider caused
their success, will announce:
"Work--good, hard, never-give-up work."
But not so Edna Purviance. When I put the question to her, she let out
a little gurgle of enthusiasm. "Just luck, wonderful, wonderful luck.
I am the happiest girl in all the world. Here I am just turned twenty-one.
I have everything I want--things I should never have dreamt of obtaining--and
it's all due to luck.
"You see, I had taken stenography with my high-school course in Nevada,
and when we moved to California I finished a complete business course and
seriously studied the piano. Vaguely, I imagined that some day I might be a
big musician, and then one evening I accidentally met Mr. Chaplin through a
mutual friend. Mr. Chaplin asked me if I would like to act in pictures with
him. I laughed at the idea, but agreed to try it. I never thought I would
ever go through with another after that first picture. I want to tell you
that I suffered untold agonies. Eyes seemed to be everywhere. I was simply
frightened to death. But Mr. Chaplin had unlimited patience in directing me
and teaching me. I learnt everything I know from him.
"Personally, Mr. Chaplin is a very wonderful man. He does all kinds of
good with his money, but as quietly as possible. He simply pours thousands
of dollars into England to help the war along. He says if he is called to
serve actively (he is still an English subject, you know) he will go. But,
oh, it seems to me" (she clasped her hands anxiously about her knees) "as if
he can do so much more good right where he is! Not only can he help by
furnishing an unusual amount of money, but he can bring joy, freedom from
care, into the hearts of the people, and that's a greatly needed item in war
days, let me tell you.
"Mr. Chaplin has some wonderful stories for our next comedies. He just
works them out in his head, you know, but has told several of them to me, and
they are greater than anything we have ever done--less slapstick--and we are
going to do three-reelers now, which will give him a better opportunity."
They are only waiting for their new studio to be finished before getting
down to good hard work. It is going to be unique among studios--a place
where one can enjoy life as well as work. Mr. Chaplin bought the land in
Hollywood. On it is a most beautiful home, which he will preserve, but the
grounds surrounding it were filled with lemon and orange trees, and these he
had to have cut down to make room for the studio, which is old English
architecture and very picturesque. One would never think it was a studio.
Two horses are going to be kept on the place for Sid Chaplin and Miss Edna to
ride. Charlie Chaplin doesn't ride. Edna is going to have her own piano in
the studio so that she can keep up her music during dull hours.
Edna reached over to where an enormous bouquet of yard-long-stemmed pink
roses stood at the foot of her bed and broke off one, then settled herself
cozily again, tailor-fashion, and gazed dreamily out of the window at the
myriad of New York sky-scrapers.
"You know," she said, pressing the rose to her satiny nostrils, "you may
think me queer, but I am very glad I don't have to work in New York.
"This is the first time I have ever been East in all my life, you know.
I have spent all of my twenty-one years in Nevada and California. My friends
who have taken me around since I have been in New York City make more fun of
me and say, 'For goodness sake, Edna, close your mouth and don't "Oh, oh" so!
People will think you are a regular rube.'
"Yes, New York is all very wonderful; its shops, theaters and hotels are
magnificent; but I'll be glad to get back home. There the climate is warm
and sunshiny and every one knows everybody. Here there is just a wild,
scrambling, conglomerate mob, and one little atom of humanity more or less
makes very little difference. Oh, no; I shouldn't care to work in New York,
and although I have enjoyed seeing all the sights and people have given me a
wonderful time, I shall be glad when I get word that the studio is finished,
vacation time is over and it's time for me to return to California and work.
Of course, in a way, I shall be sorry to leave New York. It has been a life-
long dream realized, and now"--she looked at me a little mischievously--"and
now I shall have to get another dream. I wonder what it will be?"
This sounded interesting, but all my tactful questions elicited no
further startling information than that the beautiful Edna loved Marvel
perfume, hated to have her photograph taken and was going to buy a new
automobile very soon.
A knock came at the door, and Edna Purviance jumped down from her downy
perch and admitted an obsequious waiter with a breakfast tray.
"Oh," she said, "I'm not ready yet. Take it into the next room, and be
sure and keep my eggs hot."
I myself dislike nothing so much as cold eggs, so I could sympathize
with the beautiful vision curled so cozily on the bed and started to wrap my
furs about my neck in preparation for a hurried exit, but I happened to say,
"Weren't you at the Supper Club the other evening?" which started the
conversation ball rolling again.
Edna likes to dance better than almost anything else, although as she
naively added, "But then of course I like 'most everything."
Yes, she even likes all the people who stop her on the streets and say,
"Oh, isn't this Edna Purviance? I just want to shake hands with you.
I enjoy you so much on the screen."
And people seldom realize what advantage they take of an actress. She
has absolutely no privacy; on the other hand, sometimes it is mighty handy to
be well known. This was evidenced by a rather unpleasant incident which
happened in Chicago when Miss Purviance stopped off there for a couple of
days on her way East.
One evening about eight o'clock, Edna Purviance, Blanche Sweet and Adele
Rowland took it into their heads that they would like to walk up Michigan
Avenue and see the sights. They did, but were terribly annoyed by three men
who followed them, exchanging such crude remarks as the well-known phrase,
"Some chicken!"
The girls turned to hurry back to the hotel. Whereupon one of the men,
catching a glimpse of their faces said, "Gee, fellows, beat it! That's Edna
Purviance and Blanche Sweet!"
And so I asked, "Tell me honestly, how does it feel to be a celebrity at
twenty-one?"
Edna Purviance bit her finely modeled lower lip between two pearly rows
of teeth, as much as to say, "Shall I tell the truth or not?" decided to give
the verdict to the former, and said:
"I'll tell you seriously. I do enjoy a number of thrills from the
success I have attained. I don't really believe I am even ambitious to do
dramatic roles. I am perfectly happy that I am to be Mr. Chaplin's leading
lady for another year at least."
After all, in this age, when everyone's cult is persistent endeavor and
struggling ambition, struggling always for something just out of reach, as
pleasing as an unexpected buttercup in a field of tares comes Edna Purviance,
who is perfectly satisfied with things as they are.
Perhaps her book of life is not so difficult reading as Aristotle, but
it's a great deal pleasanter to peruse. It's the philosophy of the
contented.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
November 1919
Maude Cheatham
MOTION PICTURE CLASSIC
A Star Who Longs For Pretty Clothes
Now, all of us know that Edna Purviance, the feminine inspiration to the
screen characters of the famous comedian, Charlie Chaplin, is a very
beautiful girl. We know it because no one but a real beauty could rise
resplendent, as does she, above that most trying of stage costumes, the
comedy make-up. Her vivid, sparkling personality asserts itself despite the
dowdy clothes and the click-back hair which she wears in the Chaplin films.
I was thinking of this as I watched her slip out of the plain calico
dress in which she will appear in the new picture, into her own distinctive
sport togs, for the day's work at the Chaplin studio in Hollywood was over,
and Edna and I were chatting in her lovely blue and grey dressing-room.
"Of course, like all girls, I love pretty clothes," she declared, "and
at the beginning of each picture we have a great discussion, for I beg for a
chance to wear them. Mr. Chaplin tries to encourage me by saying that in
this make-up I have a great opportunity for good character work. But,"
moaned Edna, "I would be willing to sacrifice a little 'art' to look nice
sometimes. Guess that shows that I am more woman than actress, doesn't it?"
And a gay little laugh echoed through the room.
There is a good-humored, easy-going wholesomeness about this girl that
seems to radiate an "I should worry" atmosphere, and with her irresistible
buoyancy of spirits it is impossible to imagine even one little unhappy
thought finding a harbor in her blithe young heart.
"I'm the only girl around the studio most of the time, and they treat me
like a queen," went on Edna, as she loosened her lovely yellow hair, which is
real, and arranged it softly about her face. "Everything is always pleasant
and harmonious. Mr. Chaplin is very quiet himself and dislikes any
unnecessary commotion.
"He writes and directs his own pictures and, I tell you, I have to be
wide awake and on the alert to keep pace with him, for I never know at what
instant he will think up some big scene and, when he is in the mood, he likes
to work quickly and steadily. It is always interesting to watch him develop
the action, for he insists that there must be a cause leading up to the
fights, the runaways, or whatever it is. He acts out our parts for us, and I
assure you he can play even my role better than I can, for he is a natural
imitator."
Edna's advent into motion pictures is like a fairy-tale. She was born
in Nevada, and her father being a mining man, she spent her childhood in
small mining towns, later going over to San Francisco to complete her high
school course.
Then one day, Charlie Chaplin arrived in the city!
He was in search of a beauteous blonde to play the lead in his pictures.
Through a mutual friend, Miss Purviance was introduced to the little
comedian, who instantly recognized her photographic possibilities, and she
was engaged. With absolutely no stage or screen experience, she walked right
into the Chaplin films and right into the hearts of the fans with her unusual
type of mirthful character that has successfully aided in the presentation of
these excruciatingly funny comedies.
"I guess Mr. Chaplin took me because I had nothing to unlearn and he
could teach me in his own way, but oh, that FIRST PICTURE!" And Edna threw
back her head and laughed. "I never expected he would give me another
chance, for I certainly took the prize for dumbness. However, I was willing
and I TRIED; that was encouraging. Being with him has given me a most
wonderful training, for he is a real genius!
"We have many amusing experiences in our work, and being keyed up to the
funny point makes them all the more ridiculous. I remember, while making
'The Immigrant,' we spent a whole week on a boat between San Pedro and
Catalina Island, and nearly every one in the company was ill except Charlie
and me. We had made up our minds NOT to be! Well, awful as it was and sorry
as we were, it was screamingly funny to see the different actors in their
comedy make-up suffering with seasickness. One man, dressed as a Russian
immigrant, with a long beard to his waist and with layers of yellow powder on
his face, was terribly ill, but we had to laugh, for he presented the most
ludicrous figure imaginable." And the big blue eyes twinkled with the
recollection.
"My latest craze is flying!" Edna announced, as we strolled through the
lovely studio grounds. "The biggest thrill I ever had was last week, when I
christened Sid Chaplin's airplane, (with orange juice, mind you!) and made
the first trip over to Catalina Island. I had gone up once before in an army
plane, when I was frightened 'most to pieces, but somehow, sailing over the
ocean didn't seem scary at all. We could look down on the boat that had
started long before we did, and there it was, chugging slowly through the
water. I never felt so free--and light--and with no tomorrow or yesterday--
just NOW! I can readily understand how aviators grow reckless in time, for
you are not conscious of speed and there is nothing in the way--just you,
illimitable space and the heavens!
"Everything is interesting to me," continued Edna. "I think the war
made us all appreciate work and the supreme joy it brings. I would hate to
be absolutely contented, just sit down and do nothing, for such a state of
mind would include no ambitions and would make one a slacker in a world that
needs effort. It is a wholesome discontent that spurs us on to endeavor and
is the real incentive for all progress. I believe in working when you work
and playing when you play!"
She has a charming little apartment, with a competent maid, where she
makes a grand bluff at housekeeping, but with her studio hours and her many
social engagements, for she is a great favorite, there is little time for
much home life. Her dearest possessions are her piano and her automobile,
and although she has studied music steadily for years and is an accomplished
pianist, she admits, sadly, that the automobile is crowding her music into
the background.
Then, she swims and dances and rides horseback, and with it all Edna
Purviance is about the breeziest, sunniest, happiest girl I have met in a
long, long time!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
February 1922
Clyde Stuart
MOTION PICTURE
In Placid Mold
Edna Purviance has had the unusual faculty of endurance in a profession
where success blooms swiftly--and fades even as it blooms.
Among one's earliest memories of screen comedy, her blonde beauty stands
out clearly. Then it was as it is today--the inevitable companion of a
little black mustache and a pair of shuffling, enormous feet. Edna was
Chaplin's foil in his first rioting two-reelers, and she was his leading lady
in his last and greatest picture, "The Kid." In between lies a period of
years in which, admittedly, there have been Chaplin pictures without Edna,
but very few. Always the great "Charlot" has returned to her.
One can readily understand how Edna's calm, unruffled personality would
make a superb background, for an artist as undoubtedly temperamental as
Chaplin. The serenity of it was recognizable even over the telephone.
It was a little exasperating, the cool pleasantness of that voice.
I had been trying to make a definite appointment for two weeks or more, but I
had never gotten further than a deliberate: "Well, just now I have to see to
my wardrobe. If you will go to the studio at three, I will TRY to be there."
I give Edna all due credit for trying, but she was not there.
And then, to further tantalize, I saw her about a week later at Sunset
Inn, down at Santa Monica, on Photoplayers' Nite, where Louise Fazenda and I
had gone to watch Milton Sills preside. A cluster of stars were there--Betty
Compson dancing with Rudolph Valentino, Nazimova, Bobby Harron's brother John
with some pretty companion. Edna, in a red evening gown of becoming
simplicity, was sitting a few tables beyond us, very beautiful, from where we
sat, with firm, startlingly white shoulders and straight decisive features.
Her figure is perhaps a little rounder than it was, its former lithesomeness
surplanted by a more stunning maturity of mold, a fire erectness of carriage.
She took her pleasure as one must imagine she takes everything, calmly, with
an almost stolid gaiety. It is impossible to imagine her ever becoming
mussed, in hair or in dress. She grooms herself scrupulously.
I managed to find her at home only a few days later.
She was, as I had thought, pleasantly quiescent, placidly willing to
talk to me, but, as she regretted, with nothing exciting to say.
"What truth there may be in the report that Charlie is to feature me in
a picture before I leave him, I do not know. It certainly is not in 'The
Idle Class.' In that I have little else to do than to wear some becoming
gowns. But I have two more pictures to make with Charlie before our contract
runs out.
She liked "The Kid" because it was the first comedy that ever gave her
any amount of acting to do. She deplored it because by the time it was
released, a year after it was commenced, her clothes were quite out of
fashion. She is intensely interested in clothes. One can hardly blame her.
She wears them exceedingly well. Even that afternoon, in her plaid sport
skirt and sweater, she looked delightful. Her hair was carefully, smoothly
arranged. And apparently its order was permanent. She did not continually
pat at it. She has that rare art of dressing at the beginning of the day;
not all through it.
The beauty of women is strange. With some it is chiseled, distinct--
like Edna's. Her eyebrows are perfect. Her blue eyes had apparently been
polished that morning. In sketching her, the artist would outline her in one
continuous unbroken line. It is a type of beauty that often needs kindling.
I asked her what, then, she would do when she left Chaplin.
She refused to be definite.
"It is hard to say. There are several offers to be considered, all of
them more or less worth while. It is not improbable that I will join the
United Artists and have my own company."
Edna lives in a beautiful section of Los Angeles, considerably apart
from Hollywood. It is strange that many of the earlier members of the Coast
film colony are not residents of Hollywood. They seem to prefer isolation in
the more prosaic, but no less beautiful, residential districts. Edna lives
on a street near Westlake Park from which, by taking one or two steps from
the door, she can overlook the only lake in the city. Her bungalow, one of
several in a court, is crowded with silver loving cups, Chinese prints, an
assortment of musical instruments. The cups, Edna explained, she had won
years ago, when the movies were in the first unrestrained heyday of their
fame, when blue laws, and censors, and prohibitionists, and speed cops never
dared show their heads. The Chinese prints came from Chinese fans across the
sea.
"I try," said Edna, "to get away from Los Angeles as much as possible
between pictures. I go to Santa Barbara a great deal--and Coronado. It is
fatal to stay here too long at a time."
One cannot think of her doing things superlatively. That is, she would
smile where we might laugh. She would say, "That's nice" where we would
exclaim, "Oh, wonderful!" But, on the other hand, she would say "It doesn't
matter" where we would grate out a "Positively disgusting!" or something more
graphic. It is not a quality to be criticized. It is philosophical in a
way. It is Edna's denial of Worry, the bugbear of most of us. Without it,
it is true, she might have progressed much further in the film world than she
has. She has been for many years one of the most photographically perfect
women on the screen. It is only that content, that resignation, that has
failed to give her the necessary stimulus.
It is to be hoped that her tentative plan of joining the United Artists
may be realized and carried through to success. Edna has become one of the
traditions of the American screen. It would be a pity if her departure from
Chaplin pictures should in any way tend to lessen her appearance upon it.
I do not think that she intends that it shall. She did not tell who it was
that proposed to back her. Things are too indefinite for that yet, but she
spoke with easy confidence. Her future does not disconcert her apparently.
Her last remark, when she came to the door to say good-bye, gave a clear
view of her attitude toward things generally.
"I'm sorry I didn't have anything extraordinary to tell you," she said,
with a slow smile. "But life's rather dull just now anyway!"
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
February 3, 1922
LOS ANGELES EXAMINER
Taylor's Light Burned Late
Miss Edna Purviance, who lived in the two-story bungalow adjoining the
home of William D. Taylor, the Lasky film director who was shot Wednesday
night, said that when she returned to her home some time near midnight
Wednesday she noticed lights burning in Mr. Taylor's house, but that as
Mr. Taylor was given to burning the midnight oil, being a great reader, she
thought nothing of it.
"I was awakened," said Miss Purviance last night, "early Thursday
morning by the terrifying voice of some one who seemed to be running up and
down the court, screaming, 'Mr. Taylor is dead! Mr. Taylor is dead!'
I looked out the window and saw his Negro boy Henry, who was almost frantic
with grief, as he was very much attached to Mr. Taylor.
"Before they found the bullet wound in Mr. Taylor's back they thought
hehad died of heart disease, and that seemed terrible enough, but when
welearned he had been murdered, almost at our own door, it seemed too
horribleto believe.
"I knew Mr. Taylor only very slightly. I had never worked with him and
had only met him to a purely formal social way. I thought him to be a very
interesting, likable, discerning gentleman, with gallant, polished mannersand
a brilliant intellect.
"I always heard him spoken of as a man with a reputation above
reproachand a nature that was kind and generous. Although living as a near
neighbor,I saw him very infrequently and knew nothing of his private life or
of hislove affairs, if he had any. I knew that he and Miss Normand were
goodfriends but knew nothing of heart interest on either side."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
February 12, 1922
LOS ANGELES EXAMINER
...Miss Edna Purviance, film actress who lives at 402 A South Alvarado,
in the house next to the one occupied by Taylor, said:
"I was not at home the night of the murder, so of course I did not hear
or see anything unusual."
She explained that she and her mother had been away from home until
about 11:45 o'clock.
"Reports in the newspapers that I tried the door and rang the bell of
Mr. Taylor's home, when I noticed lights burning there, are false," Miss
Purviance said.
"There is nothing unusual to me in the sight of lights burning in a
private home at midnight, and I certainly did not try to enter the house that
night."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
October 21, 1923
Alma Whitaker
LOS ANGELES TIMES
The New Edna Purviance
Edna Purviance emerges. Behold the little lady of Charlie Chaplin's
slapstick comedy fame, whose sole duty was to look nice and sweet and get
ogled and bumped into by a rummy-looking little comedian for lo, these many
years, suddenly transformed into a star dramatic actress.
There isn't any doubt about the stardom or the amazing dramatic talent
after one has seen Chaplin's "A Woman of Paris." The only question is, is it
inherent, all her own, or is Charlie her Svengali who hypnotically compels
that evidence of genius?
So I called her up at 8 a. m. one morning--an awful test of temperament.
And sure enough she answered, serene and cheerful, the same placid natural
Edna I had known years before. And then we had lunch together.
She arrived punctually on the dot, chic, tailored, smiling, quietly
radiant. Nothing blase about Edna, even if she does play the role of a
disillusioned demimondaine in "A Woman of Paris."
And she still has her sense of humor--that precious asset which has
sustained her amazing friendship with the temperamental Charlie through so
many vicissitudes. She can laugh good-naturedly, almost maternally at
Charlie--as the Polas, Mildreds, Claires, Mays and Peggys never could. They
understand each other so well, these two.
I think Edna has always loved Charlie--but she never let him break her
heart. She would smile understandingly, with masterly inactivity. And so,
of all the women in Charlie's life, Edna has been the most important factor.
Just once did she blow up in a sumptuous rage--after the thirtieth
rehearsal of the scene in "A Woman of Paris" where the girls show her the
magazine article about the coming marriage of her "gentleman friend."
Charlie, monsieur le directoire, was awed into docility. Pola had handed him
one or two of these temperamental uprisings, otherhow, otherwhere, so he was
case-hardened to those. But this was the placid Edna in a new guise, a rare
guise, a very much alive and dominating guise. It impressed him mightily--
and thereafter the picture went with infinitely smoother gait.
I asked Edna about this thrill of emergence. She laughed and said
Charlie had kept them all working too hard, too furiously disciplined, too
concerned about his emergence rather than their own, so she really had not
had time to settle down to the thrill yet.
But yes, she loved it. Yes, she was ambitious. But she was in the
hands of Charlie.
She had no plans apart from him. Her one concern was to catch his
ideas, see eye to eye with him, feel his ideals, portray his inspirations--
for the greater glory of Mr. Charles Spencer Chaplin, director, author,
producer.
Her portrayal of Marie, the demimondaine, is truly remarkable. It must
be remembered that the demimondaine is a distinct class in France. She is
not a common prostitute, but invariably a girl of good family and education,
whose lack of a "dot"--a marriage portion, so essential in French marriages--
inclines her to accept the position of "mistress" or "petite amis."
It really amounts to a recognized profession in the edge of society.
It is understood that she is "exclusive"--and loyal to her well-to-do
"protector."
Thus she is not supposed to portray either passionate romance or
sirenical vampireness. And her momentary craving for "respectability," for
home, husband and babies--which offers so sumptuous an opportunity for
sophisticated cynicism in the play--is natural, as is her quick reaction to
professional considerations, her restored poise, her crushing of emotions.
Your well-bred demimondaine knows full well that violent emotions are
unbecoming in a lady in her position.
There has been some criticism that there were no real love scenes
between her and the young artist who commits suicide for her sake. Edna
defends this. She was not supposed to be in love with him. Rather is she
guarding her emotions against falling in love with her wealthy, dashing,
sophisticated "protector"--which would be such a sorry faux pas.
But the artist lover did represent respectability, marriage, homes,
babies, and it was rather in this sentimental guise that we are to accept her
interest in him. Her weeping over the bier is regret only for sorrow brought
to that family through her. On his understanding, Edna's portrayal is
masterly, brilliantly natural.
Edna says that during the making of the play Charlie would say, "Now if
this happened to you in real life, what would you do?" She would answer
conscientiously and then be told to go ahead and do it.
"Never mind keeping your face to the camera," said Charlie, "your
emotions will be seen and felt through any part of your body at any angle, if
you act well." This, said Edna, gave one such a wide scope, left one free to
be so natural. So you see, Charlie was not doing very much of the Svengali
hypnotic stuff.
When Edna sits on that railing, after being locked out of her home, one
actually sees her soul harden. There is scarcely a movement, yet we see her
crystalize into dumb, cynical, resigned despair.
And when she boards that train alone, believing that she has been
deserted by her lover, just a lone unhappy girl in a deserted station at
midnight, we get that quiet little bit of cynically hopeless resigned
desperation with utter poignancy. No heroics, no heaving bosom, no tears and
wailing, not even fear--just stark dumb cynical resignation.
But the Edna that can portray all that is the most placid, cheerful
wholesome personality in real life. A thoroughly normal and very pretty
woman with her emotions in comfortable control.
Many men have loved Edna but she never loses her head over them. There
was the British major who was almost ready to sacrifice the British Empire
for her during the war days. There was the handsome polo player whom gossip
has tried to marry her to. And there was Charlie himself in bygone days.
But Edna is placidly, engagingly platonic with them all, just a soupcon
of flirtatiousness, you understand, enough to be interesting, but no grand-
stand passions. I don't think she will ever reach the front page in that
guise.
It is interesting to recall that she was a Nevada miner's daughter. She
met Charlie as a quiet unpretentious little girl at a party in San Francisco,
where they played spiritualism, table-turning and hypnotism.
Charlie vowed he could hypnotize little Edna and she consented. She
became absolutely rigid and fell taut to the floor--giving Charlie the scare
of his life.
Clever fooling--which promptly won Charlie's dramatic respect. He
invited her to come down to Los Angeles and see how pictures were made--and
that was the beginning of her professional life.
Her first part was that of a nice inoffensive girl in "A Night Out"--in
the making of which Charlie bullied her like a pickpocket. And her last
comedy part was in "The Pilgrim"--still a nice quiet inoffensive little girl
in the choir, and Charlie still bullying her like a pickpocket.
"I never knew what they were all about," laughs Edna. "But I know we
were in the throes of the Mildred Harris affair during 'Shoulder Arms,' and
the finale of it through 'The Kid,' and the Pola affair through 'The
Pilgrim,' and the finale of that through the first days of 'A Woman of
Paris,' and I guess that is how I keep my history dates in mind."
And she smiles placidly, a little wistfully perhaps, and trips off to a
reducing treatment, waving me farewell. Reducing is the one thing Edna takes
seriously. It entails lettuce lunches and sparse dinners and no breakfasts,
iced tea. She says she has gained five pounds since they finished the
picture--and Charlie does prefer them slim.
In the meantime she has bought a lovely new home and lives with mamma
and sister on Fleetwood Drive.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
January 3, 1924
LOS ANGELES EXAMINER
[Interview with Edna Purviance following the shooting of Courtland Dines
by Horace Greer]
"Mr. Dines and I were engaged--and yet we were not engaged, if you
understand what I mean.
"He never gave me an engagement ring, but there was an understanding
between us that we would be married. There was no date. We had not even
considered any certain date for our wedding.
"We had been thus engaged, I should say, for five or six months."
Edna Purviance, in a fluffy silk garment of pink and white, leaned
wearily back against the piled up cushions of her bed. Her eyes were moist.
She spoke with a visible effort.
"I met him when he first came here, about a year ago. There was a
dinner or dance or something; I can't remember now. We were introduced and--
and, well, I guess we rather liked each other.
"After that our friendship grew and grew. I am not ashamed to say that
I am most terribly fond of him.
"We were together a great deal, of course. He was wonderful.
"About six months ago we entered into a mutual understanding which was
the equivalent to an engagement to be married.
"We never considered an engagement ring necessary, but there was another
reason why I did not one, and that was that we wanted to keep our engagement
a secret--our secret.
"And now I suppose the world will know it."
Miss Purviance wore dark spectacles. She had apparently wept a great
deal. It was yesterday mid-afternoon, but she said she had not slept since
Courtland S. Dines, her fiancee, was shot down in his own apartment by Horace
A. Greer.
As an indication of the mutual friendship which existed between herself
and Dines, Miss Purviance cited a yachting trip taken some six months ago to
Catalina Island.
"It was on the yacht of a man whose name I don't want to mention unless
I have to," she said. "I can't see why any more people should be dragged
into this affair. But he was a friend of Miss Normand and for that matter,
of mine.
"He has a gorgeous yacht in the Los Angeles Harbor and during the summer
he arranged a little party for a cruise to Catalina. There were he and Miss
Normand, Mr. Dines and I, and the members of the yacht's crew and servants.
"We had a perfectly harmless cruise. We left the harbor one morning--I
think it was a Saturday, and cruised direct to Catalina. The yacht was very
spacious and marvelously equipped, and we docked that afternoon at Avalon.
"The next afternoon we came back to Los Angeles. The cruise was
entirely lacking in anything wrong or malicious. I understand that certain
minds will draw inferences from the fact that there were just the four of us,
but I will deny that there was the slightest ground for any inference of a
malicious nature.
"It was simply and solely a weekend outing in which four respectable
persons engaged. It was no more wrong than a hiking trip to the mountains,
or a motor trip, to some place of recreation, and those are taken every day
by thousands of people.
"And so we went to Catalina Island and returned and went about our
respective businesses. But during this trip the deep friendship between Mr.
Dines and myself was cemented more firmly. I think that is doubly true
because during the whole trip he never failed to conduct himself as a perfect
gentleman.
"The host had a small motion picture camera--one of those tiny pocket
things. He took quite a number of pictures, and we all stood on the deck and
struck attitudes--foolish, but a healthy outlet for high spirits.
"Around the studios we would call it 'clowning.' The pictures were
taken when we were all in exuberant moods, and we struck all sorts of silly
poses. I hope they will not be misunderstood."
As another indication of their affection, Miss Purviance mentioned that
as a Christmas gift Mr. Dines sent her a jet "vanity" of a new pattern.
He also sent her a gift on her birthday. She came down at last to the
Yuletide seasonal festivities which had their tragic culmination in Dines'
apartment.
They went out together on New Year's eve--to the Cocoanut Grove at the
Ambassador. They were in a party of ten--three married couples, Dines and
Miss Purviance. She declined to give the names of the guests "because," she
said, "I don't feel that it is necessary for them to figure in this
unfortunate thing."
"The party was not very exciting--in fact it was rather dull. This was
not due to the other guests, but to the general spirit of oppression that
seemed to prevail. However, it continued until 3 or 4 o'clock in the
morning, when Dines, she said, took her home. He kissed her good-night and
went away.
"On New Year's Day," she said, "everybody was having 'open house,' as is
the custom in Hollywood. We had made an engagement to meet for dinner that
day. About 3 o'clock I went over to this apartment, and other people were
there. In fact, his friends kept dropping in off and on all afternoon."
As in the other instance, she declined to give names.
"As soon as I got in the house," she said, "I phoned Mabel--Mabel
Normand, and asked her to come over. She said she would be there right away.
In about half an hour, I should judge, she arrived. I think the time was
between 3:30 and 4 o'clock.
"The chauffeur, Kelly, drove her over. I heard her tell him she would
call him when she wanted him to return. He went away.
"We sat around and entertained the people who called, and talked till
about 7 o'clock. Mr. Dines had just mentioned that he would have to go dress
for dinner. He was wearing a soft suit of some kind.
"It would be foolish to say that there was nothing to drink during the
afternoon, of course there was. But there was not a great deal to drink, and
none of us drank very much. I know that Mabel was not intoxicated, and
neither was I, and neither was Mr. Dines.
"When he said he must dress for dinner, I stepped into the room just off
the living room and took out my powder puff and started to powder my nose.
Mabel stepped in just behind me.
"'Don't be selfish,' she said, 'let me use it too.'
"And at that instant, without a preliminary warning of any kind, there
were three sharp shots from the other room!
"Mabel and I ran out immediately. There was no one in sight but Mr.
Dines. The front door was closed. We had not heard it open nor close, nor
any peal of the bell, nor any rap at the door.
"Mr. Dines was standing there, smiling in a sort of funny way.
"'Well,' he said, 'I got plugged.'
"He continued to stand there with his hand over his white shirt front
smiling. Then all at once, as I watched the fingers over his breast, I saw
the blood begin to seep through. I am not sure what I did then, nor what
Mabel did, nor what was said, if anything.
"Mr. Dines began to totter, but he never stopped smiling. I think we
ran to his side, Mabel on one side and I on the other, and led him to the
bedroom. He was getting weak. We laid him on the bed and tore off most of
his clothing. We put on his dressing gown, or bathrobe, or whatever it was,
that we found in the closet.
"I am not sure what we did next. I know we tried to stop the bleeding,
but it would not stop. Almost at once, it seems to me know, the ambulance
and the police were there.
"I never saw Kelly, or Greer, or whatever his name is, from the time he
first brought Miss Normand to the house until the time he was brought into
the room with us at the police station."
*****************************************************************************
*****************************************************************************
Reporting the Taylor Murder: Day Six
Below are some highlights of the press reports published in the sixth day
after Taylor's body was discovered.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
February 7, 1922
LOS ANGELES RECORD
Did Murderer Force Taylor to "Hold 'Em Up"?
That William D. Taylor, murdered movie director, was held at the point
of a pistol before he was murdered was the theory expressed by detectives
Tuesday.
In support of this theory, the police bring out these points:
Taylor's shirt was pulled somewhat out of his belt. Holding his hands
in the air while menaced with a revolver would account for that.
The slayer evidently held the gun within three or four inches of
Taylor's body, as powder marks on the clothing indicate.
As Taylor fell, the assassin might have caught him and laid him on his
back. The fact that there were no bruises on Taylor's head or body, which
would have been caused had he fallen, accounts for this conjecture.
Having his hands in the air would explain why the bullet missed Taylor's
arm. The assassin evidently shot from the hip, the way of a two-gun bad man,
the detectives point out, thus sending the bullet on its diagonal course
through the ribs, heart and into the neck.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
February 7, 1922
LOS ANGELES RECORD
...Guards surrounded the home of Mary Miles Minter, prominent film star
and close friend of Taylor, Tuesday.
Captain David L. Adams and the squad of eight police detectives who are
working on the mystery, scattered to various parts of the city following a
conference. They were working on a number of clues, any one of which may
develop into something tangent.
Before the detectives left police headquarters they subjected Henry
Peavey, Taylor's Negro valet, to another questioning, but the valet was
unable to tell them anything new.
The four private detectives, who guarded the home of Mary Miles Minter
on North Hobart boulevard, shooed all visitors away. They are supposed to
have been hired by Miss Minter...
A cigarette stub carelessly dropped in front of a garage at Temple and
Hill streets may lead to the discovery of the murderer of Taylor.
If the police could have laid hands on the man who dropped the bit of
paper wrapped around a few shreds of tobacco the mystery that has baffled the
entire country would be solved today. But the man slipped through their
hands with a margin of only a few minutes between him and capture.
The smoker, an indistinct figure, lounged in the doorway of the garage
in the darkness of night. A man drove in with his automobile and the smoker
stepped aside, casting away the cigarette.
The driver, engaged in negotiating the doorway, did not once glance...
But a few minutes later a policeman picked up the cigarette stub and
examined it.
It was gold-tipped and bore the special design seen only on the
cigarettes made to order for Taylor.
Nino Andrinie, editor of "La Patria," an Italian newspaper, was the
motorist who drove into the garage while the man was lounging in the doorway.
The policeman who found the cigarette stub awakened the editor at his
apartments in the Alhambra a few hours later and questioned him. Andrinie
could not give a good description of the man he saw.
The police theory that Edward F. Sands, former secretary of the movie
director may know who committed the murder, was strengthened greatly by the
cigarette clue...
"If we can find Sands," declared Captain David L. Adams, in charge of
the police investigation, "this mystery will be solved. Unless he can
account for his whereabouts Wednesday night he will be under the strongest
possible suspicion."
Telegraphic orders for the arrest of a man believed to be Sands were
sent to Carlin, Nev., where a man answering his description is under
surveillance. The arrest was expected today...
The startling theory that Sands is in reality Taylor's missing brother,
Dennis, was scouted as impossible today by Mrs. Ada Deane-Tanner, divorced
wife of the missing man.
Mrs. Deane-Tanner, when shown a photograph of Sands at her Monrovia
home, pointed out points of dissimilarity which led to this theory, developed
by detectives working on the baffling murder mystery, to be discarded.
Sands is short and stocky, with plump, round face. Dennis Deane-Tanner
was slender like his brother, and his clear-cut features much resembled those
of the murdered director. Besides, Mrs. Deane-Tanner explained, her
husband's nose had been broken in athletics, which gave him a noticeable
mark.
Neither could there be any possibility, according to her, that Taylor
was her missing husband, playing a dual role. She and other friends who knew
both brothers in New York, saw and talked to Taylor in Los Angeles and could
not be deceived about his identity...
So far two reported "sons" of Taylor have been heard from and are being
traced. One of the young men, about 25 years of age, introduced himself as a
son of the eminent director when he took some manuscript to F. H. McDowell,
associate editor of "Screenland," about two weeks ago. The police today were
looking for the young man at the address which he left with McDowell.
The other youth who claimed to be Taylor's son, was interviewed by a man
who knew the movie director when the boy registered for war service at
Columbia University, New York. The young man was reported as being very
bitter towards Taylor, cursing at mention of his name. He did not say why he
hated the man whom he represented as his father.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
February 7, 1922
LOS ANGELES HERALD
...As regarded the statement often made that Taylor was exclusively a
man's man, it was said today by his former employees that such was not the
case; that Taylor on numerous occasions talked to one screen actress for 30
minutes at a time over the telephone. He would also send lengthy letters to
her in the middle of the day. He was said to have had many women friends.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
February 7, 1922
NEW ORLEANS ITEM
Los Angeles--...A pale pink night-gown, of filmy silk, positively
identified as the property of a certain famous movie star whose name has
already been mentioned in connection with the death of Taylor, is now in the
possession of the police and may play a dominant part in a solution of they
mystery of Taylor's death.
The nightgown, previously described to the police by servants of the
slain director, disappeared from Taylor's apartment on the day after the
murder, but was found Monday after a diligent search by the authorities now
investigating the tragedy...
The star to whom the night-gown is believed to belong, is not a
comedienne.
A three-letter laundry mark was the clue to ownership of the dainty,
lace-trimmed garment. It had been kept in a box in one of the dresser
drawers of Taylor's bedroom, according to Henry Peavey, Negro valet of the
director.
A police detective who had been working independently on the case
brought the garment itself into headquarters Monday, with what he declared
was positive identification of its owner.
Injection of the name of this movie star into the mystery enlarges the
field of suspects--for at the present time the police view every intimate
friend of the women who were known to be close associates of Taylor, as a
potential enemy and possible murderer through the jealousy which Taylor's
attachment may have aroused...
The kings of the movie world are determined that the murder must be
solved. Jesse Lasky, head of the Lasky-Famous Players, declares that the
offer of $1,000,000 for the solution of the mystery is no idle statement.
The leaders of the industry feel that the movie business is getting a
distinct black eye as the sensational details come out. It is their hope
that it can be determined that Taylor was murdered for money, or by a
burglar, and no money is being spared to accomplish this aim.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
February 7, 1922
NEW ORLEANS ITEM
New York--An almost unbelievable parallel of circumstances, uncanny in
the faithfulness of detail, exists between the Taylor murder case in Los
Angeles and the Elwell tragedy in New York of nearly two years ago.
Joseph B. Elwell, noted bridge whist expert, was found dead at his desk
in his living room, from a revolver shot. The weapon was not found and the
door was locked.
Taylor, noted movie director was found dead under exactly the same
circumstances.
Elwell's body was discovered by his housekeeper: Taylor's by his valet.
Cigarette butts were left behind by the slayer in each case.
Both men were living apart from their wives, but other women had entered
their later careers with tremendous influence upon their actions. Both men
lived in luxurious surroundings.
On the morning of the Elwell murder a young woman in frantic fear went
to Elwell's house and obtained from the housekeeper certain lingerie which
had been in the murdered man's dresser drawer.
A pink silk night gown disappeared from Taylor's bedroom on the day
after his murder, according to the statement of his valet. It has now been
located and is in the hands of the police.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
February 7, 1922
PORTLAND NEWS
Elko, Nev.--Two additional men were placed under surveillance here
today, suspected of being Edward F. Sands, missing "valet" wanted in Los
Angeles in connection with the William D. Taylor murder.
They arrived in Elko last night and took rooms at a hotel here, saying
they had come "from the west." Both registered as being from Los Angeles.
Officers guarded their rooms in the hotel here throughout the morning.
A third had been under surveillance previously.
"But we are afraid none of the men is Sands," the sheriff said. "One,
however, tallies pretty well, generally, with the description given us."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
February 7, 1922
Wallace Smith
CHICAGO AMERICAN
Los Angeles--Detectives rushed into the haunts of the "dope" peddlers of
Hollywood this afternoon with orders to take into custody a man known as
"Dirty" Diamond, reported chief of the "drug ring" that has made hundreds of
thousands of dollars and scores of victims of narcotics in the wilder young
motion picture set.
Led by the same mysterious woman informant those tales took them to the
"dope" dens, the police declared that Diamond could direct them to the slayer
of William Desmond Taylor and tell the story behind the weird mystery of
Alvarado St.
Their search began when a long-distance telephone call from Carlin,
Nev., informed them that a suspect there, believed to have been Edward F.
Sands, alias Edwin Fitz-Strathmore [sic], Taylor's former valet and
secretary, had been captured and had proved to be another man...
The Carlin suspect, who was accompanied by another man, had brought
suspicion on himself by his mysterious actions, which concluded when he
locked himself in a house on the outskirts of the little mining town. He was
surrounded there by sheriff's men and surrendered.
The search for the man known as Diamond was given added importance by
the police because of the feeling from the first that sooner or later the
true story of the slaying must come from inside the dope ring.
Meanwhile investigators seemed to have cleared up at least one angle of
the slaying mystery--that was the sudden disappearance from his hotel of a
wealthy young New Yorker the day after the murder. This was a man once
reported engaged to Mary Miles Minter. It was theorized at the time that he
had slain Taylor because of his jealousy over her friendship with the
director.
Today, however, it was learned that an affair of another sort caused his
disappearance--at the request of the hotel management. On the night of the
murder, according to this information, it was said the New Yorker, with an
actor of the movies, were entertaining rather informally two women in the New
Yorker's room. Contraband liquor played no small part in the entertainment.
The hotel detective, summoned by the other patrons of the hotel, asked
that the women leave. He was assaulted by the two men...
While waiting an opportunity to interview Miss Minter detectives
followed the trail of still another woman--the cool slim figure of one of
filmdom's leading actresses that stepped out of the drug-frenzied setting of
Hollywood's feverish "dope" parties with a new version of the strange
killing.
She slipped from the sordid background as she had left a score of times
the scenes of mad revelry--to make her way under the cloak of night to the
home of the man who was killed. He was her lover.
One of the most noted of the screen's favorites--and one of the pitiful
number who have become thralls of the dope ring--the police say, led by now
spectacular developments, believe that the film beauty may be the assassin.
Her motive, the police informants declare, was a strange infatuation for
the quiet, well-mannered director turned to burning rage by her jealousy of
other women known to have visited the Alvarado Ave. home--once considered the
quarters of a recluse bachelor and now known as the abode of secret love.
Detectives directed their search toward the actress following the
stories of neighbors of the Taylor home, who told of her visits in the early
hours of the morning.
These tales were verified in the half-whispers that sounded in the
haunts of the drug peddlers, among whom the secrets of the stars that shine
on the celluloid firmament are matters of everyday gossip. They know it as
part of their infamous trade.
So impressed were the authorities with the sight of the latest will-o'-
the-wisp across the swamp of scandal and gossip revealed with Taylor's
killing that they were ready to construct their entire theory of the crime,
including the time it was done.
Generally it had been accepted that Taylor was shot half an hour after
Mabel Normand had ended her visit with the director, a visit enlivened by a
discussion of classic literature and gin cocktails. The time was placed at
about 8:30 p.m. Wednesday.
Now, it is believed that Taylor may have been shot down by the beauty of
the screen at an hour after midnight.
The associations of Taylor and the woman were mildly known to Hollywood
filmdom. That is, what might be called their daylight acquaintance.
Hollywood did not even raise its jaded eyebrows. There had been too many
women in Taylor's life.
They did not know of her early morning visits to Alvarado St. They
might have wondered why she, looked upon as a queen of the delirious revels
where ether and cocaine were blended with morphine and opium, left these
"parties" at an hour considered early in Hollywood. But they were used to
strange behaviors.
There was a bit of gossip when it was learned that the young woman, in a
burst of drug-inspired confidence, had boasted that she intended to marry
"Billy" Taylor.
"He's mine!" she said, "and he knows it."
Hollywood smiled tolerantly.
"There must be something about Bill Taylor," it said.
On New Year's Eve and far into New Year's day, the advent of the fresh
year was hailed by Hollywood with a wild and drunken shout. Old timers
hereabouts say that the celebration in its wildness surpassed anything ever
seen in these parts. Out of it since have grown twenty scandals and domestic
shipwrecks.
Taylor and the woman who boasted that she would marry him quarreled
violently at the "party" they attended. So violently that they separated on
the spot.
Half crazed with the drug she had taken the woman ran in a rage to her
car and drove to her home. In the morning, according to the dope peddlers--
remember that was part of their trade--she repented and telephoned Taylor.
Taylor, when the woman left, seemed turned to a man of stone. At last
he shook himself together, formally bade farewell to others of the party and
stalked to his car. When he reached home, according to the stories the
police heard from the dens of the dope peddlers, he broke down and wept.
When daylight came, he was off on one of his solitary walks into the
foothills.
He returned just before the woman telephoned. He refused to go to the
'phone when he learned who it was.
Later, it was stated, she made several efforts to reconciliation.
She 'phoned. She sent friends to intervene. She wrote impassioned letters--
letters for which the police are searching.
But Taylor was through with her. There had been other women in his
life. There still were. He was seen in their company in public. With them
he went to "parties" in private studios; friends of the jilted actress sought
to confront her with gossip about Taylor's carrying-on with other women.
Then came the night of Taylor's death--the night that Mabel Normand,
once reported engaged to him, visited Alvarado Street.
That night, as they say in the movie subtitles, the film queen again was
at a dope "party," morose and embittered, according to the police
information. To her side came one of her consoling friends.
"What a fine dumb-bell you are to be crying about that fellow," she
said. "Why, he's got a woman at his house right now."
"That's a lie," cried the star.
"All right," said the other. "But if I wanted to, I could tell you her
name."
For more than an hour, according to the information given the police,
the young woman who had boasted she would marry "Bill" Taylor brooded. Then
without a word to any one, she left.
The police believe it possible that this woman, with the fumes of the
drug fanning the flame of fierce jealousy that burned within her, armed
herself and went to the home of Taylor ready to demand his love and ready to
kill him if he refused.
And it was upon this theory that they were at work today. They found
their inquiry blocked among the moving picture people who knew Taylor best
and who knew, too, of his affair with the woman of the screen under
suspicion.
Very close-mouthed, these garrulous ones of the films have become. They
still talk about "Bill" Taylor as the "man's man" and the one who "played a
lone hand."
"Most of them are afraid to talk," declared one of the Los Angeles
detectives who has had wide experience in the affairs of the Hollywood
studios. "They know that if once one of them starts talking all of them are
likely to talk and all of them will be mixed up either in this affair or
others that are worse."...
An apparent timidly existed among the officials, also, about confronting
a certain Los Angeles man of wealth, with an unsavory reputation even where
the "parties' became wildest, with a demand for an accounting of his
whereabouts on the night Taylor was slain. This man, it was stated, was
known to be in love with one of the women interested in Taylor and his car
was said to have been seen that night in the vicinity of the Taylor home...
Incidentally, Miss Normand is making arrangements to have her telephone
number changed and kept a secret. All sorts of impossible people have been
phoning her and annoying her, she declared, since her name was mentioned in
connection with the Taylor tragedy.
The mystery of the silken nightgown, the delicate, filmy thing of peach
color that Taylor was supposed to have kept scented and folded in his dresser
drawer, remained a mystery.
The dainty garment apparently had disappeared, although at one time it
was reported in the hands of the police. Henry Peavey, the Taylor houseman,
is said to have declared that the gown bore an embroidered monogram. He also
is reported to have disclosed the initials worked into the monogram. Another
rumor stated that the garment had been identified through a laundry mark.
But the nightgown itself had mysteriously disappeared.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
February 7, 1922
LOS ANGELES EXPRESS
...In an effort to aid in Sands' arrest Charles Eyton, general manager
of the film organization with which Taylor was formerly connected, today
ordered the printing of 10,000 circulars giving a full description of the
fugitive. These will be sent broadcast throughout the nation, it was
announced...
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
February 7, 1922
Pauline Payne
Washington Times
Miss Normand Denies That Taylor Attended Movieland Drug Orgy
Los Angeles--"William Desmond Taylor never in his life attended a 'dope
party,' And I feel sure from my knowledge of the man that he certainly would
never have tolerated the use of narcotics at a party in his home.
"As for the mysterious pink nightie which the valet says was in his
house, I have not the slightest idea to whom it could have belonged.
"In fact I knew practically nothing of the private life of Mr. Taylor,
although he and I were splendid pals."
Such were the statements of Mabel Normand, cinema star, made to me today
as she sat curled up on a great divan of the luxurious living room of her
palatial apartments and spoke of her friendship with the slain director.
"Because I was a dear friend of Mr. Taylor, naturally I feel deeply over
the catastrophe and am eager to assist the police in any way I can," Miss
Normand continued. "But it does seem a little unfair that my name should be
so prominently connected with his. Mr. Taylor had many friends besides
myself.
"Please say that I did not return to Mr. Taylor's home after the tragedy
to get back my letters. I returned there with three detectives, at their
request, to describe the appearance of the room when I left there early in
the evening prior to Mr. Taylor's murder.
"There is nothing of any interest in the letters. I only wish that they
could be found and published, too, so that people could see how uninteresting
they were.
"I can say with perfect candor that I know of no woman who could
possibly have been jealous of my friendship with Mr. Taylor.
"Nor do I know any man who could have been jealous of me.
"I knew nothing of Mr. Taylor's past life until after this tragedy.
"I was particularly fond of Mr. Taylor, because he was so sympathetic."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
February 7, 1922
LONG BEACH PRESS
...Sheriff Al Manning contends that Taylor was killed because of
jealousy over a woman.
In support of his jealousy theory Manning has as evidence a pink silk
nightgown found in a drawer of Taylor's dresser the night after the murder.
The "nightie" was established as the property of an internationally known
film star through the initials of a private laundry mark. Henry Peavey,
Taylor's Negro valet, when shown the garment, admitted that his employer had
had it for six months.
When police questioned the owner of the nightgown, she became
hysterical. She was at one time reported to have been engaged to a young New
York man who, according to gossip about the film world, was jealous of
Taylor. It became known several days ago that police were conducting a quiet
search for a New York broker.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
February 8, 1922
SAN FRANCISCO CHRONICLE
Los Angeles, Feb. 7--...Meantime the Sheriff's office has announced than
an arrest will be made before morning and that the person arrested will not
be Sands.
The "woman" theory was strengthened by Mabel Normand. She denied that
she was infatuated with Taylor or Taylor with her, but admitted it might have
appeared so to a jealous person and that "it might be another girl." Despite
her disavowal of love for Taylor, Miss Normand collapsed at his funeral, held
in the procathedral here today.
An actress who had been severely grilled a few nights ago was questioned
again today. It is believed her sweetheart may know something of the murder.
He was jealous of Taylor, it is said.
The "tip" that Sands was hiding near Carlin, Nev., was proved false.
The man was not Sands. He was much shorter, and he had a wooden leg.
It was reported that new evidence as to the activities of the narcotic
vendors, who are plentiful in Hollywood, had promised surprising
developments, but there was nothing definite.
The police were looking for a man said to be known as "Dirty Joe," who
they believe can tell something about Taylor's personal habits, about the
woman who went to call at his cozy bachelor apartments, when the shades had
been drawn, and about the men reputed to be jealous of him.
Some of the actors and actresses who have been patronizing this peddler
are being sought, the police believing it possible they may talk "if rightly
handled."
Mary Miles Minter, the film star, who became hysterical when she heard
of Taylor's death, has shut herself up in her home and four private
detectives stand on guard to keep everybody away.
Since it became known that Mary had written to Taylor, she will see
nobody.
A letter with her butterfly crest, signed, "Yours, always, Mary," was
found in one of the numerous books in the Taylor library.
"Dearest," it said, "I love you, I love you, I love you."
There were nine little crosses for nine little kisses and the big cross
with an exclamation point at the bottom of the letter.
Mary has not admitted she sent this letter. Neither has she denied it.
She has denied, however, that she loved Taylor in the sense the word is
usually used. She loved him as a big, strong, kind man, she says, a
brilliant, courteous, charming "uncle." She never was engaged to him. He
never made love to her.
Henry Peavey, Taylor's negro valet and cook, was questioned again today,
but the only new thing he told was that Taylor kept a tiny lace handkerchief
and that he used to kiss it often reverently.
It may have been one sent him by his daughter, Ethel Daisy, who is
coming to Los Angeles to attend the burial. It may have belonged to any one
of many beautiful women.
The handkerchief, so far as the police can learn, has nothing to do with
the murder. But then, they say, neither has the missing pink silk nightie,
for which they are still searching. The mystery of the nightie's
disappearance simply adds to the mystery of the case.
It was reported that the new county grand jury may be given this case
within a few days.
"We are progressing with the case," said Captain Adams, "even if only by
the process of elimination. We have not yet made any arrests, or taken
anyone on suspicion, but we are gradually getting out of all the false trails
that have been hiding the real path. I believe it all rests with Sands.
Once we have him, we'll have everything."...
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
February 8, 1922
LOS ANGELES EXAMINER
Declaring that he called William D. Taylor at 7:55 o'clock Wednesday
night and, receiving no answer, went to the apartment of the film director,
arriving there at 8:15 o'clock, rang the doorbell and still met with no
response, Howard Fellows, chauffeur for the murdered director, last night
definitely fixed the time within which the crime must have been committed and
added facts regarding as of first magnitude importance in their bearing upon
the crime.
Strangely enough, this young man, who had been Taylor's driver for
nearly six months, had not been questioned at length until yesterday, when an
Examiner representative called on him at his home, 1622 Shatto Place.
He is a brother of Harry Fellows, who was Taylor's assistant director.
Yesterday Detective Sergeant Tom Zeigler took Howard to the Taylor home,
404-B South Alvarado street. He was partially identified by a resident of
the neighborhood as the person he had seen seated in a car on the night of
the murder near the scene of the crime and about the time it was committed.
Fellows denied this and convinced Zeigler that the man was mistaken.
One of Fellows' most interesting statements, other than that relating to
his movements and observations on the night of the assassination, had to do
with an alleged quarrel between Taylor and Mabel Normand.
"I was driving Mr. Taylor and Miss Normand from the Ambassador Hotel,
where they had attended a New Year's Eve party, to her home." said Fellows.
"On the way they had a quarrel. I don't know what it was about, but
both were very much excited.
"Mr. Taylor took Miss Normand home and then returned to his apartment.
Upon arriving there he broke down and wept.
"On the following morning he did up some jewelry in a package and took
it to Miss Normand at her home."
Henry Peavey, Taylor's colored valet, confirms this.
"Mr. Taylor and Miss Normand were very affectionate," continued Fellows.
Questioned independently, Peavey said that Taylor often caressed her.
As to these matters Fellows spoke casually, but when he entered upon the
events of the night of February 1, his narrative became astounding both as to
its content and because he had never told it before.
"I left the house (Mr. Taylor's) about 4:30 Wednesday afternoon,"
Fellows began.
"Mr. Taylor told me he might be going out in the evening and instructed
to be sure to telephone by 7:30. I went to the home of a young lady friend
and was there until 7:55. I recall the time accurately because I had it on
my mind to call Mr. Taylor and ask him if he would need the car.
"I called him two or three times before that hour, bur received no
reply. I left the house of my girl friend at five minutes to eight and drove
directly to Mr. Taylor's.
"I reached there about a quarter past eight.
"There was a light in the living room. I was surprised that Mr. Taylor
should be home and not have answered the telephone.
"I rang the doorbell. Silence. I rang again. Still no response.
I must have rung three or four times. Then I concluded: 'Well, he has some
one there and doesn't want to answer.'
"So I put up the car. I was around back of the house, and it is
peculiar that persons in the neighborhood should have heard me walking and
not have heard me put up the car. I made a good deal of noise doing this, as
the garage is difficult to get into, and I guess I must have backed the car
up four or five times.
"I am satisfied that I am the man Mrs. Douglas MacLean saw standing on
the porch and leaving the house. I wore a cap and a raincoat.
"I noticed no cars in the immediate vicinity and saw no one who aroused
my suspicions.
"Naturally, I am convinced that both when I phoned and when I rang the
doorbell, Mr. Taylor was lying there on the floor murdered."
Taking the testimony of Fellows and Miss Normand together, it is now
possible to fix the time of the murder within fifteen minutes.
Miss Normand said she left Taylor between 7:30 and 7:45 o'clock.
Fellows called him at 7:55.
The murder was committed between Miss Normand's leave-taking and
Fellows' phoning.
Hence, for the first time, the police have a picture of the murder as it
relates to the time when and in which it was committed.
Before Fellows' statement became available there was no conclusive
evidence as to the time the bullet of the assassin struck the film director
down. Testimony as to the shot being heard was so vague as to be
unconvincing. It could not be said with finality that the murder did not
occur at midnight or at any other hour of the night.
The acts of the drama leading to the murder must have been brief. It
would appear, indeed, that there were no preliminaries, that the intruder,
concealed in the room, stepped out and fired the shot.
It is therefore deduced that it was a premeditated crime and not one
precipitated by a quarrel or any sort of scene more than of momentary
duration.
One group of police investigators and most of the deputy sheriffs
working on the case are now convinced that the visit of Mabel Normand was the
immediate antecedent occasion for the crime.
This theory naturally takes for granted that Miss Normand had not the
slightest intimation that her dear friend was to be shot to death, but
officers cannot help but believe that the murderer found the way for his
crime paved in some way by the visit of Miss Normand.
There was another new angle to the case late yesterday upon which two of
the ablest detectives on the force are now working. A citizen of established
reputation gave the details to a high police official yesterday, the story
running substantially as follows:
A young man who has come into touch with motion picture people in a
business way, though not one of them, was infatuated with an actress
prominently mentioned in the investigation.
Shortly before the time of the murder, that is between 7:30 and 8
o'clock on the night of February 1, this citizen saw the young man in
question near Taylor's house. He wore a cap and a long coat.
Since last Thursday he has not been seen either at his home or place of
business.
This clue is regarded as important because the elements of motive and
time are supplied.
The young man is said to have a violent temper and to have strongly
resented innuendoes affecting the reputation of the actress whom he
worshipped.
Into the William D. Taylor murder last night was injected an element
which the police regard as of startling import.
This was the revelation, according to information, that a man's
handkerchief, not the possession of Taylor himself, was found in the
director's living room the morning after he was slain.
The conclusion that the handkerchief did not belong to Taylor is
furnished in this report--
It bore the initial "S."
A detective is said to have picked up the article from the floor. He
glanced at it, saw the initial, and for the moment, other matters engrossing
him, he gave the discovery little thought.
For several hours all was confusion in the Taylor rooms. Detectives,
motion picture actors, reporters and photographers invaded the apartment.
Yesterday the detective recalled the incident, remembering distinctly
that there was a single initial embroidered on the square of linen.
The disclosure proved to be of profound interest, as officers
immediately started upon an investigation with this as the subject matter and
the owner the end of the search.
What gives the discovery special significance is that the handkerchief
was soiled. So says the detective, who recalls this circumstance clearly.
The handkerchief was lying on the floor near where Taylor's body lay
outstretched.
Now, Taylor, according to all the descriptions of him furnished by his
friends, was a neat man and would not have had a soiled article like this
lying around.
To add to the probability that it came from without rather than from
within the home, may be mentioned the fact that Henry Peavey, colored valet,
had straightened up the director's living room before leaving for the
evening.
Peavey yesterday informed the police that the handkerchief certainly was
not there when he left. He also stated that Taylor possessed nothing
resembling this.
Hence, it is a deduction that a man having a handkerchief bearing the
initial "S" called on Taylor and was in the apartment between the time Peavey
left for the night and the discovery of the crime the following morning.
In reconstructing the murder as suggested by this discovery the police
picture the assassin as taking his handkerchief from his pocket during a
conversation with Taylor and of so insecurely placing it back that it fell
from his pocket.
Or--and this is another sketch to fit the hypothesis--he may have used
the handkerchief after the murder and, either in haste or agitation, dropped
it.
It is now of the utmost importance, in the view of the police, that this
handkerchief be recovered. Or, failing in this, that its owner be
identified.
Some one took the article from the living room where it was carelessly
placed by the detective who found it.
Did that some one have an interest in hiding what might have been
incriminating evidence?
Its appearance, they say, would have precluded any mere souvenir hunter
from having taken it. However, it is believed to be beyond question that
some one surreptitiously picked this thing up and concealed it in his pocket.
Whether or not it is of the huge possible importance with which it is
now regarded, this new story has sent the police hunting in a new direction.
They are looking for the owner of that handkerchief.
A long list of film folk, celebrated and obscure, whose names begin with
that initial, was being canvassed last night by officers.
Little importance was attached to the pink silk nightgown found in the
director's apartments. This, it was learned, had been laundered only once or
twice and bore no initials or other marks by which its ownership might be
determined.
Information came to headquarters yesterday that a man had been seen
walking back and forth in the rear of Taylor's home in the Westlake district
about two weeks ago. He was seen there on at least two nights, pacing up and
down the alley and, apparently, watching the house.
There is, of course, no means of knowing who he was or why he was there,
but the theory of a hired assassin enters to account for his presence and
stealthy vigil.
Detective Sergeants Cato and Cahill yesterday started a systematic
requestioning of all persons who might contribute helpful facts.
One of those put down for a thorough course of grilling is an actress
who has not been mentioned in the case. Officers called at her studio
yesterday, but found that she was out on location at a distant point in
Southern California.
The collapse of a noted screen star mentioned frequently in connection
with the case yesterday prevented the police from further questioning her.
They had a point to clear up, and the information, it was learned, could only
come from her.
Her attorney yesterday took command of her affairs and notified callers
that she was bedridden and in neither physical nor mental condition to
discuss the case.
The cause of the actress' breakdown is attributed in part to the strain
of innumerable police interviews, but chiefly to the loss of a friend who,
she says, was very dear to her.
It developed yesterday that few members of the picture colony believe
Edward F. Sands, discharged secretary-valet of the director, to have been the
murderer.
Particularly in the Famous Players-Lasky is this conviction strong. Few
of them knew Sands personally, but those who had seen him around Taylor's
apartments now recollect him as a man who might have been guilty of petty
crimes, such as robbery, but not of murder.
It occasioned little surprise yesterday when the sheriff of Elko, Nev.,
wired that the man seen there for several days and supposed to be Sands had
been questioned and gave such a clear account of himself that the sheriff
ordered his release.
Detective Ed King this morning will ask the District Attorney for a
complaint charging Sands with the murder of Taylor.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
February 8, 1922
LOS ANGELES TIMES
Personal letters written by Mabel Normand, film actress to William
Desmond Taylor, slain motion-picture director, were returned to her late
yesterday, according to information in the possession of three officers
working on the murder investigation. These missing letters, which have
figured largely among the puzzling phases of the case, have never been in the
hands of the police, it was declared.
On suggestions of a thorough grand jury inquiry into the matter, the
person said to have had these letters returned them to her, the three
officers said.
But a representative of Miss Normand, who collapsed yesterday at the
funeral of the man whose home she left only a few minutes before he was shot
in the back, stated she had not received them at a late hour last night.
Captain of Detectives Adams asserted again that the police have never
had any letters written by her or by Mary Miles Minter, another actress,
whose love for Mr. Taylor has never been denied by her. These letters,
couched in terms of endearment for the director, also were returned,
according to the officers' report.
Miss Minter, who has been ill, had no statement to make concerning the
report. Her attorney said she did not have them...
Deputy Sheriff Bell, working in connection with a "lead" from Sheriff
Traeger, made a mysterious trip during the afternoon and upon his return went
into conference with Undersheriff Biscailuz and Superintendent of Criminal
Investigation Manning. Mr. Biscailuz declined to divulge the nature of the
inquiry, but declared he has every reason to believe they are on the right
track and that the murder will not slip into the unsolved class.
Detective Sergeants Cato and Cahill spent the morning and part of the
afternoon eliminating from serious consideration a "tip" given Monday night
by C. M. Meister, chauffeur for the Yellow Taxicab Company, who told the
officers a lurid story of four persons and their mysterious activities near
the scene of the murder on South Alvarado street last Wednesday night, the
time the shooting occurred.
Cato and Cahill declared yesterday they are convinced the episode
mentioned has no bearing on the case, but they investigated it thoroughly
before discarding it...
Information tending to connect a motion-picture director, thus far not
mentioned in any way with the official inquiry, with the mysterious slaying
of Mr. Taylor in his bachelor apartments was received by two of the
detectives late in the day. They left on a hurried trip which kept them away
from the police station many hours.
Although they were reticent about the new "lead' it was learned they had
discovered witnesses who related a quarrel asserted to have occurred, between
Mr. Taylor and the new suspect.
An Edward Sands, at first believed to be the man about whom the country-
wide search has centered, was questioned for a considerable time yesterday by
Detective Sergeants Herman Cline and Murphy. Mr. Sands, a young man whose
description answered in a general way to that of the suspect, recently became
captain of bellboys in a fashionable hotel.
A letter addressed to him was noted, and since he had been employed at
the hotel only a few days, someone's suspicions were aroused. Following the
clue given them, the officers investigated.
Mr. Sands gave a straightforward account of his whereabouts for the last
few years and declared he did not know any Edward F. Sands. He explained
that his middle name was Edward but that he always used it as a first name.
In the hope that Mr. Sands might have known something of the family of the
man wanted, the officers questioned him for an hour at the detective bureau.
No information of value was obtained, it was stated.
The Sheriff's office, which is conducting a complete inquiry into all
clues received by the county officer holds the belief that Sands, who has
been a fugitive from justice for many months because of asserted grand
larceny and forgery, has no knowledge of the actual murder.
Those officers, as well as some of those working out of the police
detective bureau, adhere more closely than ever to the theory that Mr.
Taylor, an outstanding figure in the motion-picture industry, was slain by a
jealous rival for the love of a film actress...
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
February 8, 1922
CHICAGO HERALD-EXAMINER
Los Angeles, Feb. 7--...Detectives ridiculed a theory advanced today
that Sands may have been Dennis Tanner, a missing brother of the slain man
who disappeared in 1912. Tanner, if alive, would be considerably more than
40, it was said, while Sands age is 25.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
February 8, 1922
NEW YORK TELEGRAPH
Los Angeles, Feb. 7--...Bell and Manning declare that the police theory,
fixing the murder upon Sands, Taylor's former secretary, is erroneous.
"The man who killed Taylor is right here in Los Angeles," declared Bell.
"We are not shooting blind. We know what and who we are after. Before
another day is passed we will have action on the murder."
The county investigators are working on the theory that a woman is at
the bottom of the mysterious murder.
The chief evidence unearthed during the day is a letter and a bit of
celluloid film.
The letter was received by Arthur Koetchu, Assistant State's Attorney
General. It was received from a woman and, according to Koetchu, has a
direct bearing on the case. It recounted that the writer overheard a
conversation at Second street and Bunker Hill avenue on the night of the
tragedy.
One of the motorists wore a cap and muffler, it was stated.
The informant overheard the men conversing in low, excited tones, the
letter states.
"Now that we're in for it," one of them is said to have told "the man in
the muffler."
They separated, going in different directions in two automobiles. But
the occupants lost some small articles in their haste, the letter states.
One of these was a small strip of motion picture film, apparently part of a
scenic reel depicting the Grand Canyon. In the strip was this sub-title,
apparently only a sinister coincident:
"A deep and brooding mystery seems to hover over this great scar on the
face of nature."
Taylor had several reels of pictures stored in his home. Detective
George Conteres is going through them with Public Administrator Frank Bryson
to ascertain whether or not the strip of film is part of Taylor's collection
of scenics.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
February 8, 1922
LOS ANGELES EXAMINER
Here is another unsigned love letter, in cipher, found in the effects of
William D. Taylor, the motion picture director. This letter would indicate
the writer's deep love for Taylor. The code is known to thousands of
youngsters:
"What shall I call you, you wonderful man. You are standing on the lot,
the idol of an adoring company. You have just come over and put your coat on
my chair. I want to go away with you, up in the hills or anywhere just so
we'd be alone--all alone. In a beautiful little woodland lodge you'd be cook
(as I can only make tea) and fetch the water and build the fire.
"Wouldn't it be glorious to sit in a big comfy couch by a cozy warm fire
with the wind whistling outside trying to harmonize with the faint sweet
strains of music coming from our victrola. And then you'd have to get up and
take off the record. Of course I don't really mean that, dear. Did you
really suppose I intended you to take care of me like a baby?
Oh, no, for this is my part, I'd sweep and dust (they make the sweetest
little dust caps, you know) and tie fresh ribbons on the snowy white curtains
and feed the birds and fix the flowers, and, oh, yes, set the table and help
you wash the dishes and then in my spare time I'd darn your socks.
I'd go to my room and put on something soft and flowing, then I'd lie on
the couch and wait for you. I might fall asleep for a fire always makes me
drowsy--then I'd wake to find two strong arms around me and two dear lips
pressed on mine in a long sweet kiss---"
(The last paragraph of this letter is being withheld by The Examiner
from publication at this time.)
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
February 8, 1922
LOS ANGELES EXAMINER
Crowd Storms Church Doors at Taylor Funeral
Women Faint in Battle for Admission
Ten thousand persons paid final tribute to William Desmond Taylor
yesterday afternoon.
They stood with bared heads as the casket was removed from St. Paul's
Pro-Cathedral, a solid, packed mass of humanity which extended from the
church doors across Olive street, filled that thoroughfare from Fifth to
Sixth streets, and overflowing into Pershing Square.
A squad of police officers, under command of Sergeant J. A. McCaleb,
including a number of mounted officers, had great difficulty in restraining
the huge throng, and the famous picture stars who attended the service found
themselves passing through a solid aisle of curiosity seekers, jostling and
pushing each other in frantic efforts to catch a glimpse of the celebrities.
Most of them, however, including Constance Talmadge, Mary Miles Minter
and others came through a little used side door half an hour before the
services, which began at 2 o'clock.
Mabel Normand, escorted by several friends, hatted and furred so that
her features were entirely obscured, came a few moments before the
ceremonies.
After the church, which has a seating capacity of 1000, was filled, the
crowd stormed the doors in an effort to gain admittance, and it was only by
using force that the police were able to restrain it. So great was the
disturbance and the cries that, for a few moments, the service was
interrupted.
The great majority were women, and the crush became so great just before
2 o'clock that two women fainted and had to be removed in private
automobiles.
Every window in an adjoining house was packed; boys were perched on lamp
posts, and across the street both men and boys were using trees and trolley
posts to gain points of vantage.
Never before in the history of Los Angeles has there been such a crowd
at the funeral of a private citizen. The mounted officers kept open a path
for street cars with difficulty and vehicular traffic was stopped by Sergt.
McCaleb at 1 o'clock.
They remained outside the house of worship, standing for three hours
waiting to catch a glimpse of the casket and to see men and women whose names
are known all around the world.
All Screenland's notables sent floral pieces. The entire front of the
chancel was a solid mass of blossoms which overflowed, almost to the alter in
one direction, and down to the foot of the bier in another.
Standing out prominently in bold relief against all the rest, was a
huge, magnificent wreath of roses sent by Mabel Normand, which was on the
left and a snow white cross of lilies with a card bearing the simple
inscription: "From Dustin."
There also was a modest shower of lilies, the flowers of purity,
somewhat inconspicuous among the riot of American Beauties, orchids and other
expensive blossoms. This card said merely: "Ethel Daisy's" and was the
contribution of Ethel Daisy Tanner, 19-year-old daughter of the dead man,
whose home is in New York.
While a list of the names on the cards attached to the floral pieces
read like a page from the blue book of Filmdom, there was one, written in a
rather scrawly hand, indicating it came from one in the humbler ranks,
reading, simply: "For Mr. Taylor--from Jim." It was a basket of delicate
Spring flowers.
The Black Prince roses which Mary Miles Minter left at the mortuary,
were there, as well as a gorgeous piece from the Directors' Association, of
which the dead man was the president, and scores of others.
Included in the number were flowers and pieces from the American Society
of Cinematographers, a harp of pink roses, sweet peas and lilies, Charles
Ray; shower of roses and lilies, from George Young and Helen Sanborn; Al
Christie, red roses; Lila Lee, shower of pink roses; Mr. and Mrs. Thomas H.
Ince, cross of pink roses and orchids; W. A. Robertson, shower of pink roses;
Mack Sennett, basket of roses; E. M. and F. A. Franklin, showers of lilies;
Antonio Moreno, wreath of lilies and orchids; Harry Fellows, assistant to Mr.
Taylor, spring blossoms, sweat peas and lilies; Constance Talmadge, American
Beauty roses, L. L. Burns, wreath of sweet peas, Charles Chaplin, wreath of
velvet roses; Mr. and Mrs. Douglas MacLean, spray of roses and lilies; from
"Bebe and Phyllis" a spray of pink carnations and lilies; Charles Levy and
Sons, red velvet roses and lilies of the valley, Mr. and Mrs. R. Barker,
wreath of pink roses and lilies of the valley; Edward Knoblock, wreath of
sweet peas and lilies; shower of roses, Mrs. Otis Turner of New Rochelle, New
York; Elsie A. Larson, roses; Ethel M. Davis, wreath, as well as large pieces
from every organization identified with the film industry, including the
Screen Writers' Guild, Actors' Equity Association and others.
It was shortly after noon when the casket was placed at the head of the
main aisle of the cathedral by Ivy H. Overholtzer, head of the mortuary from
which bears his name.
A deaconess in her semi-uniform of gray, was busy arranging the late
floral tributes. A minister was tiptoeing about whispering and arranging
final details. The air was heavy with the scent of roses, lilies and other
flowers.
Outside the February sun was shining brightly, with a hint of Spring in
the air. A stray beam found its way through a bit of stained glass in a
chancel window, which, strangely enough, bathed the bier in a mist of
shimmering gold.
The British flag, draped over the casket, was transmuted into a cloth of
wondrous color and beauty. It was a scene of peace and quiet, yet pregnant
with events soon to occur.
Then came soft footfalls on the carpeted aisle and into a pew but a few
feet away from the casket came Henry Peavey, colored cook and valet of the
dead man, accompanied by J. J. Larkin, a white friend of many years standing.
Peavey took one look at the masses of flowers, one glance at the
gleaming cross on the altar, then his eye was caught and held by the flag-
draped coffin, enwrapped in golden light.
Suddenly he sobbed aloud, and, half turning his body, crumpled into a
heap on the cushions, his body shaken with grief. It was almost half an hour
before he could compose himself, and during the services tears ran
unrestrained down his cheeks.
Then came a sharp reminder of the days when the director abandoned the
studio to battle for right, truth and justice, and became one of the five
million men who helped turn the tide of war and bring victory. For Mr.
Taylor enlisted as a private in the British army and rose to the rank of
captain with remarkable rapidity.
As a mute reminder of that service, his cap lay on the coffin, and he
lay there in the casket in his uniform, but without the medals he won for
valor and bravery.
There was a sharp tread of feet, the rattle of arms, and short, sharp
commands as a guard of honor was posted by the captain in command--Canadian
soldiers, former service men, in full uniform, one at each corner, standing
immobile, statue-like, with heads bowed, their hands resting on the butts of
their rifles with barrels resting on the floor.
And between the staccato orders of the captain came the sound of the
sobs of Peavey, the servant of the dead man.
It was half an hour before the time set for the rites that the half of
the cathedral set aside for the film folks began to fill.
Charles Eyton, general manager of the West Coast studios of the Famous
Players-Lasky Corporation, was among the first to come. He was followed by a
number of directors almost as well known as their dead friend who lay in the
casket in the front of the church, with four soldiers on guard--the honor
guard for the dead British captain.
Among the others who were present were George Melford, Ted Sloman,
Wesley Ruggles, Frank Beall, Ben Wilson, Murdock MacQuarrie, James Young,
Frank Campeau, Theodore Roberts, Antonio Moreno, Gilbert Hamilton, George L.
Cox, Wallie Van, Paul Scardon, Roy Clements, Mrs. Julia Crawford Ivers, Mr.
and Mrs. Henry McRae, Wallace Worsley, Kathleen Kirkham, Frank Lloyd, Joseph
DeGrasse, Arthur Hoyt, Constance Talmadge, who was accompanied by her mother;
James Neill and scores of others whose names are household words over the
world.
Among the throng was a little dark-haired, big-eyed girl whose eyes bore
traces of weeping. She came in quietly with her mother and found as
unobtrusive a seat as possible.
She is Neva Gerber, former fiancee of Mr. Taylor, and, at the time of
his death, one of his warmest friends and ardent admirers. Her handkerchief
went often to her face during the services, as she was swept by memories of
the tragedies, in sharp contrast to the happy hours they had spent planning a
future wherein they should always be together.
Outside the crowd had increased to large proportions. Sergeant McCaleb
sent in a call for additional police to handle the impatient throng. A few
of the fortunate ones who stood closest to the church door were admitted and
it was announced the cathedral was closed.
Then it was that the crowd broke the restraining ropes and the human
barriers of soldiers and police and swept up the steps, determined to gain
admission.
There was a quick mobilizing of uniformed officers, attaches of the
church and others who blocked the onslaught. They were compelled to handle
some of the foremost and most aggressive men and women with force to prevent
them from taking the edifice by storm. Some were people who had worked with
Mr. Taylor; others came from various studios, but in the main they were idle
curiosity seekers who possessed a morbid desire to be present at the services
and to view the body later.
They had waited from two to three hours and they were determined to get
in at all costs. While the church was not completely full, this wholesale
onslaught made it impossible to open the door and admit the few for whom
there still was standing room.
The organ began a slow, solemn dirge, as the crowd without was clamoring
for admittance, and making so much noise those in the back could scarcely
hear its notes.
Dean William MacCormack, standing high in the pulpit, a dignified,
commanding figure, was the center of attention. He gave a signal, and the
male quartet ruffled its music, the organ switched into a prelude and then
they sang the old, beloved hymn, which took many back to their childhood, and
away for the moment, of the scenes of which they were apart.
"Lead, kindly light, amidst the encircling gloom.
"The night is dark and I am far from home.
"Lead Thou me on."
Their voices rose, clear and melodious and the swelling notes of the
organ rose in accompaniment. To some this was but a prelude, but to most it
brought recollections of days that are gone and friends who are no more.
Of other churches, perhaps, at eventide, and other voices which sang
this hymn--voices, like that of William Desmond Taylor, there in the casket,
now stilled in death.
When the last note died away, Dean MacCormack began reading the
beautiful and impressive service of the Episcopal Church for the burial of
the dead--the comforting words from the Book of books, which have come down
through the years to lighten the sorrows of the bereaved, rich in promise and
vibrant with hope.
The clergyman made an impressive picture as he stood in the chancel in
his vestments of white, reading the promises of the Man of Galilee, made 1900
years ago, which have brought their mede of cheer to countless millions:
"I am the resurrection and the Life; whosoever believeth in me shall not
perish, but have everlasting life."
And those other pledges of eternal life and happiness.
Then it seemed most fitting and proper that the quartet should sing
another dearly beloved hymn, another heritage of the ages, "Abide With Me"--
"Abide with me.
"Fast falls the even tide.
"The darkness deepens.
"Lord with me abide."
Then there was the reading of Scripture by the Rev. C. H. Boddington,
assistant to the dean, and the final prayer.
Then the thousand persons in the church rose to their feet, again there
was the sharp military commands as the guard of honor was changed, and,
preceded by Dean MacCormack the casket was carried up the aisle and deposited
in the vestibule of the cathedral.
The throng within the church filed slowly out, stopping to take a last
look at the slain director.
And as they went slowly by Mabel Normand, in church pew, was in a state
of collapse, but regained her composure later. She had planned to leave the
edifice by a little used door, but abandoned the plan.
The pall bearers, honorary and actual, were made up of members of the
Motion Picture Directors' Association and those of the British Overseas Club,
service men in uniform.
Those from the directors' organization included James Young, Frank
Beall, Frank Lloyd, D. M. Hartford, Joseph DeGrasse, Arthur Hoyt and Charles
Eyton. The overseas contingent, which included the firing squad, was made
up, in part, of the following: Major W. Driver, in command; Captains Morrie
Spencer and J. Portus and Lieutenants Carter, Thompson, Donsell, Southern,
Dalton, Jackson, Dickson and Rawlins. The firing squad was under command of
Captain Arthur Clayton.
A picturesque touch of color was lent to the otherwise drab scene by the
presence of a company of Scotch bagpipers in full regalia, from caps to kilts
and short stockings. There also was present, wearing a uniform unlike any of
the rest, a bugler, furnished by the commander of the British warship
Calcutta, now anchored at the port of Los Angeles.
When the last of the spectators had left the cathedral, but with the
outside crowd still increasing in numbers, the casket was born to the waiting
hearse. There was a craning of necks and then the crowd surged forward
completely blocking the passage way the police had made for the hearse and
the funeral party.
It was with difficulty that the bluecoats remade the path through the
dense throng but it was finally accomplished and the funeral cortege started
on its way.
It moved slowly south on Olive street, the guard of honor, with arms
reversed, followed by the pipers, playing a funeral march, the muffled drum
forming a tonal background for the somewhat shrill skirling of the pipes.
Traffic was halted on every cross street as the procession passed.
On each side of the hearse walked the pallbearers, then came members of
the Overseas Club in uniform, followed by the automobiles. In the first
machine was Charles Eyton, William de Mille and a number of Lasky studio
celebrities. A limousine immediately following was occupied by Mabel Normand
The shades were closely drawn and the one star whose name has been more
frequently mentioned in connection with the murder of Taylor was, with her
party, hidden from the curious gaze of the thousands through which it passed.
The next machine contained members of the Motion Picture Directors'
Association, and the other noted members of the film colony.
As the thin, high notes of the bagpipes called attention to the
procession, pedestrians stopped and doffed their hats and gazed. Solid lines
of humanity in the center of the street down to Ninth street, did not
obstruct their vision. Men at work on a building on Olive street between
Seventh and Eighth stopped their work and stood on ladders and the room, hats
off, and watched the passing of the machines.
Newsboys stopped selling their papers, with stories of the tragedy, to
worm their way up to the front line of spectators in the street.
Just as the cortege was between Seventh and Eighth streets, Henry Peavey
ran across the street and climbed into an open car.
Along the entire route the sidewalks were lined with people who paused
and watched the solemn march.
For nearly a mile on each side of Hollywood cemetery, where the final
ceremonies were held, machines were parked. Along the drives of the cemetery
hundreds of others were left, while their owners went to make up part of a
throng of more than 1000 people.
A square was roped off and around it this new crowd was waiting when the
cortege arrived.
The magnificent floral pieces had been set up and formed a fitting
background for the last rites. And most prominent among them was the huge
wreath sent by Mabel Normand.
Also occupying an important position was the director's table at which
he worked, and the canvas-backed chair in which he worked.
The guard of honor drew up on one side.
And then, there under the blue sky, with the green grass under foot, and
palms waving gently in the afternoon breeze, the final words were said for
the man who loved the open places of the world more than anything on earth.
It seemed especially fitting and proper that the last tributes should be
paid outdoors before his body was placed in a mausoleum.
There was a prayer by the Dean, and then the Canadians took charge and
the dead director was given a strictly military funeral.
The spectators were permitted to view the body, after which three
volleys were fired by the squad, and between each volley, the bagpipes sent
forth their mournful refrain.
Then the bugler placed his instrument to his lips and sounded "taps,"
the last call of the military day.
The notes sounded through the lisnet city of the dead as the hundreds
stood in hushed silence, and the last mark of respect and love had been paid
the dead director.
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Back issues of Taylorology are available on the Web at any of the following:
http://www.angelfire.com/az/Taylorology/
http://www.etext.org/Zines/ASCII/Taylorology/
http://www.uno.edu/~drcom/Taylorology
Full text searches of back issues can be done at http://www.etext.org/Zines/
For more information about Taylor, see
WILLIAM DESMOND TAYLOR: A DOSSIER (Scarecrow Press, 1991)
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