Doris Lane

William Desmond Taylor had a rare free day from his work at the Famous Players-Lasky studios. It was February 1, 1922. He left his bungalow at the Alvarado Court Apartments and walked downtown. His chauffer, Howard Fellows, was busy bailing his valet, Henry Peavey, out of jail.

Henry had been arrested early that morning for indecent exposure in Westlake Park. Taylor didn’t know if Henry was guilty, but if he were, Taylor would have to fire him. Taylor was fond of the eccentric Peavey, who made a perfect rice pudding. Taylor couldn’t afford a scandal associated with yet another valet in his employ.

After stopping at his jeweler for a watch crystal, and also purchasing a silver pocket flask, Taylor went to Robinson’s. He wanted to replace a set of verse for Mabel Normand. Robinson’s didn’t have the set, but he bought a translation of a German criticism of Nietzsche and Ethel Dell’s Rosa Mundi.

At the Los Angeles Athletic Club, he went upstairs to Arthur Hoyt’s room. The actor still had some of the bonded whiskey Taylor had given him as a gift. Taylor’s private stock had been stolen from his house, and Taylor’s bootlegger had replaced it with bathtub hooch. Taylor was livid, demanded his money back, and threatened the gang with exposure. Taylor was already known to be cooperating with federal authorities on getting rid of dope dealers in Hollywood. Bootleggers could be next, he warned.

“Not smart, Bill,” Hoyt advised. “These mugs don’t play. And, remember, you’re breaking the law, too.”

“You’re right, of course. I shall no longer buy from them. And I shall tell everyone I know they are low chiselers.”

“Bill, Bill,” Hoyt said, but he knew his buddy had his own mind.

When Taylor came out of the building, Fellows was parked in front in Taylor’s MacFarlan. The thin, nervous chauffer tried to report on Henry Peavey. “We’ll talk about it later,” Taylor said. “I just want some peace.”

It was bad enough about Edward Sands, whose position Peavey had filled six months ago. Sands had stolen Taylor’s automobile and wrecked it. Taylor had only just had it returned, repaired, and repainted gray. Sands had also forged checks of Taylor’s to the tune of $5,000. Taylor was sure it was Sands who burglarized his bungalow twice, stole his whiskey, his jewelry, his clothes, and his stock of custom made, gold-tipped cigarettes, leaving dusty footprints on his bedspread.

It could be Sands who was hanging up the ‘phone when Taylor answered the ring. There were other possibilities, and, like magic, one of them appeared. On the way to an appointment with his accountant, a traffic cop held up his gloved hand in front of the Bradbury Building. Another machine pulled up next to Taylor’s. The passenger window rolled down.

Mary Miles Minter was the last person he wanted to see. The young screen star was in love with him. She had come to his bungalow last night and raised a scene about Mabel. He’d had a hard time getting rid of her. Mary’s mother had already threatened to shoot him once. Charlotte Shelby meant it, too. She’d had a gun in her sleeve Taylor saw with his own eyes.

Just now, in the dimness of the other machine, he thought Mrs. Shelby might be with her daughter. The other woman leaned forward and greeted Taylor, and he saw it was Mary’s grandmother, Julia Miles. Taylor wasn’t happy with her, either. The mother would lock Mary in her room and the grandmother would let her out. He kept his usual courteous manner, but he was relieved when the cop waved them on.

Marjorie Berger noticed Taylor’s unusual nervousness. Normally he was among the most composed of her clients. She asked him if he was still getting the odd ‘phone calls. He told her they had become more and more frequent, almost continuous.

“Do you think they could be coming from Sands?” he asked her.

“I do believe he’s gone insane, Bill. And these burglaries, why don’t you have some protection? Have your house watched.”

“No,” Taylor said. “I wouldn’t want that.”

“Let’s get down to your income tax, then,” she said.

Taylor stopped next at the Lasky studio to talk to Barrett Kiesling, the publicity man, about The Ordeal, going into production the following week. He had Fellows stop at C.C. Parker’s bookstore, where he bought the set of verse he had failed to find at Robinson’s. He put the package in the front seat and told Fellows to drop it off to Miss Normand, saying he may need him later should Miss Normand want to go out. Fellows promised to ‘phone about 7:30.

At his front door, Taylor realized he had not given the books from Robinson’s to Fellows, along with the books from Parker’s. He went inside and ‘phoned Mabel’s maid, telling her Fellows was on his way with a book for Mabel, but he had forgotten to give him two more.

“She is downtown shopping. If she calls, Mr. Taylor, I’ll tell her to stop by.”

“After six o’clock, Mamie,” Taylor instructed. As he hooked the earpiece back on the candlestick base, the infernal thing started ringing almost immediately. Taylor ignored it. He called out to Henry, “I’ll be back in an hour.”

“That was Mr. Moreno,” Henry told him when Taylor returned from his tango lesson on Orange Street. “He says he’s been trying to reach you for two days.”

He was talking to Tony Moreno when Mabel came to the door. He finished the call and went out to get her. He had Henry mix Orange Blossoms. Miss Normand was telling Mr. Taylor, Peavey later testified, that she had to be on the set early next morning. She had promised Mamie she would go straight home to bed.

After Peavey left the room, Taylor told her about Henry’s arrest. Mabel urged him not to fire Peavey, because he could be unjustly accused. But when Henry came out dressed to leave for the night, Mabel giggled, and the valet took offense.

At this time, 7:20, Mrs. Mildred Stonehillhill walked along Westlake Park in a leisurely way, before deciding she’d better pick up her feet. She was late for dinner with her son’s family. She knew her son and his wife wanted to go out. Mrs. Stonehill was to sit with her small granddaughter.

Dusk was falling and the street was in shadow. She saw a man lurking in the bushes of the Alvarado Hotel. She thought she recognized Edward Sands, the former cook and valet to the photoplay director who lived in the same exclusive bungalow colony as her son. She knew Taylor had sworn out a warrant for the man’s arrest.

The man was wearing a muffler and a cap pulled down low, but she still thought it was Sands. He had lost a good deal of weight. She grew surer the longer she looked. There was something about the clipped way he had of smoking a cigarette that Mrs. Stonehill had noticed when he’d worked for Mr. Taylor.

Just then a young woman came out of the hotel and joined him. Oh, no, thought Mrs. Stonehill, not Margaret! Mrs. Stonehill hurriedly turned away. She had not seen her niece, or her sister, in years. Margaret had wasted a promising career in moving pictures, under a different name, thank God, in dissolute and criminal behavior.

Mrs. Stonehill’s respectability was hard won. She wasn’t about to endanger it by associating with the two black sheep of her family. Margaret had been arrested more than once. The sordid stories had made the tabloid press. Mrs. Stonehill was glad she was twice widowed, and thus twice removed from the deeds of her sister and niece: Prostitution, narcotics, liquor, and blackmail.

Mrs. Stonehill was very upset as she hurried off. Still, Mr. Taylor should know the man was in the neighborhood. She would ask her son to speak with his neighbor.

When she reached the Alvarado Court, Mrs. Stonehill saw Mabel Normand’s chauffer cleaning out the back of the comedienne’s machine. Henry Peavey joined him, dressed in gold golfing knickers with bright green stockings and a plaid jacket. She could hear his high voice carry from the corner. He had recently shown her his crochet work. Mrs. Stonehill did not know what to think of such men and wondered at the director’s choice of servants.

“Stay out of it,” her son ordered, as he and his wife left for a dancing party. As she saw them out the door, Mr. Taylor was escorting Miss Normand to her machine. Mrs. Stonehill wanted so to tell him of Sands lurking about, but her son turned and looked at her sharply, and she closed the door.

She brought the child upstairs and tucked her in bed, then stepped to the window to lower the shade. She saw that the film star’s automobile was gone and Mr. Taylor was just reentering his house. Again, the urgency struck her and she considered ‘phoning, but Mrs. Stonehill had no wish to cross her son, whose oil brokerage business might suffer from any involvement with Hollywood scandals. Margaret was surely up to no good with this Sands person. Mrs. Stonehill stood wavering at the window. Her son was probably right.

There came a sharp report of pistol fire. Horrified, Mrs. Stonehill was sure it came from the Taylor bungalow. She saw a female figure slip out of Taylor’s door. For a moment, light shone from the open door on a platinum blonde head. Mrs. Stonehill gasped and drew her hand to cover her mouth, not wanting to disturb the sleeping child in the nearby bed.

Mrs. Stonehill saw Taylor’s machine pull up before the bungalow court, but the chauffer did not immediately get out. Margaret saw him, too, and was frozen to the spot on the walk. Edward Sands stepped out of Taylor’s bungalow. He shoved Margaret into the sunken court where she fell on the soft grass. She remained where she had fallen, looking nervously toward Alvarado Street, where Fellows was just opening the door of the automobile. The scene before her transfixed Mrs. Stonehill, the forms in the darkness of the court moving shadows, images flickering across a silver screen.

Sands stepped back up to the house and reached to close the door. Just then Mrs. Stonehill saw Faith MacLean come out on her porch. Sands turned his head, as if he were talking to someone in the house, and pulled closed the door. He walked quickly around the corner of the Taylor house to the alley that led to Maryland Street, nodding brazenly to Mrs. MacLean, who stood there a moment and went inside. Mrs. Stonehill understood; it had all appeared so natural, the sound of gunfire an automobile engine’s backfire.

Howard Fellows approached the exterior steps of the Alvarado Court. Margaret looked around desperately for cover and quickly crossed the court to hide behind some foliage. Fellows rang Taylor’s doorbell and waited, then rang again. He stepped back and looked up at the lighted bungalow. He then knocked on the door, shook his head, and started walking away.

Mrs. Stonehill saw Margaret make a dash out of view and almost immediately heard the opening of the front door. Mrs. Stonehill hurried downstairs to see her niece leaning against the door, eyes closed, breathing deeply. Margaret opened her eyes and said, “Aunt Mildred, I thought that was you I saw earlier. I’ve come to pay you a family visit.”

Mrs. Stonehill was frozen to the spot as the impudent girl walked to the liquor table and poured a shot of whiskey. She knocked it back and poured another. She turned and raised the glass to her aunt.

“Bonded, nothing like it,” she remarked.

“How is your mother, Margaret?”

“How is my mother?” Margaret asked coldly, and Mrs. Stonehill knew the girl knew. “How is the cold-hearted bitch who turned her own baby girl over to another cold-hearted bitch?”

“Margaret, dear-”

“Don’t.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Did you care anything about me, Mama? Did you know your sick sister pimped me out starting when I was 12 to every sick photoplay director on two coasts?” Margaret put her glass down and lit a cigarette off the lit tip of the one she had just smoked. “How can you make it up to me, I wonder?”

“You have to go, my son will be coming home.”

“My brother? My oil-soaked, loaded with moolah brother?”

“Your-. No! You will never tell him.” Mrs. Stonehill’s heart began beating erratically and she dropped into a chair. The blue smoke from the cigarettes was choking in the small dining room, but Margaret kept lighting one after another.

“Then you have to get me out of Los Angeles. Tomorrow morning when the banks open, I want everything you’ve got. I know he supports you and you don’t spend a penny of your money. My mother kept tabs on her sister. If anything went wrong for us, I was to get it out of you by hook or by crook.”

“What’s your involvement with Edward Sands?”

“Don’t worry about that, he’s just a sap with a grudge. He came in handy, that’s all. Taylor fooled with the wrong people, people I know. It’s too late for Taylor, now.”

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t want to know.”

When Mrs. Stonehill let her daughter out the back door of her son’s bungalow the night was dead quiet. She locked the door and went to the dining room for the whiskey glass. She broke it in the kitchen sink and threw away the shards of glass. She took the ashtray and almost tossed its contents. No, her daughter-in-law might see the cigarette butts with gold tips. She put them instead in the pocket of her coat and dashed the ashes down the drain with water.

She turned off the lights and slipped out across the pitch-dark court. In the alley that ran alongside the Taylor bungalow, she made a small mound of the gold-tipped cigarette butts, where the police could find them next morning, and mussed up the ground with her foot. A curtain was hitched up by something in a lighted window. She peeked inside and saw Taylor’s body stretched out as if he were already in a coffin. Not a hair on his head was out of place. The director was as fastidiously dressed as he’d been in life. Just the tiniest pool of blood.

Mrs. Stonehill got into bed with her sleeping grandchild and waited for morning. She heard her son come home, his wife sounding a little bit tipsy. They would sleep late in the morning. Mrs. Stonehill was dressed and ready to go at 7:30, when Henry Peavey arrived to start his day serving William Desmond Taylor.

She stepped outside and watched as he unlocked the bungalow door. She walked to her left and, on reaching Alvarado Street, heard the Negro’s high-pitched screams. On her way downtown they echoed in her head, “Mr. Taylor’s dead! Help! Help! Mr. Taylor’s dead!”

As she handed over her life’s savings, Mrs. Stonehill remarked, “You’d best not come back here, Margaret. You may have left fingerprints on your cigarettes, dear.”