Edgar Allan Poe and the Murderer

As we suggested in our screenplay, "Poe Laughing," the truth about Edgar Allan Poe is stranger than his fiction. From Rufus W. Griswold and his allies the Transcendentalists to the present day, a long line of smear artists, fantasists, lazy scholars and bad historians have created and perpetuated so many myths about Poe that the real man has been distorted beyond recognition. "Poe Laughing" is our counter to a century and a half of lies and misrepresentation.

However, there are some Poe legends that fall into the "too good to check" category. One of my favorites involves a notorious 19th century murderer.

In October of 1845, the corpse of a prostitute named Maria (or Mary Ann) Bickford was found in her Boston boardinghouse lodgings, her throat gruesomely slashed. Her former lover, a wealthy, married man named Albert J. Tirrell, immediately became the prime suspect. Although he made attempts to flee the country, he was soon arrested and brought back for trial. The circumstantial evidence against him seemed overwhelming, and his own personal character had long been an object of public scandal (one observer noted that he and Bickford had, between them, accounted for “a rather high percentage of moral turpitude.”)

However, Tirrell had two very important factors in his favor: A high-powered defense attorney, former U. S. Senator Rufus Choate, and a public who had decided the slain “fallen woman” was a mere Jezebel who brought doom upon herself. Choate and the rest of Tirrell’s defense team, as all good attorneys do when faced with a seemingly hopeless client, did their best to put the jury into a state of utter discombobulation. First, they argued Bickford had committed suicide, the “natural death of persons of her character.” Then, they tried insinuating someone else in the boardinghouse was the true culprit. Finally, perhaps unable to convince even themselves of those possibilities, they brought on a parade of witnesses ready to testify that Tirrell had long suffered from somnambulism. So, if their client killed the unfortunate woman, don't blame him. He was walking in his sleep!

This bad dream of a defense was good enough for the judge. His instructions to the jury stressed the victim’s dubious character, and suggested that Tirrell’s alleged sleepwalking could be seen as a form of exculpatory insanity. Tirrell was duly acquitted of murder, although he was forced to spend three years in state prison for “adultery and lascivious cohabitation.” Choate, who subsequently became understandably popular with America’s criminal classes, went on to become the Attorney General of Massachusetts, but the Tirrell trial proved to be his real legacy. After his death, he was remembered as the lawyer who “made it safe to murder."

What does all this have to do with Poe, you ask?

A contemporary pamphlet, "The Life and Death of Mrs. Maria Bickford," tells of an incident which took place only a few months before the murder:

But we cannot dismiss the subject matter of this history until we inform the world of one of Tirrell’s exploits in a business way. No sooner had he tumbled into the possession of his patrimony, than he took up quarters in the city of New York, with the intention of founding a publishing house on a magnificent scale. After beating about the trade for two or three weeks, without knowing where or how to begin a business of which he was utterly ignorant, and which his rattle-headedness rendered him incapable of comprehending under any circumstances, he made up his mind to commence the publication of a periodical, of some kind or other. Our information runs, that, with this object before his eyes, he called on Mr. Edgar A. Poe, of that city, and tendered him the exclusive editorship and control of the concern, without ceremony or condition. Poe, after a cautious and analytical survey of the gentleman, propounded divers queries which Tirrell had not the capacity to answer. He seemed to be possessed of a belief that if he brought some doubled sheets of printed paper before the people, and the ladies in particular, an illumination as wonderful as the aurora borealis would be the consequence.  

"The people," said he, "want knowledge; they thirst for it as the heart [sic] panteth for the water brooks." "Yes, sir, precisely," said the other, "but engagements compel me to decline your generous offers; I have already promised to do much more than I can possibly accomplish. I think, however, there is a compositor of my acquaintance whose talents are so nearly like your own that he would prove the very person you are seeking. I will give you his name—it is Silas Estabrook. Explain your plans to that individual, sir, and there will be no lack of projects, I assure you."

Unfortunately, Poe was right in his estimation of Estabrook’s compatibility with Tirrell. The two subsequently collaborated on “The Unexpected Letter: A Truthful Journal of News and Miscellany,” which proved an immediate disaster. The enormous, wildly ambitious initial costs of the venture, coupled with Tirrell’s chronic "rattle-headedness," sank the publication before it even began. (Estabrook, who saw himself as the dupe of his unconventional business partner, found consolation by publishing a tell-all booklet about Tirrell's crimes that included the anecdote above.) Tirrell and Poe apparently never met again while achieving, in their very different ways, memorable places in history.

Researcher Harry Koopman wrote, “[Tirrell’s] offer may be regarded as a tribute to Poe’s prominence in the literary world.” The encounter can also be regarded as even more eloquent tribute to Poe’s underrated prominence as an escape artist.

In Which I Nearly Got the Chance to Beat Up Tony Randall

An insatiable compulsion to pry into the lives of historical figures has afflicted my family for generations. The problem is, getting acquainted with dead people we've never met can be daunting. Too much of what we "know" is wrong. Since the victor always tells the tale, serious, unbiased, and in-depth fact-checking is required to ferret out lies and acquire a more accurate perception of the truth. Were the victors really heroes, or were they villains with good public relations? It's hard work, but it must be done. History is easier to interpret when it's personal and you were there. All you have to do is remember. And this must also be done. For instance...

The first time I ever saw Tony Randall in person, he was in bed with Jack Klugman. He glanced in my direction, his eyes pure lasers of hate. Or maybe he was looking at his boss, Garry Marshall, who had brought me to this forbidding cavern and stood beside me during the awkward ordeal. A choking uneasiness gripped my throat. I didn't belong in this place. I knew it. Tony Randall knew it. So why was I there?

Just weeks before, a school friend from U.C. Berkeley had secured a summer job at what was then the law office of Tom Pollock and Jake Bloom. She called me in San Francisco at the end of her first day. "These guys are major players in show business," she gushed. "They do stuff with scripts."

"What stuff?" I asked.

"Write one and find out." She wasn't kidding. "Do it now! I'll show it to them, they'll love it, and you'll be on your way to Hollywood."

Her enthusiasm was irrational. I had no idea what a script looked like, didn't watch TV or go to the movies, had no wish to go to Hollywood, and felt ambivalent when she turned out to be right.

On Friday evening the library provided me with a short sample from an ancient "Have Gun Will Travel" script. On Monday morning I mailed off my own sample to her at her family's Beverly Hills home. At the end of the week she called me with the news: "Tom and Jake loved it!"

Fine. My frequently underappreciated sense of humor had connected with kindred jokesters. It was a satisfying outcome and I could now forget it, which I did until the following week when another exuberant call came.

"Garry Marshall wants to meet you for lunch!"

On the phone Garry complimented the script I had written and said there were three jokes in it he hadn't heard before. I was almost offended. Only three?

Then he said, "But who do you think you are?--the director?" Ouch. Was my fledgling career flaming out already? He explained that my close-ups and over-the-shoulder shots weren't necessary. The director made those calls. So, they obviously had done things differently at "Have Gun Will Travel."

Finally, Garry asked to meet me. Great. I could possibly fly down in two weeks. To which he commented that I really liked to do things fast. Irony, of course. But I too had a summer job, which I couldn't simply abandon. Garry understood and agreed.

Two weeks later it was spaghetti and meatballs for lunch in a restaurant outside the Paramount Studios gate. From there we walked to the stage where episodes of "Odd Couple" were filmed on Friday nights in front of a live audience. I clutched my churning stomach as we watched Tony and Jack rehearse their bedroom scene. It wasn't the unappetizing meatballs that inflamed my insides; it was Tony's searing antipathy toward me.

At the end of the scene Tony sat up and announced in his thundering, theatrical voice, "I am not accustomed to strangers observing me in bed." My knees wobbled. I was not accustomed to strangers yelling at me. What a terrible man, I thought. What a terrible place.

He brushed past me as he left for his dressing room. "I liked it," he said in a playfully disarming tone. The innocent, unaffected child in him had made an appearance. My hostility dissipated. But not for long.

Soon after I started working for Garry there was a Monday read-through of the script to be filmed on Friday. The early symptoms of a pernicious show business disease had begun manifesting in my system. It was a severe disillusionment.

Tom Pollock had warned me to watch out for "the sexuality at Paramount." I did. And I didn't like what I saw. There were parades of eager young actresses making the rounds of executive offices. One debonair producer used his walking stick to lift the skirts of submissive secretaries. One of them told me to "toughen up" or "escape" while I still could.

Escape is what beckoned as I endured my first read-through. These sessions were held in a large rehearsal hall, empty, except for a long, banquet-type table and chairs. Abundant fruit bowls and beverages were provided for the participants, which included producers, staff writers, actors, and the director. I felt out of place. These were all men, and Garry often described them as liking to "talk smut."

I grabbed a chair and positioned myself away from the crowded table. Tony made a dramatic entrance, wearing oversized sunglasses better suited for a bug-eyed ET. He took his place at the table, pulled off his absurd sunglasses, and peered over at me disdainfully. He said nothing, but his attitude was intolerable.

Jack Klugman was easier to like. He radiated tension, frequently paced the floor, and berated himself when he couldn't "contribute" to "fixing" the script. Jack had his insecurities, but he didn't cover them up by acting superior. Treating others disdainfully was not in his repertoire.

As the actors began reading their parts, the rest of us followed along in our scripts. About halfway through, fruit began to fly. And it was all coming at me! First, a small cluster of grapes. I caught it. A few minutes later it was an orange. This wasn't funny. It didn't kill me or knock me unconscious because I caught it before it could hit me. What did hit me was an overwhelming urge to pitch a direct hit on the perpetrator.

Incredibly, no one seemed to notice that I was under siege. The actors continued reading their lines; every face was buried in the script. Tony was the infantile culprit. I knew it and yet he managed to appear innocent and oblivious. He was a better actor than I had thought.

Once the read-through was over, the rewrite battles began. The two stars hated everything. Week after week they demolished the script and forced Garry to engineer a reconstruction. Their faith in him was absolute and unshakable, even though, as executive producer, his was the fingerprint on every script they hated at the read-through.

Before the day ended, one more grape cluster came at me in what would become a weekly ritual of flying fruit.

With rewritten scripts in hand, cast and crew assembled to begin rehearsals on stage. More than one secretary suggested I would not like to be around Tony there. I always responded that I didn't like to be around Tony anywhere.

They were right, though, that a critical juncture in our relationship was approaching. During breaks, Tony started sneaking up behind me. He threw his arms around me and raced away. It was silly, not licentious, but deeply offensive anyway. Crew members kept taking me aside and asking if I wanted them to do something to stop him. As if they dared. I said I'd be fine.

The next time Tony pulled his stunt I was ready for him. I elbowed his midsection, turned, and with my finger in his face, I warned him that if he ever touched me again he'd be on the floor. He stared for a moment, then burst out laughing. I wanted to dislike him, but, as he loudly proclaimed to everyone, "This girl just threatened to deck me!" we both realized how ridiculous we were.

Garry's lovely secretary Alice joined us. She pointedly mentioned that I didn't have a car and had to walk to West Hollywood at night. "We can't have that," Tony said in his sophisticated, faux adult voice. He was staying at the Chateau Marmont, which wasn't too far from me. That's how he became my ride home every night. And we became friends, even though there was still the occasional misunderstanding, like the time at Sardi's in New York when he put a knife to my throat and threatened to kill me.

 But that's another story.