August 12th 1922
Infectious jazz mingled with laughter and glittering chatter to fill the air last night at the home of the celebrated picture producer Mr Louis Mayer. Quite the spectacular affair the we have come to expect from Mr Mayer and his lovely wife, it was attended by every luminary of Hollywood. Their imposing mansion nestles in the Hollywood Hills where the air is tinged with the acrid odour of burning orange groves and the heady scent of success and power. The drive, which leisurely winds and curves on its way to the house, was filled with gleaming motor car after gleaming motor car depositing the superstars of the pictures: the chosen few who live the jazz baby life. Men in white dinner jackets with silken scarves, their slicked hair glistening in the spotlights that illuminated the great house, accompanied women who dripped in jewels, furs and blood-red lipstick. Their thousand-watt smiles outdid the flashbulbs of the gentlemen of the press, which popped constantly like 4th of July fireworks.
Inside the glorious party, Mr Charlie Chaplin danced a charming Charleston with Mary Pickford as her husband Douglas Fairbanks looked on. Dashing Paramount director William Desmond Taylor attended the event with his dear friend, and dear to the world, comedienne Mabel Normand. Gloria Swanson caused chills to dash down the spines of assembled guests - including adorable in a pretty dress and golden ringlets child star Mary Miles Minter, who shrieked aloud - with a lurid ghost story. Fatty Arbuckle, expected any day now to sign a new contract with Paramount that is rumoured to be worth $3million, was accompanied by his lovely wife Minta, and put on a breathtaking display of tumbles and somersaults that had guests quite rapt with pleasure.
The banquet - oh the splendour! - was piled high with exotic delights of the Orient, and many guests gasped in wonder at the incredible feast that lay before them. Forgive me if I share a minor tidbit: as I waited in line to sample the feast prepared for all guests, of which I was one, Mrs Charlotte Shelby, mother of Paramount starlet Mary Miles Minter, chose not to wait her turn, but instead barge straight past in the manner of a steam train, scattering innocent would-be diners in her wake. I wouldn’t, of course, like to speculate that this unfortunate incident was indicative of Mrs Shelby’s character, but I do feel that I owe my readers the truth. Although I hate to say it, “charming” is not a word I would use as readily as “glamorous” in regards to some of those beautiful ladies! Well, what would one expect - they are the royalty of the entire world, one must expect them to act as such!
While dancing with a young man whose name escapes me just now, I will not deny that I was somewhat shocked to receive a venomous look from the hitherto (in my opinion) sweet Mary Miles Minter, caused by no crime of mine that I could think of. It may have simply been jealousy due to my enjoying the company of the young man, whomever he was, or it is possible that, off camera, her face is simply permanently fixed that way, as I am sure mine would be, if I had such a mother.
That is all I will say about that, I won’t dwell on the unpleasant aspects of the evening! I shared a brief conversation with Mr Charles Chaplin, and was utterly charmed to hear my first British accent! He used words that barely seemed English, yet with such panache that I understood his every meaning. I won’t deny, however, that I wasn’t quite so charmed by an unpleasant fragrance that pervaded in his presence. Perhaps it is not the British way to bathe as we do, but I rather hope that he cottons on to our American ways without much further ado. He seemed entirely pleasant to me. However, after witnessing a display of friendship and affection between he and his United Artists colleague and America’s Sweetheart (a title hardly rendered fraudulent by the unsuspected truth that she comes from Toronto) Mary Pickford, I was then rather surprised to accidentally overhear an acerbic exchange between the two. Mrs Pickford hissed in a manner quite unbecoming to a lady of her stature a rather impertinent question concerning Chaplin’s designs on his young leading lady Lita Grey. Chaplin retorted that she might stick her opinion in a place I am loathe to repeat, even to my dear readers whom I am sure will not judge me.
The highlight of my evening was a moment in which I was fortunate enough to bask in the splendorous charm of director William Desmond Taylor. While I was still catching my breath from being so unceremoniously removed as an obstacle in Mrs Shelby’s pursuit of nourishment, Mr Taylor kindly and gently placed his hand on my arm, introduced himself - such a gentleman! - and inquired as to my health. It is possible that he mistook me for an actress, I wouldn’t like to assume. I listened in joy to my second melodious British accent (this time without the accompanying odour) and stammered a reply that I was quite sure that I would recover from the shove. He smiled again and begged me not to be concerned; Mrs Shelby was a great friend of his, he shared with me, and yet he had also fallen victim to her enthusiasm for mealtimes. He didn’t use those precise words, I admit, but his meaning and sympathy for me was clear.
It was equally clear to me that Mr Taylor extended only pity to Mabel Normand by allowing her to accompany him to the ball. A brash, uncouth thing like her - her many years in Hollywood do little to stamp out her Staten Island roots! - is rather unlikely to have any appeal to a dignified gentleman such as William D Taylor. I don’t mean to be unkind, but I suspect that Miss Normand, following her unfortunate broken engagement with Mack Sennett (the story was, don’t forget, that she threw herself from Santa Monica pier after discovering Mr Sennett enjoying the personal company of another young starlet from the Keystone Studio) is in need of positive press coverage, so Mr Taylor agreed to be her escort to a high profile event. I may be wrong, of course, I don’t really know, but that is my opinion based on my personal observation of them last night. The fact that William shared conversations with assorted young ladies in attendance - myself included! - further supports my suspicions. I am sure that Miss Normand is a very nice person, and I certainly enjoy her comedic performances, but I really am loathe to address the rumours of a romance between the two in print. My job here, after all, is to report only the truth and the facts from life in the movie colony to my readers in Ohio, so I will desist from commenting on speculation at all.
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William Desmond Taylor, world’s greatest director, British Army captain, art connoisseur, traveller, dilettante, divorcée, bon vivant, occultist, et cetera, et cetera, as well as sole proprietor of the finest, best appointed, most frequently visited and most generously occupied love nest in the city of Los Angeles – William Desmond Taylor, Love Avalanche of Alvadoro is found dead! - Seattle Union Record, 15 February 1922
On the morning of February 2, 1922, the Los Angeles police arrived at the home of William Desmond Taylor in a wealthy suburb of the city to find the prominent film director dead on the floor of his study. With the agreement of Police Lieutenant Ziegler, a doctor from the crowd of onlookers made a preliminary examination of the body and declared death from natural causes, possibly heart trouble. The case was closed.
However, moments later when the body was turned over to reveal a pool of blood and a neat bullet hole puncturing his left lung, the case was re-opened, and it remains so today. The identity of the doctor was never discovered, nor was he seen again and ultimately his existence was questioned. He formed just the first of many mysteries concerning the murder of the man described in the memoirs of Los Angeles Special Investigator Ed C King as: “a cultured, dignified gentleman with a charming personality and considerable magnetism.” The investigation into the untimely death of this ‘cultured, dignified gentleman’ spanned decades; it ruined the careers of two of the most prominent actresses of the day, left countless reputations in tatters and caused the Seattle Star to remark: “every time there is a shooting scrape in the movie colony some screen star finds out where the rest of her clothes are.” Risqué stuff for 1922: the murder became the first instance of trial by tabloid and reveals a Wild West Hollywood almost forgotten today.
