by Jim Lehrer
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.
“Mr. Gable, I am so sorry to interrupt your privacy,” he said. “I’m Gene Mathews. I work with Dar Rinehart. He’s still on the train—taking a nap.”
Gable, who was clearly not trying to avoid being seen, said nothing.
“We have an idea for a movie that would be a kind of remake of your wonderful The Hucksters, at least in that it takes place mostly on a train—this train, the Super Chief. You would be the male hero, Eva Marie Saint would be the love interest, James Mason would be the villain. We would get Hitchcock to direct.”
Gable took a last draw from the inch that remained of his cigarette, tossed it away and, quickly pulling out his pack of Kents, extracted another one and lit it with a silver Zippo lighter.
Obviously, thought Mathews, The King was as deadly a serious smoker as he was a boozer and womanizer.
But he was no talker. Clark Gable had yet to give any real sign that he was even aware of the man who had come up to him, much less heard a word he said or uttered a response.
“As I’m sure you remember, Mr. Gable, there was a scene in The Hucksters that happened right here almost where we’re standing. You and Ava Gardner came down from the train, she was holding your right arm. An Indian man held up a suit and said you could have it for ten dollars. You said you didn’t need a suit and he said it was for a child …”
Mathews saw nothing in Clark Gable’s face that signaled even the remotest flash of recognition or interest. Maybe Rinehart was wrong when he told that Santa Fe kid that actors never forget their movie characters, scenes or lines. Whatever, Clark Gable as an Albuquerque curio shopper was definitely no Rod Steiger as a pig farmer.
Mathews was thinking Clark Gable was a bad actor, a real jerk, a king of rudeness, and maybe his breath really was bad, too.
“Great movie idea,” said the muted voice of Clark Gable.
“Thank you, thank you, sir.”
“Write it down and give it to me,” said Gable. “I’ll show it to somebody.”
“Your agent, your studio?”
“Yes, right. That’s what I’ll do.”
Mathews reached into his pocket and pulled out a sheet of Super Chief stationery. The words En route were printed in thin type below the Santa Fe emblem and the words Super Chief that covered the top of the page.
He had written in large letters below that:
THE SUPER CHIEF
A major motion picture starring Clark Gable, Eva Marie Saint and James Mason. Directed by Alfred Hithcock. Produced by Darwin Rinehart. Opens at Dearborn Station in Chicago, takes place mostly on the Santa Fe Super Chief. Ends at Mount Rushmore with the death of Mason, who is a renegade spy who has been trying to steal atomic testing secrets. Gable and Saint, both U.S. undercover agents, fall in love, throw Mason off the top of the nose of Abraham Lincoln at Mount Rushmore.
Respectfully submitted,
Gene Mathews on behalf of Darwin Rinehart
Mathews handed the paper to Gable, who, without a glance at what was on it, folded it and stuck it into a pocket. “Thanks,” he said. “Nice talking to you.”
Then Gene Mathews took out another sheet of stationery. He scribbled a few sentences on it and gave it to Gable. “Could I have your autograph, Mr. Gable? There at the bottom of the page would be great.”
“Sure,” said Gable. He took the pencil, scrawled a signature and handed back the paper.
“Thank you, sir,” said Gene Mathews. “You have made my life.”
Clark Gable, suddenly coming to life, smiled broadly and walked away. Mathews watched as The King charmed, chatted up and signed his name for other fans from his kingdom.
Mathews figured that he may not have remembered his characters like a movie star but Clark Gable definitely enjoyed the attention that came with being a movie star.
For Gene Mathews, what mattered most was that he had walked away with a document that said:
I hereby state that Darwin Rinehart had the idea for me to play in a movie on the Super Chief starring Eva Marie Saint and James Mason that ends on top of Mount Rushmore.
Underneath that was the signature Clark Gable.
Mr. Truman decided to take his chances with the passengers and other members of the public who might be around the Albuquerque station. He needed some exercise, some fresh air.
So did A. C. Browne. And, suddenly, there they were together walking along side by side. Neither said a thing at first except in body language, to welcome the other’s company.
Nobody bothered them. Some waved and nodded but they left the thirty-third president of the United States alone to talk to his friend, whoever he was.
A. C. Browne provided him cover—a form of protection.
“How have you occupied your time since we last spoke?” Truman asked.
“Banging away on the typewriter, sir.”
“What kind of scary television story are you writing, Browne, if I may ask?”
“It’s about how television programs are beginning to affect movie making since the war. I got the idea from Jimmy Stewart. He was a friend of my father’s and we’ve remained in touch. I’m going to stay with him while I’m in California, in fact.”
“If you want to know what I think, there aren’t enough television sets out in the country to amount to an effect on anything,” said Truman, using his walking stick to dismiss the thought. “But maybe one day there will be. You can quote me on that, if it will help your story.”
“Speaking of quoting you, Mr. President,” said Browne, carefully.
“That was a joke, Browne, for god’s sake. I don’t know anything about movies or television and don’t give a damn about finding out.”
“I was thinking about doing another piece instead of the TV one,” Browne said. “I was wondering what you would think if I wrote about what we’ve been talking about, Mr. President … not only nuclear testing but the other things as well. A kind of ‘Conversation with President Truman on the Super Chief’ story. I’m sure Reader’s Digest or one of the other magazines would jump at it …”
Truman stopped abruptly, looked at Browne and then strode off as fast as before.
A. C. Browne had had a sudden flash that Harry S Truman might whack him across the head with his walking stick.
“Permission denied, Browne.”
“I certainly wouldn’t write it without your permission, that’s for sure,” Browne said. “But you’ve known from the beginning, Mr. President, what I do for a living.”
“What’s the penalty for killing a son of Albert Roland Browne?”
“Same as it is for killing a son of anyone else—unless you do it in Kansas.”
“What do you mean?”
“In Kansas it means automatic hanging without a trial. You would be taken directly to the nearest tree, strung up and lynched.”
“Where are we now?”
“New Mexico.”
“What would happen if I beat you to death here?”
“You would get a trial before they hanged you but only before a jury of Republicans.”
“You’ve got quite a mouth on you, Browne.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
“I didn’t mean the way your mouth looks.”
A. C. Browne laughed, out of nervousness and confusion as much as anything. This was a most interesting man, this Harry S Truman. How much of what they had just said to each other was simply fun talk? No wonder Truman was successful at politics. Keep them smiling, keep them guessing.
“Speaking of your mouth, Browne, is it just my imagination or has that British accent of yours diminished a bit?”
Browne’s smile quickly disappeared. He said, “So that’s a No on the story—for sure?”
“That’s right.”
“What about if I left out everything about Dale Lawrence?”
“Without him there’d be no story, would there?”
The howling Whaa! of the Super Chief had sounded more than once. Conductors and porters were yelling “All aboard!”
Truman and Browne stopped to turn back to reboard.
“I wonder what happened to Lawrence? I assume he’s still on the train,” Browne said, as he and Truman walked.
“A porter told me that our friendly Santa Fe detective put him off the train back at Dodge City,” said Truman.
Jack Pryor had spent most of his time during the ten-minute Albuquerque stop talking to an FBI agent.
“Let me guess—you’re with the FBI,” Pryor had said to a man who was standing off to one side of the steps that led down into the Indian curios store and terminal building.
Pryor knew at a glance that he was an FBI agent. The guy was in his late thirties, trim, average-sized and wearing a dark felt hat with the brim turned slightly down, a dark blue suit, a white straight-collar dress shirt and a solid rust-colored tie. He held a thin leather valise under his left arm, his coat was unbuttoned and a hand was free: to be at the ready to quickly grab a pistol from a hip holster. Recognizable as standard FBI in every respect from fifty yards or beyond.
In response to Pryor’s greeting, the agent flinched, then smiled and said, “You must be Pryor of the Santa Fe.”
“I am indeed.”
“Could I see some ID? It’s just routine.”
Pryor opened and then handed over the billfold-style leather folder that contained his five-pointed gold Santa Fe Special Agent badge on one side, a card with his photo and official identification on the other.
The FBI man checked the credentials closely and then handed them back. “Would you like to see mine?”
Jack Pryor had to resist a laugh when he said, “I know you’re FBI. All I need to know is your name.”
But suddenly the FBI man was not looking at Pryor anymore. His eyes were on somebody else on the station platform.
“My god, that’s Harry Truman,” said the agent.
“That’s right,” said Jack Pryor as if it were routine. “He’s traveling on the Super Chief.” Of course, he was riding on the Super Chief.
The agent was excited. He said, “Is that Winston Churchill with him?”
Pryor said, as if speaking to a small boy, “No, no. He’s just a famous Kansas newspaper editor. His name is Browne.”
“Are you on the train to protect Truman?”
“Kind of, yeah. You were about to tell me your name?”
“Lyons—sorry,” said the agent. “Rob Lyons. I understand a county in Kansas has assumed jurisdiction over your Super Chief death case.”
“That’s right. Valerie County, Kansas—Bethel’s the county seat. That’s where the train was when the body was found and, checking times from a witness, we know that was where the shot was fired.”
“My assignment was to meet this train, liaison with you and offer the assistance of the bureau. Do you need anything from-us?”
Jack Pryor shook his head and said only, “No, but thanks. I’ve locked down the compartment. In LA we’ll strip sheets and other items from the bed where the victim was found and see if the sheriff in Kansas wants anything sent back to him.”
Agent Lyons nodded knowingly, officially. He said, “Until we got the word about the Kansas decision we were prepared to make a move in a big way. Death in interstate commerce, that kind of thing. Maybe seize the entire car where the death occurred and interview passengers and crew.”
Pryor had assumed all that, of course. He was amused by the thought of the fit Conductor Hammond would have thrown to all that. Unhook and
remove the observation car here in Albuquerque? You can’t do that! This car belongs to the Santa Fe Railroad! Interview all the passengers and crew? You can’t do that. This is the Super Chief. We have a schedule to keep!
Agent Lyons extended his right hand to Pryor. “Well, we’ll leave it here. Have a good evening.”
Pryor thanked him for coming down to the station.
Lyons started to leave but stopped. “Is that Clark Gable?” he asked. “Is Clark Gable on this train, too?”
Jack Pryor whipped around. There was Gable waving to people, shaking hands, signing autographs. Fortunately from Pryor’s view, the Gable-doubting President Truman and his Kansas newspaperman friend had walked in the opposite direction down the long platform by then.
“You bet,” Pryor said. “If you’d like to meet him, come on, I’ll introduce you.”
Agent Lyons beamed. “My mother adores this guy. She’ll never believe it when I tell her.”
“Mr. Gable,” said Jack Pryor, stepping in front of Gable. “I have a man here who’d love to meet you. This is Special Agent Lyons of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
Lyons shook the right hand of The King. “This is a real honor, Mr. Gable,” he said.
“I’d better get back on the train—right now,” said Gable quickly. “Wouldn’t want to be left in Albuquerque.”
He turned and almost ran back to the Super Chief.
“I can’t believe it,” said FBI Agent Lyons. “President Truman and Clark Gable—on the same train.”
“All in a day’s work on the Santa Fe,” said Santa Fe agent Pryor. “If you’d like to switch from the FBI to the Santa Fe, let me know. I’ll put in a good word.”
Agent Lyons said he’d take a pass.
At 9:45 a.m., an hour and a half behind schedule, the Super Chief eased into Union Station at Los Angeles. The various emergency-related stops and pauses had caused the delay.
But it was still a major occasion. The arrival of the Super Chief always was, with chatter from people, noise from the trains and the baggage carts, the sounds and excitement of return, the pleasure of arrival. Home again for some, California here I am! for others. Chauffeurs and assistants for some, taxi and bus rides for others.