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  Drunken Night in London, 1929

  On the warm morning of May 14, 1929, Dick went out on a golfing trip with a man from Kew Gardens, Ron Bargate—another of his “pick-ups”—in the London suburb of Hurley. The golf got rained out, so the men went to the Old Bell Hotel to shoot darts and have drinks at around two in the afternoon. The two men spent several hours drinking Pimm’s No. 1—a popular gin-based mixed drink—and both were slobbering drunk by the time they called it a night at 9:30. Bargate had passed out, so Dick carried him out to his rented car, a large green, six-cylinder Buick saloon with black wings, to take him home. It was still raining at 9:45 as Dick weaved down Bath Road toward London. Both Bargate and Dick threw up all over themselves repeatedly. Twice, Bargate leaned out of the back window to vomit, while Dick asked someone on the side of the road for directions to London. The back seat, the steering wheel, and the windows were covered in vomit. Dick swerved all over the road and drove at about 25 miles per hour, oblivious to the danger of his condition. His view was further obstructed because the windshield wipers weren’t working. At one point the car veered to the side of the road and Dick felt a bump, but he didn’t stop because he thought he’d just run up on a curb. He recentered the car and kept going.

  Several witnesses reported seeing Dick swerving on the road and other drivers near him feared for their safety. One man driving behind him reported him to an officer on patrol. An officer from Chiswick police station spotted Dick’s car as well and immediately followed him and pulled him over. As he walked to the car, he smelled the vomit right away, which was all over Dick’s hands and clothing. The officer also saw Bargate passed out in the back.

  “Sir, please step out of the car,” the officer said.

  “I don’t know that I shall. Why should I?” Dick retorted.

  The policeman motioned to him to do as he instructed.

  When Dick tried to open the door, he slipped and fell down into the seat. He pulled himself back up and then stumbled and tripped as he got out of the car. The policeman caught hold of his hand to support him so he wouldn’t fall. Dick’s eyes were bloodshot and his hands were trembling. He couldn’t speak clearly, but he was very happy as he chatted with the officer. The officer asked him what had happened to his car—the headlamp was smashed, its glass missing, and the front bumper was bent and broken off. Dick said, “I know all about that, that was done just after four o’clock.”

  The policeman administered a drunk driving test, which Dick failed miserably. He was arrested on the spot. Dick said, “If you think I am drunk, Officer, you have made a big mistake.”

  Finally hearing the commotion, Bargate slowly came to. He saw the policeman talking to Dick and slithered out of the car, asking, “What’s the matter?” Bargate couldn’t even remember getting into the car in the first place, and he had no idea where he was. Another officer who arrived on the scene stayed with Bargate as they hauled Dick off.

  On the walk to the station, Dick asked, “How much further is it? This walk is doing me good.” When Dick arrived at the station he was questioned some more, and a surgeon confirmed his drunkenness. Dick was thrown into a cell and informed that he was charged with drunk driving, to which Dick, still very drunk, replied, “Impossible.”

  While Dick slumped obliviously, half asleep in his cell, the Chiswick station received information at two in the morning about a man who was badly injured in a hit-and-run accident at 9:45 the previous evening while trying to fix a light on his motorcycle. It was the same road on which Dick had been driving, and the officers recalled the damage on Dick’s car. Witnesses of the hit-and-run said they had seen a dark-colored saloon car leave the scene.

  Dick was further questioned but he had no clue what the officers were talking about. His car was examined the next day and the damage matched the damage to the motorcycle exactly. Apparently that bump in the road was twenty-one-year-old Arthur Graham, a Slough man who was found unconscious forty-two feet away with a broken thigh and six broken ribs, his arm chewed up in the rear wheel of the motorcycle.

  The victim was now being treated at Windsor Hospital with grave internal injuries and he wasn’t expected to live. He died three days later.

  Dick was charged with manslaughter.

  Prison Time in Wormwood Scrubs

  Dick was in shock. He was just starting out in his life and he was indicted for a crime that could put him in prison for years. He couldn’t believe it was happening. Dick’s Uncle Will got involved immediately and posted bail on May 22, and then set about preparing for trial, which was scheduled for June 18. Will hired the best lawyers possible for Dick’s defense—he called Sir Hugo Cunliffe-Owen, head of the British American Tobacco Company, for help. He brought them Norman Birkett and Albert Edward Johnson, London’s finest, to represent Dick. However, Dick would also be prosecuted by London’s finest—Sir Henry Maddocks.

  Dick lay low in his apartment, leaving it to the high-priced lawyers to miraculously make it all come out right. Before Arthur Graham passed away in the hospital, his family said they did not wish to press charges. Dick sent Graham’s widow enough money to provide for her for life, hoping it would earn him a little sympathy in court.

  But the British courts and the public were not impressed with the millionaire’s gestures or his sense of entitlement, and there was great public outrage over the incident. For several weeks, American newspapers incorrectly reported that “Leslie Joshua Reynolds” was on trial for hitting a man in London, but by the time the trial began, the American press had caught on. The trial and the details of the accident were all over the news.

  In London, the entourage around Dick seemed to work against him, and the court made a point of discouraging anyone from being persuaded by Dick’s social status or generosity toward Graham’s widow or with London’s poor population. As the trial ensued at London’s famous Old Bailey court on July 22, 1929, Dick was humiliated and scared, but he was clearly more concerned with his future than with the damage he had done.

  He pled not guilty, and his legal team asked the court to consider his youth and tried to disprove the charges that Dick was drunk, bringing in experts who testified that the drunk driving tests were flawed. The bartender from the Old Bell testified that Pimm’s No. 1 was diluted with lemonade, and that it was equivalent to only three whiskeys. The judge responded by reprimanding the Old Bell for letting two men drive home with even that much liquor in them. Witnesses at the Old Bell claimed that Dick didn’t “look” drunk, and Ron Bargate claimed that Dick’s hand was “steady” when he played darts, so he must have simply gotten sick from the food. Medical experts testified that Dick had a natural “lurch” in his step and normally dilated eyes, even when he was sober. Dick took the stand in his own defense, stating that he had only a few drinks and was swerving because he was blinded by the light of an oncoming car. But his defense team’s far-reaching excuses were no match for the many witnesses who came forward attesting to Dick’s drunkenness in Hurley and on the road. More credible witnesses said that the number of Pimm’s No. 1s that Dick drank were the equivalent of seven whiskeys.

  Dick was sure to be found guilty, but he received a surprising reprieve—on July 25 the constable reported that the jury foreman had spoken to one of the witnesses about the case—enough of a violation to declare a mistrial. A new trial was ordered immediately the next day.

  In the new trial, Dick was much more nervous the second time he was sworn in, as the reality sank in that his money and family name would not save him in court. The evidence was repeated, and some of Dick’s associates, like George Wells Orr, an attorney for the Reynolda estate, and other American businessmen flew in and testified to Dick’s good character. The judge again went out of his way to make sure the jury did not take into consideration Dick’s generosity with Graham’s widow. After only thirty minutes, the jury returned a verdict on July 31, 1929: guilty of manslaughter. Dick seemed unsurprised. In spite of the verdict, the judge took his age into account and gave Dick the
lightest possible sentencing: jail for five months, with the potential for time off for good behavior. He was also responsible for paying the prosecution’s legal fees. He was handcuffed and held in a cell at the Old Bailey and given the standard khaki-colored prison suit with broad black arrows before being hauled off alone in the Black Maria. First Dick went to Brixton Prison in South London and then to Wormwood Scrubs Prison in West London on August 1 to begin his term. Part of Dick was almost relieved to go to prison, just to have the ordeal over with. But he kept enough of his wits during the trial proceedings to attend to business beforehand: He sold large portions of his stock, rein-vested it in foreign stocks, and moved his assets into foreign bank accounts for added protection.

  At Wormwood Scrubs, Dick met a lot of colorful characters, but none of them were difficult or violent. Scrubs was considered a low-security prison, and Dick was assigned light chores—washing cells, making beds, and minor housecleaning. He was permitted to have newspapers, letters, and books as well, unlike other prisoners. Although neither Dick nor the warden ever confirmed it, there were widespread rumors that as a moneyed man of privilege and status, Dick was being furloughed on weekends and permitted to have conjugal visits with his girlfriends. Less far-fetched rumors included whispers that Dick was suffering from wicked alcohol withdrawal as well.

  Dick’s lawyers were trying to appeal the case to get him an early release, but Dick was too humiliated to appear on the dock in the black-striped prison garb. He told his lawyers he was depressed and dreaded contact with the outside world.

  Dick would be forced to face that moment on November 11, 1929, when he was finally released. Dick informed authorities that he would be leaving London and going to Germany via Harwich on November 29—perhaps to reunite with his German girlfriend. The experience marked a turning point for young Dick. He felt shame and remorse over the loss of Graham’s life and was tormented by the accident for the rest of his life. However, not even a profound lesson like a fatal drunk driving accident could force Dick to give up the bottle.

  Once eager for the social life of an American expat in Europe, Dick was now desperate for a new kind of escape.

  Release and Escape

  Dick’s fortunes were mixed when he regained his freedom. During his prison term, the stock market crashed on October 24, 1929. His finances and assets were virtually unscathed because of the transfers he had made to gilt-edged securities just months earlier.

  While he was still in jail, Dick was also slapped with a $1.5 million lawsuit for the Reynolds Airways crash in 1927.

  Hungry for normalcy, Dick returned to Winston-Salem after his stopover in Germany for the weddings of his sisters—Mary to Charles Babcock, a businessman who once worked with Ed Johnston in New York, and Nancy to Henry Walker Bagley. Both were married at Reynolda and Dick escorted both of them down the aisle. He learned that his brother, Smith, married Anne Cannon—a cousin to Dick’s former girlfriend Ella Cannon—just a month earlier. Anne’s father had discovered her and Smith in bed and drove them to a courthouse in York, South Carolina, the same night. They were married at midnight. Now Dick, the oldest of the four siblings, was the only one who wasn’t married.

  The weddings gave Dick a chance to reconnect with his sisters and brother, and they spent many late nights at Reynolda drinking, laughing, and playing practical jokes on each other. Dick was comforted by the company of his family, although he had a terrible feeling of regret hanging over his head. No one mentioned his jail time. He worried that he’d disgraced his family.

  Before he let those thoughts linger, Dick made another quick change of scene. He reinvested in several American businesses since stocks were available at bargain prices. Then he moved Reynolds Airways permanently to Winston-Salem, and bought up large chunks of RJR Tobacco stock at a cheap price. He informed his Uncle Will that he would haul cargo in his freighter, the Harpoon, so he could take advantage of the entrepreneurship clause that R.J. had put in his will, which gave the heirs two dollars for every dollar they earned on their own. It also gave him an excuse to get away again. Dick’s interests would soon take a new and lasting direction.

  CHAPTER 5

  Tragedy at Reynolda

  1932

  For two years, Dick had been sailing a new freighter, the forty-four-foot Harpoon, in Europe, Central and South America, and Africa with a German crew. Dick transported an occasional haul of tobacco and other freight in the Harpoon to make the case that his nautical cavorting was a proper “job,” but also to justify tax write-offs and give himself an excuse to sail. He carried cargo all over the world but didn’t get to traverse all the oceans as he intended. He later said, “I was always trying to get to the Pacific, but I was never able to get a cargo there.”

  Dick continued to argue with his Uncle Will about how his inheritance would be administered. Even after his embarrassing disappearing acts and jail time, Dick was intent on squeezing as much money out of his uncle as he could. He knew what he wanted and had learned early on how to take legal action to get it. Dick had even filed a lawsuit against Will and the trust in 1930 to fight for every last dollar he thought he was owed on the twofor-one matching funds clause. He lost.

  Undeterred, Dick dressed up his freighter and transformed it into something of a luxury yacht. The boat had accommodations for eight guests and was fully serviced by a crew of World War I veterans, who originated in Bremen. Germany was suffering from a serious depression, and cheap German labor was easy to come by. Dick paid each crewmember about a dollar a day and covered their room and board. His first mate was a former U-boat captain from the North German Lloyd line. The man claimed to have been the one who fired the torpedo that sank the Lusitania during World War I, and he was later decorated with a medal and citation for it. Dick saw the medal and took his word for it.

  Dick continued to pick up some of Germany’s best sailors and craftsmen for a pittance. He hired a steward named Cornelius and an excellent chef, Karl Weiss, who had once been a skilled carpenter and cabinetmaker and had lost many family members in the war. Weiss would go on to become Dick’s personal chef for the rest of his life. They came into Dick’s life when he was docked in Bremen and Cornelius and Karl rushed up the gangplank, begging to join Dick just as he was set to sail.

  Slain Brother

  In the summer of 1932, Dick sailed on his fancy freighter, bound for Dakar and Capetown with a German girlfriend (who may or may not have been Johanna Rischke), his crew, and two other friends from England.

  The freighter was docked in the Canary Islands when Dick received terrible news from his Winston-Salem lawyer and trusted confidant, Stratton Coyner, who had gone to great lengths to track him down: Smith had committed suicide by shooting himself. At the time, Dick was recovering from jitterbugs—severe symptoms that can be caused by either alcohol withdrawal or an infection in individuals who have been drinking heavily for long periods of time—and was suffering hallucinations, panic attacks, and fits of paranoia. Dick never said whether he had stopped drinking or had been drinking through an infection, but it was likely the latter.

  Alarmed and frightened by his hallucinations and uncontrollable trembling, he had himself chained to a tree in a desperate effort to stop the shakes. Dick never told anyone who did the chaining, although it was probably a member of his crew or the friends he had onboard—all of whom were apparently appalled by Dick’s condition. Dick never mentioned experiencing delirium tremens like this before or after.

  When Dick received the cable that Smith had shot himself, he responded to the crisis the way he always did—he drank even more. This time, the peace of the ocean next to him couldn’t keep him from drowning his sadness in alcohol.

  Dick’s girlfriend and guests didn’t know what to do except console him the best they could. But he wanted nothing to do with them and drank until he passed out. When he came to the next day, his guests had left and caught a different ship back to Europe.

  Dick sobered up. He had to get back home. Although
he was emotionally drained and booze-fogged, he managed to put together a wild itinerary in 1932 that would make today’s most sophisticated traveler swoon. Dick sailed to Dakar and anchored his boat, leaving his crew to sail the Harpoon back to Germany. He then took the first transatlantic passenger ship he could find—a French Aéropostale mail boat that was going from Dakar to the tiny port city of Natal, Brazil. They embarked on a rough, stormy journey across the ocean that took several grueling days. Dick wondered if he would make it across alive. He was horrified by the condition of the ship, and when they docked in Brazil, he advised the crew to get another ship for the return trip because this one wasn’t fit for sailing. They didn’t listen to Dick, and on the way back to Dakar the ship sank in the middle of the Atlantic, killing all onboard.

  Dick picked his way homeward. He wanted to get to Rio de Janeiro, where he might find a main airliner that would take him directly to the United States. But the only flights from Natal terminated in the city of Manaus, a former boomtown but now a remnant of the rubber trade located in the middle of the Amazon jungle. Dick would have to stay in Manaus for a day and night and then charter a plane to Rio. He bided his time visiting the Teatro Amazones and wandering through Tenreiro Aranha Square, all the while consumed with thoughts about Smith.