Tinseltown: Murder, Morphine, and Madness at the Dawn of Hollywood (43 page)

But when Sheridan approached the couple, Berkey reacted defensively. He seemed to reach for his own gun. Instinctively, Sheridan grabbed his and fired.

The bullet blasted through Berkey’s right arm, smashing into his side and lodging near the fifth rib. The street erupted into screams. Bleeding profusely, Berkey ran across the street with Clara to take refuge in an ice cream parlor. Sheridan tried to flee, but was quickly surrounded by citizens, who backed him against a wall. They would have lynched him right there, stringing him from a lamppost, but he held them off with his gun until the marshal arrived.

Charged with felonious assault on an unarmed man, Sheridan was held for six months at the old Jackson County jail, clinging to a plea of self-defense.
But finally he realized such a plea was useless: Berkey’s friends all insisted he’d had no gun. Sheridan pleaded guilty, and on April 19, 1902, he was sentenced to two years in prison.

When he was released, he got his gun back.

He headed west, eventually joining his mother and his law-abiding younger brother Hugh in Los Angeles, where they had relocated after the Berkey scandal. The family lived first at 720 South Westlake Avenue, and then moved to 725 South Alvarado Street.

After a while, the ever-restless Sheridan bolted for San Diego, where his young hophead girlfriend, May Ryan, made him forget all about Clara Williams. May’s arrest record for drugs and prostitution was almost as long as Sheridan’s for bunco jobs and counterfeiting. Sheridan was
“one of a bunch of three that have been trimming suckers on a match game,” a 1916 arrest report noted. A year later he was written up as “a known bunco” who “had a phony roll on his person.” Sheridan went by a variety of aliases, including Cole and Ashton.

He finally became Blackie Madsen after returning to Los Angeles about a year earlier. The move back was likely occasioned by the death of his brother Hugh in June 1921. Madsen was pretty coldhearted, but he had a soft spot for his mother, who’d shed so many tears over him. Now that she was alone, Blackie would at least be nearby. He and May moved into the Louvre Apartments on East Washington Street, but their primary social life was up in the hills of Beachwood Drive with Don and Rose.

What a celebration they’d have if he and Osborn came back with the kind of payola they anticipated from Bushnell.

So long as the banker didn’t pull any fast ones on him, like that damn Writ Berkey.

In Springfield, Osborn registered at the Shawnee Hotel at the corner of Main and Limestone Streets; Madsen checked in at the Arcade at High Street and Fountain Avenue. Once again, Bushnell’s money paid their way.

Within hours of their arrival, Osborn put their plan into action.

The day was cold and blustery, so different from Southern California. Osborn walked the half block from his hotel to the First National Bank, on the first floor of the Bushnell Building.
The five-story Beaux Arts structure, ornamented with lions’ heads, anthemions, and cherubs, had been built by Asa S. Bushnell, the fortieth governor of Ohio and the father of Osborn’s intended patsy. Every morning on his way into work, the younger Bushnell walked beneath his father’s initials, carved in a circle like those of a king on top of his building.

Osborn made his way inside.

Asking to see the president, he gave his name as H. L. Putnam. When asked if Mr. Bushnell knew him, Osborn replied that he was the brother of Rose Putnam. He was certain that Mr. Bushnell would make the time to see him.

He was right. Osborn was quickly ushered into Bushnell’s private office.

The banker’s appearance was austere and patrician. He had a high forehead, a prominent chin, and gray hair parted in the middle and slicked back. At five-seven, he had to crane his neck to look up at the six-foot-three Osborn.

How different the two men were.

On the wall of Bushnell’s office hung his diploma from Princeton. In addition to the bank, he was also president of the Champion Construction Company and the Springfield, Troy and Piqua Railroad, built by his father.
He’d just gotten back from the spectacular National Horse Show in New York, where Reginald Vanderbilt’s stallion Fortitude had won the top honors and Bushnell had been elected to another term on the board of directors. He lived with his wife, three children, and an army of servants in a home described in city catalogs as “one of Springfield’s most beautiful and luxurious residences.”

The two men studied each other.

Bushnell asked where Rose was. Osborn went into his act, feigning fear and concern. He said that Rose was being held by federal agents in the town of Lima, seventy miles away. The agents had been shadowing them ever since they’d left Los Angeles, Osborn said. They were investigating the trip Rose had taken with Bushnell more than a year earlier to New Orleans. The agents believed that Bushnell’s actions had violated the Mann Act.

In that moment, the bottom dropped out of Bushnell’s privileged world.

The White Slave Traffic Act, better known as the Mann Act, had been passed in 1910 to prohibit the interstate transport of women for “immoral purposes.” Its intent was to combat prostitution rings, but its ambiguous language was frequently used to criminalize consensual sex. If convicted, Bushnell would face prison time, as well as personal and financial ruin.

But Osborn offered him a way out. The agents holding Rose might drop their investigation if Bushnell was willing to
“put up something.” Bushnell asked how much money the agents wanted. Osborn pretended ignorance, explaining that he’d have to ask an agent to meet them and make an offer. They arranged to meet later that day at the Shawnee Hotel.

Shortly thereafter, a coded message was left at the Arcade for Madsen, who then went into his own act.

He met Bushnell and Osborn at the appointed time and place, wearing a gray suit with red pinstripes. Madsen introduced himself as Robbins,
“a special agent and inspector of the United States Department of Justice.” He tried to set Bushnell’s mind at ease. He wasn’t anxious to prosecute the case, he said, and suggested he “might be able to arrange things.”

Bushnell, cutting to the chase, asked how much money he wanted. Ten thousand dollars, “Robbins” replied. In exchange, he’d give Bushnell all the letters and telegrams he’d sent to Rose. The banker accepted the deal. He told them to meet him the next day outside the Pennsylvania train station.

At their respective hotels that night, Osborn and Madsen kept their fingers crossed that their scheme would work.

Bushnell showed up as promised. Snapping open his briefcase, he revealed the money wrapped in paper. Ten thousand dollars in various denominations. As “Robbins” took the cash from him, the banker noticed the blue star tattooed on his wrist. Wasn’t it odd for a government agent to have such a tattoo? Then he demanded the return of his letters.

Madsen handed over a bundle of papers. Bushnell didn’t need to go through them to know his letters weren’t all there. He became angry. This wasn’t what he’d been promised!

Madsen snarled at him to calm down. Another agent had the remainder of the correspondence in Chicago, and he’d send it to him in the mail.

The banker glared at Madsen. This was starting to seem fishy. As a federal agent, Bushnell asked, wasn’t he afraid to take a bribe?

Madsen didn’t reply. He didn’t like being confronted.

For a moment, hostility crackled between the two men. No doubt thinking of the gun on Blackie’s hip, Osborn tensed.

Bushnell continued to provoke. How would “Robbins” explain the case being dismissed to his superiors in Washington? The banker moved aggressively close to Madsen’s face. He needed assurances that this whole deal was final.

Osborn watched Madsen anxiously. Would he pull his gun? Would he blow Bushnell away for pushing him too far?

But Madsen checked his anger. He told Bushnell not to worry, that “they had a way of explaining these things.” Bushnell finally backed off.

Now it was Osborn who pushed things. Feeling greedy, he told the banker he was going to need some cash to get Rose home. Bushnell opened his wallet and handed him fifty bucks.

They hurried off their separate ways.

On the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe to Los Angeles, Osborn and Madsen whooped it up. They were rich! Ten thousand smackers!

Back in Tinseltown, they couldn’t help bragging to all the locusts about their scheme. What a patsy Bushnell was! It was like taking candy from a baby—right down to that last fifty bucks. Rose called Bushnell a cheapskate for thinking he could get in good with them for a lousy fifty bucks.

Best of all: there was more where that came from. They still had several letters from Bushnell—the makings for a second shakedown after they blew through this first ten grand. Gibby told him not spend it all; she wanted Osborn to invest some of it in her new production company. She’d make him a famous director, she promised.

As his ex-wife had said, though, Osborn wasn’t the sort of man who liked to work. If he could make this much money by squeezing millionaires, who needed a studio job?

The parties at Beachwood Drive grew bigger and louder. Hot jazz, cold hooch.

But one locust had finally had enough.

At last one man’s conscience was stirred. The time had come, he decided, to put an end to Don Osborn’s parties.

But where was Mabel? Nobody seemed to know.

As the holidays approached, Mabel was supposed to be in Hollywood, but she wasn’t. Since returning from Europe, she’d pretty much become incognito. Though she was
expected at the Sennett studio the first week of December to start work on her new picture, she hadn’t shown. Nor was she at the Ritz, her usual New York haunt.

No one thought to look for her in a little artist’s studio in Greenwich Village, where she’d been hiding out for several weeks, shopping for herself and making her own meals. Until the weather got too cold, Mabel had been dirtying her hands in the neighborhood garden where local artists “planted, sowed and reaped together.” She’d loved every minute of it.

More than a dozen years earlier, when Mabel first left Staten Island, she’d lived in little Manhattan ateliers not so different from this one. Moving among painters, poets, and musicians, she’d been happy. Maybe if she had remained in New York, working as an artist’s model, instead of chasing after Sennett to Hollywood, she would have remained happy. Living in a community of free spirits like herself, she might have become a writer instead of an actress. A poet, even. Mabel rather liked the image of herself as a Greenwich Village bohemian.

Ever since she’d returned from Europe, Mabel had been a changed person. Her priorities were different. She had seen the world, as her father had encouraged her—and she had discovered that not everything revolved around production budgets or press releases. Not everyone was preoccupied by the latest Hollywood scandal. From London to Paris to Rome she had traipsed, encountering history and culture and real people living real lives. In the process, Mabel had come alive herself.

Her luck, Mabel believed, had changed. And she proved it in the casinos of Monte Carlo, where everything she touched had
“turned into gold.”

When she got back to New York, she had settled into a friend’s apartment in Greenwich Village. Ever since, she’d lived simply. She read books. She gardened. She took walks. Reporters were looking for her, but no one knew where she was. Mabel liked that.

Still, she knew she’d have to go back to Tinseltown eventually. How she wished she could hop on a ship instead and sail back across the Atlantic. To a friend she’d met in London, Mabel wrote on December 10:
“You all made me so wonderfully happy and welcome. Many times I’m rather lonesome and wish I could have that glorious day all over again.”

To her friend she lamented she’d be working in Hollywood over Christmas. But her heart, she said, would be in London.

Three thousand miles away, Mary was proving just as difficult to find.

An intrepid newswoman from the
Los Angeles Times
returned frequently to ring the bell at Casa Margarita, only to be told that Mary wasn’t at home. One day the little star would be at the studio, the next she’d be shooting on location. The reporter sensed she was getting the runaround. She’d heard rumors that Mary and Mrs. Shelby had been quarreling. It was clear that Mary had moved out of her mother’s home. But where she had gone was anyone’s guess.

In fact, the actress had a found a cozy bungalow at the end of long and winding Argyle Street, half a mile away from Gibby Gibson in the Hollywood Hills. She had a magnificent view of downtown Los Angeles. For the first time in her life, Mary was on her own, finally free to
“give parties and plan dinners.” Best of all, she was free of Shelby.

Mother and daughter had indeed been arguing more than ever. Ever since the newspapers had run that story about the psychic, people all over town had been looking suspiciously at Shelby and whispering behind her back. The scuttlebutt, understandably, made Shelby cross. She stormed around the house like a Louisiana cyclone, taking her temper out on Mary. Her troubles were all Mary’s fault, Shelby declared. If Mary hadn’t been so damn lovesick over Mr. Taylor, none of these problems would be plaguing them now.

So Mary had washed her hands of that despot, that pinchpenny, that murderer of little girls’ dolls and dreams. She’d set up her own household on Argyle. Although she didn’t have much furniture—basically just a grand piano and lots of gilt-framed mirrors—it was still the first step in her new adult life. In just a little more than four months, Mary would be of age. Twenty-one years old. How she was looking forward to taking control of her business affairs.

But then Mr. Lasky dropped the bomb.

Famous Players–Lasky would not be renewing Mary’s contract when she finished her current picture.

When the
Times
reporter finally found Mary at the top of Argyle Drive, the movie actress was tight-lipped about her discharge and her future plans. All she would say was that she was happy.

And she was. Mary had longed to be free of both her mother and the studio. Now she had her wish. She could come and go whenever she pleased, see whoever she wanted. Finally Mary was living her own life. If only Mr. Taylor had been there to enjoy it with her!