Super (10 page)

Hammond held his ticket punch in one hand, a lantern in the other.

Pryor watched Hammond deal with the temptation to use either one or both on this detective before making a rough military style about-face toward the train.

The detective followed a few seconds later, walking at a much slower pace than the conductor. A point needed to be made and he was making it.

“Did you see anybody go in or out of the compartment next to Wheeler’s?” Pryor immediately asked Ralph, who was in the vestibule of the observation car when Pryor got back on board.

“No,” said Ralph.

Pryor asked if Wheeler left his.

“No, sir. I brought him his dinner and then came back an hour later, took his tray out and made sure he was set for bed.”

Pryor followed Ralph to the observation car passageway.

“This one is occupied, correct?” Pryor asked Ralph, as they stopped in front of the door next to Wheeler’s.

Ralph said, “Yes, sir. A man who has been with us from Chicago. His ticket had the name Rockford.”

Pryor knocked on the door.

There was no answer.

Pryor knocked again and then put an ear to the door.

“I don’t hear anything moving in there. Where was he going?”

“All the way to Los Angeles,” said Ralph.

“He really did have a ticket?”

Pryor thought he saw a tinge of red come into Ralph’s light brown face but he probably imagined it. “Certainly, he had a ticket. Yes, sir, he had a ticket. Nobody rides the Super in my car without a ticket!”

“You got your master key? Open it up.”

“He may be up in the dining car, you know, sir.”

“Did you see him go up there?”

“No, sir.”

“Open the door, Ralph.”

Ralph didn’t have to use his key. The door was not locked.

The bunk, pulled down from the wall, was made up with sheets, blanket and a pillow all at the ready. But they were all undisturbed.

There was also no luggage in the rack and no toiletries. “When was the last time you saw this guy?”

“Last night when I made up the room.”

“What did he look like?”

“White as you.”

“Thanks. Age?”

“Hard to tell …”

“Closer to ten or one hundred? Come on, Ralph!”

“About thirty … or so.”

“Hair color?”

“Brown. Yes, kind of brown.”

“How was it cut? Anything else about his hair?”

“Curly. Yes, sir, now that I remember it was really curly.”

“How was he dressed?”

“Neat and tidy clothes—”

“Red, white and blue? What colors were his clothes?”

“Dark blue. Shirt, tie, suit even. Shoes, well …”

“What about his shoes?”

“They were black and shined to a fare-thee-well.”

Pryor resisted an urge to grab Ralph and maybe shake him. He moved on to the business at hand: “You sure you didn’t see him get off the train?”

“I’m sure but, as you know, detective, I can get awfully busy from time to time …”

Pryor moved quickly toward the door after having already returned in a flash to his thoughts about this being something other than suicide.

The only somewhat comforting thought had to do with the safety of President Truman. If there was in fact a killer, he obviously came only to take out Wheeler. The preplanned hearse proved that. Thus, it was most unlikely that a crazed man with a gun somewhere was prepared to wipe out Truman, Clark Gable or anyone else besides Wheeler on this particular run of the Super Chief.

A small, uncomfirmed comfort but a comfort at least.

Pryor moved on after Ralph verified that the two passengers traveling in the compartment on the other side of Wheeler’s—two movie men—were in the dining car having their usual early breakfast.

A few minutes later, Ralph did his one long/two short knocks.

The door opened and the porter slipped inside.

“A man’s been shot to death on the train,” Ralph said to Dale
L. Lawrence. “There’s a Santa Fe detective named Pryor on board. He may be coming through here before too long looking at everything, including empty bedrooms and compartments.”

Lawrence was still fully dressed and looked even worse than he had the night before. “I’ll turn myself in.”

“You can’t do that. Pryor’ll arrest me instead for letting you ride without a ticket.”

“I won’t tell him about that, I promise … if you’ll help me one more time.”

Ralph stared at the awful sight of the man before him.

Lawrence said, “President Truman’s on the train now, isn’t he?”

Ralph maintained his stare, saying nothing.

“Just tell me where he is on the train and I will say nothing about the ticket.”

Ralph, the dealmaker, told Lawrence what he wanted to know and left the compartment.

Jack Pryor returned to the observation car lounge, where President Truman and A. C. Browne were still sitting.

“Mr. President … Mr. Browne,” Pryor said, nodding to each.

“Am I right in surmising you’ve got a difficult situation on your hands?” said Truman.

“Yes, sir, I do,” Pryor said in as casual a tone as he could manage. “For the record, did either of you see a man come in here after I left you? A man in a dark suit, shirt and tie?”

“Nobody’s been here except the two of us, detective,” A. C. Browne said. Then he turned toward Truman and added, “But President Truman did hear a sound that could be of interest—even while you were still here.”

Pryor took a deep breath.

“That’s right,” said Truman. “A
pow!
My first reaction was that it was a gunshot. I heard a lot of those in World War One.”

“You were an artillery officer during that war, right?” Browne said.

“That’s true,” said Harry Truman. “I heard gunshots in my sleep for months afterward also, to tell you the truth.”

“What time was it, sir?” Pryor asked.

Truman looked over at Browne for some help. “It was before we stopped in Bethel, so I leave it to you, detective. You were here in the car with us, too. Did you hear anything such as that?”

“No, I didn’t,” said Pryor, “but I was in the back with Sanders, our passenger agent.”

“I didn’t hear it either,” said Browne. “But there was no question at the time that President Truman did.”

“Remember, though, that I’m an old man,” said Truman. “The Republicans used to accuse me of hearing cheers that weren’t there.”

“Thank you, Mr. President … Mr. Browne,” Pryor said. “I
would appreciate the two of you staying out of public view for a while until I can get this figured out a little bit more than I have.”

Harry Truman and then A. C. Browne stood up.

Browne asked Pryor, “Who was the dead man—the suicide—if I may ask?”

“A local Bethel man named Wheeler,” said Pryor.

“Otto
Wheeler?”

“Yes, sir. Did you know him?”

“Not personally but I knew of him. He was from a prominent grain elevator family—and a big Randallite.”

“The Randallites are no friends of mine,” said Truman to Browne. “They’re conscientious objector types who really came after me for bombing Hiroshima and Nagasaki.”

Browne said he’d heard that.

“Care to join me for breakfast, Browne?” Truman said. “They’ve already arranged to serve me in that private Turquoise Room above the lower lounge, farther up the train.”

“I’d be honored, sir.”

Harry Truman looked at his watch.

“See you in about an hour,” Browne said.

“I’ll be there.”

“Mr. President, I’ll escort you back to your compartment now,” said Pryor.

Pryor did so with a special pleasure because Truman’s gunshot report had pinpointed the time of Otto Wheeler’s death.

That, in turn, led to the most likely jurisdictional fact that
the Super had already crossed the line into Valerie County, Kansas, when the shot was fired.

“I am so honored,” said Josephs, a trim man in his forties in a starched white coat similar to those doctors wear. He was beaming. “I cut Mr. Edward G. Robinson’s hair on the Texas Chief. Did Errol Flynn’s hair—and mustache—twice. Judy Garland’s husband also came in for a shave once. But none of that or anything counts compared to you, Mr. Gable.”

Clark Gable was seated in the barber’s chair in the small barbershop at the end of the middle lounge car. A large white and blue striped cloth was fastened around Gable’s neck, covering his front.

“Just a regular shave,” he said. “Nothing fancy.”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

“Don’t touch the mustache,” Gable added.

“Not even a trim?”

“Don’t touch it.”

“Mr. Flynn sure did think I did well on his.”

“I’m not Mr. Flynn.”

“Yes, sir.”

Josephs used a brush to cover the rest of Gable’s lower face in a white foamy lather that he had mixed in a heavy white china shaving mug that bore the yellow Super Chief drumhead logo.
The emblem also appeared on ashtrays, towels, magazine folders, a variety of paper items and many other places throughout the train.

“There we go,” said Josephs. “I hope that feels good.”

Gable said nothing.

Josephs, after sharpening a straight razor on a long leather strap, began.

“I’ve never had a customer bleed to death on me yet, Mr. Gable,” said the barber, “if you’re thinking I might cut you.”

Gable grunted pleasantly.

Josephs continued to shave and make comments, most of which Gable ignored, for the next ten minutes until the job was finished.

The official charge for a shave was two dollars and fifty cents, but Clark Gable gave Josephs a five-dollar bill and told him to keep the change. Gable then honored Josephs’s request to autograph the bill.

“This is one five-dollar bill I am never spending,” said the barber.

The actor shook Josephs’s hand and headed back to his drawing room.

“That was Clark Gable, wasn’t it?” said the next customer, who had been waiting out in the passageway. He was an elderly man in a dark blue striped suit and bow tie.

“It sure was,” said Josephs, as he began preparing to shave the man in the same chair as Clark Gable.

“What’s he like?” asked the customer.