Copy Link
Add to Bookmark
Report
Taylorology Issue 26
*****************************************************************************
* T A Y L O R O L O G Y *
* A Continuing Exploration of the Life and Death of William Desmond Taylor *
* *
* Issue 26 -- February 1995 Editor: Bruce Long bruce@asu.edu *
* TAYLOROLOGY may be freely distributed *
*****************************************************************************
CONTENTS OF THIS ISSUE:
Review: New Book on Mabel Normand
Juanita Hansen, Part I
Wallace Smith: February 23, 1922
*****************************************************************************
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. Primary emphasis will be given toward
reprinting, referencing and analyzing source material, and sifting it for
accuracy.
*****************************************************************************
A short article on TAYLOROLOGY appeared in the "CyberSurfing" column of the
WASHINGTON POST on January 12, 1995. The article mentioned the parallels
between the 1922 Taylor case and the current O.J. Simpson case.
*****************************************************************************
*****************************************************************************
Review: New Book on Mabel Normand
MABEL NORMAND: A SOURCE BOOK TO HER LIFE AND FILMS, by William Thomas
Sherman, has just been published. Compared to most other books on silent film
stars, this is truly a great book--more than a great book, because it stands
as a prototype of the way such books should be. If only there were similar
books available for dozens of other silent film stars!
Books on film actors can be appealing for any of three reasons:
(1) an admirable film career is detailed; (2) an interesting life story is
told; (3) a appealing personality is brought to life. This book succeeds in
all three areas.
Mabel Normand was one of the leading female comedians of the silent film
era. Her film career is well chronicled in this volume, which includes a
critical analysis of her films and comedy style, contemporary reviews of her
film and stage appearances, publicity material, and a detailed filmography.
Her life story is fascinating and compelling, of far greater interest
than the typical "rags-to-riches" tale. She was a pioneer in the silent film
industry, working with industry greats such as Chaplin, Arbuckle, Goldwyn,
Sennett. The success and the scandals are here, including the scandal that
almost destroyed her career--the murder of William Desmond Taylor. Also
included is the complete lengthly 1927 interview series by Sidney Sutherland,
originally published in Liberty Magazine.
But of even far greater interest than her film legacy or her life story
is Mabel Normand's personality. That personality sparkles before us again;
she truly comes to life through contemporary interviews, character sketches
and anecdotes. As one interviewer wrote: "She isn't the sort of person that
treats an interviewer as just an interviewer. She doesn't just take you,
mentally, into a cool ante-room and chat formally for half an hour and then
wish you good-bye. Rather, so to speak, she opens up the doors of her heart,
invites you into her comfiest living room, stuffs cushions under you and
offers to tell you a good joke she heard to-day." After her death, another
wrote: "Mabel Normand was the most extraordinary character I have ever known.
Certainly, the most interesting and unusual personality the screen has ever
known. There will never be another Mabel Normand. Few such vivid
individualities have appeared in the world in any metier. Beyond that, the
screen world has become too standardized to offer scope and right-of-way for
another such character. Generous, impulsive, self-effacing, impudent,
untamed, misunderstood and not resentful of the cruelty of that
misunderstanding. Daring in spirit, tender, brilliant, and with the eager
curiosity of a child." This book's many interviews, done so long ago, will
leave modern readers in love with her and wishing we could travel back in time
and know her personally.
This mammoth book is not a "biography," although it is filled with
biographical material. As the title indicates, it is a "source book to her
life and films," and as such is far more valuable than any mere biography.
Buy it, read it, treasure it--for the text, not for the pictures. Anthony
Slide correctly states in the book's foreword: "MABEL NORMAND: A SOURCE BOOK
TO HER LIFE AND FILMS deserves wide readership. No reference library should
be without it. It is a gallant and eminently worthwhile attempt to resurrect
Mabel Normand to her rightful place in film history."
There was a biography of Mabel Normand by Betty Fussell published a
decade ago, and a comparison is natural. Of course the two books have some
overlapping material. But overall, Fussell's book has more later information
culled from interviews with Mabel's associates, and from books published after
Mabel's death; Sherman's book is over twice as large and has much more
contemporary information published during Mabel's life. Both books should be
treasured.
MABEL NORMAND: A SOURCE BOOK TO HER LIFE AND FILMS (ISBN: 0-9643760-4-0)
by William Thomas Sherman is available from Cinema Books, 4753 Roosevelt
Way N.E., Seattle, WA 98105, 206-547-7667.
*****************************************************************************
Juanita Hansen, Part I
A lot of the press reports and rumors surrounding the Taylor case concerned
the use of narcotics in Hollywood. Mabel Normand had supposedly been
addicted, but she never made a public statement admitting it. One female
star of that time who did admit drug addiction was Juanita Hansen. She
subsequently wrote a series of newspaper articles describing her drug
experiences.
This fascinating chronicle was the first time a drug-addicted movie star
had ever made such details public. Although the Taylor case is only briefly
mentioned (in Part 13, implying that drug gangsters were responsible for
Taylor's murder), this series provides interesting background regarding drug
use in the silent film industry at that time. Here is a true tale which
modern Hollywood could use as the basis for a compelling historical
"docudrama."
March 29 - April 4, 1923
Juanita Hansen
NEW YORK AMERICAN
Part 1
For two and a half years I was addicted to the use of narcotic drugs.
Recently I took treatment at Oakland Sanitarium prescribed by Dr. John Barker.
I was discharged as cured.
I am free from the habit that held me a slave, and I thank God for my
liberation from the terror of life-long addiction to which I seemed to be
doomed.
There is no question about my cure. What may happen in the future I
cannot foretell, but I believe I possess the power of will necessary to combat
any desire to return to that most dreadful condition of slavery.
I feel that my terrible experience qualifies me to speak with authority
on the subject of drug addiction, and the purpose of these articles, which I
have undertaken to write for the readers of the New York American, is to sound
a solemn warning to the youth of the nation, to light the road ahead and
reveal the many pitfalls; to point the way to a cure for other addicts, and to
give them courage to attempt to break the shackles of habit; and most of all,
to urge the Government to bestir itself to reach out its powerful arms and
gather in the smugglers and peddlers of narcotic drugs, and kill this evil at
its source.
These articles well address also that great body of God-fearing and home-
loving families who are ignorant of the dangers that beset them; whose
children may, innocently as I, myself, become enmeshed in the toils of this
chain, Dope.
Government records show that the number of addicts has increased
enormously in the last two years. The chain that binds holds and destroys so
many human beings is growing alarmingly.
We are becoming a nation of narcotic drug addicts. The United States
uses twenty times as much dope as any other white nation, and seventeen times
more than drug-ridden China. The United States uses more narcotic drugs than
all the rest of the world put together.
We can no longer turn our backs on this menace, which threatens to
destroy our Republic. We cannot shrug our shoulders as if it were a question
that did not concern us. It does concern every man, woman and child in the
nation. We must act today, not wait until tomorrow. Let us join in one
tremendous army and wipe out this great evil.
My purpose is to arouse especially the women of American and to enlist
their cooperation in the movement to stamp out this evil. I hope that no
woman will say, "Oh, this thing is too terrible. I do not want to hear about
it. It is none of my business."
It is the business of every mother, sister and sweetheart, for not only
are the women, especially the young women, exposed to the danger of addiction,
but it is their duty to protect their husbands, their sons and their
sweethearts against the temptation of acquiring the drug habit.
Our duty is plain. We must cure the addicts we have; we must also stop
the supply of narcotic drugs at its source.
Now, as to treatment of addicts, and those who have been addicts and are
cured, by the Federal authorities and especially by the police--the New York
police.
Should an addict who has been cured be regarded as a criminal? What had
I done at the time of my arrest recently? I was a law-abiding citizen, happy,
buoyant, rejoicing over the battle I had won. I felt so safe, felt so sure I
had broken the chain and shaken off the last links that held me to dope.
I had left California pronounced cured. I weighed 142 pounds, which was about
six pounds above my normal weight. My health was splendid.
I came East. The business that had brought me to New York--negotiations
to produce a film-story that I had myself written--was nearly completed.
I was happily enjoying New York, visiting a girl friend.
Why did they not arrest me in my own home?
I was in hiding, they said. Strange. My business associates were able
to find me at my hotel whenever they needed me.
Hiding? Why? I had nothing to hide.
Why this sudden interest in me by the New York police? Judge for
yourself. A few weeks prior to my arrest in New York the case of Wally Reid's
illness brought to light my name in connection with Dr. Barker's Sanitarium in
California.
So, just because I had been a drug addict I was arrested. The police say
I was taking drugs at the time I was arrested. I deny it.
Do not feel I am vindictive over my arrest. Remember, I wish only to
help, and my motive is only to do good.
First let us begin at the beginning of things, page one of my life book.
Now turn over a few chapters to the chapter marked "Today." I am pronounced
cured of narcotic addiction. I now weigh 135 pounds, which is my normal
weight, and am working, working, trying to find the road which will lead me to
each and every one of you who read these pages, that I may warn you, and
educate you.
You must study hard, that wisdom may be yours. Watch, be alert, do not
sleep any longer on this subject. Let the entire world rise, denounce this
evil. Face it.
You love your children. Well then, be brave enough to warn them, educate
them so that they will recognize the evil when they come face to face with it,
and so that they will be able to cope with it. For, believe me, this vile
thing is no respecter of persons.
In our schools, where little children seek knowledge, in Sunday schools
seeking God's wisdom, explain, instruct, protect them. Do not wait until they
need the cure. Give them the preventive.
Had I known at the beginning the meaning of the words "narcotic," "dope,"
had I been forewarned and known how to protect myself, probably I never would
have fallen into the clutches of this terrible curse.
I have urged you to protect yourselves and those you love. Perhaps this
first story of mine will show you how easy it is to fall innocently into the
clutches of this thing. The devil himself surely controls this curse; and is
it not like the devil to come in a beautiful form? What form, you ask?
Clothed in secrecy and described by his agents in beautiful language--as
being so much fun, just a lark.
It was at a party to which I had been invited in Hollywood, and felt
quite flattered to be present, inasmuch as there were seven or eight of our
prominent artists there when I was initiated into the "Fraternity," as it is
called in the West.
I had noticed during the evening that there was considerable whispering
and a sort of undercurrent of secrecy of a mysterious something. So naturally
when one of the party said, "I believe we can initiate her," indicating me,
I really considered it a compliment.
Then they all came into the room to watch the performance. One of the
boys reached into his watch pocket and brought out a small paper carefully
folded. Then he took out of another pocket a small nail file. He opened the
paper and revealed a small amount of white powder. Handing me the nail file,
he told me to take a small amount of the white powder out of the paper on the
point of the nail file, then inhale it through my nostrils.
I had no idea what the powder was. I had never heard of anyone doing
anything like that. It did not occur to me there was the slightest harm in
it, because everyone present promised to take what they called a "shot" after
I had taken one.
I did as I was told, but instead of inhaling, exhaled and blew the powder
all over the room, which, of course, caused a great deal of mirth. With the
second attempt, though, I succeeded in inhaling a small amount of this powder.
The effect was very pleasant.
It seems to be a common belief that when taking narcotics you have
visions or dreams. That is absurd. It is merely a pleasant sensation. You
feel at peace with the world.
Little did I dream that this was the first step, a false step, which
would cause me years of heartaches and mental anguish.
I do not blame anyone at this party where I first learned what dope was
for the error I made in becoming an addict. I want my readers to know I blame
no one but myself, and I offer no alibi, for I myself was to blame.
I attended such parties, perhaps twice a month for almost a year before I
ever made an attempt to purchase any drugs for myself. Where and how to get
more drugs to meet the growing craving was the question in my mind. It seemed
very hard then, but with the experience I have had with dope in the last four
years, I know that I can purchase it in any town in the United States. You
may think that a broad statement. Well, I have traveled from coast to coast,
and when I wanted it I got it.
You ask how I knew where to go? I didn't, but there is the indefinable
something, like the power possessed by a magnet, that draws members of the
fraternity together, whether they be user or seller. You will meet, and you
speak a language understood by both.
Why is it today I can recognize an addict at a glance? And peddlers and
sellers of narcotics might just as well be labelled as such, for I seem to
sense their mission. Anyone who knows drugs can pick out the victim.
I want you to know, and believe me when I tell you, I have never shown
anyone narcotics nor allowed them to take their first "sniff" or "shot" in my
presence. According to authorities, one addict means six. Then I am an
exception to the rule. The chain stopped with me. I never forged a single
new link for it, and I have no responsibility on my soul that causes me worry.
Perhaps for a long time all that God had given me I destroyed. Now I am
trying so hard to make amends.
The one thing that is hard to regain is the confidence of the other
fellow. Somehow he doesn't want to believe in you. Just as I can recognize
an addict, just as surely can I sense the former addict who is free from the
drug.
Should we not rejoice and be happy to know when someone we once loved has
beaten this thing?
But what we find is another thing. People are always so anxious to
herald our shortcomings.
I wish to instil the desire in every addict's heart in this country to
try to give up his narcotics, and prove to him there is a reward for his
effort. But you must help me, every one of you. Don't shut the doors of your
heart against me because yesterday I was an addict. Right here in New York, a
girl who has in the past accepted my hospitality, been my guest, closed the
door of her heart because of "this scandal."
I call it a great victory. I think it is something of which I will
always feel proud. Of course it hurt my vanity to have you all read my life
of yesterday, but since you have heard the charge, now hear my defense. And
from my point of view I am not guilty of deliberate wrongdoing. I was only a
victim of weakness just as one in your own family might be.
I'm going to tell you the whole story--with all its horrors, and if
through the reading of it some girls in good, decent families are saved,
I shall have done a public service which may atone in part for any wrong I did
in becoming a drug fiend.
Tomorrow I will tell how I went from the "party sniffer" into full
fledged drug addiction. I wish you would make every young boy and girl read
my story.
Part 2
I had played with the devil's toys--I told you of this in my article of
yesterday. The devil himself had set out to do his work.
Six months had elapsed, probably, since I had seen any of the people who
were present at the parties of the previous year. I had no desire, or perhaps
I should say craving, for any of this white powder called heroin, still--
I was one of the first to be stricken with the flu in California. This
was in October, 1918. In January the following year I had the first attack of
sleeping sickness, the after effects of the flu.
For three months my eyes were crossed and eye specialists and the finest
physicians could not convince me that this was a temporary condition. I was
absolutely convinced with my eyes crossed my career was at an end.
During these three months I had been accepting salary from the producer I
was under contract with to make a big animal serial. He was not ready to
start work, and his manager in the West saw me every few days, and my
attending physician, and was satisfied that this was a temporary condition,
and he was willing to pay my salary until the story and plans for the
production were ready.
So obsessed was I with the belief that this condition of my eyes had come
to stay that I wired to the producer, who was then in Chicago, as follows:
"I think it only fair that you should know that I am crosseyed, and I
think you had better get another leading woman for the serial."
To which I received this reply:
"I am satisfied that you will be well by the time I am ready to start
production. Continue to get your check every week."
Of course I considered him very foolish to continue on his payroll a
leading woman who was hopelessly, as I thought, crosseyed.
During the first few weeks of my illness I slept twenty-three hours out
of every twenty-four, but only once slept forty-eight hours, during which even
my mother could not arouse me. I lost my memory completely. At luncheon time
I could not remember what I had eaten at breakfast.
My friends who called on me, my mother afterwards told me, would find me
asleep, my mother would awaken me, I would sit up in bed, recognize them, talk
intelligently, and after an hour or so would lapse right back into a stupor.
Now nearly three months had elapsed since the sleeping sickness had cast
its spell over me. I had driven my motor car with considerable effort to San
Francisco. All this time my mother was still receiving my salary check. But
I was sorely discouraged. Then one morning the unexpected happened. I had
gotten out of bed, had my glasses in my hand, when I looked in the mirror.
My double had disappeared. Can you imagine how happy I was to find that
the physicians and eye specialists knew what they were talking of, after all.
Of course the first thing I did was to wire my mother and wire the
manager of the studio.
After reporting to my manager, who saw that my eyes were well, he
informed me that another firm wanted me for an important part in its
production, and my management intended to farm me out because they were not
ready to start their serial.
For three weeks, which was the time stipulated in the farming out
arrangement, it was with considerable effort that I worked at this other
studio. At the end of this period, they had not finished the scenes in which
I was playing, but my original manager decided to start his serial.
You must understand these elaborate productions run into the hundreds of
thousands of dollars, and I had to go through my part. Now I felt indebted to
the original manager, who had been paying me my salary during my siege of
illness, so when he informed me they were ready to start I knew it meant
double work at two studios, day and night, for me.
But I did not dream that I would be kept working sixteen to eighteen
hours a day for three weeks.
After one week of this strain of double work I fainted while doing my
serial work.
It was then I realized that I had overtaxed my strength. Then behold the
devil's work.
I remembered the exhilarating effect of the white powder called heroin.
If I could only get hold of some of that! But how? It seemed I could not go
on with my work.
I would not go to a physician because I thought he would stop my work.
And I MUST make good. I must be at the one studio every morning, work all
day, go home, bathe, eat a little dinner, and by 8 o'clock report at the other
studio. My strength was falling. I must do something.
I tried to reach some of the former friends who had attended the parties,
but was not successful. Then one night I stopped to have dinner in town and
was rushing up the stairway of a grill to hasten to the other studio. A man
whom I had never seen before stopped me and said:
"Oh, Miss Hansen, I saw a friend of yours the other day."
And this friend he mentioned was the one who had first shown me the
little package of white powder. How I ever summed up courage to break my
promise to the fraternity and ask this man, out and out, if he knew where I
could get any heroin, I marvel as yet.
But the devil works in strange ways. Behold, here was a peddler right at
hand.
I purchased for the first time right there on the street, for the asking,
my first "bindle" of heroin. The devil had set his trap, and I played into
his hands.
Having located the man, who afterwards, I learned, was a peddler, from
from I could purchase the white powder, and having obtained his telephone
number and address, my double work, which consumed sixteen hours a day, was no
longer an impossible task.
I found that with a little sniff of this heroin in the morning, I was
able to do my serial work. One little shot lasted me all day. Another little
shot in the evening, when I was ready to start for the other studio, kept me
going until midnight a least.
I found it necessary, though, when working after twelve, to take another
shot. Now this work kept up three weeks and I found it necessary to increase
the size of the shot, and I had to take them more frequently.
Little did I realize that in three weeks I was making great strides
towards becoming an addict. It had not occurred to me that this little white
powder was really habit-forming. As I told you in a previous article, no one
had told me, or warned me, of the habit, but merely against taking an
overdose.
When I finished my night work at the other studio--and I had just my
serial work to do in the daytime--it was not necessary for me to take as much.
But now this thing had got hold of me. It sort of held me in its grasp. It
made my work so much easier.
Do not feel that I was trying to shirk my work, for I love my work. But
I was not strong yet. My illness had sapped a great deal of my vitality, and
with the help of this narcotic, which seemed to give me all the necessary pep
and strength a film star is supposed to have, I was able to go through with my
work.
But the devil fooled me again. Pretense, only pretense!
Had I really been more familiar with the subject of narcotics, if I had
been warned, if I had ever read or studied it, than I would have realized it
was high time for me to stop playing with the devil's toys.
But I was innocent. Who had taught me in school? No one in my home ever
mentioned narcotics. And I was afraid to ask. I knew this was something I
should not tell. From the night of the first party I always remembered my
promise--silence!
It never occurred to me to stop taking it when it made me feel so much
better.
I have often wondered if it was weakness or cowardice, whether a sin or
virtue to want to work, work, work. That is all I wanted to do. There was no
thought of pleasure. There was hardly time to sleep.
It was probably a month later that I realized and discovered by myself
that this was surely habit forming.
What a terrible awakening!
You will never know what a shock this was to me. I discovered it one
morning when I did not have any of the heroin left. I could not reach the
peddler on the telephone and I COULD NOT GO TO WORK.
I HAD TO go to work. I must get there. They telephoned from the studio
and said so. Not HOW would I get there, but GET THERE. They said:
"You are costing us much money. You are the leading woman of this
production. You must be here."
As if illness were a thing you invited and could dismiss with a command.
No thought of me or how I felt.
No questions as to what was the matter. But they could not allow me the
time to be sick. Every day meant thousands of dollars to them.
On this particular morning I speak of I could not drive my car. I had
gone to pieces--collapsed.
I MUST get to that peddler, so I engaged a taxi, drove to the address he
had given me, made a purchase--in other words "a connection" as it is called
in the fraternity. One little sniff, and I was well. A miracle had been
performed.
I went immediately to the studio. Of course I looked well. But the
managers asked no questions.
If I could have gone to the producer and told him my discovery of that
fateful morning, if he would have kept my secret and helped me, just a few
days away from the studio at this stage that I had reached in my addiction, it
would have been so easy. Could I tell him? No, no, no! Big producers cannot
be troubled with an actor's little worries.
The addict does not ask for time for a cure. So he continues to increase
the quantity--more pretense. Finally he gets in so deep, and is bound so
tightly by the chain, that he becomes resigned to his fate--addiction to
narcotic drugs.
I know many addicts who are just waiting for an opportunity to break the
chain. But the continuous work--the production, carry on the production--
nothing must must stop the production!
Finish one, and in two days start another. Never any time off. I think
the devil has a hand in this, too. He always seems to find a reason.
In these few weeks I had become an addict. How ashamed I was! I tried
so hard to do without it. Was I a weakling? This was all so strange to me.
No, it was not weakness. It was illness. For the taking of heroin is
not just a habit you can break as you can snap your fingers. It grows right
into you. It seems to become a part of you.
Beware lest you and yours fall innocently into the devil's trap as I did.
You must recognize the destructive power found in this white powder.
Narcotics are no respecter of persons. I told you that.
A few short weeks and my life so entirely changed. I was a victim, a
victim bound to the chain that was to take the most precious years of my life
and twist and turn right and wrong until I had no conception of either.
Do not let your little sister, your daughter or your sweetheart suffer
what I suffered through ignorance.
Part 3
The length of time it takes to become an addict is a subject greatly
discussed today. DeQuincy, author of "Confession of an Opium Eater," says "In
less than one hundred and twenty days, no habit of opium-eating could be
formed."
DeQuincy, like myself, had at one time been bound to the chain of
narcotics, and his cure was considered a miracle. He referred only to opium.
I cannot say that I agree that it takes four months to form other
narcotic habits. Of course I think that conditions alter every case.
In two and a half months I became an addict. It would have been easy to
break this habit had I not been under contract, and could have been free from
work, for just a few days, for treatment.
However, today I could acquire the habit anew in less than a week.
Once an addict it is so very easy to fall back into your old footsteps.
I have seen this happen many times. I warn addicts, and urge them to be, oh,
so careful, that just one little "shot" and then another little shot, and you
are right back where you were.
Be careful of your associates, careful of your environment, for these
have everything to do with your life.
And now, you people who belong to respectable society, and you who are
members of the law, help the little fallen brother and sister, keep them away
from the old associates and environment, open your hearts to them, your homes;
make them feel glad because they are with you. For if you turn your backs on
them and shun them for their sins of yesterday they will become discouraged.
For who else will welcome them but the members of the old fraternity?
It is a belief that users are envious of any one when cured and go around
urging them to come back into the chain. My experience has not been such.
I think of all the people who were happy over my victory, the ones who
were bound, perhaps, a little more tightly than the rest to the narcotic
chain, were the very happiest for me.
Now, because I am cured and well and on the road to happiness again, I do
not intend to forget the poor unfortunates who are bound to this terrible
curse. I want to help them. But I not only wish to cure them, I wish to heal
them.
To continue with my story. Three months, now a victim. The realization
of this thing angered me. I felt humiliated. I resolved never to attend
another party. If I had to take this heroin, I would take it alone. It would
be a secret.
I kept my secret; so I thought. But the truth will out.
I worked some nine months on that serial which was to be my biggest
success. This picture to date has made a great deal of money. Three months
before I finished it, I had a very flattering offer to come to New York to
make more serials. This contract was signed at once and I left for the coast
as soon as the serial was done. [1]
Again I made a resolution--I would be free of this thing before I went
East. But how?
I confided at last in a doctor, paid him considerable money, only to find
out that it required time, three or four weeks, to cure me. Would an appeal
to the manager have helped me? No, I knew that was useless.
Weeks and weeks of hard work. I had to get East and report for work with
the Eastern firm in January. In order to keep my contract, it was necessary
for me to work night and day. I had two directors, two camera men, two staffs
of electricians, painters, carpenters, every one that makes the studio force.
But I worked the two shifts. For three weeks I averaged an hour and a
half to two hours sleep an night. I had to finish this serial, and I had to
be in New York in January. What was the result?
The two or three weeks I had so longed for, so that I might be cured,
were never available. The devil saw to that!
I finished the serial the day before Christmas at 6:30 o'clock at night.
At 8 o'clock the same night I was on a train bound for Oakland. The next day,
when I stepped into the compartment on the Eastbound train, I fainted
completely exhausted. I had my bed made and stayed there until we reached
Chicago.
My life seemed always to be lived in a hurry, rushing--rushing from the
studio to home, rushing back to the studio and rushing from one end of the
country to the other.
Two days after I arrived in New York I started a new serial. The studio
was ready for me. They didn't have time to give me a few days off. It would
cost them too much money.
I knew to start this serial meant six months of steady work, the hardest
I was ever to do.
Again the devil played his hand. He knew I couldn't get away for six
months. He played havoc with my peace of mind. My first four figure
contract, here in New York, should have made me, oh, so happy. But I was not
free to play in the sunshine. So again it was only pretense!
Another resolution. I would beat the devil at his own game. I would see
another doctor and I would take a cure while I was working.
I went to one of the finest doctors on Fifth avenue. Oh, yes, he would
be very glad to help me. Of course I would have to have his nurse, and the
fee would be a thousand dollars.
After calling on that doctor a few times, I discovered how little he
knew. Most doctors know very little of narcotics. This is an age of
specialists in the medical profession elsewhere. I don't think that doctors
ought to be permitted, unless they have a special license from the State, to
treat narcotic cases.
The only doctor that I have ever met who really seemed to cure addiction
is in Oakland, California, and he is not a doctor of medicine. He has a
license in the State of California for his sanitarium, and I know from what he
told me personally that he has treated many doctors.
My expensive, exclusive Fifth avenue doctor one Sunday morning called at
my apartment on Riverside drive. He said he was so interested in my
particular case, and wanted to help me. So he had come up to my apartment to
see me, as Sundays were the only days that I did not work.
It just took about fifteen minutes to find out what his motive was. He
wasn't interested in narcotics, nor in curing me. He had another little idea
all his own. The result was I rang the bell for my maid and had him put out.
Then I made another resolution--I was through with doctors.
About this time, when I was making a purchase one day from a "dealer,"
I met a young woman who told me about a fur. So I went to her apartment to
look at it. Of course, having met her at the dealer's, I knew that she was
one of the fraternity. I purchased the fur coat.
Then in the course of the ensuing conversation she asked me what I had
been taking. I told her heroin, and that I sniffed it through my nostrils.
Then she told me about some NEW PLAYTHINGS that belonged to the devil.
She told me there was only one way to take narcotics, and that was
hypodermically. She also said she used morphine. She told me, and I guess
she was right, that to sniff heroin would form a sort of ring at the base of
my brain; that taking it hypodermically, the blood would throw off any
impurities.
Narcotics, not having the Government seal, like the bootlegger's liquor,
have always been doctored, and they often contain ingredients that are very
injurious. To prove that it was even more effective when taken
hypodermically, she gave me my first shot with the syringe and needle. Soon a
languid feeling overcame me and I felt only like being quiet.
The effect was indeed wonderful. I had found a new toy. The devil
always finds a way. Now I resolved to use morphine.
Part 4
Morphine! So now I was to use morphine.
From the girl that I spoke about in my preceding article I obtained a
hypodermic and some needles. She showed me how to prepare the morphine, how
to dissolve this narcotic in a small amount of boiled water. This solution is
strained through cotton and drawn into the hypodermic syringe.
Somehow I had none of the fears that a beginner entertains. I was not
afraid to insert the needle under my skin. How did I know where to insert the
needle? I do not know.
This never worried me. Instinctively I felt that I ought not to
disfigure my arms with the needle. I instead took the shot in my leg.
Now to the dealer, to purchase morphine I bought an ounce for $80. That
quantity lasted me about a month. When my supply was getting low I sought the
peddler again, to find, much to my chagrin, that he had been arrested. I did
not know any other peddler in the city of New York at this time. But I must
find one.
The quantity that I had left of the first ounce lasted me only a few
days. Finally it was all gone, and it was with great difficulty that I
finished my work the last day.
That same evening I came home to my apartment on Riverside drive; I could
not eat my dinner; I was so nervous I was nearly crazy.
I do not think there is a physical pain which compares with the agony and
the torture that an addict suffers when the narcotic is taken away.
I had to be a the studio next morning at 9 o'clock, made up.
I was desperate. In a city of six million people there surely must be
peddlers, and I intended to find one. I must fine one.
Again the indefinable something which draws members of the fraternity
together. A magnet seemed to draw me and I followed.
A few weeks previously, I had been on a slumming party and had visited
probably twenty or more resorts. Of all of these, why should I remember one
in particular? But the devil leads the way.
After going without my dinner, the thought occurred to me; if I only had
some old clothes, I would go down to the East Side and I could wander around
unnoticed. But all my clothes were new. It was cold. I had to wear a wrap;
and all I had was fur, expensive ones, too.
So I dressed in a simple tailored suit and put on a black fur coat. When
I looked at myself in the mirror it was very easy to see that I was smartly
dressed. I didn't look like a denizen of the East Side.
But I was determined to get narcotics. Another strange thought occurred
to me. My expensive coat might appeal to the underworld characters I expected
to come in contact with. Out of my trunk I brought a small revolver which I
could easily carry in the palm of my hand unnoticed.
I ripped a seam between the third and fourth fingers of my glove and,
placing the pistol underneath the palm of the glove, allowed the muzzle to
protrude through the hole I had ripped.
I determined I would get my narcotics and no harm should come to me, and
that I would empty every chamber of the gun if necessary. No one would dare
harm me.
At my hotel I engaged a taxi from the doorman, giving him a few dollars
and instructing him to take the number of the cab, and I said:
"If I am not home by midnight, you will know I have met with foul play."
I don't think he quite comprehended the seriousness of the situation.
However, I was too intent on my mission to worry whether my remark made an
impression or not.
The taxi sped away with me and it was not until we had proceeded a few
blocks that I gave any instructions to the driver. Then I asked him to pull
into the curb, and I said to him:
"I am looking for-----a cafe on the Lower East Side.
He had never heard of the place, but I was determined to find it, so I
said:
"Drive down past Greenwich Village and then go to the east side of town."
He did so, and I was fortunate enough to recognize a few landmarks, and
after wandering around, in and out of dark streets and alleys, I finally
located the place.
Again I was in a quandary. Whom would I ask for? I had been let there
by that indefinable something, and being desperate a plan occurred to me.
Looking in my handbag I found a pink and a blue card. Whether they were
laundry or cleaner's checks I do not remember, but they served my purpose.
When the taxi driver opened the door I flashed these cards. Fortunately
for me it was dark and he had no opportunity to examine them closely. I said:
"I am working for the Intelligence Department and I am on an important
mission."
Then I gave him $5. Whether it was the $5 or the supposed intelligence
cards that made him eager to serve me I do not know, but he was quick to obey
my instructions. I told him to go into the cafe and ask for the proprietor.
He came back in a few moments with the information the proprietor would
not be there for many hours, so the proprietor's brother had told him. I then
told the driver to get the brother.
The brother came out. It was a young man. I told the driver to walk to
the corner away from the car, and I asked the young man to step into the cab
and sit down beside me. He did so. All this time I had my little gun aimed
right at him. I did not find it necessary to use it, though.
I did not waste words after he had seated himself in the cab. I said:
"I must make a connection to get some dope. I have a yen. You must get
me some morphine or heroin."
This was not a request, but a command. He did not comprehend my meaning,
he pretended.
But one look at his face and I instinctively felt I was on the right
track. I continued:
"Take a good look at my eyes. I guess you recognize the sign of a yen
all right. Now, don't be long. I do not wish to attract attention by having
this cab stand here."
Then he said:
"Well, maybe I can get some for you, but it's very expensive. The eights
(package containing one-eighth of an ounce) cost $6 or $7 apiece."
The joy at being able to make a connection was great, and here the stuff
was being offered to me cheaper than I had ever been able to get it before.
With my uptown dealer the price had been $80 an ounce. And this was only a
little over $50.
I handed the young man $10, telling him to get me two eights either of
morphine or heroin, and that I would give him another $10 when he returned.
He got out of the cab and was gone only five minutes, when he opened the
door of the cab, entered and closed the door behind him.
Then he carefully pulled down the blinds. He was taking no chances. He
did not want to have any one see him hand me anything and accept the other
$10. Then he got out of the cab and dashed madly across the street. You can
imagine it didn't take me long to instruct that driver to head straight for my
apartment.
The strange part of this adventure was that the doorman paid attention to
my instructions and was very happy when my cab rolled up to the door at
exactly five minutes before midnight.
I rushed two steps at a time up to my apartment on the second floor and
in five minutes I was gloriously happy under the spell of the much needed
narcotic.
Now I would be able to carry on my work. I went peacefully to sleep.
The devil had done his work!
Part 5
My adventure of the night before had brought me two-eights of heroin.
For a few days I was able to proceed with my work. But I knew that this
amount would not last me very long. I must find another PEDDLER! Where?
How?
Again I felt the magnetic power of that strange, indefinable something I
mentioned before--like the power of a magnet I was to meet someone who was to
lead me on.
That afternoon I was walking down Fifth avenue. I ran into a young lady
I had met in California during the year when I attended only "parties."
I recognized her as one of the fraternity, only she was one of the fortunates
who thought she was able to play with drugs.
But today she is bound more tightly than anyone I know to the cursed
chain of victims of narcotics. The day I met her on the avenue she had all of
youth's bloom.
After a bare word of greeting I asked her if she knew where I could get
more drugs. Casually, as though I'd asked her for a bon bon, she said
laughingly:
"Certainly, I know a man uptown. Let's get in a taxi. I will take you
there."
You readers probably will be surprised when I tell you we drove to a very
exclusive residential district up near the Park.
It was an apartment on the main floor of a substantial looking house.
The apartment itself was very nicely furnished. One would hardly suspect to
find a dealer in narcotic drugs living here. But, as I told you once before,
this deadly blight is no respecter of persons.
A peddler may be living next door to you. Who knows?
They are not in the habit of putting their shingles out!
We went in. The man himself admitted us. He was a foreigner. In my
experience with the peddlers I can easily say that 75 per cent of them are
foreigners.
After the introduction, a few words exchanged during which I was
carefully scrutinized by the man, he asked in broken and ungrammatical English
that revealed him a stranger to the apparent culture of his surroundings:
"Wotcha want?"
I told him I wanted morphine.
He quoted me a price of $80 an ounce which was quite agreeable.
This "reasonable price," however, didn't last long when he discovered his
new customer was Juanita Hansen, the picture star. A few weeks later, when I
went back to get the second ounce, I heard the self-same tale I had heard from
peddlers before. His new shipment had not arrived and he had promised the
only ounce he had left to someone else for $95. I knew no other place to buy,
so I bid $100 and got it.
One day while visiting the girl from California, who at that time had a
gorgeous apartment, I told her how hard I was working. I told her I had
increased the amount of morphine, but it seemed to have lost its charm.
In the morning I was so tired it required all my strength to dress myself
for the studio, and it was with great effort that I managed to get through my
strenuous work.
Did she know anything that could help me? Oh, yes! She would give me
something then and there. It was COCAINE.
Behold, the worst of all the devil's playthings!
COCAINE!
She had a small package in her apartment. I had never heard of this
narcotic drug before. That very day I had been working and was very tired.
One little sniff of cocaine and I felt better, so I thought, than I had ever
felt in my life. Exhilaration itself! Cocaine takes effect immediately.
The devil had planted another seed!
I left my friend's apartment with but one thought. I must purchase some
of that wonderful elixir-cocaine. I was then bound directly for my peddler.
I found him at home and he gladly sold me an ounce for $100. I think he
smiled and almost sneered when he sold me this, for he knew now that I would
be more tightly bound than ever to the cursed chain!
The combination of morphine and cocaine is the most deadly, most
destructive of all narcotics. My peddler knew this added step in my descent
meant more money to him. That was his business--money. What cared he?
With the help of my new toy it was no longer hard for me to dress in the
mornings or work long hours at the studio. A shot of cocaine, then a shot of
morphine--and off to the studio. Perhaps a couple of shots before luncheon,
three in the afternoon, and then home.
Cocaine has a tendency to keep one awake, in fact, it does keep one
awake. It is impossible to sleep while under its influence. Therefore, at
night, when it was time for me to retire, I had to increase the amount of
morphine to offset the cocaine I had taken all day.
Cocaine itself is the most destructive of all narcotics, Perhaps because
it is so powerful. With one shot all the tired feeling would leave me. But
it was also destroying my appetite. I was losing weight. And it was
affecting my appearance.
As soon as cocaine really had gotten hold of me and my dealer was sure of
it the price was boosted again. Now I was paying $125 an ounce for morphine
and $150 an ounce for cocaine.
The amount of cocaine I used increased, until I took enough to kill two
horses every day! An ounce lasted me only a week. Ask any doctor what that
means!
Can we permit this monster, DOPE, to run at large any longer?
Stop it, I say!
Part 6
My new toy, cocaine, together with the old toy, morphine, was slowly
sapping my vitality, and along with it my will. Where was my power of
resistance?
I did not seem to regret the money that it cost, but when I think of it
now my blood fairly shouts a protest.
Imagine!
One hundred and fifty dollars a week alone for cocaine!
One hundred and twenty-five dollars an ounce for morphine!
When narcotics are needed and while under the influence, one never
regrets the price paid. "Get the narcotics"--no matter how!
I have told in outline of the price I paid in wrecked health, ragged
nerves, wracking torture of mind and body. Reckoned in money, narcotics took
a terrible toll also.
In one frenzied year in New York, I spent $65,000 and ran $10,000 in debt
in addiction. Directly and indirectly this was part of the toll DOPE took
from me. BUT--
Did I realize what I was doing? Did I give heed to warnings of those
associated with me? I had five people in my employ, a manager, a secretary,
two stenographers and a faithful colored maid.
If you could realize how I longed to play in the sunshine, to be free!
In spite of all I did to hide my secret (and I thought I had kept it
safely tucked away) these people who were closely associated with me
discovered it.
One day, in the big drawing room of my apartment, I had to be left alone.
I had telephoned to my peddler. I told those in the apartment I expected a
caller and I intended to receive him alone.
Of course, the intended caller was Mr. Peddler from uptown. He came
punctual to the minute. He had my ounce of cocaine. At the moment I handed
him the money and he gave me a package, one of my servants walked into the
room.
With rather a hasty reprimand, I told her to leave the room. I had given
instructions I did not wish to be disturbed. Mr. Peddler did not like this
intrusion either. He said he did not trust servants. He left immediately.
I then went into my room. The same servant came into my bedroom in
almost the same manner, just as I was preparing to take a shot. Her eyes
opened wide.
I knew someone at last had discovered my secret!
An explanation seemed quite useless. I could find nothing to say. I
almost wished she had expressed what her accusing eyes seemed to say. But no
words came. Just a very knowing look, and she turned and left the room.
I was alone again, but it seemed eyes were peering at me from everywhere.
I felt afraid. I wanted to scream and shout. Someone had discovered my
secret! The whole world might just as well know now!
For a few moments, I sat trying to reason with myself what I should do.
I sat in a sort of stupor for several minutes, forgetting even to take my
necessary shot.
But I formed a plan. Silence!
She had said nothing. Perhaps I only imagined she knew. A guilty
conscience really needs no accuser. At least for the present I would day
nothing. Just a way addicts have of shoving troublesome thoughts into
tomorrow.
Eagerly I prepared a bigger shot than I had ever taken before.
Eagerly I injected the syringe into my arm. Instantaneously my troubles
vanished. After all, only one servant had seen me and I would deny that I
purchased or took anything.
From the attitude of my servant the next morning I could not tell whether
she really knew my secret or not. I went to the studio satisfied.
The following week, when I needed to reach a peddler, I phoned my man and
asked him to meet me at my apartment. He refused. He did not like my
servants; and the night before, he had had an experience that had given him a
scare. If I wanted the stuff, I would have to come and get it.
I must have the cocaine, so in my speedster I drove directly to his
apartment. It was while there he told me of his experience of the night
before.
My peddler had gone to his wholesale dealer (as they are called) to
purchase a few ounces. He had no more than gotten into the apartment, when
the Federal agents knocked on the door. Very quickly, Mr. Wholesaler put
several packages (perhaps twenty or thirty ounces) into a black cloth bag to
which was attached a long black string.
Federal agents had been stationed at every entrance. They had taken
every precaution. They said they knew the stuff was there. They had the
witness of a transaction the wholesaler had made that afternoon. They were
there to get the dope. They did not intend to leave without it.
Before the Federal agents broke down the door, Mr. Wholesaler had quietly
put the black bag out the window. It landed in a flower pot two floors below.
The end of the string he tied to a nail on the ledge of the window.
Federal agents crashed down the door. They demanded roughly the stuff be
turned over to them "without any trouble." There was a note of triumph in
their voices, for they were certain they had effected a rare capture of a
wholesaler with the goods.
Being inside the law and outside are entirely tow different things. With
one you have your protection, with the other you must use your wits. As I
remember my peddler's story, the wholesaler's reply to the request of the
officers was something like this:
"Well, if it's here, find it. If you're so sure about it. I don't know
what you're talking about."
With this answer the Federal agents proceeded to accept the wholesaler's
challenge. They ransacked the place--every nook and crevice. They ripped the
mattresses to pieces; all the upholstered chairs; in fact the room must have
looked something short of an earthquake.
The result?
Cursing, the Federal agents left. They had been fooled, tricked. They
knew it. But how?
After they were sure the agents had gone, my peddler and Mr. Wholesaler
sat in the disheveled apartment, laughing. They had outsmarted Mr. Federal
Man again!
Still chuckling, they opened the window and carefully pulled up the
little black bag that contained the Devil's Toys.
The Devil's Agents laughed that day.
But remember, he who laughs last, laughs best.
Today in Atlanta in their cells, Mr. Peddler and Mr. Wholesaler have a
long lease. We will not hear them laugh for many years. Living by your wits
is not such a laughing matter.
Part 7
Events narrated yesterday bring me up to the Spring of 1920.
I continued to trade with this particular peddler. I guess I was
probably the biggest customer he had ever had. Most likely I used more than
anyone else and certainly I paid more for it.
At the peddler's home, I had many strange experiences. The people I met
were not always people who lived "uptown."
You will probably be shocked when I tell you that I met burglars, big and
little thieves, shoplifters, confidence men and women, and several times I
"sat in" and listened to their schemes.
I was in this environment, but not of it. While they talked very freely
before me and plotted and planned their confidence games, they were not afraid
to speak in my presence. I was a member of the FRATERNITY OF SILENCE!
Do not think that I approved of all I heard, and I had no part in the
game they played. Still I must remain silent. Remember, I was outside the
law. It was a game of one word and my secret would have been given away.
Dope finds its way and forges links that bind many strange associates.
All members of the fraternity are on an equal plane when they meet at the
peddler's den. I made the acquaintance of many characters of the so-called
underworld. Perhaps being a screen actress made me a little more popular.
The term they used was:
"She is regular."
One day, when I told them how hard I was worked at the studio and how
unkind they were to me (for dope had made me begin to think so), one of the
confidence men became very angry and said:
"I think we better get that guy, boys. What do you say, Miss Hansen?"
I knew what "to get" meant. I replied in alarm:
"Oh, no!"
Then he was willing to compromise by beating my enemy up a little, "oh,
just a little bit." No member of the fraternity was going to be treated that
way by producer, director or anyone else.
These men of the fraternity are not to be fooled with. They protect one
another with more of their kind of loyalty than exists in any secret society
on earth. You have heard it said, "There is honor among thieves." I think
the interpretation of that is the loyalty of protection--for they do protect
one another.
I did business with this dealer for about six months. A strange little
circle it was that gathered in the den every few days. The conversations were
very interesting to me; positively exhilarating at times.
I heard the plots and plans of some very clever confidence men. It was
always a game of wits for money. You readers probably wonder why they didn't
play a game on me, as I was making a thousand a week. No, not on a member of
the fraternity! No harm would come to me. They would see to that! They had
their own way of getting my money.
To hear these men talk among themselves, one would really think their
transactions were on the level.
Don't think that all the members of the fraternity are underworld
characters. Dope is no respecter of persons, as I have told you before.
I very frequently met a popular club and society man, who used to come over
from New Jersey. He discussed his clubs and his travels and I discussed my
pictures.
Here was a man of culture and refinement. Many times I talked with him
alone. Just he and I would be in the peddler's den. It was then that he
would tell me of various social affairs and would mention his friends in high
social circles. Often I would read of these affairs in the next morning's
paper.
I presume this man, too, paid "our peddler" a handsome price!
One day, while getting my dope, I heard a very humorous story of a
robbery there had been much to-do about in the papers. I met face to face the
two men who had done the "trick."
There was a particular little cafe in New York that these chaps felt
enjoyed sufficient business to interest them. Considerable bootlegging was
going on. Where there is bootlegging there must be money. It wasn't inside
the law to bootleg, so it was certainly the province of any enterprising thief
to get some of the profits. At least that was the way they reasoned it out.
The humorous part of this story is that, among those present that night
when the robbery took place were some city officials, a couple of uniformed
officers, and two Federal prohibition agents, who were there to make an
inspection.
The two members of the fraternity who had planned the robbery were not
devoid of a sense of humor. They casually entered the place and told every
one to line up against the wall. They flashed revolvers.
One of the policemen was very alert and darted through the nearest
window. But he was not too quick for one burglar, who shouted to his pal:
"Keep the gun on these men. I am going to get that smart fellow.
Be back in a minute."
Within the minute he reappeared, dragging the officer, a bit the worse
for a crack on the head from the butt of the burglar's revolver. He shoved
the dazed policeman into the lineup and said:
"You get into your place and stay there. We are a couple of peaceful
little fellows and we don't like to shoot."
Then the burglars proceeded quietly to the business at hand. They didn't
bother to empty the cash register. They calmly carried the register to a cab
waiting for them and sped away.
Gales of laughter greeted the narration of this tale.
Funny, perhaps, but it well illustrates the new crime problem the police
are confronted with because of dope. I have never been present when any of
these crimes have been committed, so I cannot say whether it is the tremendous
"shots" that make them possible; but I do know that dope is the FOUNDER OF THE
CRIME.
At the end of six months, there was a shakeup in this particular little
fraternal circle. Making my usual dope arrangements one day, as I stepped
into the room I heard the peddler quote a price of $60 an ounce for cocaine to
one of the girls, who happened to be a shoplifter.
"Sixty dollars an ounce," I thought to myself and I had been paying $150!
I would make short work of this if that was the sort of peddler I was doing
business with. I stepped into the room and made myself heard. I needed
cocaine and I needed it badly.
But I did not intend to tolerate such a hold-up. A heated argument
followed. The peddler could offer no explanation. I had heard him with my
own ears and I told him so.
Many tolerate almost any kind of treatment when it means dope or no dope.
But my will power was not entirely gone. I turned on my heel and walked out.
And that was the last this peddler ever saw of me.
But Mr. Peddler was not going to let such a good thing as I was slip
through his hands. And tomorrow I will tell you how he resorted even to ugly
blackmail to get me back.
The Devil did not have his way that day. One of his agents had been
careless. One victim had loosed a little part of one tiny link in the chain
that binds. The Devil's machine had slipped one little cog, just one little
cog!
But not even one girl victim must be allowed to escape.
The Devil has many resources. One of them, blackmail, was to be tried on
me.
(Concluded next issue)
*****************************************************************************
Wallace Smith: February 23, 1923
The following is another of Wallace Smith's sensationalizing dispatches on
the Taylor case.
February 23, 1922
Wallace Smith
CHICAGO AMERICAN
Sleepy-eyed mystic Chinatown awakened in a jabber of fright today as
sheriff's men and secret service agents swept through its narrow streets and
into its shadowy dens in search of the slayer of William Desmond Taylor.
As they plunged into the underworld depths another squad of detectives
searched for an "old fashioned pearl handled revolver" said to have been the
weapon of death used by "Wong Lee," alias "Sammy," a notorious dope smuggler
named by "Harry the Chink" Fields as Taylor's killer. [2]
For the first time since Fields was arrested in Detroit officials here
received a connected, coherent version of his alleged confession. [3]
It was considered of vital importance the Fields named in his statement
an actress as the motive behind the crime, the woman Taylor loved and the
last woman he held in his arms and kissed before he was shot to death. [4]
Her name was not revealed. But it was admitted she was the same woman
who has been under suspicion from the time Taylor's body was found. She is
known as a victim of the drug slavers and the theory of officials first
outlined in The Chicago Evening American dispatches shortly after the crime
was that Taylor was killed by blackmailing dope peddlers when he tried to
save her.
The woman has been in a state of collapse since the murder. She has
denied any knowledge of the crime. Officials believed she would not tell all
she knew because it would mean the exposure of her association with the dope
peddlers and her ruin on the screen.
According to the official version Fields declared the old-fashioned
pearl handled revolver could be found "hidden under something in a courtway
thirty feet from the street" near the Taylor home.
The first squad of detectives reporting from Chinatown declared that the
man they hunted had fled as soon as he learned of Fields' arrest and that he
was believed to have made his way across the border into Mexico.
Following is the story told by "Harry the Chink," except, of course, for
the name of the actress, as it was revealed to Los Angeles officials:
"This whole thing was planned in a hop joint in Venice." Fields said.
"We met there before we started for Taylor's place.
"We left Venice about 3 in the afternoon on February 1. I was driving
the car. In it was a woman named Jenny Moore. She had an automatic pistol.
A man named Johnny Clark was there, too, and this Wong Lee. We went to a
Night and Day bank and got in another car and drove to Hollywood."
It was at this point that the actress' name was mentioned and her
alleged association with the crime disclosed.
"This was the signal," Fields went on, "for us to get to the Taylor
house where we drove up about 8 o'clock. We stopped the car about nine doors
past the house. I stayed in the car. The others got out and went to the
Taylor place.
"The woman had her automatic and Wong Lee carried an old-fashioned pearl
handled revolver. I heard a shot and the three of them came running out and
told me to drive fast.
"First Wong Lee took the revolver into a courtyard. He went thirty feet
up the courtyard and hid the gun under something. They told me to drive to a
night and day bank. We stopped there. Wong Lee went in and changed a
thousand dollar bill. He gave me $900.
"Then we drove back to the hop joint in Venice. Wong Lee and I left
town that night. He went to Seattle. Later I headed for Chicago and Wong
Lee, I understand, started for Kansas City."
The detectives also began to make the rounds of the night and day banks
of which there are several. They believe the cashier of such a bank would
remember changing a $1,000 bill.
The whole mystery of Taylor's death, with the story of Fields to guide
Los Angeles officials, swirled through the sickening sweetish fumes of drowsy
opium and against a curtain of drug-painted fancies. In many essential
details it fitted the conception of the crime as "reconstructed" be some of
the authorities.
They had their clues before "Harry the Chink" began his fantastic
yarn -- just fantastic enough to be true in this atmosphere of melodrama.
And even if the gun was not found and Fields' story turned out to be only a
tale inspired by "dope" they still had their clues.
These led them to the theory that Taylor was shot down because he sought
to protect the woman he loved -- the last woman he held in his arms and
kissed before he was shot to death -- from slavery to the drug and to the
gang that held her in its thrall.
One explanation of the gangland enmity was that Taylor had declared war
on the dope ring because he found that the dope peddlers had fastened their
murderous grip so firmly on certain men and women.
But recent developments showed that Taylor was interested in only one
person -- the woman. If he could have saved her the rest of the would in
which they both lived must have gone tumbling down its giddy road to ruin,
scourged by the knots of the slavers who take their tribute in gold, in
broken bodies and in shattered minds.
The whole nightmare of mystery became saturated with the fumes of the
drug and alive with its feverish dreams.
Investigators under orders of Undersheriff Eugene Biscailuz brought back
to him amazing reports.
One of these was the confession of one of the dope peddlers, who named
ten men and women who paid $1,000 a month in blackmail beside the
considerable fortunes they spent in securing the smuggled "dope."
They found another member of the "ring," the owner of a lavish home and
a couple of automobiles, who admitted that he had made all his money selling
narcotics to people employed by one corporation alone.
Still another revealed the power of the ring in enslaving its victims,
forcing tribute and plotting to assassinate or otherwise put out of the way
any one who attempted to interfere with their power.
They "checked up" recent deliveries of narcotics -- made with the same
open assurance, apparently, that the market boy might deliver a soap box full
of groceries -- to men and women within the past month.
They discovered that Los Angeles supported one of the largest "agencies"
operated by a drug ring that "does business" throughout the country.
Among the women who received consignments of drugs was the woman known
to have been Taylor's latest love. The investigators were not surprised to
find that it was heroin instead of the morphine which the woman is known to
have used constantly. [5]
"They'll take anything they can get," declared one of the deputies,
a man in the confidence of Undersheriff Biscailuz. "And she was another of
the ones who were supposed to be cured."
The tale of the woman is a tale of black tragedy. Known to the public
as light-hearted, she has always moved in the shadow of sorrow. Her first
love affair, with the man who befriended her, turned out to be as unfortunate
as it was notorious.
Then came drugs and a career of wild galloping through the conventions.
Friends intervened as the morphine began to etch its traces deep on the
winsome face and as it began to leave its mark.
She "took the cure." There is a saying that a dope fiend never gets
over it -- that reform is impossible. To make it impossible is the
"business" of the drug ring, always alert for new "customers" and always
jealous of the old ones.
Its agents, some of the moving in the best of society as represented
here, are always offering temptation. The securing of drugs is made easy for
the "cured." There is always some one handy with "relief" in an hour of
despondency or weariness. And there is always the "hunger" of the victim for
the drug.
These things were outlined in The American dispatches some time ago
after several Los Angeles physicians had revealed the horrors of the drug
ring and its hold on some of the young women.
These things were all found by the sheriff's men.
"If we wanted to we could tell a story that would turn the world upside
down," said the same confidante of Undersheriff Biscailuz. "We have found
things that would startle the country. But we are interested only in finding
the party who killed Taylor.
"There will be more scandals -- perhaps more murders. If there are we
will have all the facts handy."
This official was asked if there was any truth in the report that Taylor
himself was a victim of drugs.
"It's funny," said the informant, "but we have never found a clew that
makes him a drug user. I say it's funny because he had around him all the
time people who used drugs and generally these people hang together. He knew
a lot about the dope peddlers and how they did business.
"He must have known about the blackmail end of their business, too. The
ten men and women paying $1,000 a month in 'hush money' is only a part of it.
There are many of them out there giving up money for blackmail as well as
dope. Some of them are desperate.
"But not as desperate as the drug peddlers are desperate after money.
"We have the report that they got the woman Taylor was in love with back
in their clutches. We know she got these shipments ten weeks ago. Perhaps
she went to Taylor for help. Perhaps she was bled white by their demands for
money."
The story told by Fields in Detroit has a remarkable semblance of truth
when checked with the strange angles of the case that have developed in Los
Angeles.
For one thing, "Harry the Chink" was deep enough in the doings of the
drug ring to be appraised of all its sinister secrets. The secrets of the
victims are part of the blackmailing drug peddler's stock in trade.
It was known, too, according to excellent authority, that "Harry the
Chink" was in Los Angeles at the time Taylor was killed.
One Detroit dispatch stated that Fields told how Taylor had given a
severe beating to another of the men when he found him attempting to sell
drugs.
It seemed a very likely tale. The authorities here, eager to run down
Fields' story, were hampered by telegraphic conditions, which caused a
serious delay in the interchange of messages.
If the revolver is found in the place described by Fields or if his
story is corroborated by the arrest of any of the men and women named it is
certain he will be brought to Los Angeles.
According to one report one of the women named by Fields was known as
the wife of one of the Chinese smugglers operating on the Mexican border.
The Los Angeles authorities also contemplated bringing to this city one
James Thomas of Sacramento, said to be known as a "reformed" member of the
drug ring, who gave out a statement declaring that the drug ring was
responsible for Taylor's murder.
"They got 'Bill' Taylor," said this man. "I know how they work.
"Murder would be only an incident with them if they found somebody
standing in their way or trying to stop their dirty claws from getting new
victims. They've got plenty of men in their own gang ready to kill, and it
would be easy to import a gunman from the East to do a job like this and make
his getaway with all the protection in the world.
"People talk about drug rings, but they don't really believe that such
things exist. They have got a big surprise coming to them. The drug ring is
organized like any big business. Better, in some instances.
"Shipments are smuggled across the border and transportation arranged to
the distributing points. The drug peddlers work like salesmen working out of
central office. I've handled them and I know.
"They're not the kind of people you see in the movies and read about,
either. I mean the tough guys with black eyes and prize fighters' jaws,
wearing sweaters and caps pulled down over their eyes.
"Most of them wear good clothes and get around in the best of homes and
the best crowds. Some of them are men and some of them are women. They work
quietly and each victim thinks he is the only one in the crowd getting
supplied by that agent. Sometimes these peddlers are satisfied with getting
their money for the shipments of drugs. Sometimes they try to make it even
better by starting to blackmail their 'customers.' Lots of them are paying
blackmail money now and lots of them are pretty close to ruin on account of
it."
*****************************************************************************
*****************************************************************************
NOTES:
[1] This successful animal serial was "The Lost City", made for Warner
Brothers. A condensed feature version is avaiable on home video from
Grapevine Video, under the title "The Jungle Princess." Her new serial
contract was with the Pathe company, who hoped she would be as successful as
their former star, Pearl White.
[2] Harry Fields was not Chinese, and it is not known why this derogatory
nickname was applied to him. It is included here only for historical purposes,
to reprint Smith's article as it originally appeared.
[3] Fields' tale was later thoroughly discredited. See TAYLOROLOGY #8.
[4] Mabel Normand.
[5] Again, supposedly Mabel Normand.
*****************************************************************************
For more information about Taylor, see
WILLIAM DESMOND TAYLOR: A DOSSIER (Scarecrow Press, 1991)
Back issues of Taylorology are available via Gopher or FTP at
etext.archive.umich.edu
in the directory pub/Zines/Taylorology
*****************************************************************************
