Free Super by Jim Lehrer Page A

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 DaleL. 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. “Iwould 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