by Gore Vidal
“Naturally, you have your two favorite directors both on the lot.” Grace Kingsley twinkled. “Mr. Farrell’s out in the Valley, I’m told, doing a western. I’m due to see him tomorrow.”
“Give him,” said Caroline, “my love.”
Thus far, their realliance as lovers and business partners was in secret. Tim had personal as well as movie commitments to be honored, while Caroline had William Desmond Taylor to—what? She had found it significant that when she had reappeared at the studio, Tim had whistled when he saw her new face. “Is it a success?” she had asked, and he had nodded, while her other “favorite” director had not noticed her surgical master-work. But then Taylor was busy in both his private and his professional life. “He’s in Projection Room C, e’en as we speak. He’s editing The Green Temptation, which sounds to me like a winner.”
“I certainly hope so.” Caroline smiled with great care. There was still some tightness about her mouth, certain to disappear, she had been assured, once the new face had settled in.
“He tells me he can’t wait to start on his next new Traxler photo-play. But he wouldn’t say what it was.”
“We are hoping to do Mayerling.” Boldly Caroline lied. After all, everyone else had, at one time or another, announced that they were doing the story or, indeed, had done a version. The visit was now worthwhile, and Miss Kingsley had her “scoop.” She scribbled happily as Caroline named an ideal—and impossible—cast. No, they would not use Knoblock for the script. He had gone back to England. “Bernard Shaw would be ideal.” Caroline was now swept away by fantasy. There was a kind of perfect joy in lying for no specific purpose. “Of course he would have to adjust to our art-form, so unlike the theater. But I’m sure he could pull it off. Otherwise, there’s always Maurice Maeterlinck.” On Maeterlinck’s much-heralded visit to Hollywood, he had submitted a script whose protagonist was a bee. Then he had gone back to Belgium.
“Quality. That is what a Traxler movie is all about,” Miss Kingsley intoned.
“One tries,” whispered Caroline, “one tries,” she repeated, quite liking the sound of her own voice.
Then, although each was a lady and Miss Kingsley virginal, they were obliged to discuss that morning’s newspaper account of the on-going Arbuckle case. The accidental rupture of Virginia Rappe’s bladder had taken place September 7, 1921. It was now February 1, 1922 and the press still continued, each day, to invent new revelations or rake over old ones. Secretly, almost everyone in Hollywood had sided with Arbuckle but the rest of the country, spurred on by Hearst’s press, wanted an auto-da-fé with the plump comedian as centerpiece, a flaming torch to morality.
More than ever was Caroline convinced that she and Tim were on the right track. Where it was Hearst’s tactic to bestialize the public, they would civilize them, she thought grandly if somewhat uneasily. Certainly she would have to rein in Tim’s political enthusiasm. They had agreed that in the ordinary American town that they were going to invent, the voice of reason would eventually win over the people, who would come to realize to what extent they are manipulated. The town must seem very real while at its center there would be a family for the whole nation to love. Above all, there would be no overt preaching: if they had done their work properly, their ends would be achieved subliminally. Both agreed that the noble Emma Traxler, a creature of perfect romance, would never set foot in their town.
“I have just had word from Washington,” said Miss Kingsley, putting on her gloves. “The Postmaster General will not be coming to Hollywood.”
“I suppose he still thinks he’ll be president one day, and that Hollywood …”
“… is or will be—I promise you—a highly suitable background for any important venture.” Miss Kingsley was a fervent booster of their beleaguered dreamland.
“One day, I suppose so. Of course, he’d have great power here. I wonder if he understands that.” Caroline also wondered why she, herself, had not given the subject more thought. There would be ridiculous censorship, of course, but there would also be encouragement for the sort of thing that the virtuous conspirators had in mind. Hays—or some other high federal officer—could act as a bridge between politics and the movies. If Caroline and Tim, somehow, could capture the bridge, the impulses that now came to Hollywood from Washington would be reversed and Mr. Hays, or whoever, would be their transmitter from West to East, from the governed to the governors.
At the door to the commissary Caroline and Miss Kingsley parted. Then Caroline entered the dining room, aware that she was still a source of interest. She heard her name through the rattling of dishes and the roar of several hundred conversations. The room smelled of beef stew, and mothballs from Western Costume’s costumes.
William waved for her to join him. He was seated with his writer, Julia Crawford Ivers, and his editor, Edy Lawrence. In the past, Caroline had noted with some bewilderment that all of William’s intimates were women and yet, as far as she could tell, he was not interested in them sexually. She had come, gradually, to Tim’s conclusion. Yet, once, there had been a wife, and, now, there was still very much a daughter, whom he was sending through an expensive New York school. Had he undergone some sea change in middle life, and shifted from nymph to faun? Or was he simply yet another victim of the Californian Curse?—or, more precisely had she been, during the time of her passion, now entirely ended, thanks to backgammon and the return of Tim.
Caroline told them that Will Hays would not be coming to Hollywood.
“Then we’ll get Herbert Hoover,” said Julia Ivers. “They say it must be a member of the Cabinet.”
“Or Supreme Court.” Like everyone in Hollywood, Edy Lawrence was not enthusiastic about a supervisor from Washington.
“The worst thing, of course, will be the censorship.” Taylor’s handsome face was paler than usual. He smoked one black cigarette after another from a gold case which Caroline thought had been stolen the previous July when the man-servant, Eddie Sands, had decamped with most of the contents of the bungalow, as well as Taylor’s car. Knoblock had been at the studio when Eddie had disappeared, after first telling Knoblock that he intended to get married in Catalina. But Eddie had gone elsewhere, as checks with Taylor’s forged signature began to crop up in different parts of the state. Taylor notified the police; hired a Negro servant, Henry Peavey; bought a new car and engaged a new chauffeur. The whole business had caused him a good deal of distress.
“Where did you find this?” Caroline touched the cigarette-case.
Taylor frowned. “A pawn shop. Where else? The police put me onto it. He seems to prefer the pawn shop to the fence.”
“I like Hoover.” Julia Ivers was a comfortable sort of woman, who could eat as much macaroni and cheese as she liked while Caroline picked at a sliver of white fish.
“He’s honest,” said Taylor with no great conviction.
“What about censorship?” Caroline’s interest in Taylor’s domestic problems had long since been satisfied.
“Isn’t it inevitable? The Motion Picture Producers and Distributors want someone to clean up, whatever that means, the movie business, and make the world forget poor Fatty Arbuckle.”
“To be paid one hundred fifty thousand dollars a year.” Mrs. Ivers sounded mournful.
Then they discussed the usual subject—movies. Who was making what and where and for how much. At the end of lunch, Taylor turned to Caroline. “I think I’ve got a project for us. Charlie Eyton and I had a talk just before lunch.”
“Not The Rocks of Valpré. I’m too old.”
Mrs. Ivers shook her head. “The story’s too dull, anyway. Not enough action.”
“But there’s a wonderful part for Mary.” Taylor sighed. “Anyway, I’m outvoted. No, something else. Can I take you home? At five? We’ll talk in the car.”
Caroline returned to her office to find Tim, dressed like a cattle wrangler, talking on two telephones, while the secretary smiled an unfocussed happy smile. Absently, Caroline tapped his head; then she wen
t into her office, where scripts were piled beneath icons of Emma Traxler, suffering and aging from one station of life’s way to the next. Well, there could be a rebirth soon. She looked young again; but did she still resemble Emma? That was the question whose answer, if negative, would come too late on film. Fortunately, Emma’s days were now numbered. There would be one more glamorous film, then Emma would remove forever her spectacular ear-rings, and pass into history.
Tim joined her. “I finished up early. Westerns don’t get any easier. There’s no new way to film a horse. There never will be a new way.”
“Why don’t we try people in westerns? The way we will in our town.”
“The form’s too stylized. We just use characters, and they’re about all used up. I hear Taylor’s got something for you.”
“Word gets around. He’ll tell me after five. Do you think I look like—you know, Emma?”
Tim came very close to her and squinted down into her face. She was, at this moment, simply an object to be photographed and the director was studying the contours of the round stone-like head to see what needed light, what needed shadow. “Yes. You’ll give a good impression of her.”
“Only that?”
“There’s always some change. Don’t worry. You know, Taylor’s having trouble getting a picture for Minter.”
“Trouble? Here? Impossible. She’s a Paramount star.”
“They want to can her. Buy her out.”
“Why? She’s no worse than any of the others.” Caroline had always had difficulty telling one pretty golden-haired dwarf from another. They came in shoals, according to fashion; and vanished as quickly when the style changed. Only Mabel Normand was distinctive and unlike anyone else; and, of course, she was now becoming unemployable. Apparently, cocaine deranged performances. At twenty-nine Wallace Reid was at the end of his career and probably life, thanks to morphine. Thanks to the Arbuckle scandal, the press was excitedly hinting at their names; soon hints would become accusations, and careers would end. Caroline was now convinced that a czar of the movies was needed. In the past, whenever those in power decided to take over the railroads or the coal mines, the press would obediently cease its lurid fictions and false alarums. Plainly, Hollywood needed a rest; and Caroline and Tim an ally.
Meanwhile, Mary Miles Minter and her mother were more trouble than they were worth. Also, in the cold light of commerce, the idea of replacing Mary Pickford had been a bad one. There was only one Pickford and no substitute was needed. Although Minter, now nineteen or twenty, was good for another decade or two as a pubescent star, the public had lost interest in little girls with golden ringlets and fun-loving ways. “I suppose they’ll buy her out one of these days.”
“Poor William,” was all that Caroline would think to say.
“She’s told everyone she’s going to marry him.” Tim looked at Caroline to see what her reaction would be but Caroline was careful not to react. Although she no longer felt anything for Taylor, she was still his friend and wished him well.
“I don’t think he really wants a second daughter.” Caroline looked at a poster of Emma Traxler drinking a cocktail with a hectic jazzy smile. An air-brush had entirely erased all but the salient features.
“Particularly one equipped with such a mother.”
“But Mary Miles would be marrying him to get rid of her mother.”
“I don’t think that’s possible. Mrs. Shelby collects a third of everything her adorable child makes for as long as the child shall live—or at least until the ringlets fall out.”
“Poor William,” said Tim; he stood up. “I’ve got to go see Ince, about buying Santa Monica.”
“Where we shall build our permanent absolutely real imaginary town. Which story do we do first?”
Tim grinned. “What about who killed President McKinley?”
“Who did?”
“Theodore Roosevelt and Standard Oil. You see, they hired this crazed anarchist and gave him a gun, but no one knows they’ve done it except his kindly old mother, who lives in our town.”
“You will,” said Caroline, “end in jail.”
Taylor’s car and driver were parked before the main studio gate on Vine Street, where the fans kept constant vigil. The fact that they all recognized the new Emma was most heartening, and Caroline signed autographs while making her way, resolutely, to the car, Taylor beside her.
“Do you mind if I do some errands on the way?”
Caroline did not mind.
“Robinson’s Department Store, Fellows.” Taylor turned to Caroline.
“I’ve got to find a present for Mabel. She’s pretty low right now.”
“I thought she was working for Sennett.”
“That’s why she’s low. She’s in trouble.”
“Drugs.”
“She’s tried very hard. I’ve helped her as much as you can ever help anybody … help themselves.”
Caroline remained in the car while Taylor went into Robinson’s. “Could I have your autograph, Miss Traxler?” The chauffeur was young and fresh-faced. Emma’s dazzling smile no longer made Caroline uneasy. She wrote Emma’s name in a Woolworth’s note-book. There were a dozen other signatures in the book but she did not dare riffle the pages, as she returned book and pen. “It’s sure a great honor getting to drive you, and all the other big stars.”
Caroline simpered briefly. “Is there any news about Eddie … Eddie Sands?”
The boy frowned. “Well, he’s been signing Mr. Taylor’s name to checks up in Fresno and Sacramento. Then there was this pawn shop where he hocked some things, using a name Mr. Taylor recognized. But that’s all.”
Taylor was back in the car. “Nothing I wanted. Let’s go by the bank,” he said to Fellows. “My God,” he said to Caroline, money on his mind, “this income tax business is a nuisance.”
“And expensive.”
Taylor nodded. “I wish you’d work on your friends in Washington to let up on us.” They were driving along a dusty lane lined with eucalyptus trees which would, presently, cross Sunset Boulevard. The day was bright, blue and cold. “I told you Eddie’s been forging my name to checks …”
“Another nuisance.”
Taylor laughed suddenly. “The real nuisance is that he’s such a good forger I can’t tell his writing from my own. Marjorie Berger’s coming over to the house this evening with all the receipted checks.”
“Anyway, you’re lucky he’s gone.”
Taylor gave her a quick curious look. Then he said, somewhat ambiguously, “Am I?” After the bank and a stop at Fowler’s Bookstore, they went on to Alvarado Street, where Caroline was shown into the familiar drawing room by the new Negro servant, an agreeable somewhat nervous man, plainly devoted to Taylor. “Miss Berger called to say she’ll be here at six-thirty, sir. Then another lady called, but didn’t leave her name.”
“Thank you, Henry.” Taylor went over to his desk and picked up a script. “Monte Carlo,” he said. “There’s a wonderful part for you. The star’s part,” he added quickly. “You’re a White Russian grand duchess, working as a maid for this rich American lady—very vulgar. You go to Monte Carlo with her, and there’s your fiancé from St. Petersburg, who’s supposed to have died in the Revolution.”
“I know the story,” said Caroline, sweetly, she hoped. “What do I wear?” He told her. She was thrilled.
“I think I can really get Valentino for this one.”
“I’ll do it.” Caroline looked about the room where she had played so many games of backgammon. Now she felt nothing, nothing at all. Taylor suggested that she take his car home while he walked to his dancing class in Orange Street. “I’m learning the tango,” he said, and kissed her cheek.
Caroline was awakened by the telephone, which had merged, most unpleasantly, with a dream involving a train’s departure without her. As she ran beside the train pulling out of the station, the conductor, Eddie Sands, grinned at her, and rang a bell and said in what sounded to be German—Alsatian?—“All a
board.” Yet her luggage was on the train, including a Poussin painting and a childhood doll with one arm. “I must get aboard,” said Caroline, into the receiver.
“What?” It was a man’s voice, a familiar voice.
Caroline was now awake. She looked at the luminous dial on her bedside clock: nine-thirty. She had slept late. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Who is this?”
“Charlie Eyton.” The voice sounded tense, and unlike its owner’s usual soothing head-of-studio drone. “Have the police called you?”
“What about?” Caroline sat up in bed, completely alert.
“Taylor’s been murdered. I think you better get down here, to my office. They’ll want to question you. The police. The press, too. But don’t talk to them. Everybody who saw Bill yesterday’s being questioned. Luckily, I’ve got all the letters …”
