The Mammoth Book of Unsolved Crimes (76 page)

How could they—being men with hearts beating—do anything else? Yes, although the most was made of the evidence, Jessie was acquitted.

She came back to the world, her head dizzy with prospective further triumphs: amongst other tangible proofs of her popularity, she had a contract for eleven hundred dollars, representing two appearances daily for four days in a New York theatre. Besides the contract, she had also been provided with a maid, a theatrical agent, two thousand four hundred dollars for the exclusive newspaper rights of her life-story, and two reporters who were to act as her Boswells.

Jessie sped like a meteor—rather a weighty one, with too much flesh round her hips and sagging breasts—towards the Bright Lights of Broadway. In doing so, she disappointed at least one of her admirers—that same Mr Hazeltine, who has been mentioned earlier in this chronicle. Mr Hazeltine was a knight who would not have disgraced himself sitting at King Arthur’s table; he had believed that his heroine might struggle for vindication, but never for profit. To commercialize her great ordeal in the way she had done, was something that threatened to break Mr Hazeltine’s heart. As for Mr Robert E. Lee, it is said that he talked darkly of taking his life . . .

America never does anything by halves; this truism was rarely better demonstrated than in the case of Jessie Costello. Contracts were thrust upon Jessie by the handful; they descended upon her like the autumn leaves. And, being so much sought after, Jessie became capricious; amidst the frantic hullaballo in which she now lived, amidst the never-ceasing, hard, unwinking Bright Lights of Broadway, she turned down scornfully a $20,000 contract for a ten-week burlesque appearance. Her lady-like excuse was that “she didn’t think that taking off her clothes in public was refined,” and so she hurried back to her main occupation—which nowadays was shopping. Feeling that she was a great person in her own right, she conducted it on a lavish scale. “A dozen pairs of shoes in one place, half a dozen hats in another, silk underwear by the bundle, hosiery, dresses by the score—everything,” was the description one of her reportorial Boswells wrote, swimmy-eyed, in his paper.

Arrayed in all this finery, Jessie did not lead a retired life: on the contrary, she was frequently seen in the fashionable places. In these resorts of the élite she could be seen, “the cynosure of all eyes, as she sits down in a beautiful gown and ermine wrap, a smart, self-possessed, well-groomed widow”.

When such famous Broadway columnists as Walter Winchell of the New York
Daily Mirror
and Ed Sullivan of the New York
Daily News
came up to be introduced, she was graciousness itself “as they offered sympathy for the trouble and torture she had been forced to endure.” The picture of Walter Winchell, that hard-boiled commentator on mankind’s frailties, offering sympathy for the troubles and tortures which Jessie had endured, should have been photographed—as, no doubt, it was.

Meanwhile Hollywood itself had got busy. Those modern magi, who know what the public wants even before the public has given any indication of it, were gathering in the offing like so many potbellied vultures. Presently they descended in shoals, demanding the radiant widow’s appearance on the screen.

So here she was, sitting pretty as the saying goes, being besieged by all kinds of
entrepreneurs
. It must have been a gorgeous sight for the observing gods.

Even more gorgeous was the spectacle which almost immediately followed. There was a certain, but as yet inarticulate, portion of the American public, that saw not the trailing clouds of glory, but national disgrace in the acquitted widow’s wholesale grabbing of newspaper-space. They resented the fact that a woman who had been accused of murder, and who, according to the man who said he had been her lover, had displayed lascivious tendencies too shocking even to be printed in the newspapers, should be thrust upon the public’s consciousness in this manner. They were old-fashioned enough to think that, hidden away somewhere or other, was the merest hint of bad taste. Just a
soupçon
, perhaps, but still there.

So they went to Mr Will Hays, who, as the world knows, is the judge of what shall and shall not be seen in American motion pictures.

Mr Hays, who has been described as “that great Presbyterian moralist,” saw eye to eye with them. The result was swift, devastating and astonishing; told in plain language that this was one of the things that
must
not be done, the screen magnates lost all interest in the fascinating widow overnight, and the next morning Jessie was left high and dry. All washed up, in fact.

Difficulties now descended upon Mrs Costello, even more quickly than her former successes. It was not to be wondered at, perhaps, that Jessie did not quite understand the difficulties that now lay in her path. She was still artistically obstreperous. She began her second day in the Metropolis, we are told, by

But the thunderclouds were rapidly gathering; the bad news was broken to Jessie by one of her Boswells that she was no longer saleable. Instantly she changed her front; from being the pursued, she was now the pursuer. No story-book detective could have been more assiduous in tracking down the murderer than she was in tracking down the agents who, warned by Mr Hays, were determined now to have nothing more to do with this bad risk. (As Mr Boyer put it: “It wasn’t fair; it was almost un-American.”)

Despairing of the films, she thought twice about the burlesque theatres. Perhaps, after all, what she had been asked to do was not too bad; she went to the manager who had offered her the $ 18,000 contract referred to above. To her indignant surprise, she was now told that the offer no longer held good. The Bright Lights of Broadway were dimming with a vengeance.

Jessie stood alone.

There was nothing else for it but to return to her Boston home. She returned with no contracts, little money, and a magnificent wardrobe. She returned to find a city of angry critics—and no real friends.

Reaction, you see, had set in; the public had switched their views within an hour. Whereas before there were none so cruel as to impugn her motives, now she found none so brave as to support her. The general comments were summed up in a pregnant phrase by a leader in the campaign for decency. He said: “Public morals forbid commercializing such a tragic event.”

Determined to snatch what little might remain of her previous astonishing glory, Jessie descended the scale with a sickening thud. No longer able to show herself on stage or dance-hall, she took to the sawdust floor of a Boston public-house. This was owned by Jack Sharkey, the highly temperamental Lithuanian, who had once been heavy-weight champion of the world. In the month of September she entered Sharkey’s employ as a “hostess”.

Then came the most amazing turn-about of this whole epic of hoopla. Jessie had been working among the sawdust, the spittoons, the drunks and the photographs of other great prize fighters for a fortnight, when she sent word to the local newspapers that she had something to tell them.

The result was this: On 3 October the local Press carried a statement signed by her to this effect: “I am about to be associated with the noted Los Angeles Evangelist, Mrs Aimée Semple Mac-Pherson.”

To quote the fuller details about this staggering prospect, she explained that “she had gained Sister Aimée’s consent and would begin work for the Lord on 15 October, when Sister Aimée would open a revival in Boston.”

In order to dress befittingly for the part, Jessie, we are told, “bought a becoming nun-like costume of black and went immediately into training”. Her trainer was the Rev. Mr William McLam, Boston’s Representative of Aimée’s nation-wide organization. After a long training session, the Rev. Mr McLam emerged into the open and reported progress.

“I’m always glad,” he said to the reporters, “to co-operate with anyone seeking to enter the Harvest Field. The Master is calling for labourers. We hope Mrs Jessie will come into the great blessing of God’s love. I get down on my knees and pray with her.”

Well, what could be fairer than that?

Clemenceau, when he had been a newspaper-man, would have found the opening night of the Revival (Jessie’s) a fitting subject for his pen. But even then the withering cynic could not have done justice, perhaps, to this mighty theme.

In the absence of Clemenceau, let us be content with recording the heart-searing words of Mr Boyer:

But the old warrior did not go down without a fight.

“I have in mind tonight,” Aimée said, “a woman who has been separated from her children, and is now finding her way back to God.”

It was unfortunate, no doubt, that her voice sounded thin and reedy; or that her white nurse’s uniform, her straw-coloured hair and her pasty face blended with the yellow lights and made her difficult to see: on the other hand, it was even more unfortunate, from her point of view, that Jessie’s solid figure was in black.

Aimée continued:

“You must, you know, be broken at the feet of Jesus before you can do anything worth while. Mrs Costello told me, ‘Oh, sister, I have been broken at the feet of Jesus and think I can help the poor.’ She told me she’d like to do something for Jesus and that she ‘didn’t want to die empty-handed.’ “

Called upon to do her stuff, Jessie began her Evangelist work by lifting up her voice and singing that old favourite, “The Old Rugged Cross”. She gave it all she had—which was plenty—and, it is recorded by the faithful Press present on the occasion, “the more orthodox ‘Amen!’ was drowned in secular cheers.”

The sound must have been wine to Jessie—it recalled, no doubt, the resounding huzzas of the Salem court-house—and she warmed to the 8,000 of the faithful.

She spoke in a husky voice, tremulous with emotion.

This is what she said:

“I want to say tonight that I thank God I am saved and that He has brought me back again.”

With that, according to the strict instructions she had received beforehand, she made about to retire. But the crowd would not have it. Again to quote the sprightly Mr Boyer,

The hard-boiled reporters panted for revelations.

“Are you jealous of her?” they asked pertinently.

The reply was as good as could be expected in the difficult circumstances.

“In the Lord’s work,” said Aimée Semple MacPherson, “one is not afraid of a pretty face.” Her own was twisted as she spoke; she might have been eating a sour plum.

That was the end. Released from the Lord’s service, Jessie had no further cards to play; she bumped downhill as though she were descending to Avernus on a rickety toboggan. “Expelled” by Sister Aimée, it was just as though she was the victim of a curse.

She fought back. She even wrote to President Roosevelt about it, but it was no good; her cup became filled to overflowing; bitterness seeped into her soul.

One must have a certain sympathy with this extraordinary woman. She had been granted a vision of glamour and wealth, and this died hard. She had been told to expect illimitable riches— whereas, all she had actually gained was a sum equivalent to
£
700, plus clothing, furniture, presents and living expenses.