Super (18 page)

There was an abrupt silence. A lull. Truman and Browne had been happy so far to do all the talking but now, for a count of three or so, both had run out of something to say.

Gable seemed to pick up on the fact that he had to talk. He said, “I’ve never been to the White House. That would have been fun.”

“Ike would probably invite you if you were really interested,” said Browne. “Some of my dad’s old Republican friends are still around. Would you like me to check into it?”

Gable shook his head. “No, no.”

Then he finished his drink and stood. “I hate to drink and run but I’ve got an appointment with a friend here on the train shortly and I have some work to do before we get back to LA in the morning.”

“A question before you go, Mr. Gable,” said Browne. “Have you heard anything about any movie stars’ being at risk from some nuclear testing in Nevada?”

“Not a thing,” said Gable. He shook hands with his two hosts, awkwardly thanked them for the drink and left.

Several moments of uneasy silence ensued.

“I think maybe we missed out on the famous charm of Mr. Clark Gable,” said Truman finally. “What do you think, Browne?”

A. C. Browne looked at his pocket watch and replied, “The man wasn’t here five minutes.”

“We’re clearly not interesting enough for a king,” said Truman.

They sat back down and continued on their own drinks, which had barely been touched.

“I was just thinking about something,” said Truman. “I’m pretty sure Clark Gable went to the White House when FDR was president. He was there with one of his wives, that actress Carole Lombard, who died in the airliner, for one of FDR’s fireside chats. FDR would usually invite an adoring crowd of fifty or so of his closest friends to watch him speak into the radio microphone. I was in the Senate at the time Gable came. A big to-do was made about The King paying a visit to the president. Gable and his wife may even have stayed for dinner with the Roosevelts. I think I remember something about their having a long chat with Eleanor—heaven forbid.”

Browne said nothing. He was just thinking about something else Gable had said.

“His aerial gunner and photography flying was over Germany and Belgium—
not
Italy, I remember now for sure,” Browne said, adding with a whack to his head, “and I remember for a fact now that they flew B-17s
not
B-24s.”

“What are we suggesting here, Browne?” asked Truman.

“I think we may be suggesting, at the very least, that Clark Gable is a man with no charm and a very bad memory about his own life,” said Browne. “Maybe all that drinking and womanizing he does has that kind of effect on a man.”

“Or could it be, Browne, that the man we had a drink with is some kind of imposter?” answered Truman. “Maybe that was not the real Clark Gable—a pretender to the throne?”

Darwin Rinehart was proceeding through a sleeping car passageway when he came across a man standing in the vestibule between cars. He was smoking a cigarette and facing the window.

Rinehart started to keep walking when he recognized, even from the back, who it was: Clark Gable.

“Hey, King Clark,” he said, on reflex.

Gable raised his right hand, the one with the cigarette, but didn’t turn around.

“It’s Darwin. Rinehart. Darwin Rinehart—again.”

Gable repeated the hand gesture but didn’t move his head or any other part of his body.

Rinehart raised his own right hand and the middle finger of it and thrust it silently toward Gable’s back.

And moved on.

A few seconds later, Gable, having seen everything in the reflection from the window, put out his Kent on the floor with
his foot. Then he turned around and raised the middle finger of his right hand off in the direction of the man who said he was Darwin Rinehart.

And moved on.

Still in Truman’s compartment with their drinks, Truman asked Browne, “Should we do something about the possibility that this Gable man is not for real?”

Browne had to think about that. “It’s probably none of our business, sir. But it might be wise to at least inform that Santa Fe detective on board.”

“Right. Our friend Pryor. Is there a law against posing as Clark Gable?”

“If there isn’t, there ought to be, Mr. President.”

“Where’s the do-nothing Congress when we need them?”

They decided to finish their drinks before seeking out Detective Pryor and sounding their False Gable alarm.

“Come to think of it, Browne,” said Truman after a few minutes, “how in the hell do I know for sure you’re really Albert Roland Browne’s son? You talk with a British accent and you wear that eyepiece thing.”

Browne took his monocle from a vest pocket, stuck it on his right eye and then leaned over and peered at Truman with the manner royalty would use on a commoner. “I say, old chap,
now that you mentioned it, how can I be certain you’re not really Thomas Dewey?”

“Because he has a mustache,” said Truman. “Just like Gable.”

Truman and Browne reported their imposter suspicions to Jack Pryor, and a few minutes later the Santa Fe detective took Ralph with him toward Clark Gable’s compartment.

“You sure there’s no woman in there with him now?” Pryor asked as they walked.

“Not unless he got her in there himself—all by himself, which is not the usual way. He had a couple last night but said he didn’t want any today,” said Ralph.

“So how many have there been so far on this trip that you know about?”

“Just those two last night, the first night out from Chicago. Normally he’d be up to five or six by now. I don’t know how he does it. He really is some kind of king, that’s for sure.”

Pryor stopped and faced Ralph.

“You pimp for him, don’t you? That is not only a violation of the rules of the Santa Fe, it’s against the law—particularly here in New Mexico where we are now.”

“I’m no pimp, sir,” said Ralph. “The women come to me, I
don’t go to them. I’m more of what you’d call a steward, like in the dining car. Instead of showing them a table, I show them Mr. Clark Gable.”

“Do the women pay you?”

“No, sir!” Ralph said indignantly. “What I’m doing I’m doing for Mr. Gable, not the women.”

Pryor had already had enough problems on this trip without this. But he had to do something about the Gable matter even though he wasn’t sure what exactly there was
to
do.

And that’s what he was still wondering as he knocked on the door to Gable’s compartment.

“Mr. Gable, sir. This is Jack Pryor with the Santa Fe Railroad police. I need to talk to you, sir.”

From the other side of the door, he heard a male voice. “Come back later. I’m busy.”

“It’s an emergency, sir. Please open the door.”

Pryor put an ear to the door. He heard movement. Maybe there was a woman in there after all.

In a few seconds, the door opened, but only about a third of the way. Clark Gable was standing there, dressed only in his red silk pajama bottoms. “What’s the emergency?” he said.

Pryor stuck his left foot hard against the door to prevent its being closed. He said, “If there’s a woman in there with you, sir, I need for you to ask her to get dressed and leave the drawing room.” Then, raising his voice, he added, “Do you hear me, ma’am?”

There was no answer.

“What’s this all about?” said Clark Gable.

“It’s about you, sir,” said Pryor, who motioned for Ralph to stay in the passageway.

Gable opened the door and stepped back for Pryor to come in. There was nobody else in the compartment—male or female.

“Are you the real Clark Gable?” Pryor asked, feeling slightly foolish. He had never before this Super trip laid eyes on Gable in person but he, along with most of the rest of the world, certainly knew what he looked like. Browne’s and Truman’s suspicions aside, this guy was definitely the spitting image of Clark Gable.

“Just look at me,” Gable said, throwing his arms out and to each side.

“President Truman and Mr. Browne thought some of the things you said to them didn’t add up,” Pryor said, the cop sternness in his voice fading.

“I have not been feeling well,” Gable said. “I was not in my best form when I was with them. I probably should have declined the invitation but how could I do that to a former president of the United States?”

Pryor apologized for bothering Gable and took a step to leave.

“No problem,” said Gable. “Just for the record, do you want me to say it, detective? One of the women did.”

“Say what, sir?”

“This: ‘Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.’”

Jack Pryor thanked Gable and completed his departure.

Back in the passageway, Pryor asked Ralph, “Do
you
believe that’s the real Clark Gable in there?”

“Either that or a twin, Mr. Detective Pryor,” Ralph replied.

Gene Mathews, looking up from his book and out the bedroom window, was reminded, as always, that the Santa Fe depot in Albuquerque looked more like a Spanish mission than a train station. There were porticoes, small curved windows and covered walkways and even a steeple atop the terminal building that would have done any Catholic church proud. Both it and the attached Alvarado Hotel were made of sand-colored stucco and had red slate roofs.

Spread out on the platform in front of the main entrance were fifteen or twenty people, mostly women and children, dressed up like Indians. They were holding up multicolored blankets, painted pottery, Indian dolls and other such things. The conductor had already announced that the train would stop here for ten minutes and everyone was encouraged to “stretch your legs and your pocketbooks.”

Neither he nor Rinehart ever got off anymore. In the early days, they sometimes did.

And there was Clark Gable, smoking a cigarette off to one side behind one of the Indian curios tables.

Gene Mathews, on a mischievous impulse, decided to have some fun with the King of Hollywood.

He grabbed two sheets of Super Chief stationery, quickly filled a page with writing and then exited his bedroom, walked down the passageway, stepped off the train and went over to Gable.