Arbuckle’s testimony of November 28, 1921 – Revised and Expanded

No celluloid will ever show the like of it or scenario tell the equal of it. It is Fatty’s masterpiece.

—Freda Blum

On the morning Roscoe Arbuckle was to testify, November 28, 1921, it was rumored that an unidentified attorney threatened to quit the comedian’s “million-dollar defense” team. According to the Los Angeles Express, this was Milton Cohen, angered over the lead defense attorney, Gavin McNab, mulling the idea that it might be better not to have the defendant testify. Chandler Sprague in the San Francisco Examiner reported one possible reason for McNab’s hesitation: that “certain business interests were adverse” to the comedian testifying, a veiled reference to one man, surely, Adolph Zukor, who was hardly as sanguine about Arbuckle making a comeback as his manager and chief fund raiser for his defense, Joseph Schenck, and the man assigned to watch his clients in Hollywood, Lou Anger.

There was also dissension on the prosecution’s side. Milton U’Ren, a veteran assistant district attorney, had been passed over to lead the cross-examination of Arbuckle. He was angry enough to resign from the case as well, a case that he had largely developed with the approval of District Attorney Matthew Brady. During the noon recess, U’Ren could be heard arguing with Brady in the Hall of Justice because his fellow prosecutor, Leo Friedman, had hardly made a dent in Arbuckle.

Most reporters expected the comedian to do well and eclipse anything thus far said from the witness chair. Otis M. Wiles for the Los Angeles Times used a slapstick term for the comedian’s impending appearance as a “climax stunt.” Early into his cross-examination, Arbuckle impressed most of the reporters who saw and heard him. Who they were rooting for, too, was evident in their copy. According to Bart Haley of Philadelphia’s Evening Public Ledger, Arbuckle

revealed himself in his narrative as the most piteous of fat men, the most tragically used of all good Samaritans, an amiable individual whose rooms were invaded by uninvited guests, who ate his food and borrowed his motorcar, and ran up a big bill on him and got him into a pit of trouble with the hotel management before they finally started him on the way to jail under a charge of murder.[1]

Earl Ennis of the San Francisco Bulletin seemed to applaud Arbuckle as well. But he also touched on what the monitors of the Women’s Vigilant Committee—and Zukor as well—knew would be hard to square. “There was nothing nice about Arbuckle’s story—noting elevating,” Ennis wrote, “It was a ‘booze party,’ pure and simple with jumbled elements involved—salesmen, movie stars, women, all scrambled unconventionally into an afternoon’s entertainment.”[2]

What follows is a revised version of our “provisional” transcript of Arbuckle’s testimony, which is likely the most complete version available since no state transcript has been preserved or discovered. For the most part, it is based on four San Francisco dailies—the Bulletin, Call, Chronicle, and Examiner—which employed their own stenographers.

Most of the reporters covering the trial believed that Arbuckle had secured his acquittal. As it turned out, at least two jurors were unconvinced and saw Arbuckle as an actor playing a role. Indeed, the testimony reads as if it were tailored or, to use the language of the cinema, a recut of previous testimony by other witnesses to fit the image of a gentler Good Samaritan Arbuckle that would befit the public image of “Fatty.” This includes his original statement issued on the night of September 9, 1921, the day Virginia Rappe died, and published the next day in the morning Los Angeles Times. That statement, which was vetted by Arbuckle’s original lead attorney, Frank Dominguez, only states that “After Miss Rappe had a couple of drinks she became hysterical and I called the hotel physician and the manager.” In its place, however, Arbuckle posits a much expanded series of events.

Traces of the real Virginia Rappe emerge here and there in the testimony. There was even a moment of unintended silence just before the noon recess, when Deputy Coroner Jane Walsh entered the courtroom, carrying Rappe’s bladder, preserved in a glass jar and placed on the evidence table. But in Arbuckle’s account of September 5, 1921, Rappe remains a cipher, a poseable doll even before she is found on the bathroom floor. The comedian is very careful to avoid how well he knew Rappe. They had a certain rapport. But here the comedian quite literally turns his back on her the moment she made her way to his bedroom. This way, he can assert that he was unaware that she was there when he entered to get dressed in order to go “riding” with the other woman in his story, Mae Taube.

Though Arbuckle’s testimony is ductile, that fits and twists and conforms to what really happened in room 1219, it suggests to us that the injury that was inflicted on Rappe took place in the bathroom and even has the outlines of sexual imposition. Laws had been on the books for decades in regard to the temptations of hotel and furnished room accommodations as dens of lasciviousness, fornication, and adultery. But for casual sex during a party in a smallish three-room hotel suite, the privacy for such intimacies (and immediacies) could be found in the bathrooms. If there was a sexual encounter that preceded or led to the injury, the bathroom would have provided a space with greater privacy and sound dampening, not to mention conveniently located fixtures such as a sink, a toilet, and towel rods for grab irons, as well as the hard surfaces on which to brace oneself. The brass bedsteads in room 1219, shown in E. O. Heinrich’s photographs, could also serve this purpose. But Arbuckle, much as he was proud to cross his leg, likely could do it Venus observa.

What was termed an “official transcript” lacked much of Arbuckle’s real “voice” dismissing Friedman’s skepticism and often making him Fatty’s straight man. But the seeming frustration and incompetence seen in the youngest member of the prosecution is exaggerated. Friedman’s approach likely relied on the jury’s perception of subtleties in Arbuckle’s testimony that reveal it to be rehearsed, coached, and a piece of fiction. We also see places where Friedman should have probed more deeply, such as Arbuckle’s making his friend and roommate at the St. Francis Hotel, the comedy director Fred Fishback, a patsy for the liquor and inviting Rappe at the behest of his friend, Ira Fortlouis, a San Francisco gown salesman, the latter being mysteriously expelled from the party at the time of Rappe’s crisis.

It was Fortlouis’s sighting of—or rather attraction to—Rappe that resulted in her invitation to Arbuckle’s suite. Did Fortlouis pay so much attention to her that Arbuckle saw a rival to his own attentions to Rappe? And why did Friedman not ask about the vomit? It seems as though Rappe vomited copiously and it’s unlikely all of it would have gone down the toilet, yet that word is absent in all the other testimonies. In the testimony of party guests Zey Prevost and Alice Blake, the back of Arbuckle’s pajamas is visibly wet. The double bed in which Rappe was wet. But nothing was asked about the source of the wetness, as though it were a taboo subject. One must wonder if there was a code among newspaper editors that prevented them from reporting specific details. (Interestingly, the prosecution’s criminologist E. O. Heinrich reported on old semen stains he found on the mattress pads and bedclothes, but these had already gone through the laundry and could have come from other guests. For this reason, Milton U’Ren elected to pursue only the fingerprint evidence and the marks left by the French heels of Maude Delmont’s kicking the door—which Arbuckle said that he didn’t hear.)

The same might be asked about the defense attorneys who failed to subpoena May Taube. She was possibly Arbuckle’s only close friend at the hotel that day. She was seen by other party guests in the early afternoon, as Arbuckle’s testimony states. But in her one statement to the District Attorney, she left because she didn’t know anyone there, which refers to the women and with the implication that they were low by her standards. Friedman does establish that Arbuckle introduced Taube to one of these women, indeed, Virginia Rappe. But that is as far as he takes it, leaving it to the jury and us to see if there was a “woman scorned.”

Taube could have easily corroborated the story Arbuckle tells in the following transcript. She would also have been a perfect character witness. Although she didn’t go “riding” with Arbuckle on Labor Day afternoon, Mrs. Taube spent the night of September 5 dancing with him in the St. Francis ballroom according to her statement to the DA. But she is never called in any of the three Arbuckle trials. That she was that untouchable suggests she held a certain leverage. (See our Taube entry for more information about her.)

modesto_evening_news_mon__nov_28__1921_-1Satirical photograph published in the Modesto Evening News, November 28, 1921 (Newspapers.com)

[1] Bart Haley, “Fatty, Cool on the Stand, Recites New Version of Miss Rappe’s Hurt,” Evening Public Ledger, 29 November 1921, 1.

[2] Earl Ennis, “Crowded Court Listens Tensely as Actor Tells Details of Tragic Party,” San Francisco Bulletin, 28 November 1921, FS1.


Arbuckle: My name is Roscoe Arbuckle. I am a movie actor. [. . .]
McNab: Mr. Arbuckle, where were you on September 5 of this year?
A: At the St Francis Hotel.
Q: What rooms did you occupy at the St. Francis Hotel?
A. 1219, 1220 and 1221.
Q: Did you see Virginia Rappe on that day.
A: Yes, sir.
Q: At what time, and where?
A: She came into 1220 about 12 o’clock, I should judge.
Q: That is 1220, your room at the St, Francis Hotel?
A: Yes, sir.
Q. Who were there when she came?
A: Mr. Fortlouis, Mr. Sherman, Mr. Fischbach[1] and myself.
Q: Did Miss Rappe come to those rooms by your invitation?
A: No, sir.
Q: Who, if anybody, joined your party?[2]
A. A few minutes —
Q: Joined the company in your rooms?
A: A few minutes after Miss Rappe came in Mrs. Delmont came in.
Q: Dd you know Mrs. Delmont previous to that time?
A: No, sir.
Q: Was Mrs. Delmont there by your invitation?
A: No.
Q: Who else came in, if anybody?
A: Miss Blake came in.
Q: Did Miss Blake come there by your invitation?
A: No, sir.
Q: Anybody else come?
A: Yes, Miss Prevost came later.
Q: Did Miss Prevost come by your invitation?
A: No, sir.
Q: Anybody else come?
A: Mr. Semnacher came in.
Q: Did Mr. Semnacher come by your invitation?
A: No, sir.
Q: Did anybody else come?
A: Yes, sir, Mrs. Taube and another lady.[3]
Q: Did Mrs. Taube come by your invitation?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: How were you dressed on that occasion?
A: I was dressed in pajamas and bathrobe and slippers.
Q: I will ask you if this is the bathrobe that you wore on that occasion (showing bathrobe to witness).
A:  Yes, sir, my robe, yes, sir.
Q: I will ask the ladies and gentlemen of the jury to look at this; this has been much commented on in evidence.
Q: Did you at any time during that day see Miss Virginia Rappe in room 1219?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: About what time.
A: Around 3 o’clock.
Q: How do you know it was about 3 o’clock?
A: I looked at the clock; I was going out.
Q: And what fixes—what caused you to look at the clock at that time?
A: I had an engagement with Mrs. Taube, and she came up about 1:30, but I had loaned Mr. Fischbach my car and she said she would wait downstairs until he came back; and he said he was going to the beach and he would come back just as soon as he could, so I figured it was about time for him to come back, so I looked—
Mr. Friedman: Just a moment. We ask that everything after the words “I figured” be stricken out as a conclusion of the witness.
The Court: It goes out.[4]
Mr. McNab: Where, if any place, previous to seeing Miss Rappe in 1219, where last before had you seen her?
Arbuckle: In 1220; I saw her go into 1221.
Q: And when you entered—at what time did you enter 1219?
A: Just about 3 o’clock.
Q: At the time you entered 1219 was or not the door between 1219 and 1220 opened?
A: Yes, sir, it was open.
Q: Did you know at the time you entered 1219 that Miss Rappe was there?
Mr. Friedman: Now, that is objected to as calling for the conclusion of the witness, and as leading and suggestive. And upon the ground that the question has already been asked and answered.
Mr. McNab: I have not asked that, and the question is not leading.
The Court: Objection sustained.
Mr. McNab: Did your honor sustain the objection?
The Court: Sustained the objection.
Mr. McNab: At the time you entered 1219, I understand the door between 1219 and 1220 you state was open?
Arbuckle: Yes, sir.
Q: And where in 1219 did you see Miss Rappe?
A: I did not see her in 1219.
Q: Where did you see her?
A: I found her in the bathroom.
Q: Of what room?
A: Of 1219.
Q: And under what circumstances did you find her in the bathroom?
A: When I walked into 1219, I closed and locked the door, and went straight to the bathroom and found Miss Rappe on the floor holding her stomach and moving around on the floor. She had been vomiting [ill].[5]
Q: What did you do? Explain to the jury all the circumstances which occurred in the bathroom of 1219.
A: When I opened the door the door struck her, and I had to slide in this way (illustrating) to get in, to get by her and get hold of her. Then I closed the door and picked her up. When I picked her up, [I held her, and she was ill again]; I held her under the waist, like that (indicating), and by the forehead, to keep her hair back off her face.
Q: Then what else occurred? Give the jury all the circumstances occurring in the bathroom of 1219.
A: I took a towel and wiped her face, she was still sitting there holding her stomach, evidently in pain, and she asked for a drink of water.
Mr. Friedman: We ask that the words “evidently in pain” be stricken out.
Mr. McNab: It may go out.
Q: She asked for a drink of water, and I gave it to her, and she drank a glass of water, and she asked for another glass, and I gave it to her, and she drank another half a glass of water.
Q: What else happened?
A: I asked her if I could do anything for her. She said no, she would just like to lie down; so I lifted her into 1219 and sat her down on the small bed and she sat on the bed with her head toward the foot of the bed.
Q: What else did you do, if anything?
A: She just expressed a wish that she wanted to lie down; that she had these spells; that she wanted to lie down a while. I lifted her feet off the floor and put them on the bed; she was lying this way, with her feet off the bed, and I went into the bathroom and closed the door.
Q: What else happened when you left, the bathroom and returned to 1219, if anything?
A: I came back into 1219 in about—well, I was in there about two or three minutes, and I found Miss Rappe between the beds, rolling about on the floor, holding her stomach and crying and moaning, and I tried to pick her up, and I couldn’t get hold of her; I couldn’t get alongside of her to pick her up, so I pulled her up into a sitting position, then lifted her on to the large bed and stretched her out on the bed. She turned over on her left side (Arbuckle said Miss Rappe was taken ill again) and started to groan and I immediately went out of 1219 to find Mrs. Delmont.
Q: Whom did you find in 1220 when you went there?
A: Miss Prevost.
Q: Did you advise Miss Prevost of the condition of Miss Rappe?
A: Yes, I just said “Miss Rappe is sick.”
Q: Did Miss Prevost go into 1219 at that time?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: What else happened?
A: Just a few minutes after Mrs. Delmont came—not a few minutes, just may be a few seconds—Mrs. Delmont came out of 1221 and I told her and she went into 1219 and I followed behind her.
Q: What happened in 1219 then?
A: Miss Rappe was sitting up on the edge of the large bed, tearing her clothes in this fashion (illustrating), tearing and frothing at the mouth, like in a terrible temper, or something—
Mr. Friedman: We ask, of course, that the words “like in a terrible temper” be stricken out as a conclusion of the witness.
Mr. McNab: That may go out.
The Court: It goes out.
Mr. McNab: What else? Give the. jury a narrative of what occurred at that time in 1219.
Arbuckle: I say, she was sitting on the bed, tearing her clothes; she pulled her dress up, tore her stockings; she had a black lace garter, and she tore the lace off the garter. And Mr. Fischbach came in about that time and asked the girls to stop her tearing her clothes. And I went over to her, and she was tearing on the sleeve of her dress, and she one bad sleeve just hanging by a few shreds. I don’t know which one it was, and I says “All right, if you want that off I will take it off for you.” And I pulled it off for her; then I went out of the room.
Q: Did you return to the room later?
A: Yes, sir, some time later.
Q: What was occurring in the room at that time, when you returned?
A: Miss Rappe was then on the little bed nude.
Q: What occurred?
A: I went in there and Mrs. Delmont was rubbing her with some ice. She had a lot of ice in a towel or napkin, or something, and had it on the back of her neck, and she had another piece in her hand and was rubbing Miss Rappe with it. massaging her, and there was a piece of ice lying on Miss Rappe’s body. I picked it up and said, “What is this doing here?” She says, “Leave it here; I know how to take care of Virginia,” and I put it back on Miss Rappe when I picked it up and I started to cover Miss Rappe up, to pull the spread down from underneath her so I could cover her with it, and Mrs. Delmont told me to get out of the room and leave her alone, and I told Mrs. Delmont to shut up or I would throw her out of the window, and I went out of the room.
Q: What else occurred? Tell the jury what did you do? Anything further?
A: I went out of the room, and Mrs. Taube came in and I asked Mrs. Taube if she would phone Mr. Boyle, and we went into 1221, and Mrs. Taube picked up the phone and phoned Mr. Boyle and asked him to come up to the room and get a room for Miss Rappe.
Q: What occurred after that?
A. I went back into 1219 and told Mrs. Delmont to get dressed, that the manager was coming up, and she went out to get dressed, and she pulled the spread down underneath—from underneath Miss Rappe, down below, underneath her feet, and put it up over her, and went back into 1221.
Q: What further happened?
A: Mr. Boyle came in; he came to the door of 1221.
Q: What occurred thereafter?
A: I took him in to where Miss Rappe was lying in 1219.
Q: And what was done then?
A: Mrs. Delmont came in and we put a bathrobe on Miss Rappe, Mrs. Delmont and myself.[6]
Q: Where did you get the bathrobe?
A: Out of the closet; it was Mr. Fischbach’s robe.
Q: And what then was done?
A: We took her around through the hall into 1227.
Q: How did you get out of 1219?
A: Took her out of the door leading into the hall.
Q: Who opened the door?
A: Mr. Boyle.
Q: How did you get Miss Rappe around to 1227?
A: I carried her part of the way. She was limp and did not have any life in her body. She kept slipping, and I got about three-quarters of the way and I asked Mr. Boyle—I did not ask him to take her, I asked him to boost her up in the middle so I could get another hold of her, and he just took her right out of my arms and we went into 1227.
Q: Then what occurred in room 1227, if you know?
A: We put her to bed and covered her up, and I asked Mr. Boyle if he would get a doctor; and I walked back to the elevator with him and then I walked on into the room, into 1219.
Q: Was the door between 1219 and the hall unlocked throughout the day?
A: lt was, so far as I know. Mr. Fischbach went out that way.
Q: You saw him go out.
A: Yes, sir.
Q: And when you took Miss Rappe out, the door was open from the bedroom of 1219, was it?
Mr. Friedman: We object to the question as leading.
Mr. McNab:  Well I withdraw it. How was the door open from 1219 into the hall?
Arbuckle: Mr. Boyle just walked over and opened it.
Q: Was or was not the window of room 1219 open that day?
A:  lt was always open.
Friedman: Just a moment. We ask that the answer “always open” be stricken out.
Court: It goes out.
Arbuckle: lt was open.
McNab: How was the curtain of the window in room 1219?
Arbuckle: I raised the curtain myself in the morning when I arose.
Q: During the time that you were in room 1219, did you ever hear Miss Rappe say, “You hurt me” or “He hurt me”?
A: No, sir. I didn’t hear her say anything that could be understood.[7]
Q: Next day. September 6, or any other time, did you ever have any conversation at all with Mr. Semnacher about any incidents whatever regarding ice on Miss Rappe’s body?
A: Absolutely not.
Q: Did you ever—did you ever at any time, while in room 1219 of the St Francis Hotel, on September 5, 1921, have occasion to place the bottom of your hand over the hand of Miss Rappe, while her hand was resting against the door into the corridor, or did you do so?
A: No, sir.
Q: Did you at any time, while you were in room 1219 of the St. Francis Hotel, on September 5, 1921, come into contact in any way with the door leading into the corridor?
A: No, sir.
Q: Did you ever know a man by the name of Jesse Norgaard?
A: No, sir.
Q: Did you, during the month of August 1919, or at any other time, in Culver City, or at any other place, have the following conversation with Jesse Norgaard: You are supposed to have said to Mr. Norgaard, “Have you the key for Miss Rappe’s room?” and he is supposed to say. “Yes,” and then you are supposed to have said, “Let me have it; I want to play a joke on her.” And then Mr. Norgaard is supposed to have said, “No, sir, you cannot have it.” Then you are supposed to have said, “I will trade you this for the key,” and then you had a bunch of bills in your hand, supposed to have had a bunch of bills in your hand, consisting of two 20s and one 10 and other bills, too. Now, I will ask you if such a conversation, or any conversation like it, happened at the time and place between yourself and Mr. Norgaard?
A: No, sir.
Q: Did any such conversation occur between Mr. Norgaard and yourself, regardless of time and place?
A: No, sir.
Q: Did such a conversation, or anything like it, occur between yours self and any other person at any other time?
A: No, sir.
Q: Did any other circumstance occur in room 1219, of any kind, that you can tell this jury?
A: No, sir.
Q: You have narrated all the circumstances that occurred?
A: Absolutely all of the them.
Mr. McNab: That is all. Cross-examine the witness.
(Twenty-minute recess)
CROSS-EXAMINATION
Mr. Friedman: Now, you stated that you were residing at the St. Francis Hotel on the fifth of September, is that correct?
Arbuckle: Yes, sir.
Q: How many rooms did you have there?
A: Three rooms.
Q: Three, rooms?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: And which of those rooms did you occupy?
A: I slept in the small bed in room 1219.
Q: And did anyone else occupy the room
A: Mr. Fischbach—we were there three nights. He occupied the room with me the first two nights.
Q: And the third night he didn’t occupy the room with you, is that correct?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: Now, you stated that you never saw Mr. Norgaard at Culver City during August of 1919, or at any other time, is that correct?
A: I stated that I never had any conversation with Mr. Norgaard.
Q: Well, did you see him during the year 1919?
A: I cannot remember him.
Q: Now, where were you employed during August of 1919?
A: I had my own company.
Q: You had your own company, yes, but where?
A: At Culver City.
Q: At Culver City?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: And you had a studio there?
A:  No, sir.
Q: Were you using a studio?
A: I was renting a studio there.
Q: And from whom were yon renting the studio, if from anyone?
A: I had to work there, because I had to help finish paying for the studio, and that was the only way.
Q: You had to work where?
A: At Mr. Lehrman’s studio.
Q: Yes. then, during August of 1919, you did occupy the study in conjunction with Mr. Henry Lehrman?
A:  Yes, sir.
Q: And you do not recall whether you saw Mr. Norgaard there or not?
A: I do not remember.
Q: Do you recall of ever seeing Miss Rappe there?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: Now, what time did Miss Rappe enter your room on the 5th of September?
A: About 12 o’clock, as near as I could judge.
Q: Twelve noon?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: And there was no other lady in the room when she entered?
A: No, sir.
Q: And how long was she there before anyone else arrive?
A: I couldn’t tell you; Mrs. Delmont came up a few minutes afterwards, I think.
Q: You knew Miss Rappe before the 5th of September, did you not?
A:  Yes, sir.
Q: How long had you known her?
A: Um-huh, about five or six years.
Q: About five or six years?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: And when you say that—withdraw that. Did you know, before Miss Rappe came to your rooms on the 5th of September, did you know that she was coming there?
A: No, sir.
Q: Nobody told you that she was coming there?
A: No, sir.
Q: Mr. Fischbach didn’t say anything to you about her coming there, did he?
A: He said that he was going to phone her.
Q: Do you know whether or not he did phone her?
A: I presume he did.
Q: Do you know whether or not he did phone her?
A: I didn’t hear him phone.
Q: Did he tell you that he had phoned?
A: He said. “I am going to phone her.” He didn’t really say that to me. He said it to Mr. Fortlouis.
Q: He said that to Mr. Fortlouis in your presence?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: Did he say in your presence whether she was coming up or not?
A: I don’t remember.
Q: Do you recall whether or not he received any phone calls from the time he phoned Miss Rappe until Miss Rappe came up into your room?
A: I do not recall that.
Q: Then I take it that the first you knew that Miss Rappe was coming up to rooms 1219, 1220 ,and 1221 was when she knocked on the door and came into the room?
A: I just heard Mr. Fischbach say that he was going to phone, and then a short time afterwards she came in.
Q: But from the time that Mr. Fischbach said that he was going to phone nobody had told you that she was coming up to the room and you did not know it until she came into your room?
A: No, sir.
Q: Where were you when she entered the room?
A: I was in 1219.
Q: You were not in room 1220 when she entered?
A: No, sir. but I saw her come in.
Q: How long afterwards did you enter room 1220?
A: Almost immediately.
Q: Almost immediately?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: And how long did you remain in room after she arrived?
A: I remained there until I went into room 1219.
Q: And how long was that?
A: Well, from the time that she came in until around 3 o’clock.
Q: You remained there about three hours then?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: And you were donned how when Miss Rappe entered room 1220?
A: I was clothed in this bathrobe and pajamas and slippers.
Q: What kind of pajamas were they, silk?
A: Yes, sir.
Q:  And slippers?
A: Yes, sir, and I had my socks on.
Q: You had your socks on?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: And room 1219 was your room, wasn’t it?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: Now, how long after Miss Rappe had entered room 1219, how long after that was it that Mrs. Delmont appeared?
A: Mrs. Delmont came in just a few minutes after Miss Rappe came in.
Q: And did you know how Mrs. Delmont happened to come to room 1220?
A: No, I do not know.
Q: You do not know?
A: No, sir.
Q: Did you know Mrs. Delmont before the 5th of September?
A: No, sir.
Q: And the first that you knew that Mrs. Delmont was coming to your rooms was when she knocked on the door and entered?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: Nobody ever told you that Mrs. Delmont was corning up to your rooms?
A: No, sir.
Q: You didn’t hear anyone phone downstairs for her?
A: No, sir.
Q: Did you see or hear any one use a telephone in either of these three rooms at the time that Miss Rappe entered room 1220 until Mrs. Delmont entered?
A: Yes, sir, I saw Miss Rappe use the phone.
Q: Which phone did she use?
A:  She used the phone in room 1220.
Q: In the same room that you were in?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: You didn’t hear what she said?
A: No, I didn’t hear what she said; I knew to whom she was talking.
Q: In that conversation did she mention the name of Mrs. Delmont?
A: No, sir; not that I recall; she talked to a lady by the name of Mrs. Spreckels.[8]
Q: Did you hear Miss Rappe mention the name of Mrs. Delmont from the time that Miss Rappe entered your room until the time that Mrs. Delmont appeared?
A: No, sir, she. never mentioned the name. She said she had a friend downstairs.
Q: Did she say who that friend was that she had downstairs?
A: No, sir.
Q: She never said that Mrs. Delmont was coming up to the room; never said that Mrs. Delmont was waiting downstairs or never said anything about Mrs. Delmont until she arrived, actually arrived in room 1220?
A: She never mentioned the name.
Q: She didn’t say that she was coming?
A: Not by name.
Q: You don’t recall that?
A: No, sir.
Q:  You were in room 1220 when Mrs. Delmont arrived?
A: Yes, sir.
Q:  What room did she enter?
A: She came into room 1220.
Q: Came into room 1220?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: And you were still clothed as you have testified to?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: Did you ever change those clothes from the time Miss Rappe arrived until Miss Rappe went into the bath of room 1219 as you have testified to?
A: No, sir.
Q: Now, who was present when Mrs. Delmont arrived in the room?
A: Miss Rappe, Mr. Sherman, Mr. Fortlouis and myself, and Mr. Fischbach, I think. He was in and out; I do not know whether he was there or not at that time.
Q: And how long after Mrs. Delmont arrived was it before someone else joined the party, if anyone, did join the party?
A: Well, I do not know; they kept coming in all the time.
Q: Well, who was the next person to enter your rooms after Mrs. Delmont arrived?
A: Miss Blake.
Q: Now, had you known Miss Blake prior to her coming to room 1220 on the day in question?
A: Never saw her in my life.
Q: Never saw her in your life before?
A: No, sir.
Q: And how long after Miss Rappe had entered that room was it that Miss Blake arrived?
A: I do not know; they all came in there, and they were all there by 2 o’clock, when Miss Blake left again to go to Tait’s. They all kept stringin’ in.
Q: Now, prior to the time that Miss Blake came into your room, did you know that she was coming?
A: No, sir.
Q: Did you know that any other woman was coming to your room on that day?
A: No, sir.
Q: Then the first you knew that any other woman was going to join the party was when Miss Blake knocked on the door of room 1220 and entered the room?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: Nobody informed you that Miss Blake was coming up to your room on that date?
A: No, sir; never heard about it.
Q: You never heard about it?
A: No, sir.
Q: And you were in room 1220 when Miss Blake entered, were you not?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: Now, how long after Miss Blake entered these rooms was it before Miss Prevost entered?
A: I couldn’t tell you in minutes.
Q: Well, about how long, approximately?
A: I do not know; she came in after Miss Blake did. I will guess the time if you wish me to. Probably twenty or twenty-five minutes—I don’t know.
Q: You don’t know?
A: No, sir
Q: Had you known Miss Prevost before she entered your rooms on the 5th day of September?
A: No, sir; not that I can remember.
Q:  Nobody, prior to the time that Miss Prevost entered your rooms on the 5th day of September, had told you that she was coming up to your rooms?
A: No, sir.
Q: Prior to the time that Miss Prevost did come up on the 5th day of September, you did not know whether or not she was coming up to your rooms?
A: No, sir.
Q: Nobody told you that Miss Prevost or any other lady was coming?
A: No, sir.
Q: And after the entry of Miss Blake and the time that Miss Prevost arrived in your rooms on September 5, you had no idea that anybody else, or any other woman was coming to your rooms on that day?
A: Absolutely not.
Q: Then, sir, I take it from your testimony that you didn’t know at any time until these various parties knocked upon the door of your rooms, whether Miss Rappe, Mrs. Delmont, Miss Blake, or Miss Prevost was coming to your room. Is that correct?
A: No, sir, I did not.
Q: And all this time, while each of the ladies was arriving, you were still clothed, as you have testified, in your bathrobe and pajamas and slippers. Is that correct?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: Now, what were you doing when Miss Prevost entered room 1220?
A: I was sitting in a chair,
Q: Well, what were you doing?
A:  Talking to Miss Rappe and the rest of the people.
Q: What else were you doing?
A: Having some breakfast. I think, or lunch.
Q: Well, was it breakfast or lunch?
A: Well, it was lunch for some and breakfast for the others.
Q: Well, so far as you personally were concerned, what was it?
A: Breakfast.
Q: It was your breakfast?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: What time had you arisen that morning?
A: Between 10 and 11 o’clock, I guess.
Q: You had arisen between 10 and 11?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: And you were then having breakfast?
A: Yes, sir, I had a cup of coffee.
Q: What did you have to drink with your breakfast?
A: I had coffee.
Q: Was there anything else to drink there?
A: On another table, yes, sir.
Q: And what was there upon that other table?
A: Scotch whisky, gin and orange juice?
Q: What else?
A: White Rock.
Q: And what else?
A: That is all.
Q: And how much whisky was there?
A: A bottle or two.
Q: And how much gin?
A: A bottle.
Q: And how much orange juice?
A: Two quart bottles.
Q: And how long had that been there?
A: They had been brought up.
Q: Well, how long before?
A: Well, sometime between the time that Miss Rappe came in and the time that Miss Prevost came in.
Q: They were not in the room prior to that time?
A: The whisky and gin was in the closet in room 1221. The water and orange juice was brought up by a waiter.
Q: Oh, the whisky and gin was there in a closet?
A: Yes, sir. |
Q: And who brought the whisky and gin out of the closet into room 1220?
A: Mr. Fischbach; he had the key.
Q: Now, what was said at that time?
A: Nothing said; he just set it down
Q: Well, did anybody suggest that the drink be served?
A: They kind of helped themselves is all.
Q: Who said that?
A: He said probably “help yourselves.“
Q: Yes, who said that?
A: Mr. Fischbach, I suppose. He brought it in.
Q: Did you say anything else about a drink before this time when this whisky and gin was brought in?
A: Did I say anything about it?
Q: Yes.
A: I don’t remember.
Q: And who was the first person to mention a drink?
A: I do not know that anybody mentioned it; he just brought it in.
Q: And Mr. Fischbach brought it in?
A: Fischbach brought it in; I do not remember just what time be brought it in, but I know that he brought it in. I know it was there all morning.
Q: Was it there before Miss Rappe arrived?
A: No, sir. I do not think so. I think he brought it in about that time.
Q: All right: what I wanted to know is when he brought it in, was there anything said about a drink by anybody there, by Miss Rappe, Miss Pryvon [sic],[9] Miss Blake, Mr. Sherman or Mr. Fortlouis?
A: No, sir, he just brought it in, that is all.
Q: He brought it in without saying a word?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: What did you say, or what did he say?
A: He set it down—probably, “There it is; help yourselves.”
Q: Well, tell us the words?
A: His exact words I do not know.
Q: Did you hear him say anything?
A: I cannot recall.
Q: Did you hear anybody say anything?
A: About this liquor being brought in?
Q: Yes.
A: Not that I ran remember particularly.
Q: Now, when did Mr. Semnacher come up to your room?
A: He came up after Mrs. Delmont.
Q: Well, how long after Mrs. Delmont arrived?
A: I couldn’t say exactly.
Q: Had you known Mr. Semnacher before his coming up to your room on the 5th of September?
A: I had known Mr. Semnacher several years.[10]
Q: You had known Mr. Semnacher for several years?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: Did you know he was coming up to your rooms on this day?
A: No, sir.
Q: Did you know at any time, even for a minute before he entered your rooms on that day, that, he was coming up to your rooms on that day.
A: No, sir.
Q: Nobody mentioned the fact that he was coming up?
A: Not that I remember of.
Q: Now, from the time that Miss Pryvon entered room 1220, and you saw Miss Rappe go into room 1221, as you have testified to, what was being done in these rooms?
A: Well, people were eating, drinking, the Victrola was brought up and that is about all; just a general conversation.
Q: Well, who suggested that the Victrola—who, if any one, suggested that the Victrola be brought up?
A: Miss Rappe.
Q: Miss Rappe suggested that?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: And whom did she suggest that to?
A: To me.
Q: And what did you say?
A: She suggested that we get a piano and I said. “Who can play it?” Nobody. Then I said “Get a Victrola.”
A: And who, if anyone, sent for a Victrola?
A: I telephoned for it.
Q: You phoned for it?
A: Yes, sir.
A: And you say the parties had been drinking up to this time. Had you indulged in anything?
A: I was eating my breakfast.
Q: You didn’t drink anything?
A:  Yes, sir; after breakfast.
Q: And what were you drinking, gin or whisky?
A: I was drinking highballs.
Q: And after the phonograph was brought into the room, or the Victrola, what was done then by the people in room 1220?
A: Well, they danced.
Q: Did you dance?
A: Um, um.
Q: And how long did this dancing and drinking keep up?
A: All afternoon until I left, and some after that, I guess.
Q: All afternoon long?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: What time did you leave the room?
A: I went downstairs about 8 o’clock in the evening.
Q: Eight o’clock at night?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: Where did you go to?
A: Down in the ballroom.
Q: Down in the ballroom of the hotel?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: And were they still dancing when you came back to your room?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: And what time did you return to your room?
A: Around 12 o’clock, I guess.
Q: And from the time you left your room until you came back you were down in the ballroom of the St. Francis; is that correct?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: Now, you did know that one young lady was coming to your room that day, did you not?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: And that young lady was coming at your invitation?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: And what time was she to be there?
A: No special time; she just said that she would come there.
Q: No special time?
A: No, we were just going riding.
Q: Yes.
A: You had made this appointment the preceding day?
A: The preceding evening.
Q: The preceding evening, that would be the night of the 4th?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: And no particular time was set, she was just coming over, and you were going riding?
A: Yes, sir, she said that she would call up or come over.
Q: What time did Mr. Fischbach, leave your rooms, do you know?
A: He left sometime between 1:30 and a quarter to 2?
Q: He left between 1:30 and a quarter to 2?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: And had you had any conversation with him prior to his leaving?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: You knew he was leaving, did you not?
A: Yes, sir, he borrowed my car.
Q: Oh, he borrowed your car?
A:  Yes, sir.
Q: And did he tell you where he was going in your car?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: And what did you say?
A: I said, “All right, go ahead.”
Q: Yes. When did you next see Mr. Fischbach?
A: When he came into room 1219.
Q: Well, how long after he had left your room was that?
A: Probably an hour and a half, and maybe a little less, or maybe a little more, I couldn’t say.
Q: What time did ho leave your room, did you say?
A: Between half past one and a quarter to two.
Q: Did Mr. Fischbach tell you where he was going when he left your rooms and you loaned him your car?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: And did he tell you who he was going with?
A: No, sir.
Q: Did he tell you he was going to call on anyone?
A: No; he just told me he was going out to the beach with some friend of his; was going to take him out there to look at some seals; he thought—this fellow thought maybe he could use them in a picture.
Q: Now, after this Victrola was brought up, did Miss Rappe dance?
A: No, sir; I didn’t see her dance.
Q: You didn’t see her dance. And what did she say when she suggested that a piano be brought up? Just give the conversation at that time?
A: She says, “Can’t we get music or a piano, or something?’” I says, “Who can play it?”
Q: Did she say what she wanted the piano for?
A: Just said she wanted some music.
Q: When it was decided nobody could play it, who suggested the Victrola?
A: I did.
Q: And what did you say? Just give the conversation about the Victrola.
A: The conversation?
Q: Yes, the conversation.
A: I don’t know the conversation. I says, “I will get a Victrola—I will see if I can get a Victrola.”
Q: Did you say what you were going to get a Victrola for?
A: What I was going to get a Victrola for? We wanted music—she wanted music.
Q: Up to the time that the Victrola was brought into the room was anything said about dancing?
A: No, sir.
Q: Miss Rappe never mentioned dancing?
A: No, sir; not to me.
Q: Miss Rappe did not say to you, “Let us have some music so we can dance”?
A: Not to me.
Q: Did you hear her say it to anyone else?
A:  No, sir.
Q: Did you hear anyone say it?
A:  No, sir.
Q: You say that you danced after the music was brought?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: Did you dance with Miss Rappe?
A: No, sir.
Q: Who did you dance with?
A: Miss Blake.
Q: Did Mr. Sherman dance?
A: I can’t recall whether he did or not.
Q: Did Mr. Fischbach dance?
A: Mr. Fischbach was not there at that time.
Q:  Who else was there? What other men were there?
A: Mr. Sherman, Mr. Fortlouis, and Mr. Semnacher—I can’t keep track of him, he was in and out, all day.
Q: Did Mr. Semnacher dance at any time?
A: No.[11]
Q: Did you see Mr. Fortlouis dance?
A:  No, I didn’t see Mr. Fortlouis.
Q: Did Mr. Sherman dance?
A: Yes, he danced once in a while.
Q: Whom did he dance with?
A: I suppose with Miss Pryvon or Miss Blake.
Q: Do you know—did you see him dancing with anybody?
A: At that time I don’t recollect whether he did or not; I know later on he did.
Q: Whom did he dance with later on?
A: There was a couple of girls came up later on, about 4 o’clock.
Q: That was about 4. Then you never saw Miss Rappe dance at any time in your room?
A: Not that I can remember. I did not dance with her.
Q: You did not dance with her?
A:  No, sir.
Q: And yet she was the one that asked for the music?
A: She asked for the music, yes, sir.
Q: You have seen Miss Rappe on other occasions, have you not, when there has been music?
A: I have never been with her only once.
Q: You have seen her on other occasions?
A:  Yes, sir.
Q: Where there has been music?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: Have you ever seen her dance?
A: Certainly I have seen her dance.
Q: Now, did you, at any time up to 3 o’clock in the afternoon of the 5th of September, tell anyone in your rooms that they would have to leave your rooms?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: Yes. Whom did you tell they would have to leave?
A: I did not tell that party they would have to leave; I asked Mr. Sherman to ask them.
Q: You asked Mr. Sherman to ask whom?
A: Mr. Fortlouis.
Q: Is that the only person you asked to leave your rooms?
A: Yes, sir, in the afternoon.
Q: Well, at any time, I am speaking now of any time from 12 to 3 o’clock, did you tell anybody in your rooms outside of this Mr. Fortlouis that you have mentioned, that they would have to leave your rooms in the St. Francis Hotel?
A: I did not say they would have to leave; I was stalling to get him out. I said there was some press—some newspaper people coming up, to get him out.
Q: I am saying, with the exception of Mr. Fortlouis, did you suggest to any one that they would have to leave your rooms?
A: No, sir.
Q: Did you ask anyone to leave your rooms?
A: No, sir.
Q: What time did Mrs. Taube—is that the name, Mrs. Taube?
A: Mrs. Taube.
Q: Yes, what time did she enter your rooms?
A: The first time?
Q: On the 5th of September?
A: The first time she entered the room was, I guess, between, somewhere around 1:30. I guess, probably a little before.
Q: And she entered your rooms ai 1:30. How long did she remain there?
A: Five or ten minutes.
Q: Five or ten minutes. And she left?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: Was there any conversation between you and Mrs. Taube as to her returning?
A: She said she would call later. I told her that we would go riding I says, “I loaned Mr. Fischbach my car for a few moments; he is going to use my car and when he returns with it we will go out.”
Q: And what time did you tell her to return?
A: I didn’t tell her to return. She said she would call back.
Q: She said she would call back?
A: Later on in the afternoon.
Q: Was there anything else said about what you were going to do, between you and Mrs. Taube?
A: She asked me who all these people were, and I told her. “You can search me. I don’t know.” I tried to introduce her; I couldn’t remember their names. I introduced her to Miss Rappe, I think.
Q: She stayed there for how long?
A: Just a few moments.
Q: And then she left?
A: Yes.
Q: Do you know why?
A: Yes, I think I do.
Q: Why?
A: Well, she had another girl with her.
Q: Yes.
A: And she didn’t want to stay there.
Q: Did she say why she did not want to stay there?
McNab: I object to that as not proper cross-examination. It has nothing to do with the issues of this case.
Court: Objection overruled.
Arbuckle: This girl? Mrs. Taube says why—she didn’t say at that time. She said she was going down, that she would come back.
Friedman: What time did she return? Did she return?
A: Yes, she returned later on after this trouble in 1219; came up about ten minutes after Mr. Fischbach, somewhere along there.
Q: And how long did she remain at that time?
A: She remained in the rooms until after Miss Rappe had been taken to 1227 and I came back.
Q: Yes. And then she went out?
A: Then she went out again, yes, sir.
Q: You did not go with her?
A:  No; she did not go riding.
Q: You did not go riding?
A: No.
Q: And you saw her again that day?
A: Yes, sir; she called back about 6 o’clock in the evening, I think.
Q: Now, do you know why Mrs. Taube went away after you had moved Miss Rappe to room 1227?
A: I don’t know; she just seemed to me like she was a little peeved or something.
Q: Isn’t it a fact that she said something to you that indicated that she was a little peeved at the time?
A: Yes, she did.
Q: What was it she said?
A: She asked me who those people were, and what they were doing; I told her I didn’t know who they were.
Q: And she asked you on the first occasion, didn’t she?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: And that is why she left, wasn’t it, because these people were in your rooms?
A: I probably think so.
Q: And you did not go with her on either of the occasions in the afternoon?
A: No.
Q: Now, upon Mrs. Taube’s first visit to your room on the 5th of September, about half past one, as you have testified to, what was Miss Rappe doing at that time?
A: She was sitting on a settee in the corner, I think.
Q: Did she remain there all the time that Mrs. Taube was in the room on the first visit?
A: I can’t remember whether she did or not: I talked to Mrs. Taube.
Q: You can’t remember whether she did or not. Did you notice where Miss Rappe was after Mrs. Taube left on her first visit? I was talking to Mrs. Taube. I don’t know.
Q: You saw Miss Rappe go into room 1221. did you?
A: Yes, sir, later on.
Q: You introduced Mrs. Taube to Miss Rappe I believe you said?
A: I think I did; I don’t know; maybe somebody else; I just can’t recall whether I introduced her.
Q: Well, now, did you or didn’t you?
A: I don’t know whether I did or not.
Q: Did anyone else in that room know Mrs. Taube that you know of?
A: Yes, Mr. Fischbach knew her, but he was not there.
Q: He was not there, so you don’t know whether you introduced her to Miss Rappe, or not?
A: No, I don’t know.
Q: Do you know whether or not she was introduced to Miss Rappe?
A: Yes, sir, I think she was. I suppose so.
Q: Well, were you present when she was introduced to Miss Rappe?
A:  Well. I don’t know; I have a habit of introducing people. I don’t always do it.
Q: We are not talking about your habits; we are talking about what happened in this room at this time, about 1:30 on September 5.
A: Yes, I think she was introduced, as near as I can remember.
Q: All right; now where was Miss Rappe when you were introduced to Mrs. Taube? What was she doing? Was she standing up or sitting down?
A: I think she was sitting on the settee, as near as I can remember.
Q: All right; how was she dressed?
A: Miss Rappe or Mrs. Taube?
Q: Miss Rappe?
A: She had on a green dress, a green skirt and a green jacket.
Q: Did she have a hat on?
A: I can’t remember whether she had a hat on at that time or not.
Q: Well, you don’t know whether she had a hat on or not; is that the answer?
A: Yes.
Q: Was her hair up or down?
A: I can’t remember that, either.
Q: You can’t remember that. You don’t recall seeing her hair down at that time, do you?
A: No, I do not.
Q: Now, when Miss Rappe went into room 1221, as you have testified to, was she still dressed as she was introduced to Mrs. Taube?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: Did she have a hat on at that time, or not?
A: I don’t—no, she did not have a hat on then.
Q: Was her hair up or down at that time?
A: I can’t remember exactly.
Q: You can’t remember; you don’t remember of seeing her hair down at that time, do you?
A: No, sir.
Q: How long did she remain in 1221?
A: I don’t know.[12]
Q: You don’t know? You saw her go in?
A: I saw her go in, yes, sir.
Q: You saw her go in room 1219?
A: I did not.
Q: You did not—did not see her go into room 1219?
A: No, sir.
Q: How long a time elapsed from the time you saw Miss Rappe go into room 1221 until you went into room 1219?
A: I couldn’t tell you.
Q: Well, what were you doing when she went into room 1221?
A: I was sitting there talking to her when she went into 1221.
Q: You were sitting there talking to her?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: And she got up and went into room 1221?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: What did you do when she got up and went into room 1221?
A: I got up; I don’t know what I did; went to the Victrola or something, or danced; I don’t know; I don’t remember at that time.
Q: Well, how long a time would you say elapsed from the time you saw Miss Rappe go into room 1221 until you went into room 1219?
A: I couldn’t tell you.
Q: Well, was it a half hour?
A: No, I don’t think it was that long.
Q: Well, fifteen minutes?
A: I wouldn’t say what time it was. It was—
[Order inferred[13]]
Q: Now, you can’t fix the time—I withdraw that. What time did Miss Rappe to into room 1221?
A: I couldn’t tell you just what time.
Q: Well, you say that you had been sitting in 1220 talking to her when she went in there?
A: Yes.
Q: Where were you sitting?
A: She was sitting here, and I was sitting on this chair here (indicating on diagram).
Q: What time did Fischbach leave your room?
A: Between 1:30 and a quarter to 2, I guess.
Q: Between 1:30 and a quarter to 2. Did Miss Rappe go into room 1219 before or after Fischbach left your room?
A: It was after Miss Blake had come back from Tait’s, sometime between 2:30 and 3 o’clock.
Q: Sometime between 2:30 and 3 o’clock. And what time was it—withdraw that. You say that you told somebody to tell Mr. Fortlouis that the reporters were coming up to your room?
A: Uh huh (affirmative).
Q: Who did you tell?
A: I told Mr. Sherman, I believe.
Q: And when did you tell him that?
A: Oh, I can’t just remember when.
Q: You can’t remember when it was. Did Mr. Fortlouis leave your room?
A: Yes, but I don’t know when he left.
Q: You don’t know when he left. Well, how long after you told Mr. Sherman to tell him that the reporters were coming upstairs did he leave? Did he leave alone?
A: I can’t remember; I don’t know when he left.
Q: You don’t know when he left. Did he leave before or after Miss Rappe went into room 1221?
A: I don’t know.
Q: Did you see Mr. Semnacher again after he went out with Miss Blake?
A: He was in and out all afternoon. I can’t—I couldn’t tell you anything about him at all.
Q: Now you say that Miss Blake came in in about a half an hour or so; is that what you said?
A: Yes.
Q: How do you fix that?
A: That is just a judge of time; I don’t know; I couldn’t tell you; it seemed to me.
Q: When did you next see her after she went to rehearsal?
A: When she came back to the room.
Q: What was she doing? What was the occasion? What attracted your attention to her? Did you see her come in?
A: Not that I remember; she just appeared in the room.
Q: All of a sudden you discovered she was there?
A: She was back.
Q: Right in the middle of the crowd again?
A: Yes, she was there.
Q: Now, after you had discovered that Miss Blake had returned and Miss Rappe was in the room, what did you do? Play some more music?
A: Yes; the music was going.
Q: Did you dance after that?
A: I think I danced with Miss Blake, yes; I am not sure.
Q: Do you remember if, after you discovered Miss Blake had returned to this room, of changing any of the phonograph records yourself?
A: Yes, I think I did; I changed—
Q: How many?
A: Whoever was closest to it; I don’t know.
Q: You don’t remember what you did. As a matter of fact, you don’t remember how long it was after Miss Rappe went into room 1221 that you went into 1219?
A: Well, I couldn’t tell you exactly; no.
Q: But your recollection is it was five or ten minutes?
A: I believe, I don’t know; it might have been more or less.
Q: It might have been less?
A: I don’t know.
Q: It might have been as little as two or three minutes, isn’t that a fact?
A: No.
Q: Well, it might have been that short a period of time?
A: I couldn’t tell you, because that is the last time I saw her, when she went into 1221.
[Order inferred]
Q: As a matter of fact, was it only a minute or two?
A: I don’t know.
Q: Do you recall doing anything from the time that Miss Rappe went into room 1221 until you went into room 1219?
A: Yes, certainly.
Q: What did you do?
A: I put—changed a record on the phonograph; I think I danced with Miss Blake; I am not sure what I did.
Q: Then you don’t recall what you did; you don’t recall doing anything?
A: I was around the room; I don’t just exactly know what I was doing.
[Order inferred]
Q: You don’t know what you were doing or how long a time elapsed—is that it?
A: I couldn’t tell you.
Q: And what time was it that you entered the room 1219?
A: About 3 o’clock.
Q: About 3 o’clock? And how was it that knew it was 3 o’clock?
A: I looked at the clock.
Q: You looked at what clock?
A: On the mantel.
[Order inferred]
Q: Isn’t it a fact that the clock was not running when you looked at it?
A: (laughs) No, sir; that is not so.
Q: Are you certain the clock was correct?
A: Well, everything else in the hotel is pretty good, so I supposed the clock was all right.
[Order inferred]
Q: What time was Mrs. Taube coming back?
A: She said she would call back; she didn’t say any particular time.
Q:  Then you didn’t know whether she was coming back about 3 o’clock or not, did you?
A:  She said she was.
Q: Oh, what time did she say she was coming back?
A: I told her when she came up. I says, “Mr. Fischbach has got my car; is going to use my car; when he comes back we will go riding.” And she says, “Where is he going?” I says, “He is going to the beach and back.” She says, “I will come back after a while.”
[Order inferred]
Q: And, as a matter of fact, when you arose on the 5th of September and went into the bathroom to clean up, it was your intention then to get ready and go out riding with Mrs. Taube?
A: When she came in.
Q: When she came in?
A: There was no particular time set; it was just for the afternoon.
Q: But you did not get dressed at that time?
A: No, these people kept coming in, and I was trying to be sociable.
Q: With whom?
A: With them.
Q: They were not your guests?
A: No, I didn’t want to insult them.
Q: You didn’t invite them there, did you?
A: No, sir.
Q: With the exception of Miss Rappe, you didn’t know anybody that was coming there at that time, any of these young ladies?
A: No.
Q: You did not invite them?
A: No.
Q: And you didn’t tell anyone else to invite them?
A: No.
Q: And they were not your guests?
A: No.
Q: And you had an appointment to take Mrs. Taube out riding?
A: Yes.
Q: And still you figured you couldn’t go away without insulting those people, is that right?
A: No, I figured I couldn’t go away until Mr. Fischbach came back with my car.
[Order inferred]
Q: And you don’t know what you did after that; and you don’t know how long a time elapsed after that before you went into room 1219?
A: No, I suppose I did what I had been doing; there was music and dancing and kidding around the room.
Q: You’ve heard the other witnesses testify on the stand to that time, haven’t you?
A: I’m not telling their testimony.
Q: Well, refresh your memory and don’t argue about it. You say it was 3 o’clock when you went into room 1219 and that this was a little after you noticed Miss Rappe go into room 1221—when did you see Miss Rappe come out of room 1221 and go into 1219?
A: I didn’t see her leave room 1221.
Q: How long after you saw Miss Rappe go into 1221 did you go into 1219?
A: I don’t remember; it may have been five or ten minutes. I’ll guess for you if you wish, but I couldn’t say exactly.
[Order inferred]
Q: And you had an appointment to take Mrs. Taube out riding?
A: Yes.
Q: And still you figured you couldn’t go away without insulting those people, is that right?
A: No, I figured I couldn’t go away until Mr. Fischbach came back with my car.
Q: Now, isn’t it a fact, Mr. Arbuckle, that Mrs. Taube came into room 1220 in the St. Francis Hotel on the 5th day of September, between the hours of 1 and 2 o’clock in the afternoon thereof, before Mr. Fischbach had left your rooms and used your car?
A: No, sir, I don’t think so.
Q: You are positive of that, are you?
A: No, I would not be positive.
Q: You wouldn’t be positive. Then are you positive that you told Mrs. Taube that Mr. Fischbach was out using your care when she arrived at your rooms?
A: I don’t know whether I told her he was, or he was going to use it. I know I gave him my word he could have my car. I told her words to that effect.
Q: You don’t know whether you told her that he did have or he was going to have your car?
A: I gave her to understand that he was going to use the car for a while.
Q: Had you and Mrs. Taube decided on any particular place to go driving on this 5th of September?
A: No particular place.
Q: No particular place at all?
A: No.
Q: And all that Mr. Fischbach wanted your car for was to go out and look at seal rocks?
A: Not seal rocks; he was going out to look at some seals that he was going to use in a picture.
Q: Some seals. Those seals were where, did he tell you?
A: By the beach.
Q: And you don’t know how long a time elapsed from the time that Miss Rappe went into room 1221 until you went into 1219?
McNab: If the court please, we are supposed to end this trial sometime. I object to the same questions being asked more than ten times.
Court: Proceed with the examination.
Friedman: Very well, answer the question.
Arbuckle: What was it? (Question read by the reporter.)
Schmulowitz: I object to the question on the ground it has been asked and answered several times, if the court please.
Court: Objection overruled.
Arbuckle: No, I couldn’t tell you.
Friedman: Can you recall of speaking to anyone at all from the time that Miss Rappe went into room 1221 until you went into room 1219?
A: Me speaking to anyone? Can I recall me speaking? If there was people in there, I suppose I spoke to them.
Q: Can you recall of speaking to anyone, not what you suppose you did? Have you any recollection, any memory upon it all?
A: If there were people in the room, I would speak to them.
Friedman [to Louderback]: We ask that the answer be stricken out as not responsive, and ask that the witness be directed to answer the question.
Court: It goes out.
Arbuckle: I spoke to people.
Friedman: Who did you speak to?
A: Miss Blake.
Q: You spoke to Miss Blake?
A: Yes.
Q: Who else, if anyone?
A: I don’t know. I suppose Miss Pyvvon [sic], or whoever was in there at the time; I don’t know.
Q: Who do you remember speaking to, not what you suppose?
A: Well, I spoke to whoever was in the room.
Q: Whoever was in the room; and if there were five people in the room, you spoke to the whole five of them?
A: I don’t think there were five people.
Q: If there were three people in the room, you spoke to the three of them; is that correct?
A: I might have spoken to them, yes.
Q: Who was in the room when Miss Rappe went into room 1221?
A: Miss Blake, I think Miss Pyvvon was, possibly Mr. Sherman. I don’t recollect.
Q: And you recall speaking to Miss Blake during that period of time?
A:  Yes.[14]
[Order inferred]
Q: Do you recall speaking to Mr. Sherman during that period of time?[15]
A: I say I don’t recollect whether he was there; possible he was there; possibly he was not.
Q: Then you have no recollection of whether you spoke to him?
A: No.
Q: Do you recall what you said to Miss Rappe at that time?
A: No.
Q: Now, prior to your going into room 1219 and locking the door, as you have testified to—
A: Yes, sir.
Q: Did you tell anyone who was in either one of these three rooms what you were going into room 1219 for?
A: No.
Q: You didn’t tell anyone you were going to get dressed?
A: No.
Q: Just walked in and locked the door?
A: Walked in.
Q: And locked the door?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: When you spoke to Miss Blake just before going into room 1219, you didn’t tell her what you were going into 1219 for?
A: No, sir.
Q: Never said a word to her about it?
A: No, sir.
Q: Did you tell anyone that you were going to leave?
A: No, sir.
Q: And at 3 o’clock you decided, just without speaking to anyone about it, that you would go in and get dressed so that would be ready to go riding; is that it?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: What did you do after you entered room 1219? What was the first thing you did?
A:  Locked the door.
Q: You locked the door; and which door?
A: The door leading into 1219.
Q: There are two doors; was it the door from 1219 into 1220?
A: The door opening into 1219. As near as I can recollect, it had a mirror in it.
Q: You don’t recall closing more than one door do you?
A: No, I just closed the door and locked it.
[Before the noon recess, Jane Walsh briefly took the stand to officially identify the preserved bladder of Virginia Rappe as evidence.]
Friedman: Now, after Miss Rappe had gone into room 1221, did you remain in room 1220?[16]
Arbuckle: Yes, I was in 1220.
Q: And you remained in there until you went into room 1219 as you have testified to; is that correct?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: Did you at any time see Miss Rappe come out of room 1221?
A: No, I didn’t see her after she went into room 1221.
Q: You are positive you didn’t see her come out of room 1221?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: Now, from the time that Miss Rappe went into room 1221, until you went into room 1219, will you just show on this diagram which portion of room 1220 you remained in?
A: I do now know what part of the room I remained in; I was in the room.
Q: And you do not know what portion of the room you remained in?
A: No.
Q: And you are positive you didn’t see Miss Rappe come out of room 1221?
A: Absolutely.
Q: And you remained in room 1220 all that time?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: And you remained in room 1220 all that time?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: And you can’t recall what you did while you were in there?
A: I did the same thing as I had been doing all the afternoon.
Q: But more specifically than that you cannot say?
A: No.
Q: And what was the first thing that you did after you went into room 1219?
A: I closed the door and locked it.
Q: And that was the door that opened in as far as room 1219 was concerned?
A: I think so; I am not positive.
Q: And why did you lock the door?
A: I was going to get dressed.
Q: Is that why you locked the door?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: Is it your habit to lock that door when you to in to get dressed?
A: Yes, if there is anybody in the room—the ladies were there.
Q: Are you positive that is the only reason you had in locking the door?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: From 1219 to 1220?
A: Yes, sir, to change my clothes and get dressed.
Q: Did you bathe that morning?
A: Yes.
Q: Did you see Josephine Keza, the chambermaid, while you were bathing?
A: I did.
Q: Where were you at the time?
A: I was in the bathroom, shaving. She opened the door, and then excused herself and went out.
Q: Did you have your bathrobe on?
A: No.
Q: What did you have on?
A: Nothing.
Q: Nothing?
A: Nothing.
Q: And you locked the door so you would not be disturbed while you were dressing?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: So you did not lock the door at all from room 1219 into the corridor?
A: No, I did not; I never gave it a thought.
Q: Why didn’t you lock the door from room 1219 out into the corridor?
A: I told you I never gave it a thought.
Q: All you did think about was the door between 1219 and 1220 being open, being unlocked?
A: What do you mean? I locked it because there were so many coming back and forth through the rooms.
Q: Well, had anybody gone out into the hall?
A: I don’t know.
Q: Do you remember Miss Rappe going in there at any time?
A: No, sir, but the doors were open.
Q: Now, after you had locked the door to keep those ladies out of room 1219, while you were dressing, what did you do?
A: I went straight to the bathroom.
Q: You went straight to the bathroom?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: What did you do then?
A: Opened the door.
Q: You opened the door?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: And did the door open readily?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: And then what occurred?
A: The door struck Miss Rappe where she was lying on the floor.
Q: You say the door struck Miss Rappe where she was lying on the floor?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: And what was she doing at that time?
A: Just holding her stomach with her hands and moaning.
Q: Had she been ill up to that time?
A: No, sir.
Q: Then what did you do?
A: Then I asked her if there was anything I could do for her
Q: She wanted to lie down?
A: Yes.
Q: Then what did you do?
A: I helped her into the bedroom.
Q: From the time that you picked her up off the floor—I withdraw that. From the time that you [. . .] until you helped her into 1219 [. . .]
A: No.
Q: She held the water that you gave her on her stomach until you got her into room 1219?
A: I suppose so.
Q: How did you assist her from the bathroom to the bed?
A: She walked
Q: She walked. Did you help her in any manner?
A: I put my arm around her.
Q: You put your arm around her and assisted her, and you walked off to which bed?
A: To the little bed.
Q: Then what did you do?
A: She sat down on the edge of the bed.
Q: She sat down on the edge of the bed?
A: Yes; then laid over on it.
Q: Then laid over on the bed. Which way was she facing?
A: She was facing (going to diagram)—facing this way (indicating). She sat down here and just laid over on the bed with head toward the foot.
Q: With her head toward the foot?
A: Yes, sir. I picked her feet up and put them up on the bed.
Q: Then what did you do?
A: I went back into the bathroom.
Q: You went back into the bathroom. What did you do in the bathroom?
A: Well, I went back into the bathroom.
Q: All right. How long were you in the bathroom?
A: Three or four minutes, or a couple of minutes, I guess. I don’t know.
Q: Then what did you do?
A: I came out again.
Q: You came out again [. . .] I take it?
A: Naturally. [. . .]
Q: How, after you had—after Miss Rappe had been seated on this small bed, as you have testified to, and after she lay over with her head toward the foot, and you raised her feet up upon the bed, in which portion of the bed was she lying? Was she lying in the center of the bed, on one side or the other?
A: She just laid over in the bed; I didn’t notice whether she was to one side or the other.
Q: But it was on the side nearest to the window of the room that she sat down; is that correct?
A: Yes, sir?
Q: Now, then, what did you do after you came out of the bathroom?
A: I found her in between the beds.
Q: You found her in between the beds after you came out of the bathroom?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: And you were only in the bathroom how long?
A: Three or four minutes, I guess.
Q: Three or four minutes; and you found her in between the beds. Which way was her head when you found her?
A: Facing out toward the foot of the beds
Q: Just show upon the diagram?
A: She was lying right in here (indicating on diagram).
Q: Right in there?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: Which way was she facing?
A: Her head was this way.
Q: Her head was that way; which way was her face? Toward the window or toward the door, or was it facing toward the ceiling?
A: She was lying on her back.
Q: While you were in the bathroom, did you hear any noise in 1219?
A: No, I did not.
Q: You did not hear her fall out of the bed?
A: No, sir, I did not; I did not see her.
Q: Did she holler or was there any sound?
A: No, she was just moaning, holding her stomach and thrashing around on the floor.
Q: On the floor?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: What condition was she in when you went into the bathroom? You say you helped her up on the bed. Was she moaning then?
A: No, she just appeared to be sick and laid over on the bed.
Q: All right. After you went into the bathroom, and after you placed her on the bed, when was the first time you heard her moaning?
A: I heard her moaning when I came into the room, and she was lying between the beds.
Q: What did you do?
A: I put her on the big bed.
Q: Which way did you put her upon the big bed?
A: I picked her up and just put her on the big bed like this (illustrating), pulled up to a sitting position, and took hold of her, and put her on the bed, turned her around and laid her down on the bed.
Q: Did you turn around with her?
A: No, I just picked her up to a sitting posture. I couldn’t get to the side of her; there isn’t enough space, I just reached over like that, and picked her up and sat her over on the bed, and turned her around, and put her head upon the pillow.
Q: Then what did you do?
A: [. . .]
Q: Did you put her feet on the bed?
A: I put her whole body on the bed.
Q: [. . .]
A: I didn’t notice it particularly. I went right out of the room then to get Mrs. Delmont.
Q: Now, when you picked her up, when you started to lay her out upon the small bed, did she say anything at that time.
A: She might have said something.
Q: Now, did she—not what she might have said—did she say anything that you remember?
A: I can’t remember what she said exactly, or—
Q: Then she did say something to you, but you can’t remember it. Is that true?
A: She might have said something. I don’t know.
Q: Not what she might have said. Did she—do you remember her saying anything?
A: I can’t remember whether she did or not.
Q: You don’t know whether she did or at that time?
A: No.
Q: Did she, when you picked up, picked her feet up to straighten them out upon the bed, did she cry or moan at that time?
A: Not at that time, no.
Q: Never said a word. Did you place a pillow under her head?
A: No, I did not.
Q: You did not place a pillow under her head. There was a pillow on the bed, was there not?
A: Yes.
Q: And you did not place it under her head; you just laid her out and walked into the bathroom?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: When you came back, she was upon the floor between the beds?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: When you picked her up in this sitting position, what did she say then?
A: She didn’t say anything; she was just groaning and holding her stomach.
Q: She was just groaning and holding her stomach?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: Was she groaning very loud?
A: Not particularly.
Q: Not particularly loud?
A: No, she just seemed to be in pain, short pains, or something.
Q: Was she groaning as loud as you are talking now?
A: I couldn’t tell you just how loud she was groaning; she just seemed to be—
Q: You couldn’t hear her groan when you were in the bathroom, could you?
A: No.
Q: Did she say anything when you raised her to this sitting position?
A: No.
Q: And did you say anything when you picked her up in this position that you have described to the jury?
A: No.
Q: Did she say anything when you seated her upon the bed and helped her down upon the bed?
A: No, she did not.
Q: Did she say anything when you straightened her out upon the bed?
A: No; I just turned her around to straighten her out but she kind of rolled over.
Q: She never said anything from the time you came out of the bathroom until you put her one the bed, so far as you know?
A: Not that I can remember.
Q: Now, did she wrench [retch?[17]] [. . .] while you were picking her up off the floor just before you placed her upon the bed?
A: She was just holding her stomach and groaning. [. . .]
Q: After you laid her upon the bed [. . .] as you have testified; what did you do then?
A: Went out of the room.
Q: You went out of the room?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: Where did you go?
A: To 1220.
Q: To 1220. Did you unlock the door?
A: Yes.
Q: From the time you came into room 1219, from the time that you locked the door between room 1219 and room 1220, until you unlocked the door, as you have testified to, did you hear any sounds in room 1220?
A: No, I did not.
Q: Did you hear anybody at any time knock upon that door?
A: I did not hear them, no.
Q: Did you hear anybody at any time holler to you through the door?
A: No.
Q: Now, when you opened the door from room 1219 to 1220, who was the first person you saw?
A: Miss Prevost.
Q: Where was Miss Prevost standing?
A: She was standing in the room.
Q: Well, where?
A: I couldn’t just say where. She was in the center of the room. She was walking across the room.
Q: She was walking across the room?
A: Yes.
Q: Did you see Mrs. Delmont?
A: Not at that time, no; I saw her just a minute so afterwards.
Q: Where was she when you saw her just a minute or so afterwards?
A: She came out of 1221.
Q: And she was not in 1220 when you opened the door from room 1219, is that correct?
A: No, sir.
Q: Where was Miss Blake?
A: I don’t know.
Q: Did you see her in room 1220?
A: Not at the time.
Q: But you saw her in room 1220?
A: Not at the time.
Q: But you saw Miss Prevost in the middle of the floor?
A: Yes.
Q: Was anyone else in room 1220 after you opened the door?
A: I came out and I made some remark about Virginia being sick.
Q: What did you say?
A: I said, “Virginia is sick,” or words to that effect.
Q: Now, isn’t it a fact, Mr. Arbuckle, that when you came out of room 1219, when you unlocked the door and opened the door and stepped from room 1219 into 1220, Mrs. Delmont and Miss Prevost were right there at the door of 1220?
A: Miss Prevost was.
Q: Mrs. Delmont was not?
A: Not that I can remember.
Q: Did Miss Prevost say anything to you when you opened the door?
A: No, she just went in.
Q: What did you come out of room 1219 for?
A: To get Mrs. Delmont.
Q: To get Mrs. Delmont?
A: No; she came in right afterwards, and she went into 1219.
Q: So, you came out of room 1219 to get Mrs. Delmont, but you told Miss Prevost?
A: I just made a general remark as I came out, that is all.
Q: How long after you came out of room 1219 was it that Mrs. Delmont went into room 1219.
A: It could not have been very long, possibly a minute or two minutes she came in.
Q: From the time that you went into room 1219 until you came out of room 1219, how long a time elapsed?[18]
[. . .]
Q: You were dressing for the purpose of going out with Mrs. Taube when she arrived, were you not? That is what you went into 1219 for?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: And it didn’t concern you at all how long a time you had spent in attending to Miss Rappe while you were in there?
A: I had forgotten about my ride. When a person is sick, naturally you are thinking about it. You are not thinking about something else.
Q: Well, then, you were concerned about Miss Rappe’s condition?
A: Well, she appeared to be sick and I went out to get Mrs. Delmont.
Q: You went out to get Mrs. Delmont, but first you went into the bathroom?
A: Yes, because she wasn’t doing anything; she was just lying down on the little bed.
Q: Now, just state to the jury what you said when you opened the door from 1219 into 1220?
A: I couldn’t state the exact words; I made a remark that she was sick or something.
Q: All right. What did you say as near as you can remember?
A: I made some remark about Miss Rappe was sick, that is all.
Q: Miss Rappe was sick. Who did you say it to?
A: I suppose to Miss Prevost.
Q: Do you know who you said that to?
A: I just made that remark.
Q: You just made that remark?
A: Yes.
Q: For the benefit of anybody that wanted to listen to it?
A: Yes.
Q: To nobody in particular?
A: Yes, I just made the remark.
Q: How long did you remain in room 1220?
A: Just a minute or so. Mrs. Delmont came in and I went back with her.
Q: You went back to 1219; then what did you do?
A: Miss Rappe was sitting up on the bed; she sat up on the bed and started tearing at her clothes.
Q: She started tearing at her clothes?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: What did she start to tear first?
A: I don’t know; she was just tearing like this (illustrating [“jerking his hands apart and gritting his teeth”]).
Q: Just tell the jury how she tore the upper part of her dress?
A: She just tore her clothing; caught hold of them and tore them like that (showing).
Q: Did you help her take off any portion of them?
A: No, sir; I went over to see and tried to stop her, and kept on; she had one sleeve just hanging by a thread, or two, and I pulled that off.
Q: You pulled that off?
A: Yes.
Q: Then what did she say, if anything?
A: She kept tearing; she caught hold of the green jacket, but she could not tear that.
Q: Then what did she do?
A: I went out of the room there. Mr. Fischbach came back in and I went out of the room.
Q: Mr. Fischbach came in how soon after you took off the balance of this waist?
A: Well, I will tell you, I didn’t see him come in; he was in there when I turned around.
Q: He was in there when you turned around?
A: Yes, he was.
Q: When you turned around and discovered Mr. Fischbach what was Miss Rappe doing?
A: Tearing her clothes.
Q: Isn’t it a fact that Mr. Fischbach did not come in there while Miss Rappe had any clothes on at all?
A: Yes, he was in there while she was tearing her clothes.
Q: He was in there, while she was tearing her clothing?
A: I think he was.
Q: Now, after you turned around and saw Mr. Fischbach, what did you do?
A: I went back into 1220.
Q: You went back into 1220; how long did you remain there?
A: I was out sometime?
Q: You were out sometime?
A: Yes.
Q: And who was in 1220 while you were in there?
A: I don’t remember just who was in there; Mrs. Taube came up in a few minutes.
Q: Mrs. Taube came up in a few minutes? Did you see Mr. Boyle?
A: Not at that time; no.
Q: When did you see him?
A: He came up after I had phoned for him.
Q: After you phoned for him?
A: After Mrs. Taube phoned.
Q: After Mrs. Taube phoned. I believe you said, from room 1221?
A: Yes.
Q: Now, where were you when Boyle came into the room?
A: I was in room 1221 talking to Mrs. Taube.
Q: And what room did Mr. Boyle come in?
A: He came to the door of room 1221. He came to the door; he might have come in a little ways.
Q: What did you say?
A: I said, “She is in there,” and took him through room 1220 and into room 1219.
Q: What else did you say to Mr. Boyle?
A: I cannot remember what I said, I may have explained to him what happened, or something.
Q: What do you remember of saying anything?
A: I spoke about the situation, the exact words I cannot tell you.
Q: Well, in substance—at the time, in substance? Didn’t you say anything?
A: Yes, that the girl was sick and to get her another room.
Q: Did you tell Mr. Boyle what caused her sickness?
A: No, how would I know what caused her sickness?
Q: Now, when you came out of room 1219 to room 1220 and said that Miss Rappe was sick, did you tell Miss Prevost or Mrs. Delmont what was the matter with her?
A: No, I just said she was sick.
Q: You just said she was sick?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: You didn’t say anything else?
A: Not that I remember.
Q: Now, did anybody ask you what was the matter with Miss Rappe?
A: I cannot remember whether they did, or not.
Q: You cannot remember?
A: No, sir.
Q: And you cannot remember of telling anybody about her illness except that she was ill?
A: No, sir.
Q: You didn’t tell anybody that you found her in the bathroom?
A: No, sir, nobody asked me.
Q: Did you see anybody give Miss Rappe anything to drink after you had gone into room 1220 from room 1219?
A: No, I did not.
Q: Do you know whether or not anybody gave her some bicarbonate of soda?
A: I do not know.
Q: You didn’t tell anybody that you had found Miss Rappe upon the floor between the two beds, did you?
A: No, sir.
Q: You didn’t tell anybody that you had placed her on a bed, and that she had fallen off while holding her abdomen and moaning with pain, did you?
A: No, sir.
Q: Now, did you hear Miss Rappe make any statement of any kind, of any kind at all from the time that you found her upon the floor in the bathroom in room 1219 until you assisted in carrying her to room 1227?
A: No, sir, just heard her moan and groan.
Q: You just heard her moan and groan?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: She asked you for some water, didn’t she?
A: Yes, that was in the bathroom
Q: You understand that?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: Did she say anything else to you?
A: No, sir, excepting that she wanted to lie down for a little while.
Q: You had changed your clothes you say?
A: Yes, sir, after Miss Rappe was taken to room 1227, I changed my clothes.[19]
Q: You dressed?
A: No sir, I had on a pair of golf trousers, and a soft shirt.
Q: You dressed in a pair of golf trousers and soft shirt?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: And around 8:30 or 9 o’clock you changed again?
A: Yes, sir, and put on a dinner suit.
Q: And that is the way you went down to the ballroom and stayed there until after 12 that night, is it?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: What was Miss Rappe doing when you entered room 1219?
A: Which time?
Q: After you had been talking to Mrs. Taube in room 1220.
A: She was lying on the little bed.
Q: She was lying on the little bed?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: And was that before or after Mr. Boyle came—
A: (interrupting) That was before.
Q: Before Mr. Boyle arrived?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: Now, how long after Mrs. Taube had phoned for Mr. Boyle was it before Mr. Boyle appeared in your room?
A: Just a few minutes, I guess.
Q: And how long after you came out of room 1219 was it that you had Mrs. Taube phone for Mr. Boyle?
A: I came out of room 1219 and talked with Mrs. Taube; then went back into room 1219, and then went back and asked Mrs. Taube to telephone.
Q: All right. After you came out of room 1219 the first time, you saw Mrs. Taube then?
A: No, the second time.
Q: Then you went back into room 1219 after you came out the first time. Is that correct?
A: Yes, with Mrs. Delmont.
Q: All right. What did you do after you went back?
A: I came out the first time and saw Mrs. Prevost with Mrs. Delmont.
Q: And then you went back again?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: And that is where you saw her tearing her clothes?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: And that is when you saw Mr. Fischbach there?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: And then what did you do?
A: I went out.
Q: And that is when you saw Mrs. Taube?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: Now, how long after you came out was it that you had Mrs. Taube phone for Mr. Boyle?
A: I do not know. Probably ten or fifteen minutes. I do not know.
Q: Well, you talked with Mrs. Taube there for ten or fifteen minutes?
A: No, I had left Mrs. Taube once and went back to room 1219.
Q: And then you came out of room 1219 again. Is that correct?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: And then after you came out of room 1219 the last time, when you saw Mrs. Taube, how long a time elapsed before you had Mrs. Taube phone for Mr. Boyle?
A: I came right out and asked her to phone Mr. Boyle.
Q: You came right out and immediately asked her to phone for Mr. Boyle?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: And that is the first time that you saw Mrs. Taube?
A: I saw her before and talked to her before.
Q: How long before did you talk to her?
A: Well, probably ten or fifteen minutes.
Q: You didn’t ask Mrs. Taube to phone the first time?
A: Not until I went back in again.
Q: Now, what did you say to Mrs. Taube?
A: I said, “That girl is sick and we ought to get her a room,” and I said, “You know the management here, and phone down and get a room.”
Q: So you were concerned with getting her out of your room?
A: Well, I thought she was sick and needed another room.
Q: What is your answer; is your answer “yes”?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: You didn’t tell Mrs. Taube to phone for a doctor at that time, did you?
A: No, sir; I didn’t tell her at that time.
Q: Did you think she needed one at that time?
A: Well, I got her one later on.
Q: I am talking about the time that you told Mrs. Taube to phone for Mr. Boyle; you didn’t tell her to get a doctor at that time, and you didn’t think she needed one at that time?
A: No.
Q: Well, you say you got a doctor later?
A: After we took her into room 1227, I asked Mr. Boyle to get a doctor.
Q: And up to that time you never suggested getting a doctor?
A: No, sir.
Q: Did you ever tell anyone else, or did anyone else in your presence tell anyone that Miss Rappe was sick and needed a doctor, and to send for a doctor prior to that time that you sent for the doctor when she was in room 1227?
A: No, sir.
Q: Nobody suggested that at any time?
A: No, sir; not that I heard.
Q: I mean that you heard, of course.
A: No, sir. [. . .]
Q: Now, after you had seen Mr. Fischbach in room 1219, and after you had gone out into room 1220, you said you went back into room 1219 again.
A: Yes.
Q: All right. What was Miss Rappe doing when you came back on that occasion?
A: She was on the little bed.
Q: Well, she was not frothing at the mouth then?
A: She might have been.
Q: When you testified this morning that she was frothing at the mouth, did you mean that?
A: She might have been.
Q: Well, was she?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: When you first saw Miss Rappe tearing her clothes upon the bed, and she was frothing at the mouth, as you have testified to, did she say anything, did she make any sound?
A: Not outside of grunting and breathing (imitating slight grunt), just that.
Q: Just grunting and doing like that?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: She wasn’t hollering with any pain that you know of?
A: I couldn’t tell why she was acting like that.
Q: Well, did you hear her holler at any time?
A: No, sir.
Q: Did you hear her scream at any time?
A: No, sir.
Q: Did you at any time hear Miss Rappe say, “You hurt me”?
A: No.
Q: What was the condition of her hair?
A: Her hair was down.
Q: Her hair was down at this time?
A: Yes, sir, it was down when I went into the bathroom.
Q: Her hair was down when you went into the bathroom?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: On which occasion?
A: When I found her there.
Q: Then her hair was down when you found her there in the bathroom?
A: Yes, sir, I had to hold it back away from her when she was vomiting. [. . .]
Q: Now, when she was tearing her clothes off, [. . .]
A: She was just sitting on the bed there, tearing her clothes.
Q: Well, did she move the lower portion of her body at all?
A: I didn’t pay any particular attention to that.
Q: Just saw her tear her waist?
A: Yes, sir, and [. . .]
Q: When was it that you told Mrs. Delmont that she had better dress, or change her dress?
A: After I had Mrs. Taube phone Mr. Boyle.
Q: After you had Mrs. Taube phone Mr. Boyle.
A: Yes, sir.
Q: And where did you find Mrs. Delmont to tell her this?
A: She was in room 1219.
Q: She was in room 1219?
A: Yes.
Q: You are positive that you told that to Mrs. Delmont?
A: Yes.
Q: Now, when you moved Miss Rappe from room 1219 to room 1227, did anyone tell you to carry her?
A: No, I picked her up and carried her.
Q: Nobody told you to do that?
A: Not that I can remember of.
Q: How did you know that there had been another room procured for her?
A: Why, I asked Mrs. Taube to phone to Mr. Boyle to get another room.
Q: Yes, and Mr. Boyle came up?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: And that is when you made the statement to him that you testified to, that she was in the other room, or words to that effect?
A: Yes, “She is in here,” and took him in.
Q: And what occurred in there?
A: I went into the closet and got a bathrobe.
Q: Didn’t Mr. Boyle say something when he entered room 1219?
A: Not that I can remember.
Q: Did Miss Rappe speak to him, or to anyone else?
A: No, sir, she didn’t speak at all.
Q: Nobody spoke to Miss Rappe in your presence, while Mr. Boyle was in the room?
A: No, not that I can remember of.
Q: Do you recall if at any time from the time you found Miss Rappe in the bathroom until you helped to carry her into room 1227 if anybody asked her in your presence what was the matter with her?
A: No, sir, I do not.
Q: Well, can you tell from the various times that you saw Miss Rappe, from the time that you found her in the bathroom of room 1219 until you carried her into room 1227, whether or not Miss Rappe became unconscious at any time?
A: Yes, sir, she was unconscious when I asked Mrs. Taube to phone.
Q: She was unconscious at that time, when you asked Mrs. Taube to phone?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: And when did you first discover that fact?
A: When I went back into the room, when Mrs. Delmont had the ice on her.
Q: Then Miss Rappe was unconscious at the time you found the ice on her body?
A: Apparently, as near as I could tell, she was unconscious.
Q: And making no sound?
A: No, sir.
Q: What did you say then, when you discovered that she was apparently unconscious?
A: That is when I picked up the ice. I didn’t say anything to her.
Q: Did you say anything to anybody about her condition at that time?
A: No.
Q: You never say anything to anybody except that Miss Rappe was sick?
A: Nope.
Q: Not even to the doctor?
A: Nope.
Q: After Mrs. Delmont entered the room and you went back to 1219, how did you find Miss Rappe?
A: Nude. Mrs. Delmont had some ice in a towel. There was ice on the bed and piece of ice on Miss Rappe’s body. I picked the ice up from her body. I asked Mrs. Delmont what the big idea was. She told me to put it back, that she knew how to care for Virginia, and ordered me out of the room. I told her to shut up or I would throw her out of the window.
Q: And then, after you told Mrs. Delmont to shut up or you would throw her out of the window, then you left the room?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: And what is the time you went and told Mrs. Taube to phone for Mr. Boyle; is that correct?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: And that is when you told Mrs. Taube to get Mr. Boyle so he could get another room for Miss Rappe, is it not?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: And you believed that she was unconscious at that time?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: And you didn’t suggest that a doctor be called in at that time?
A: Not at that time, no.
Q: Now, did you see Mr. Fortlouis come back into the rooms at any time after you had opened the door from room 1219 to room 1220?
A: I cannot remember.
Q: You cannot remember whether you saw him again or not?
A: No. [. . .]
Q: And then, when they were placing this ice pack on her head, and you found this ice on her body, that was after clothes had been removed and she was on the smaller of the two beds?
A: I think so.
Q: Well, is it correct? You can answer that yes or no.
A: Yes, that is where I found her.
Q: Well, did anyone named Minnie Edwards come into your rooms on the day in question, the 5th of September?[20]
A: Not that I can remember of.
Q: Do you know anyone named Minnie Edwards?
A: No.
Q: Now, after Mr. Boyle had come in and you had gone to the closet in room 1219, and after you had got this bathrobe or cover, what did you do then?
A: Mrs. Delmont and I put it around Miss Rappe.
Q: Mrs. Delmont and you put this bathrobe around Miss Rappe?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: And then what occurred?
A: I picked her up in my arms.
Q: And then what happened?
A: Mr. Boyle opened the door and we went out into the hall.
Q: And did you notice how Mr. Boyle opened the door?
A: No, sir.
Q: Did you pay any particular attention to his opening of the door?
A: No, sir.
Q: Do you know whether or not the door was open?
A: I know it was open in the morning—when Mr. Fischbach went out.
Q: You never looked at the door any time after Mr. Fischbach left in the morning to see whether or not it had been locked?
A: No, sir.
Q: And after you opened the door from room 1219 to room 1220, you didn’t go over to the door to the corridor to see whether it was unlocked or locked, did you?
A: No, sir, I never paid any attention to it; never gave it a thought.
Q: Now, from the time that you found Miss Rappe in the bathroom of room 1219, until she was removed into 1227, you never told anyone in those rooms on that day that you had found her in the bathroom upon the floor, did you?
A: No.
Q: Did you tell anyone on the 5th day of September in these rooms at the St. Francis hotel, anyone at all, that you had found Miss Rappe lying between the large bed and the small bed in room 1219, apparently writhing in pain?
A: No.
Q: You never told that to anyone?
A: No, sir, I just said she was sick.
Q: Did you tell anyone that on the 5th day of September you had picked Miss Rappe up off the floor and placed her upon the large bed, and that [. . .] ?
A: No.
Q: When was the first time you told anybody that you had found Miss Rappe in the bathroom of room 1219?
A: I told Mr. Dominguez.
Q: You told who?
A: Mr. Dominguez.
Q: Mr. Dominguez?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: And who is Mr. Dominguez?
A: He is an attorney.
Q: And when did you tell him that?
A: I told him when I came up here.
Q: And when was that?
A: After we came up here.
Q: Well, when, what part of the month, what day of the month?
A: What day of the month?
Q: Yes.
A: I couldn’t tell you what day of the month it was; it was after I came up here.
Q: Well, how long after the 5th of September?
A: I told it to him when I was put in jail; I told him the whole story.
Q: You told him in jail?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: And from the time that you found Miss Rappe in the bathroom in room 1219, until you told your story to Mr. Dominguez in jail in this city and county, had you ever told anybody that you had found Miss Rappe in the bathroom of 1219, upon the floor, and that she had been vomiting.
A: No, sir.
Q: And from the time that you told it to Mr. Dominguez in the jail here, when was the next time that you ever told that to anyone?
A: I told it to Mr. McNab.
Q: And with the exception—Mr. McNab is your counsel, is he not?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: And with the exception of your counsel, have you ever told that to anyone?
A: No, sir.
Friedman: That is all.
McNab: That is all.
(Recess of twenty minutes)
Arbuckle is recalled and cross-examination resumed.
Friedman: Mr. Arbuckle, you have stated that you returned to San Francisco after the affair of September 5.
A: Yes, sir.
Q: Who did you come to San Francisco with?
A: Mr. Dominguez, myself and my chauffeur, and Mr. Anger.
Q: And that was before you were first placed in the city prison, as you have testified to?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: And you arrived in San Francisco what hour of the night?
A: I couldn’t say; I guess around 9 o’clock—between 8 and 9 o’clock.
Q: Between 8 and 9 o’clock that night. Now, isn’t it a fact, Mr. Arbuckle, that on the night you arrived in San Francisco, as you have been testifying to, about 10 o’clock that night, in the office of Captain Matheson, captain of detectives of this city and county, that you were asked what had occurred in room 1219 on the 5th day of September of the present year, and you replied that you refused to answer upon the advice of counsel?
A: Yes, sir.
Q: And had you told your counsel what had occurred in room 1219 prior to that time?
McNab: If the court please, that is invading the province of counsel, and it is a privileged communication, and has no right to go into the invasion of the confidence between attorney and client.
The Court: I think that had been answered heretofore, anyway. The objection will be sustained.
Friedman: That is all.
McNab: That is all.

[1] The original transcript uses the German spelling Fischbach—probably due to Arbuckle’s pronunciation—even though the name had been anglicized to Fishback as early as 1918 in reaction to the anti-German sentiments of the First World War.

[2] McNab misspeaks here, since he wanted Arbuckle to deny that he had organized the party, invited guests, supplied the liquor, and so on.

[3] The reference to “another lady” may refer to a “a wealthy and socially prominent Eastern woman” who, according to McNab, fled San Francisco as soon as the Arbuckle case made headlines.

[4] The “Court” is Judge Harold Louderback of the Superior Court of San Francisco County.

[5] The San Francisco Bulletin has “She had been ill.” That the prosecution didn’t have Arbuckle’s assertion—that Rappe had vomited—stricken from the record. Rappe’s vomitus makes for a serious oversight here and elsewhere in the Arbuckle case because no other witness besides Arbuckle suggests such copious amounts were disgorged that left no smell or trace in room 1219. (Nor does it help research that newspaper editors considered the v-word in bad taste, as if it might induce nausea on the part of readers.)

[6] Note that the previous animus between Delmont and Arbuckle doesn’t impede their cooperation here.

[7] But he had. When he found her in 1219’s bathroom, Rappe asked for water, to lie down, and said she had these “spells.” Friedman’s cross-examination didn’t question this inconsistency.

[8] Sidi Wirt Spreckels, the widow of John Spreckels Jr., a San Francisco socialite and Rappe’s friend.

[9] Friedman curiously falls back to using Zey Prevost’s professional name in early September.

[10] This is an instance where Arbuckle intentionally doesn’t answer the question.

[11] The San Francisco Bulletin transcript ends here.

[12] The San Francisco Call transcript ends here.

[13] Where indicated, the cross-examination’s questions and answers are inferred due to differences in newspaper transcripts.

[14] The San Francisco Examiner transcript ends here.

[15] The remainder of the composite transcript is largely based on the Chronicle version. The newspaper used two bold dots for ellipses or omissions, whether intended or unintended. In their place are conventional bracketed ellipses.

[16] This is approximately where the cross-examination resumed after the noon recess.

[17] Likely a transcription error here—recall that Arbuckle said she was “ill” while lying on the small bed, Friedman actually pinpoints an inconsistency but doesn’t give it anymore emphasis.

[18] The transcript is “silent” in regard to Arbuckle’s response. Given the context of where the transcript picks up below, a brief passage of the cross-examination seems to be missing.

[19] According to Betty Campbell, a party guest who arrived after 4:00 p.m. and after Rappe had been taken to room 1227, Arbuckle was still dressed in pajamas and bath robe.

[20] This name is introduced for the first time in the Arbuckle case—possibly a red herring to test the witness.

Sources: The transcript is a composite based on the following newspaper transcripts and reportage. The San Francisco newspapers relied on their own stenographers and the variation is minimal—but only the Chronicle transcript covers the entire examination and cross-examination with some editorial omissions.

San Francisco Bulletin, 28 November 1921, https://www.newspapers.com/image/996142220/

San Francisco Call, 28 November 1921, https://cdnc.ucr.edu/?a=d&d=SFC19211128&e

San Francisco Chronicle, 29 November 1921, https://www.newspapers.com/image/27535908

San Francisco Examiner, 29 November 1921, https://www.newspapers.com/image/458170526/

Los Angeles Evening Herald, 28 November 1921, https://cdnc.ucr.edu/?a=d&d=LAH19211128&e

Los Angeles Times, 29 November 1921, Otis M. Wiles quotes and paraphrases from Arbuckle’s testimony with an ear to his more casual speaking voice (e.g., “Nope” instead of “No”), https://www.newspapers.com/image/156456353/

Chicago Tribune, 29 November 1921, Edward Doherty reports much like Wiles, https://www.newspapers.com/image/354998408/

New York Daily News, 29 November 1921, https://www.newspapers.com/image/410387681/


At home with the Arbuckles, October 1921

Though the following profile of Roscoe Arbuckle’s wife, Minta Durfee, reads like a “puff piece,” it was “propaganda” published just prior to the first of his trials, arranged by his lawyers and written by Alma Reed, a journalist whose career later took her to Mexico where she would champion the works of several artists including José Clemente Orozco.

Durfee’s role in the trial was staged, as historian Joan Myers said so poignantly a decade ago, but some of the thoughts Minta shared in this interview sound genuine, for instance when she mentioned that her husband was incapable of attempted rape because, in her mind, he was impotent. An astute reader might have concluded that Arbuckle had simply become bored with her as his popularity skyrocketed. Less obvious to the reader would have been why Minta stood by her estranged husband. The most significant reason is that the case against Arbuckle posed a mortal threat to the handsome stipend she received from him, so she swallowed any embarrassment and went to work shoring up his image as a good-natured (and harmless) husband. She was also enjoying the attention—pleased to be back in the limelight after years of being  forgotten by the movie-going public.


Arbuckle Happy with His Wife; Awaits Trial

By Alma Reed

“I guess I’m the right girl for him, after all!”

There was a note of good-natured significance in her voice, and an expression of kindly, maternal understanding in her brown eyes, when Minta Durfee Arbuckle ventured this statement yesterday afternoon as she sat in evident domestic felicity beside her husband in their apartments at the Plaza Hotel.

And something of the old smile that won Roscoe Arbuckle world-wide fame in the silent drama flickered across his face as he held her hand and said tersely: “I’ve found that out, all right!”

This mutual admission of the success of their reconciliation after a month’s trial cannot fail to impress the most disinterested observer as the truth. For, in spite of the sinister possibilities that loom before him, in spite of the hideous accusation that attaches to his name, the corpulent screen star is frankly happy in the devotion of his pretty, talented wife.

Sincerity of Purpose

And Mrs. Arbuckle, with all the tact that a clever woman has at her command in an emergency which endangers the vital interests of her life, is resuming her duties, after five years of separation, with a sincerity of purpose and a genuine pride in her ability to meet the difficult situation.

Throughout the public frenzy surrounding her husband’s preliminary hearing there were many who, a bit reluctantly, perhaps, admired the splendid poise of Minta Durfee Arbuckle. Her dignified demeanor was a matter of popular comment at every session of the court. The same dignity, common sense and real charm of personality are standing her in good stead  now, as with rare generalship she directs the uncertain affairs of the Arbuckle household.

It was between almost continuous demands made upon her time by phone messages and the greeting of visitors that Mrs. Arbuckle explained the past and expressed her hope for the future.

Arbuckle, seated in a small group of old friends, reminisced over various steps of his career. But he followed her every word, and throwing off the “incommunicado” mask imposed upon him by his attorneys since his arrest, made free and frequent comments, as she said:

I came here because I know Roscoe. Before our separation I was with him constantly for nine years. We worked in the same shows. We never had a meal apart. We were together practically every minute of that time. I know that he is incapable of doing the terrible thing that they have charged him with. I know that a great injustice is being done him, and that he is being placed in a false light before the public.

Grew Up Together

When we were married, I was only 17 and he was scarcely 21. We practically grew up together. Our one difference was just as much my fault as it was his. I had a point of view that insisted upon quiet manners and certain amount of conventionality. I had been raised that way, and the thing annoyed me was that Roscoe always acted like a big boy. When we were in the company of friends Roscoe preferred to go off and sing tenor in a quartet with the boys instead of politely remaining with the ladies. Perhaps he would take a notion to beat the drums, or do something else as foolish, for all the world like an overgrown baby. He was very bashful and I liked the social observances of life. Sometimes when we were in a restaurant he would say, “I’ll put your coat on outside. If I do it here the waiters will think I’m in love with you!” Now, of course, all that seems very silly now, and small reason why tow people who really were in love should separate. But I was much younger then and allowed the trifles of life to assume to much importance.

But Arbuckle refused to let his wife take the blame for their marital difficulties. Rushing gallantly to her defense, he declared:

It was my fault. I should have had more sense and should have realized my position. I never seemed to grow up, and I believed that I could always go on acting natural even after I became a public character. A man must finish with the “kid stuff” sometime, and I was wrong in wanting to sing in public and beat the drums, and do every sort of crazy thing that humiliated my wife. I suppose I never took myself seriously enough, and I didn’t seem changed inside, somehow, from the days when I was just a big, fat “cut-up” youngster in vaudeville.

Good Wife Best

Now I realize that the best thing is the world a man can have is a good wife—one who is proper and dignified and wants you to succeed and have the world think the best of you. A man may see the funny side when other women act boisterously or dress freakishly. But it’s a different story when his own wife does it. And the thing that a man should be most grateful for is having a wife whom he can respect and whom the world must respect.

That Mrs. Arbuckle is preeminently such a wife is the consensus of opinion among all those who have met her. Her husband’s opinion of her is borne out of her expression of her aims and interests. Of her personal tastes and ideals, she said:

I have always had one ambition, that is to improve my mind. My father always impressed my sister and myself with the truth that education is the best substitute for youth. “When you being to lose your looks,” he would say to us, “you can still be very charming women if you have used your time and your talents properly.” I have two hobbies—reading, and outdoor exercise. I love good books as I love few things in life. I study continuously, and the more I study the greater my desire to learn. My reading is of a great help to us now, when we stay indoors, as we do day after day, waiting for the trial. Roscoe is always begging me to tell him some of the stories I have read, and it gives me great pleasure to be able to interest him with all sorts of strange tales. The time I spent in our home in Los Angeles was wonderful, in spite of all the trouble. I love the garden. It is one of the most beautiful I have ever seen, all carried out in Japanese style. It is like a dream come true, for nine years ago, when Roscoe and I went to the Orient with the Ferris Hartman Company, we visited the tea houses and lovely gardens of Tokio. We promised ourselves then that when we could afford it we would have a Japanese garden all of our very own.

But, while that’s all very beautiful, the best thing is, of course, that we are together again, even if it required some terrible trouble to bring about. Perhaps we’ll have to start life all over again in a little stucco bungalow. I’ll be perfectly contented there, but I mean to have a little red lacquered bridge and an old stone lantern and a tiny lily pond somewhere in the back yard.

During the preliminary hearing, I once heard a man who was a baseball fan say about Mrs. Arbuckle:

You can’t help admiring that little woman for the plucky way she is keeping her foot on base!

And regardless of the issue of the legal proceedings which will determine the future status of Roscoe Arbuckle, it must be generally conceded that his wife is very firmly keeping her foot on base, with credit to herself and helpfulness to the man whose name she bears.

The_Bulletin_Tue__Oct_25__1921_Arbuckle prepares to spin a jazz record while Minta reads him a story?

San Francisco Bulletin, October 25, 1921

What was Virginia Rappe’s real name?

There are a plethora of revelations that will be uncovered in the work-in-progress, but this one we felt should be shared before we see her name rendered incorrectly again.

We begin with Andy Edmonds’ Frame Up! The Untold Story of Roscoe Arbuckle (1991). Edmonds cites an interview given by one Caroline Rapp, identified as Rappe’s grandmother, in the Chicago Examiner. But upon investigation, no such interview turns up. More likely, Edmonds is referring to an interview given by Chicago midwife, abortionist, and paid witness for Roscoe Arbuckle during his manslaughter trials, namely Josephine Rafferty Roth.

Mrs. Rafferty Roth began peddling the story of Rappe’s origins—almost all of it a fable—just days after her death on September 9, 1921. Edmonds probably digested the interview during her research and later misremembered the source in her finished book —spinning one fable into another.

Virginia (the elder) and Zelliene V. Rappe as listed in the 1910 U.S. Census (Ancestry.com)

The first name of her Rappe’s grandmother —and her surrogate grandmother too— was Virginia. So, in keeping with naming conventions, Virginia was the middle name given to the younger Rappe, in honor of the grandmother and for being the first granddaughter. But what was the full name?

Greg Merritt, in Room 1219 (2013), set the precedent with his revelation that “Virginia Caroline Rapp” was on her birth certificate. However no birth certificate or other document with that name from the 1890s has surfaced. That said, various writers have picked this name up and used it. It is also found in Rappe’s Wikipedia entry.

Rappe’s real name, as it turns out, was more exotic, and worthy of being a stage name in its own right. Her mother, Mabel Rapp, had her daughter christened as Zelliene Virginia, possibly adapted from and pronounced like Celine. The name is documented, too, in Rappe’s entry in the 1910 census and further corroborated with the variant “Zealine” by Rappé in September 1921. (Mabel also touched up her name as well, going by Mabel Rappé for her billing as a Broadway chorus girl.)

Variety, and a handful of newspapers that published the same story, relied on an unnamed informant who knew that Rappe lived with her grandmother and mother on W. 50th Street in Hell’s Kitchen, just off 8th Avenue, between 1900 and 1905. This person also knew that Rappe was nicknamed “Gasoline Zealine” by the neighborhood children—for Mabel Rapp had access to an automobile and her daughter—whom she called her kid sister—had the rare privilege of getting to ride in these new machines during the first years of the new century.

The unusual (and probably often misspelled) name, however, likely didn’t sit well with Rappe. She discarded it, first in favor of the stage names, Zola and Zaza, which she used during her brief sojourn into the theater and vaudeville, and later in favor of the name we know her by today which she adopted when she became a fashion model in 1912.

A serendipitous step backward: A note on new sources

Newspapers.com has added several more newspapers, including two San Francisco papers, the San Francisco Bulletin, and the San Francisco Journal, which, until now, required a visit to the Library of Congress. The Bulletin provides another point of view on the case of Virginia Rappe and Roscoe Arbuckle—as well as staff artist sketches and photographs not seen in other newspapers, including one of Arbuckle poring himself a stiff drink and chomping on a cigar.

The Bulletin’s publisher, R. A. Crothers wrote what has to be the most scathing editorial that saw Arbuckle as a murderer. His piece has the tone of what so many authors have associated with the papers of Arbuckle’s bête noire, William Randolph Hearst. But Hearst had nothing on the Bulletin when it came to putting the comedian in a harsh light. It also found other editorialists—those realists among the press agents and other motion picture professionals—who rightly predicted that Arbuckle’s career was effectively over within a few days of his arrest.

So, we have to take a step back from editing our work-in-progress to pore over this and other newspaper sources that heretofore haven’t appeared in the bibliographies of previous Arbuckle case narratives.

The Bulletin probably had the most “sympathy” for Rappe as the above illustration suggests. This evening paper considered her to be a rising young comedienne who wanted to further exploit her role as a “society girl.” (Newspapers.com)
Arbuckle sketched by Bulletin artist J. Rhodes. Note the cot in the background. (Newspapers.com)
Maude Delmont testifying before at the San Francisco Coroner’s inquest by Dolores Waldorf. (Newspapers.com)

The photo insert . . .

. . .  is no less a work-in-progress for Spite Work. Photographs of the various personages in the case of Virginia Rappe and Roscoe Arbuckle are not easily had and require vigilance to locate, especially now as we prepare a manuscript for potential publishers. That said, we still hope to find the impossible, such as any of the illustration art for which Rappe modeled. An even rarer image we have yet to obtain is that of Rappe’s mother, Mabel Rapp. We know that she posed for the Chicago photographer Matthew “Commodore” Steffens during the 1890s, around the time of the Columbian Exposition of 1893. He used cabinet cards with her photo, which he displayed in his studio window, as samples of his talent—and her beauty. A few possibilities have come to light, including images from the same period taken at other studios. But the detective work has to be conclusive. We only share these because Mabel (and her daughter) could have some resemblance or fit the context.
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Mabel Rapp? We only know that she did similar poses for the same studio.

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An unidentified “mother and child” in a cabinet card looking at other cabinet cards.

Also rare are photos of the minor and peripheral figures in the Arbuckle case. Minnie Neighbors, a witness for the defense, is an example. Mrs. Neighbors testified that she cared for Rappe after finding her doubled up in pain on a bathroom floor at Wheeler Hot Springs just weeks before the events of Labor Day 1921. Eventually, Neighbors was charged with perjury. We provide a fairly detailed account of her sideshow in our book. minnie-neighborsMinnie Neighbors. This news photo wasn’t used. Here she is too young and her matronly appearance, intended for a jury, just isn’t “there.” Now in Authors Collection. Although the San Francisco District Attorney wanted Arbuckle charged with murder for the death of Virginia Rappe, he had to be satisfied with manslaughter. The judge who decided on the lesser charge was San Francisco Police Judge Sylvain Lazarus. The photograph below is from the mid-1920s, when Judge Lazarus was seen as a real “character” for lightening the mood in his courtroom. He certainly did so in the preliminary investigation into Rappe’s death, which took place in late September 1921. The transcripts of this proceeding are the only ones to survive. In January 1922, during the second Arbuckle trial, Lazarus had a phonograph installed in his court room. Perhaps some of the spectators could hear from afar “Hail! Hail! The Gang’s All Here” and other recordings that complemented the judge’s docket. lazarus Sylvain Lazarus, a judge and master-of-ceremonies in one person. Our most recent acquisition is the image below, Gavin McNab, Arbuckle’s lead counsel during the three trials. It betrays his height, dignity, and rather menacing presence that he used to his advantage when facing the comedian’s prosecutors, who were both a head shorter if not more.

mcnab

The glowering Gavin McNab, who pulled Fatty out of the fire.

If any of our readers have photographs to share, we will be both receptive and grateful.

Virginia and a “victor”: Adela Rogers St. John

“History is written by the victors” and so is writing about Hollywood in the Silent Era. But we should probably paraphrase here, just a little, and say that “History is written by the defenders.” And if one scores by the number of defenders, then Virginia Rappe lost the contest with Roscoe Arbuckle, regardless whether she put up a fight in room 1219.

One of the earliest defenders was the Hollywood writer and memoirist Adela Rogers St. John. as mentioned in an earlier post, she interviewed Arbuckle for “Love Confessions of a Fat Man,” which was published in Photoplay during the early weeks of the Arbuckle scandal in the September 1921 issue.

Arbuckle, by hosting a party that flaunted its defiance of Prohibition laws and moral standards—it was essentially a party of married men cavorting with single showgirls—had ruined the innocence of St. John’s tongue-in-cheek portrayal of Arbuckle as a lady’s man, a virtual eligible bachelor. Her resentment eventually fell not on him but on Virginia Rappe. And St. John lived long enough to write it up in her autobiography Love, Laughter and Tears: My Hollywood Story (1978).

St. John, whose career got its start working for William Randolph Hearst—the bête noire of so many Arbuckle narratives—devotes several pages (60ff) to the Arbuckle scandal.

Perhaps St. John is less a defender and more the apologist, especially in regard to Arbuckle’s being in San Francisco in the first place.

St. John recalls a conversation with her father, Earl Rogers. Although she described him as “still the Coast’s leading criminal lawyer,” he had been in poor health since the death of his second wife in January 1919 and was more often hors de combat and no longer the feared trial lawyer who served Earle Stanley Gardner as the model for Perry Mason.

According to St. John, her father discussed why he had to refuse a request made by Arbuckle’s producer, Joseph Schenck, to represent the comedian. Although Rogers assumed Arbuckle wouldn’t be convicted, he would nevertheless be seen as a monster given his weight. His career would be ruined. “Tell Joe,” Rogers said to his daughter, “I can’t take the case; the doctors won’t let me, but to prepare Hollywood for tornadoes.”

The news would have been a disappointment, for Rogers was considered preeminent as a criminal attorney in cases that involved medical expert evidence. In his prime, he would have been perfect for the Arbuckle case given that his alleged victim had died from ruptured urinary bladder. But by early 1920, his health, mental, and legal problems had come to a head. He had assaulted a deputy sheriff sent to arrest him for making threats against members of his own family, which was attributed to “excessive use of stimulants and drugs.”

The “statement” St. John quoted in her memoir may have been paraphrased to make Arbuckle look innocent from the beginning. But her version isn’t what Arbuckle said in the Los Angeles Times the day after Rappe’s death. But let’s get back to why Earl Rogers wasn’t to be Arbuckle’s Perry Mason.

Frank Dominguez, Arbuckle’s original defense attorney, had resigned from the defense team in early October 1921, leaving Milton Cohen and the San Francisco attorney Charles Brennan shorthanded for November’s manslaughter trial. Several names appeared in the press, but not Earl Rogers. While it is true that his doctors allowed him to return to work in November and form a new practice, he restricted himself to Los Angeles and his health only deteriorated. He died in February 1922. However, one of Arbuckle’s prosecutors, Milton U’Ren, made it a point to ask prospective jurors if they knew Milton Cohen’s law partners—Frank Dominguez and Earl Rogers. If the answer was yes, presumably that talesman could be excused. Did U’Ren suspect that Rogers was giving his fellow lawyers advice? That might be a more reasonable explanation for what his daughter reimagined.

She also opined that Arbuckle, Fred Fishback, and Lowell Sherman went to San Francisco because it had “the best restaurants on the North American Continent” and

for a few days of fun probably partly on the Barbary Coast, a well-known section where night clubs and honky-tonks and cafes clustered together and produced the first-floor shows, the first new dances such as the Bunny Hug and the Turkey Trot, and much of the best music of our times. During this vacation an extra girl named Virginia Rappe got some alcohol in her system, stripped off her clothes, and plunged Fatty and Hollywood into a major scandal.

The resentment here is hard to miss. To St. John, a Hollywood insider, Virginia Rappe was a nonentity who had spoiled the much greater party that was the motion picture industry before the arrival of Will H. Hays.

“At that time,” she continues, “Miss Rappe had been living only a few blocks from me in Hollywood.” By “a few blocks” St. John means one of two places where Rappe lived—in 1920, not 1921. It is the distance to Henry Lehrman’s house, where Rappe lived for the greater part of 1920, at 6717 Franklin Ave., or 1946 Ivar Ave., which was fewer blocks away, where Rappe roomed briefly for the first two or three months of 1921. This can be documented. If we go by the 1920 federal census, St. John and her family lived miles away on Toberman St. and far from Hollywood. However, the 1921 city directory, which was compiled in the latter half of 1920, has Rappe living at the Ivar Ave. address and Adela and her husband, W. Ivan St. John, just as close as she states—to 5873 Franklin Ave.[1]

Memory can be tricky writing decades later, and if it’s a gossipy story that has been told repeatedly there’s a good chance the version that prominently places the narrator in the story will come to be accepted as true. So, we should be accepting that the St. John’s account isn’t airtight though it’s likely too odd of a coincidence to have been completely invented.

The day after Fatty had been indicted on the testimony of several girls [i.e., Zey Prevost and Alice Blake] and Virginia Rappe’s own deathbed statements, the man who did my cleaning came and told me: “I did Virginia Rappe’s cleaning. I see where one side says she was a sweet young girl and Mr. Arbuckle dragged her into the bedroom, the other witnesses say she began screaming and tearing off her clothes. Once I went in her house to hang up some cleaning, and the first thing I knew she’d torn off her dress and was running outdoors, yelling, “Save me, a man attacked me.” There I was standing in the kitchen with my hands still full of hangers with her clothes on them and she was running out hollering I’d tried to attack her. The neighbors told me whenever she got a few drinks she did that. I hated to lose a good customer, but I thought it was too dangerous so I never went back.”

I asked those neighbors and they confirmed the story. But you couldn’t put that kind of evidence into court! The girl was dead. To blacken her character would only increase public indignation against Fatty, for trying to save himself at her expense. (63–64)

St. John, ever the lawyer’s daughter, seems to suggest such evidence would have been dismissed as hearsay. But Gavin McNab, Arbuckle lead counsel through three trials, put as many witnesses on the stand as he could find to testify to Rappe’s frequent hysterics and disrobing. An example was Irene Morgan, who had served as a nurse, masseuse, and maid in the Lehrman household for several months in 1921. She was both deposed and examined on the stand by Milton Cohen at the first Arbuckle trial.

Cohen had the advantage of knowing Lehrman and Rappe—he was their personal lawyer as well as Arbuckle’s. He knew Rappe was suffering from what was described as a “nervous condition,” which, in part, had less to do with alcoholic beverages than with her self-image: she was overweight in early 1919 and losing weight was necessary to be considered for future movie roles.

Paradise Garden - Rappe and 1917 swimwear

She was no extra: Virginia Rappe looking like herself in 1917 swimwear. The still is from her first film, Paradise Garden (1917) (IMDb)

According to the trial reportage, Morgan described her service as it concerned Rappe, which included massages and treatments described as hydrotherapy. Morgan also knew that Rappe had been advised by a doctor to adhere to a bland diet and not drink alcoholic beverages. Morgan, however, testified that Rappe disregarded the advice. When she drank, “Miss Rappe often “tore her clothing in frenzy.” During one of these incidents, she said she ran nude from Lehrman’s house into Highland Ave. (See also our blog post about Morgan about her problematic testimony.)

Cohen did the spade work of finding and interviewing witnesses to similar episodes in Los Angeles. But there is no evidence that he met with the man who cleaned the clothes of Virginia Rappe and, coincidentally, Adela Rogers St. John. So, we have to ask, was he a real person or a strawman made up—or to be generous again, a composite—created to give St. John a role in the story. If he was real, one has to wonder how Cohen overlooked him. Perhaps the laundry man had sympathy for Rappe despite the aborted cleaning contract and chose to give no aid to the Arbuckle camp.

The story St. John tells here, of course, is one of many that turned Rappe from being “the best dressed girl in Hollywood” to the most self-undressed during the three Arbuckle trials and in much of what has been written about her ever since. Despite the bias, however, such an account reinforces just how much Rappe was resented in death and that, again, is the takeaway.

St. John mentions in passing Rappe’s former landlord, studio boss, dance partner, and boyfriend. She disparagingly refers to him as “a man named ‘Pathé’ Lehrman, claiming to be the dead girl’s sweetheart”—while knowing he wasn’t called that in the newspapers during the Arbuckle case. He was always Henry Lehrman and St. John well knew he was a key figure of early Hollywood history. Lehrman directed and mentored both Arbuckle and Charlie Chaplin in their first comedies for Keystone Studios. But we mustn’t lose sight that St. John is a victor in the sense that she outlived everyone who could challenge her stories. She got to write that history and cast Lehrman as she pleased. But it is from Lehrman that we find something that suggests that St. John’s memory of “the man who did her cleaning” touched on a recurring theme, that Rappe feared being sexually assaulted.

In an interview with Louis Fehr of the New York American, Lehrman said, “I remember once when there was a terrible assault case in the newspapers. She said to me quietly: ‘Henry, if anyone tried to do a thing like that to me, he’d have to kill me.’ Well, she’s dead.”

So, perhaps St. John’s story has a grain of truth to it, that Rappe’s hysteria may have been histrionics—theater of a kind—intended as self-defense, to startle or frighten a potential rapist. We still have a possible hypothesis in our work-in-progress.

Women are still advised to disrupt the idea or fantasy of their attacker, that they should “fight like a furious cat” and “yell loudly and strongly.” Perhaps Rappe removed one facet of the male fantasy: the forcible disrobing, the tearing off the victim’s clothes, and so on. Perhaps, too, a good lawyer like Milton Cohen knew how to frame such episodes into what was needed to get Arbuckle acquitted. Maybe we can only leave that to the reader.

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Adela Rogers St. John, 1966 (Library of Congress)


[1] In 1921, W. Ivan St. John served as personal secretary to the new mayor, George E. Cryer. He had been elected to on a platform to close the city’s vice dens and supported efforts to establish a censorship board. He also wholly supported the ban on Arbuckle’s films—which surely put Mr. St. John in an awkward position vis-à-vis Mrs. St. John.

September 9, 1921: Virginia Rappe’s last terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day

One hundred and two years ago Virginia Rappe died in a private hospital in San Francisco. The following passages are from our work-in-progress to mark this occasion.


The decision to send Rappe to the Wakefield Sanitarium at 1065 Sutter Street, six blocks from the St. Francis Hotel, has long been seen as suspect in earlier narratives. David Yallop, in breathless italics, called Wakefield a “maternity hospital” to support his assertion that Rappe had come to San Francisco for an abortion and her chance meeting with Arbuckle at his Labor Day party was only an opportunity to beg money from him to pay for it. Greg Merritt has a less sensational take. In his book, the hospital’s owner and founder, Dr. W. Francis Wakefield, was a specialist in obstetrics, gynecology, and high-risk births, whose hospital was inappropriate for a case like Rappe. Most other writers either echo these assumptions or embellish them, describing the Wakefield Sanitarium as a glorified abortion clinic for wealthy society women and not even a legitimate hospital.[1]

But there is no evidence for the Wakefield being anything other than a forty-bed private general hospital as it was listed in The American Hospital Digest and Directory throughout its history. Newspaper articles, scholarly journal entries, and obituaries from the 1900s onward reveal much the same as does Dr. Wakefield’s career as a surgeon and his proprietorship of the Wakefield Sanitarium in San Francisco. Furthermore, the hospital served both male and female patients and wealth and status weren’t criteria for admission or treatment.

The Wakefield Sanitarium was originally located at 767 Sutter Street. In 1912, the hospital moved into a new building at the southeast corner of Hyde and Post streets. In 1917, Dr. Wakefield took over the Anderson Sanitarium at 1065 Sutter and relocated his hospital there. Although women certainly had caesarian operations there, such operations at the time required a longer convalescence due to the danger of infection. This was the same for any patient getting surgery prior to antibiotics and—with the advent of automobiles and the increasing number of traffic accidents, the Wakefield became the hospital for trauma patients, able to provide heroic measures in the operating room, such as emergency amputations, when necessary. The Wakefield, being a private hospital, also served a clientele who could afford a level of attention and comfort that was greater than would have been available at the larger city hospitals. Dr. Wakefield understood the value of such institutions at the time, for his patients were often among his social set.

Dr. Wakefield, a Canadian immigrant in his early fifties, had risen to prominence in San Francisco society during the 1910s and ’20s. Though he was known among the public for hosting social events with his wife, a more select group of people knew he also performed abortions. Though they were illegal, in virtually every American city, some of the most upstanding doctors provided abortions but only under the most discreet terms and calling the surgeries something else for the hospital chart. In other words, an unknown woman from Los Angeles couldn’t just check in and get a safe abortion in a San Francisco hospital and go home. Rappe’s willingness to attend Arbuckle’s party should dismiss any thought of her keeping an appointment with an abortionist.

Dr. Rumwell, the house doctor at the St. Francis Hotel, was a friend of Dr. Wakefield and had performed operations in his hospitals. Rumwell’s criteria for sending Rappe to the Wakefield Sanitarium would seem in hindsight to be in his patient’s best interests, in terms of discretion. She—and Delmont—didn’t want any publicity that might embarrass or anger Arbuckle (or Lehrman) and then refuse to foot the bill. Beat reporters frequented the public hospitals looking for the victims of accidents and crimes and they had informants in the emergency wards and staff. A private hospital, on the other hand, could protect a patient’s privacy. Out of respect for Maude Delmont’s requests, Rumwell had gone against his own judgment and allowed Rappe to lie in agony in a hotel bed for days—until her condition was so obviously life-threatening that rushing her to a hospital was the only option.

Rumwell initial diagnosis of acute alcoholism had been proven grossly inaccurate as the symptoms of a massive internal infection became obvious. His misdiagnosis and the time he spent adhering to it, foretold a grim outcome.

If there was hope, the Wakefield had two operating theaters. If anything went amiss, Rumwell himself could better keep it under wraps at the Wakefield, if for no other reason than to protect his reputation.

While the Wakefield’s patient, Rappe wasn’t given a celiotomy or any other invasive procedure that might have revealed her condition. Instead, she was given morphine, provided with a private room, and left under the care of Maude Delmont and two hired nurses.

At 7:00 p.m., Thursday evening, September 8, Nurse Cumberland relieved Nurse Jameson for what was scheduled to be a twelve-hour shift. But not long into it, Cumberland, either by telephone or in person, confronted Dr. Rumwell. She told him Rappe’s case had “been handled negligently.”

“When I realized the circumstances of the case,” she said to the press, “I had visions of juries, judges, investigators, and policemen. It was disgusting. Finally, I determined that the fair name of Cumberland should not be dragged into the filth of actors’ misdoings, so I requested my release.”

Cumberland had a high opinion of her social importance. She had made a habit of mentioning that she was a descendant of Queen Victoria. This assertion quickly disappeared from the reportage though, perhaps because reporters had consulted Debrett’s Peerage and discovered no links to either Queen Victoria or her German cousin, the Duke of Brunswick, who also held the title of Duke of Cumberland.

In any case, what Cumberland said to Dr. Rumwell about legal implications was taken to heart. Not long after she resigned, he called in two of his colleagues at Stanford to hear him out about patient Rappe and help him decide if surgery was still an option.

Dr. Emmet Rixford had been one of Rumwell’s professors at the Cooper Medical College. The fifty-six-year-old was a specialist in the surgery of the abdomen and a polymath with expertise in horticulture, wine-making, sailing, mountain-climbing, and snails.

“Surgery,” according to Rixford in a speech in support of animal experimentation, “is not perfect and no one knows its deficiencies so well as the surgeon.” The Great War had made this all the more evident with injuries resulting in gas gangrene, necrosis, sepsis, toxemia, shock, and death. Thus, he believed, “in some sense surgery may be said to be only in its infancy.” Although anti-streptococcus and anti-staphylococcus serums were available, they were experimental and did little good. Indeed, the antibiotics that could have helped Rappe were years away.

Rixford either heard or saw for himself that her abdomen was distended, which indicated that peritonitis had set in. Although that wasn’t conclusive proof of an abscess forming around her liver, it was an added complication to any invasive surgery for which the risk of failure was considerable.

Rumwell also consulted with another colleague, Dr. W. P. Read, an associate professor of surgery at Cooper. He agreed with Rixford. Rappe was likely too far gone. That said, cases of heroic surgery had been performed in the past with the presence of peritonitis. Dr. Rixford knew of a child’s burst appendix having been successfully repaired. And he and he and his colleagues should have known that the management of acute peritonitis was an established routine, one for which Dr. Wakefield’s hospital was fully equipped, with a modern operating theater, a steam autoclave, nickel-plated instruments, and clean white and green enamelware fixtures.

The surgeon and attendants would follow the Crile forceps method—with nitrous oxide anesthesia for the duration of the surgery, local anesthesia at the point of incision, a clean-cut wound for access, adequate drainage, hot flannel packs placed over the entire abdomen and along the bedline, Fowler’s position throughout, and a Murphy’s drip in the rectum to supply the body with fluids (water, sodium bicarbonate, and glucose).

The Murphy’s drip is de rigueur for treating peritonitis even before surgery. And it was used on Rappe during her final twelve hours as though surgery had been contemplated. Tragically, however, Dr. Rumwell would need to start the drip immediately once he diagnosed peritonitis and that came too late. The time it took him to disabuse himself of his original diagnosis of alcoholism would prove dire and significantly decrease Rappe’s chances of survival.

The morphine injections given to Rappe in the hospital should have slowed down the peristaltic motion of her intestines and may have limited the spread of the disease. But large doses of morphine had a deleterious effect on the patient’s respiration and ability to respond—and this also ruled out anything like the high-risk last-resort surgery that might save a life. Over the course of Thursday and into early Friday morning, Dr. Rumwell had more reasons to talk himself out of doing so.

At such a late hour, and with no one to assist in such a futile operation, the patient, “Miss Rappe” was a lost cause.

Maude Delmont faced the prospect of no money for Rappe’s hospital bill. Neither Al Semnacher nor Roscoe Arbuckle had yet to make any arrangements for paying for the doctors and nurses and Delmont’s extended stay in San Francisco. They may not have been aware of this expectation. But it wasn’t hard to intuit that Delmont was in dire straits and had been left holding the bag.

Eventually, she turned to the one person of means who might help. She telephoned Sidi Spreckels on the morning of September 9 and told her of Rappe’s suffering and how Arbuckle was the cause.

Although she acknowledged getting Rappe’s telephone call from Arbuckle’s suite, Spreckels knew getting herself involved with motion picture people risked adding to her own unwelcome notoriety. She could ill afford that. After all, she had to look upright for herself and her daughter if she expected to get anything from her late husband’s estate. (She was vying with the first Mrs. Jack Spreckels, whose current married name was, curiously, Mrs. Wakefield.)

Initially, Spreckels told reporters she only knew Virginia Rappe “casually” and through Henry Lehrman, whom she and her late husband knew better. Even so, Spreckels agreed to act as intermediary and inform Lehrman of the situation. He was the closest person to any next of kin beside the impecunious Hardebecks. She took down the message Delmont wanted convey, especially in regard to money, and wired Lehrman.

How Spreckels knew where to send her telegraph deserves an answer. It would measure at least some of the real distance between Rappe and Lehrman in September 1921. Was he still a part of her life? Was her presence in San Francisco not a surprise, her being with Arbuckle as some in the film colony believed? In any event, Delmont knew where to find Lehrman from her own source or Rappe herself.

While waiting for Lehrman to reply, Spreckels felt a “sympathetic impulse” to do more, to see Rappe, “to be bedside of a dying acquaintance [. . .] to aid a girl dying alone in a big city with but one friend beside her, devoted as she might be”—meaning Delmont rather than herself.

Spreckels arrived at the hospital around 9:30 a.m. and discussed Rappe’s condition with Delmont and Jean Jameson. Then she turned her attention to the patient and readily saw the extent of Rappe’s decline. She looked doomed to her. Rappe’s eyes were livid, as though staring into space. She seemed not to recognize her friend.

She never knew I was there, but I stayed. It was terrible—that poor girl lying there without a friend except myself. She must have read that I was in San Francisco and her poor mind flew out to the only friend she knew.

I never intended to say a word about my visit to Miss Rappe, feeling everything would be misunderstood by the unthinking and distorted by my enemies. Why is it that a woman must have enemies? Miss Rappe, as I have always said, was a good girl—a girl that always appealed to everyone as a good clean liver.

I used to say to her that she could not have the wonderful complexion she had and dissipate, and it was so. Miss Rappe never told me a thing—she could not talk. She was too far gone for that. My only regret was that she did not know me.

Rappe, however, wasn’t as mute as Spreckels let on. In the same interview, she remembered her friend expressing a certain regret over what had happened.

“Oh, to think that I had led such a quiet life,” Rappe moaned, “and to think that I should get into such a party.”

After seeing Rappe still alive, but with no attending physician present, Sidi Spreckels stayed briefly. Then she departed to call her own physician, Dr. H. Edward Castle, a surgeon, and arranged to have him meet her back at the Wakefield. She also received a wire from Henry Lehrman addressed to “Virginia” and filled with assurances of his undying devotion. Lastly, Spreckels called her minister at the First Congregationalist Church, the Rev. James L. Gordon. She asked him to hurry and pray over her.

Hurrying back to the Wakefield Clinic, Spreckels found Rappe unconscious. But this didn’t prevent her from whispering Lehrman’s endearments into her friend’s ear.

A short time later, Rappe passed away a little after 1 o’clock in the afternoon. Dr. Castle arrived a minute after she had stopped breathing. Rev. Gordon also arrived too late. Presumably, he took the opportunity to pray anyway—for Rappe’s soul.

When Dr. Rumwell found his patient dead in her room, he was confronted by Delmont and Spreckels. They demanded that an autopsy be performed on Rappe’s body to rule out foul play. At first, Rumwell resisted and attributed Rappe’s death to natural causes. He admitted Rappe’s body bore obvious bruises. But these could have been from being handled at the hotel, lifted on and off the gurney, and other easily explained reasons. An autopsy, as he knew, could invite a criminal investigation. But given that Delmont, Spreckels, and the attending nurses were saying Rappe implicated Arbuckle, not performing an autopsy would be equally hazardous.

With such leverage in his face, Rumwell relented. He telephoned the San Francisco County Coroner, Dr. Thomas B. W. Leland, who would need to approve the autopsy. Leland would also ask questions about the patient and be obligated to initiate a criminal investigation if the evidence suggested foul play. Rumwell and Leland were friendly, having volunteered together in an effort to treat the city’s drug addicts and create a special hospital for them.

But the Coroner’s office informed Rumwell that Leland was on Naval Reserve duty in Santa Cruz. Without a coroner or chief medical examiner, a legal autopsy couldn’t be performed, but Delmont and Spreckels pressured Rumwell to find an alternative. Spreckels social standing may have played a role in making this happen though it’s also possible Delmont’s relationship with Rumwell made the difference.

Rumwell decided he couldn’t accurately fill out Rappe’s death certificate without knowing how she really died yet he undoubtedly understood the risk to his career if he ignored the legal protocol. So, he telephoned another colleague at Stanford, a man with a certain eminence. enough to impress Coroner Leland, namely the Dean of the Medical College and Professor of Pathology, Dr. William Ophuls.

Dr. Ophuls, a naturalized American citizen had been born and educated in Germany. His many degrees and honors, along with his quiet German accent underscored his authority and expertise. Ophuls agreed to conduct the autopsy. As for Rumwell, he didn’t have to assist or even watch. He only needed to accept the official responsibility.

After Dr. Ophuls arrived, two Wakefield duty nurses, Grace Halston and Margaret Forte, lifted Rappe’s body from a gurney to a cast-iron enamel table in one of the operating theaters. Halston, although still a nursing student, had gained experience assisting her physician uncle at a hospital in El Paso. She remained behind to help Dr. Ophuls manipulate Rappe’s limbs and torso. There followed a standard autopsy, with a long incision beginning just under the sternum.

A copious amount of fluid gushed from Rappe’s abdomen. When the flaps of her abdomen were moved aside, a sac of pus was found that released a noticeably foul odor. The items of greatest interest, the stomach and bladder, were examined in situ and, to facilitate this, the uterus and colon were removed and preserved in sealed specimen jars. The bladder had a pronounced tear in its crown and the peritoneum was inflamed from a massive infection.

Rappe’s body had many bruises and they caught Dr. Ophuls’ attention so he made careful notes and measurements. There followed the standard procedure of packing body cavities, where organs had been removed, with thick cotton batting. Despite being a surgeon, Dr. Ophuls could dispense with his usual care and suture up the long cavity he had made with a series of crude sutures that looked like a line of X’s running from between Rappe’s breasts to just above the pubic mound.

Finally, a shroud was drawn over the corpse and Halsted & Co., a mortuary only a block west on Sutter Street, was called.

Soon after, a black hearse arrived and the mortuary assistants took Virginia Rappe’s remains away. Once there, a blank death certificate form was started. What was obvious was entered by the same hand: Female, White, Single, with her age based on an approximate birth year of 1895, that is, Abt 25. Her occupation provided no mystery: Motion Picture Actress. Then came a series of entries that read No Record for her unknown birthplace and parentage.

“Length of Residence” was not left blank. It read “4 days.”

The former Wakefield Sanitarium, which closed in the early 1970s, is now the Raphael House, a San Francisco homeless shelter.

[1] See, for example, Paul H. Henry (1994) and J. W. Henry (2017), 000n.

Setting up Virginia Rappe for September 5

The following passages from our work-in-progress cover the last good morning in Virginia Rappe’s life, September 5, Labor Day 1921.


Business, Pleasure, Revenge, and Revisionary Speculations

In The Day the Laughter Stopped, David Yallop asserts that Virginia Rappe came to San Francisco to beg Arbuckle for money to pay for an abortion. Yallop further intimates that the father was Henry Lehrman. Nearly four decades later a more sober explanation came into play.

Greg Merritt, in Room 1219, has a less desperate reason for Rappe’s being in San Francisco. She, like Arbuckle, was there for recreation, but with the overriding prerequisite to establish a new direction in her life at thirty. “Her designing and modeling careers were stalled,” he writes, “and after a promising film debut in 1917, four years later she had failed to establish herself as a marketable movie star.”[1]

Merritt makes a logical assumption. Rappe signed herself into hotels as a “motion picture actress.” But unlike other actresses, she pursued her film career intermittently, with none of the dedication, which could be ruthless and soul-crushing, seen in other women. The press releases about her being a “society girl” weren’t entirely fabrications. In the film colony, she was more that than a performer. Even to say she was Henry Lehrman’s fiancé cannot be entirely accepted as fact. She may have been closer to his “boarder” as the 1920 census has it, more of a live-in escort when he needed one, arm candy.

Rappe wasn’t her mother but she had an understanding of the precarious means of Mabel Rapp’s dodgy lifestyle. Rappe avoided drugs and crime. She got by on her looks honestly. But Rappe was still a decidedly unmarried woman who depended on a man for her existential freedom and choice. Even if the dress shops of San Francisco had been open on Labor Day, even if she wanted to do a little shopping in the city, she had no money. That she was “reputed to have independent wealth as a result of oil investments,” as was said of her, wasn’t true or had already been run through.

While Lehrman was gone, he may not have been out of her life entirely or unwilling to help her—if not with his own money than with favors owed to him or that he could still wheedle. Given what happened, the greatest irony is that Lehrman could have been instrumental in Rappe going to San Francisco in the first place. After leaving for New York, he surely left her with the impression that he would return to Los Angeles. Miriam Cooper and her husband, Raoul Walsh, believed Lehrman had a hand in getting Al Semnacher and Maude Delmont—whom Cooper called a “young couple”—to take Rappe to San Francisco. To do what?

Assuage Rappe’s loneliness? To make up for being left behind to fend for herself? To let her “get back” at the man responsible? And him off the hook? And Lehrman could have had a hand in going to San Francisco without being involved at all. If Rappe had some inkling about his other woman, his Ziegfeld Follies girl, why not make him jealous with someone who really bothered him, who made him feel even broker and a bigger failure? There were people who grated on Lehrman. People good for pleasure? And business? Income was always an ever-present reason, more so than seeing Sidi Spreckels. Rappe had not only herself to support but also Aunt Kate and her husband, “Uncle” Joe Hardebeck, whose stock trading schemes were hit or miss. (Indeed, he may have lost any money Rappe made on her supposed oil wells.) So, a casual, unplanned trip to San Francisco with her agent and a stranger with no intention other to meet a friend—a wealthy widow with a young daughter—on Labor Day should still be questioned. Any knowledge that Arbuckle was in San Francisco was a prospect for both Semnacher and Rappe. The chain of supposed coincidences that drew Arbuckle and Rappe to San Francisco were almost too opportune—just enough to see there was coordination between the two groups that may have started before Rappe left Los Angeles.

Al Semnacher, as a publicity man and talent agent, knew movie and casting directors, including Fred Fishback and his assistant, Al Stein. Semnacher also knew Arbuckle. Such contacts were necessary in getting actors and actresses work and making a percentage. Ideally, photographs and previous screen credits would be enough to sell the person. But personal encounters were still necessary to earn Semnacher’s percentage and this was especially true for actresses, “good fellows.” If Virginia Rappe and Helen Hansen knew Roscoe Arbuckle and two of his friends were in San Francisco without their wives, both knew what could be expected of them. But this expectation could be mitigated if there were other local women less inclined to worry about giving in when a gathering got “rough,” whose transaction wasn’t a motion picture or an interruption to a life centered in San Francisco.

For Al Semnacher to coordinate a congenial meeting, as though by coincidence, between Rappe and Arbuckle would require a combination of intelligence. A tip from Henry Lehrman? Someone in Arbuckle’s camp? That someone would have been Fred Fishback. He knew of Rappe’s financial predicament and had a good relationship with Arbuckle. Fishback also knew that she was looking for movie roles. She had a new short for his Century Film Corporation, A Misfit Pair, that would be in theaters in a matter of days—and a rumor would soon surface in the Los Angeles Times that she was slated to be in another Century comedy.

Rappe was comfortable enough around Delmont to call her “Maudie.” No doubt both women got to know each other and share stories about their lives in Los Angeles and going back further. Perhaps Delmont told Rappe the story behind the name “Bambina,” which seemed more of title than a pet name. She may have told the story behind her millionaire’s last name, which she still proudly bore despite the two marriages that followed, assuming Delmont told her. But Rappe never called her Bambina and Delmont didn’t get to call her new friend “Tootie.” They didn’t know each other long enough. But Delmont drank for both of them and was surely incapable of being anything but unreserved. “I liked that girl,” she later said wistfully. “She was whole-souled and genuine.”

Delmont’s later utterances, of taking the blame for what transpired on Labor Day, suggested that she herself was disingenuous. She was less a companion, a “good fellow” and more the lure for some ulterior purpose. “I had taken Virginia there and was responsible for her going,” she said, meaning San Francisco and all the rest.

Al Semnacher and his female passengers arrived at the Oakland ferry terminal around 10:00 o’clock at night on Sunday, September 4. By 11:00 p.m., he had parked and checked into the Palace Hotel, where he and his party occupied a two-bedroom suite at his expense, about $8 a day compared to $12 a day for the same accommodations at the St. Francis. For the traveling and frugal businessman, however, the Palace was a fashionable choice. The rooms had connecting doors between Semnacher’s bedroom and the room shared by Rappe and Delmont—and they were only so many floors below Sidi Spreckels.

The only time Semnacher mentioned entering their bedroom was on the following morning, to ask if they wanted to have breakfast. Then, between 10:00 and 10:30 a.m., the threesome took the elevator to the lobby. If they looked in on the bar, they may have noticed Maxfield Parrish’s painting The Pied Piper over the bar, in which the piper is depicted leading Hamelin’s children to “the place of no return.”

On their way, Semnacher undoubtedly stopped at the desk to check for messages. Even if he knew he likely had none, the impression made was of an important man—with a pair of attractive women in tow. Then he, Rappe, and Delmont stepped inside the Garden Court.

The Palace’s elegant lounge and dining room on the first floor is much the same as it was a century ago. Breakfast and lunch were served daily under a vast, gilded skylight of opaque glass, which added to the soft but generous light provided by the crystal chandeliers. Large potted palms and flowering plants were placed to give the illusion one dined outdoors.

Amid the sound of muted conversations, the deferential voices of the waiters, the polite clatter of silverware and dishes—these met and maybe some ceased as Semnacher and his companions followed a waiter to a table set for four.

Rappe’s presence in the Garden Court would have been hard not to notice amid a sea of white tablecloths. She stood out in a light green ensemble in contrast to Maude Delmont’s nondescript black broadcloth dress. Numerous accounts of what Rappe wore on September 5 exist in reportage and court testimony. One of the earliest described each piece as it lay in tatters before a coroner’s jury. Nevertheless, the reporter’s description of both garments reimagines the woman who wore them in life.

Just three yards of heavy crepe of the brilliant but cool green that the Chinese call jade. A two-piece skirt gathered on a belt. A little sleeveless blouse that hung in straight lines over the skirt. The wide armholes corded and a soft collar finishing the modest cut neck. For sleeves the long white ones of an ordinary white silk shirt waist that could be bought in any shop for $5.

What a contrast to the jetted and braided and embroidered and fringed atrocities of the most expensive modiste!

The sort of frock that any girl could have—if she were as clever as Virginia Rappe.

That girl knew what was becoming to her—had a fine color sense—knew the value of accessories. Her plain white Panama hat—the hat that Mrs. Delmont says Arbuckle was “clowning” in when they broke into the room, has a narrow band of jade green ribbon around the crown.

Ivory and jade—that was the color motif—as the designers would say. Just one touch of the show girl—and that hidden away under the ivory and jade. Garters of three-inch black lace, ruffled on silk elastic with a tiny green ribbon flower at the fastening.

The Gown Salesman

In the same memoir in which Buster Keaton and his coauthor claim Virginia Rappe and Roscoe Arbuckle dated prior to Labor Day 1921.[2] They also body-shamed her posthumously as “a big-boned, husky young woman, five feet seven inches tall, who weighed 135 pounds.” They also saw her as “virtuous as most of the other untalented young women who had been knocking around Hollywood for years, picking up small parts any way they could.”

Keaton and his coauthor were, of course, writing years later and after the standards of beauty had yielded to a slenderer profile. They also give no inkling as to why she would have been a favored guest in Arbuckle’s suite. The accepted story of her presence was due to a chance encounter with a gown salesman who was on his way to the Arbuckle suite at the invitation of Fred Fishback.

Rappe had caught the roving eye of Ira Gustav Fortlouis in the Palace Hotel, which he kept as his permanent address in the city. He allegedly saw Rappe in passing and admired her clothes and the way she carried herself. As he later told Frieda Blum of the San Francisco Call, “reasoning further, she appeared to be not too expensively dressed and did not give the impression of being employed”—a woman who could use some money, some work.

Fortlouis and his intuition played an important part in the events that transpired on Labor Day 1921. Variously called a “traveling man” and “salesman” with such modifiers as “cloak,” “gown,” or “wardrobe” to impart his line of business, he was by all appearances rather nondescript. Stout and having features that provoked one of Arbuckle’s female guests to refer to him as a “Jewish gentleman”—with no trace of being disparaging, just stating a fact as facts were in 1921—Fortlouis considered himself a lady’s man. He very much enjoyed the company of attractive women, of which there were many in his field. He hired models in San Francisco and his other markets on the West Coast. Women worked in his office and wholesale warehouse at 233 Grant Street, the new sales branch of Singer Bros. & Day Co. of New York. In early 1920, this manufacturer of ladies’ “cloaks and suits,” according the San Francisco Chamber of Commerce, named Fortlouis manager of its new Pacific Coast headquarters.

Fortlouis had been working his territories and living out of hotels for much of his life thus far in San Francisco, Seattle, and Portland, Oregon. Born in 1886, the son of a hotel manager, the younger Fortlouis grew up amid the prosperous Jewish enclaves of Seattle and Portland. As a young man he graduated from clerking in cigar, hardware, and dry goods stores to a life on the road as a traveling salesman in the Pacific Northwest. While still living and working out of Portland, Fortlouis’ private life became public in the city’s newspapers for a week in January 1914, when he was called as a witness in a $50,000 breach of promise suit brought by Gertrude Gerlinger against Lloyd Frank over a broken engagement. Forced by a subpoena to testify for Frank, Fortlouis had to admit he shared a stateroom and enjoyed an assignation with Gerlinger aboard a steamer on a pleasure trip to and from Astoria, Oregon during the time she was engaged to marry Frank. Gerlinger won the suit but was awarded just $1 by the court.

If the young Fortlouis had strayed himself, he made up for it the following year when he relocated to New York City and married. In 1917, however, he returned to Portland and worked as a salesman for Singer Bros. & Day Co. Based in Manhattan’s Garment District, Singer & Day was a leading manufacturer of ready-to-wear clothes for women and his territory extended to Los Angeles. The president of the company, Saul Singer, was also vice president of the Bank of United States, an aggressively entrepreneurial bank that, through its mergers and lending, exemplified the freewheeling financial world of the 1920s that ended with the Great Depression.

Although Fortlouis main clients were department stores, the wardrobe departments of motion picture studios needed clothes. And motion picture studios had plenty of pretty extras who could serve as models as well. Such common interests, such common benefits to be sure, brought men together like Fortlouis and Fishback.

“I got in town Sunday, September 4, 1921,” Fortlouis later told detectives, having found him six days later either at the Palace Hotel or at the Fairmont Hotel on Nob Hill, where he checked in on the day after the Labor Day party. Like so many other party guests, his responses were suspiciously vague, detached. “Somebody told me that Fishback was in town. I called him up at the St. Francis and left word for him to call me.”

When Fishback hadn’t returned the call, Fortlouis, either by dint of impatience or persistence—he was a salesman—kept ringing up “Freddy.” At about at 8:30 on Monday morning, Fortlouis finally spoke to Fishback.

“I was walking out of the Palace Hotel about 11 a.m.,” Fortlouis continued, “and saw a very stylish girl. I asked somebody who was standing there who she was. He said she was Miss Rappe, the moving picture actress.”

Fortlouis then walked hurriedly to the St. Francis Hotel on Powell Street. There, he called Fishback in room 1220 to let him know he was downstairs and coming up. Why Fortlouis was granted such a privilege, particularly as an unaccompanied male, was never given save that he was Fishback’s friend and even that made little sense. If we pretend that “Fatty” Arbuckle, Lowell Sherman, and Fred Fishback make for a kind of Jazz Age “Rat Pack,” what would a portly gown salesman bring to the party? There would be no answer for this. Nevertheless, Fortlouis felt accepted.

“We sat there and talked for a long time,” he recalled, “and in the course of the conversation I mentioned the fact that I had just seen Miss Rappe and asked the boys if they knew her. Someone at the party said he knew her and asked when I had seen her. I told them I had seen her in the lobby of the Palace Hotel. Someone in the party phoned to Miss Rappe.”

The combination of Fortlouis being at the Palace that day, knowing Fishback, serendipitously intercepting Rappe, and his persistence in calling Fishback until he picked up, almost defy credibility. Was it the phenomenon of “meaningful coincidences,” after Carl Jung’s theory of synchronicity?

An early United Press report had Fortlouis denying to authorities “any responsibility for arranging the affair.” That such a denial was necessary suggests that detectives and district attorneys weren’t convinced. They entertained their own theory, that Rappe had been intentionally enticed to come to Arbuckle’s suite and Fortlouis played a part.

After seeing her for the first time in the Palace, two stories circulated in the press as to when he saw her at the St. Francis. In one he was present in room 1220. The other was more involved for lack of a better word. Here Fortlouis met Fishback in the lobby of the St. Francis and was then introduced to Rappe there, as she entered the building.

Much to his surprise, the gown salesman saw that Fishback and Rappe were already acquainted.

Paging Miss Rappe

If Semnacher intended to return to Los Angeles in the late afternoon, it meant he and the two women at the same table had four or five hours to fill before getting back into his Stutz. What does one do in that much time? Wander Chinatown? Ride a cable car? Take in a movie? Look for a theater showing The Misfit Pair? Meet Sidi Spreckels? Surprisingly neither Semnacher nor Delmont provided any clue as to what they would have done in San Francisco had there been no Labor Day party, as if they had traveled into the void at Rappe’s suggestion in Selma to just wait with her for her next suggestion. They didn’t wait long.

Around 11:30 a.m., as she enjoyed a late, leisurely, and presumably light breakfast, Rappe was paged, a hotel page approached and handed her a note. Delmont later testified that it read: “Come on up and say hello.” It was simply signed ARBUCKLE, lacking a full name.

A brief discussion took place. Was this Andy Arbuckle? The one who sold shoes in Texas. Whose older brother Maclyn had long been the only Arbuckle.

“It might be Roscoe Arbuckle,” Rappe pondered, “but I don’t know.”

The page also informed Rappe that she was wanted on the hotel desk’s telephone. When she returned, her Labor Day afternoon had its diversion. According to Maude Delmont, Rappe said Arbuckle and Sherman wanted her at the St. Francis. Neither had extended the invitation personally and the person who took credit for speaking to Rappe on the telephone was left a mystery for weeks—Fred Fishback. But her hunch was right.

The last thing Rappe did before leaving, according to Delmont, was telephone Sidi Spreckels upstairs in her apartment at the Plaza. Arbuckle, too, testified that Rappe made such a call in his presence. But she had used the telephone in his reception room at the St. Francis. In any case, Spreckels declined.

Around noon, Semnacher fetched his motorcar and drove Rappe and Delmont the five blocks between the Palace and the St. Francis. He testified he left them off in front of the hotel and didn’t wait to see them enter the building. Before that he said he did, in fact, wait for time because, if “the party didn’t suit them”—meaning Rappe and Delmont—there was an exit strategy.

“I’ll go up there and if the party is a bloomer, I’ll be back in twenty minutes,” Rappe promised Semnacher, giving Arbuckle and his friends about as much time as a comedy short.

Virginia Rappe, 1918, (Nelson Evans)

[1] pp. 000–000: Merritt, 39; Cooper, 179; [Warren Woolard], “Mystery Death Takes Actress,” Los Angeles Times, 10 September, II:21; Ernest J. Hopkins, “Think Third Person in Room,” Buffalo Courier, 19 September 1921, 2; “Hotels of San Francisco,” Western Fruit Jobber, November 1919,21–22; “Fate Sealed by the Dress She Made,” Los Angeles Times, 15 September 1921, 6.

[2] pp. 000–000: Keaton with Samuels, 158; Freda Blum (Universal Service), “Idle Inquire Leads to Death of Rappe Girl,” Oakland Tribune, 27 November 1921, 11; “Many New Businesses Open Here,” San Francisco Chamber of Commerce Activities 7, no. 13 (26 March 1920), 114; “Dictaphone on Light Fixture Tells Tales,” [Portland] Oregon Daily Journal, 8 January 1914, 2; “Notables at Hotels,” San Francisco Examiner, 6 September 1921, 6; “Guest Tells Police Party Was ‘Noisy,’” San Francisco Examiner, 10 September 1921, 3: United Press, “Arbuckle To Tell Police of Actress’ Death,” St. Louis Star, 11 September 1921, 2; United Press, “Arbuckle Detained in Girl’s Death, Fort Worth Star-Telegram, 11 September 1921, 6.

[3] pp. 000–000: “New York to Be Submerged Today, Avers ‘Professor.’” San Francisco Chronicle, 5 September 1921. 1; “Mrs. Delmont Gives Detailed Account of Rappe Tragedy,” San Francisco Chronicle, 12 September 1921, 4: “Member of Arbuckle Party in Hotel Makes Full Statement: Al Semnacher, Manager for Film Stars, Gives the District Attorney Deposition,” San Francisco Chronicle, 12 September 1921, 4: A.P. Night Wire, “More Interest in Trial,” Los Angeles Times, 24 November 1921, W1; “Arbuckle to Be Held in Death Probe,” Oakland Tribune, 10 September 1921, 2; “Arbuckle to Be Held in Death Probe,” Oakland Tribune, 10 September 1921, 2; Ernestine Black, “Arbuckle Dances While Girl Is Dying: Joyous Frolic Amid Death Tragedy,” San Francisco Call, 12 September 1921, 1, 2; Earnest J. Hopkins (Universal Service), “Film Star Who Makes Many Millions Laugh Gets First Taste of Life Behind Bars,” Shreveport Times, 12 September 1921, 2.

[4] More applicable to Rappe and the other guests of the Labor Day party. Albeit published in out-of-town newspapers, the daily horoscope of the McClure Syndicate advised readers that the “early part of the day should be profitable for all who deal in clothing, millinery or any accessory to wearing apparel.” Furthermore, and by “a strange contradiction in psychology,” men and women “who have won fame or high place will concern themselves about their personal appearance in a way that proves how great power the stars that encourage such vanity now are.” Furthermore, Uranus had its own adverse effect for the fifth of September, being “in an aspect stimulating to intrigue and deception which will largely be practiced by women as well as men.”

A passage from our work-in-progress for September 4, 1921

The following begins another part in our biblical-length book with the appropriately apocryphal title of The Apocrypha of Maude: September 1921.


To Selma

I do not believe that Virginia Rappe was a conscious factor in any maneuver directed against Mr. Arbuckle. If there were a deliberate plot against him, I do not think that she knew anything about it. She was in Los Angeles, financially hard up, out of work and unable to get help from her friends.

Minta Durfee

When he spoke before a grand jury and testified for the first time in a courtroom, Al Semnacher casually said he had met Maude Delmont no more than three or four times since 1917.[1] Yet, when they encountered each other outside the Hollywood Pig ‘n Whistle restaurant, they were far better acquainted. He had her telephone number. Delmont knew of his youngest son by name. She spoke of little Gordon Semnacher as though she babysat for him.

Delmont had long since ceased running her salon business on Captiva. With the end of the summer season in 1919, as “Madam Delmont,” she ran a help-wanted ad in the Los Angeles Times, a business offer for an “EXPERIENCED BEAUTY PARLOUR operator” who knew “the hairdressing business and all its branches.” This “grand opportunity for the right person” meant Delmont wanted another woman to assume her lease adjacent to the Avalon Casino Ballroom. As it came out later, unpaid rent and other bills forced her creditors to seize her luggage until her debts were paid.

By the spring of 1920, Delmont lived in East Los Angeles at 725 S. Bernal Avenue. She had moved into a rented house with her younger sister Lucile, a practical nurse and divorcée.[2] The census that year lists Delmont’s occupation as a “corsetier.” But so was her neighbor, suggesting some mutual cottage industry.

A year later Delmont found a new job as an advertising and subscription collector for the Labor Journal, a Fresno-based periodical for agricultural employers and workers in the San Joaquin Valley. In this new line of work, she met her third husband, who also worked for the Labor Journal, Cassius Clay Woods, named for the abolitionist Cassius Clay—still an admired figure in the late nineteenth century.

Called a “publicity man” in newspaper accounts, Woods had been selling advertising for publishers since 1912, when he lived in Bakersfield. Like Delmont, he had territories covering the rural towns of the San Joaquin Valley, including Kern, Madera—where the couple were married—as well as Fresno and Selma. One thing the newlyweds had in common was drinking, but their marriage became a part-time affair, like their work, and they drifted apart.

For much of the spring and summer of 1921, Maude Delmont had no fixed address. She either stayed with friends in the Fresno area or with an aunt at the Windsor Apartments at 970 Orange Street in Los Angeles. She lived like a traveling saleswoman. She dressed well and occasionally supplemented her income as a gown model. To get such work at thirty-nine was unusual and more so because Delmont was an alcoholic, albeit one who could comport herself and could pretend to be “sober.”

Drinking wasn’t a pastime Delmont shared with Al Semnacher, and the real nature of their acquaintance was never disclosed. She might have been a business associate of sorts, seeking work as an extra or providing Semnacher with leads to undiscovered new, pretty faces on the sidewalks of Hollywood, an extra set of eyes at lunch counters, at train and bus stations, wherever a young, obviously out-of-town woman needed someone to show her the ropes, the same ones Delmont climbed when she arrived so long ago. We only know that Delmont made a good, quick friend for a friend in need.

Of course, Virginia Rappe was hardly an ingenue. She knew the ropes and got farther up than Maude Delmont ever did. But propriety required that Semnacher provide a chaperone in order for her to make the Labor Day trip and the gregarious “beauty specialist” fit the role.

In courtrooms, Al Semnacher and Maude Delmont told much the same story of how their chance trip came to be on or about August 31, the day Helen Hansen refused to go despite Rappe’s entreaties. Delmont had finished her breakfast in the Pig ‘n Whistle’s at 224 S. Broadway, next to City Hall. A respectable establishment, the Pig ‘n Whistle was where so many women shoppers from the nearby department stores brought their children for its ice cream, confections, and pastries.

From the window, Delmont easily recognized Semnacher and his ten-year-old son Gordon. They were in Semnacher’s Stutz Model H touring sedan, which was easy to spot as was he, wearing his houndstooth Gatsby cap and a tie knotted with a four-in-hand and pinned with an ankh symbol. She went outside to talk to him.[3] They were both on familiar terms, but much of their real conversation was lost in their signed statements.

“What are you doing?” Semnacher asked.

Delmont said she wanted to go to Fresno for the weekend, which included visiting and staying with a friend in the nearby town of Selma. She wanted to hitch a ride with someone going north, friendly people who might make for a “pleasure trip.” Semnacher offered her a ride without any quid pro quo.

“Why, I think I can drive you Saturday,” he said, meaning September 3.

The peculiar requisite for “friendly people” should have sounded suspicious to detectives and district attorneys, for the term meant people who could be trusted, complicit. Semnacher obliged.

He telephoned Delmont the next day, September 1, to tell her the trip was on with two of his clients joining.

“Certainly not,” she responded, “but bring your baby,” meaning Gordon Semnacher.

 “I will if he will come,” Semnacher said.

“Who are your girlfriends,” asked Delmont, “anyone I know?”

Semnacher told her she didn’t. He “represented” them, leaving it to be understood that they were actresses.

“Are they good fellows?” Delmont inquired, using another loaded meaning: were they willing to play along, play the “game” if one was in mind. “Good fellows” also meant would the pair have no objections to an older woman in their company.

Semnacher promised both women were “the sweetest and best fellows I ever knew—perfect little ladies, and you will like both of them very much.”

Delmont agreed to the arrangements. Later in the day he telephoned again and informed her that his “baby did not want to come.” This may have come as a disappointment. But it also meant that All Semnacher wouldn’t be under any time constraints to get the boy back to his estranged wife and her boyfriend.

Outside of some mountain scenery along the way and the simple joys of picnics, barbecues, and square dances, fair booths, and rides, Fresno and nearby Selma would seem to offer little in the way of diversion. For casts and crews driving out of Los Angeles to film on location in the Sierra Nevadas and other points north, Fresno was a layover, where the entourage filled their gas tanks and had a decent breakfast.

Semnacher pulled up outside Rappe’s home at 504 N. Wilton Place early on Saturday morning, September 3, just before sunrise. Her adoptive aunt, Kate Hardebeck, expressed no concern about the absence of Helen Hansen or that her “niece” might go somewhere alone with a married man regardless of his status as her agent. But Rappe was also Aunt Kate’s employer, the “lady of the house.” So, looking the other way was part of the job. But Rappe reassured Aunt Kate that only a weekend in Selma was planned, so, no worries. And another woman would be joining them before they left Los Angeles.

What didn’t look right was the sight of Rappe packing her bags. “She, for some reason or other took an unusually large supply of clothing,” Hardebeck recalled, “a whole suitcase full.”

“Tootie” was taking far more clothes than needed for a little outing to the Fresno area, as Rappe told her. There this other woman, a Mrs. Delmont, had a home where they would stay overnight on Saturday and Sunday and return some time on Labor Day.

For the long drive, Rappe had pulled on her black boots, silk breeches, as well as the rest of her “riding habit”—which was then in fashion for active young women. Before she skipped down the sidewalk and down steps to Semnacher’s car, Aunt Kate followed with two picnic baskets. These contained thermos bottles of coffee and tea, sandwiches, and other delicacies. When these and the rest of her luggage were stowed, Rappe threw her dog “Jeff” and Aunt Kate kisses good-bye.

Minutes later, in another part of Los Angeles, Semnacher pulled up in front of Delmont’s apartment house around 7:20 in the morning “with Miss Rappe,” as she recalled. After introductions were made, the three boarded the Stutz, with the two women sitting side by side in the back seat as a matter of propriety.

There Rappe and Delmont got to know each better, their voices a little raised to hear each other above the chattering of the motor and the wind through the open sides. At some point, to be a “good fellow” herself, Delmont offered the flask she kept in her purse.

Rappe politely refused.

Semnacher’s inland route north took the recently completed California Highway 4, the precursor of U.S. Route 99 and present-day Interstate 5. By the late summer of 1921, the entire way was concrete-paved and designed for the top speeds of trucks and automobiles or 40 to 50 MPH, respectively. Compared to the slower and longer winding coastal route, Highway 4 was now the preferred way to get to San Francisco in a day.

Highway 4 burrowed through the Newhall Tunnel and then up into the mountains past old Fort Tejon and then on to the oil fields and farmland of Kern County before riding along the Castaic-Tejon Ridge then twisting down to the first major town, Bakersfield. The rest of the way to Fresno traversed the so-called “Garden of the Sun” of California’s prime, irrigated farmland, the San Joaquin Valley, where, to either side of the road, were miles and miles of croplands, producing raisins, grapes, peaches, figs, nuts, olives, oranges, and other crops. The distance between Selma and Los Angeles is a little over 200 miles or almost halfway to San Francisco. The traffic would have been light in the morning, with occasional trucks and horse-drawn wagons, which Semnacher could easily pass in his Stutz, which shared the same engine with the two-seater Bearcat. Even though the first rains of the dry California summer had recently fallen, the weekend weather was expected to be fair with temperatures in the upper 70s.

What was there to do in Selma? On Saturday evenings, the town’s band gave concerts in the park. Tonight’s rather eclectic program included the region’s anthem, the “Raisin King” march, the vocal trio from Verdi’s Attila, a “yodel” song, a scared melody, and the “National Anthem.”

Delmont, however, had a friend in Selma proper, Mrs. Anna L. Portnell. At forty, she was a society woman by Fresno County standards and a member of the Woman’s Relief Corps, a charitable organization for war veterans. She and her husband Jesse lived at 2336 Chandler Street and were negotiating for the purchase of a thirty-acre ranch outside of town. Perhaps much to Rappe’s delight, Mrs. Portnell was also a bridge player.

If Mrs. Portnell expected Delmont and her companions to arrive on Saturday, September 3, or if their visit took her by surprise, it went unreported. We only know what happened from her point of view she took the stand in Arbuckle’s defense in January. Mrs. Portnell recalled taking her visitors sight-seeing around Selma and nearby Kingsburg in her car. During this excursion, Rappe had a crisis.

“Please stop the car if you do not want me to die,” she begged. Then she got out and doubled up. Mrs. Portnell saw Rappe drink “a quantity of dark colored liquid from a gin bottle, claiming it was an herb tea.”

Mrs. Portnell kept the bottle and offered it as evidence, having kept this strange souvenir of Rappe’s visit for nearly five months. Delmont, however, recalled a different Saturday evening.

“Why, Virginia danced for an hour without stopping at my friend’s in Selma, where we spent the night on the way up,” she said in the San Francisco Call. “When the hour was over, she was as fresh as when we started.”

The next day, on Sunday morning, September 4, Semnacher and his companions departed Selma for the drive to San Francisco. He testified on more than one occasion that the trip to Selma had been the only destination and he, Rappe, and Delmont intended to return to Los Angeles. Rappe, however, suggested that they drive on to San Francisco.

Semnacher gave no reason why and various theories began to fill this void. But later, much later, after the first two Arbuckle trials, Delmont, in an interview with the Kansas City Post, said Rappe, on the spur of the moment, thought it would be splendid idea if she could visit her friend Sidi Spreckels in San Francisco. She was a young widow now and had just returned from France with their four-year-old daughter Gertrude to fight for her share of her late husband Jack’s estate. But that wasn’t the only reason that Rappe might want to give comfort to an old girlfriend. Sidi had been under a cloud that loomed over her well before Jack Spreckels died last July. When the couple had their falling out in 1920, Sidi got herself involved with an old acquaintance from her days as a cabaret artiste.

His name was William “Diamond Bill” Barrett, a notorious “soldier of fortune” known for cheating a string of jewelry stores and gullible young women. His most recent exploit, eloping with a Philadelphia heiress, Alice Gordon Drexel, however, didn’t result in any largesse. Her parents refused to underwrite their living together in Paris and forced him to foot the bills. Desperately in need of cash, he went to London and found Sidi in a troubled marriage with an absent husband.

Sidi either fell for his charms or agreed to his latest grift during their brief affair, which she said was purely social. On Barrett’s advice, she entrusted jewels to him worth $125,000 (or $2 million adjusted for inflation). He promised to have the lot appraised and insured—which may have been some sweet revenge on Jack Spreckels, for Sidi gave Barrett her engagement ring and a pearl necklace made by Tiffany’s of London, which she purchased on a line of credit extended to her father-in-law, John Spreckels Sr.

For a time, Barrett lived off selling pieces to pawn shops and second-hand jewelers, one of which tried to sell the pearl necklace back to Tiffany’s. This alerted Scotland Yard and its detectives returned the necklace and a few other pieces to Sidi. Subsequently, Barrett fled to Mexico. As for the only other wronged party, if one excludes Sidi’s late husband, Tiffany’s requested the balance due on the pearl necklace, said to be $80,000. Jack either didn’t or refused to pay for the bauble and, after his death, a suit was filed against his widow to recover the money.

With her legal woes and mounting debts, Sidi was still in the newspapers a year later, not only because she wore very stylish widow’s weeds, but to put her furs, including her precious Russian sables, up for public auction to pay her creditors and keep her penthouse in the Palace Hotel. Although such an event might have attracted Rappe—some of her designs were likely in Sidi’s closet—she could hardly afford to place a bid.

According to Delmont, Rappe dearly wanted to surprise her friend with a telephone call at least. Semnacher acquiesced to the impulsive request. But this this was a special favor. He had to drive an extra 200 miles north. He had to pay for the gasoline and any unforeseen repairs, such as blown tire. He had to travel from Oakland to San Francisco by ferry and arrive late at night—and he was either expected or had offered to cover their expenses. But it wasn’t an inconvenience as to time.

The threesome intended to stay for just one night and then leave San Francisco during the afternoon of Labor Day, returning to Los Angeles via the coastal road (later called California SR 1) through Monterey and on to Del Monte to spend the night—where one of Rappe’s friends was staying, possibly two. Vacationing at Carmel-on-the Sea was only a stone’s throw and vacationing there over the Labor Day holiday and into the following week were Grace Darmond and her lover, Jean Acker, still married to Rudolph Valentino. If Rappe knew of their itinerary, in one great arc, taking her across a broad swath of California, she may have had it mind to see three girlfriends, not one: first Sidi, then Grace and Jean.

Before leaving Selma, Rappe dropped a postcard into a mailbox addressed to Aunt Kate on Sunday morning. It read “having a lovely time” and the change of plans.

“Never having tried to curb Virginia and always trying to make things comfortable for her,” Aunt Kate said, recalling the postcard, “I didn’t feel alarmed and didn’t think it so unusual that she had decided to go to San Francisco.”

Virginia Rappe, 1918 (Nelson Evans)

[1] pp. 000–000: Maude Delmont, qtd. in “Film World Is Rended,” Los Angeles Times, 12 September 1921, I:1; Minta Durfee Arbuckle, “The True Story about My Husband,” Movie Weekly, 24 December 1921, https://www.silentera.com/taylorology/issues/Taylor28.txt; “Wanted EXPERIENCED BEAUTY PARLOUR operator,” Los Angeles Times, 31 August 1919, IV:3; U.S. Census, 1920, California, Los Angeles County, Los Angeles Assembly District 66, ED 262, lines 37–38; “Arbuckle to be Held Pending Probe of Death,” Fresno Morning Republican, 11 September 1921, 1; “B. M. Delmont, “Mrs. Delmont Gives Detailed Account of Rappe Tragedy,” San Francisco Chronicle, 12 September 1921, 4; “Lauds Character of Miss Rappe,” Philadelphia Evening Ledger, 13 September 1921, 2; “Selma Woman Testifies at Actor’s Trial: Mrs. Anne Portwell Tells of a Visit of Party During Trip,” Fresno Morning Republican, 26 January 1922, 1; Ernestine Black, “Arbuckle Dances While Girl Is Dying: Joyous Frolic Amid Death Tragedy,” San Francisco Call, 12 September 1921, 1, 2; Charles Hoke, “Carmel News Notes,” Monterey Cypress and American, 9 September 1921, 3.

[2] Delmont’s sister went by her middle and married name at the time, “Helen Woods.”

[3] “Portions of the statement,” according to the editor of the San Francisco Chronicle, “have been omitted as unfit for publication.”

A fashion illustration featuring Virginia Rappe?

Mrs. Frances Bates served as one of Arbuckle’s defense witnesses in all three trials. Mrs. Bates, a resident of Santa Ana, California, in 1921, had been located by Arbuckle’s personal lawyer, Milton Cohen. She testified that in October 1913, while a sales clerk at Mandel Brothers Department Store in Chicago, she witnessed Virginia Rappe, working as a live model, tear up one of her gowns and going into hysterics, clutching her abdomen, weeping, and so on. She had to be treated in the store hospital.

Such episodes were intended to prove that Rappe had a history of illnesses that resembled what the defense said occurred on September 5, 1921, while she was a guest at a Labor Day party in Arbuckle’s 12th floor suite at the St. Francis Hotel. Milton U’Ren, a prosecutor, however, suspected Mrs. Bates was lying and that she had never crossed paths with Rappe. He eventually procured store records that suggested Mrs. Bates and Miss Rappe weren’t employed by Mandel Brothers at the same time.

In March 1922, at the third trial, U’Ren called William F. De Rose to the stand. He was an assistant superintendent of the department store. He took the stand and shared store records with the jury that showed that Mrs. Bates had worked at Mandel Brothers for a few months between September 1909 and January 1910 before she was let go for insufficient references.

As for Rappe, she had worked between September 1911 and September 1912.

Although Mrs. Bates claimed her signature on the employment forms wasn’t hers, a handwriting expert confirmed that the signature was hers. Her testimony wasn’t stricken from the court record, but it was certainly moot and she potentially could be charged with perjury.

Rappe, however, wasn’t alive to substantiate her employment. In fact, she was in in New York City in the autumn of 1912. But Mandel Brothers did have a significant fashion show of French gowns and Japanese-inspired kimonos to inaugurate a new wing of the store with an expanded women’s department. We wondered if there was any graphical evidence of Rappe’s modeling work. It’s hard to say, but there is one illustration that could be based on Rappe. She had a certain beauty that obviously worked well for pen-and-ink fashion illustrators of the day. But it’s all in the eye of the beholder.

Full-page ad for Mandel Brothers, September 1911 (Newspapers.com)