Chapter Forty-Three
THE CHAUFFEUR AND THE MAID
Around 6:45 p.m., Thursday, November 21, 1963, Olive Marie and Forrest had decided they had waited long enough. Olive Marie pulled the old truck into Clint Murdock’s long tree lined driveway, and slowly the tires crunched through the snow toward the main house off in the distance.
As they had sat earlier waiting at the entrance, they observed a number of shiny, black Cadillac limos turn into the driveway. Approaching the last limousine in the long line of cars parked along side the drive in front of the house Forrest said to Olive Marie, “Stop behind the last Cadillac. I will walk up to the house and join the other chauffeurs. You go on around and pull into the parking place behind the house and get into your maid’s uniform.”
Forrest got out of the truck, quietly shut the door, and began walking up the sidewalk past all the identical black, Cadillac limousines, but something did not seem right, what was wrong? The drivers? Where were the drivers? There were no chauffeurs in the cars and there were none milling around outside. He could easily see why they were not outside – don’t let anyone tell you different, it gets cold in Texas in the winter.
Walking around the side of the house, Forrest noticed a large building, which evidently had once been the carriage house during the horse and buggy days. It had been thoroughly remodeled, and for all intents and purposes was probably now being used as a guesthouse. It was sitting to the left rear of the main house. He could see lights shining from the windows that illuminated the snow outside, and he could hear muffled laughter.
Over to the entrance door he ventured. Slowly, he opened the door, not knowing what to expect, and stepped into a warm, brightly lit room. It was crowded with at least a dozen other chauffeurs, and cigarette smoke so thickly permeated the air one could barely see across the smoke filled room. All were dressed exactly alike allowing Clem’s chauffeur’s uniform to blend in like a pea in a pod.
“Hello,” the chauffeur closest to the door said. “Come in out of the cold and get warm, I’m Senator Harold L. Hunter, this guy,” he said motioning with his arm, “this is Senator Charles Tomlin. State Senator John Masters and the ex-Vice President Richard Nixon are playing cards at the table with J. Edgar Hoover and Lobbyist Wink Gullion. The rest are drivers for the other guests.” It was then Forrest realized the persons in the room were not merely just chauffeurs or drivers; they had lost their individual identity and had assumed the persona of their passengers. As he pondered this amusing development, Senator Hunter turned to Forrest and asked, “And you are?”
This caught Forrest by surprise; he had not anticipated this turn of events, and did not have a fake passenger identity to assume. Hesitating for a fleeting moment to organize his thoughts he blurted out, “I’m...I’m... Robert Scarburg... Robert Scarburg, Junior... pleased to meet you both,” he said sticking out his hand.
Quizzically looking at each other, Senator Hunter turned to Forrest and asked, “Robert Scarburg? Who is Robert Scarburg, Junior?” Placing an emphasis on Junior as tho’ it were a bad four-letter word. “I don’t believe we have had the honor.”
“Oh,” said Forrest, “he’s some Washington bigwig. I should have said “Captain” Robert Scarburg, Junior. He is head of some hush-hush group called SCAR.”
“SCAR, what in the devil is SCAR?” One of them asked.
“I told you, it was hush-hush. We’re not even supposed to be talking about it.” Forrest said, pressing his index and middle fingers to his lips.
“Sorry my good man, mums the word. Come on in and get something to drink. That will warm you up. We have hard spirits and coffee, what’s your pleasure.”
“I believe for now, I’ll just warm up with the hot coffee.”
Forrest had to admit, even though a tad on the snobbish side, they all seemed rather amicable. For the remainder of the evening, they sat around playing cards, smoking and drinking. Forrest sipping his coffee, the others were drinking about anything available in the liquor cabinet.
Around 9 p.m., the door opened with a flourish. In stepped a large ogre dressed in a chauffeur’s uniform that seemed a size or two small for his massive size. Through the dense haze of cigarette smoke Forrest could see he had a square cut jaw with piercing grey eyes - steel grey eyes that seemed to look right through a person. Forrest thought, there is something strange about his eyes! Forrest stared at the newcomer; I know now, he thought, those eyes – the eyes of a wolf. After removing his cap Forrest could not help but notice the brute’s blonde hair with its meticulously trimmed G.I. flattop. A flattop so flat one could measure it with a carpenter’s level. Following closely on his heels were two more bruisers dressed in dark business suits. The scowl on all three of their faces appeared as if they had been born with them.
Senator Hunter leaned over and whispered into Forrest’s ear, “Vice President Johnson and two of his Secret Service strong-arms. He is an uppity sort, never cared much for him. He thinks driving for JOHNSON,” (inflecting his voice on the name Johnson,) “makes him better than the rest of us lowly, mere, despicable chauffeurs.”
Without as much as an acknowledgement to the rest of the drivers in the room the three walked straight to the liquor cabinet, lifted a bottle of Cutty Sark they poured themselves a hearty two fingers of scotch. They did not engage in conversation with anyone in the room, they talked among themselves – their elitist attitude suggested the other drivers were too loathsome to have anything of importance to contribute.
Forrest thought, Goldmine... I have struck a goldmine, and didn’t even have to do anything to obtain my information. In this room were all the drivers of the men Ms. Margaret White had spoken about. At least Forrest now knew Lyndon Johnson attended a party at the estate of Clint Murdock November 21, 1963, the night before the Kennedy assassination. Maybe Olive Marie will find out more information, he thought.
It must have been around 11:30 p.m. when one of the Secret Service guys pulled out a two-way radio from his coat pocket and carried on a short conversation with someone on the other end. Putting the radio back into his pocket, he summoned the chauffeur Senator Hunter with the motion of his finger.
Senator Hunter’s driver walked quickly across to the three-man group. One of the agents leaned forward and whispered something in the Senator’s ear. Forrest could see Senator Hunter shake his head and then he nodded. Forrest wondered what THAT conversation was all about. Finishing the tête-à-tête, Senator Hunter donned his chauffeur’s cap and left the room. The first agent removed his radio from his pocket, stole a glance in Forrest’s direction, and made a couple of whisper-like statements into it. Turning from his radio, he spoke something unintelligible to the second of the two Secret Service agents who then immediately walked into the middle of the room and announced the party was over. All drivers were to return to their respective limousines.
Forrest had been sitting, and fortunately winning, at the table playing penny ante poker, listening to Vice President Nixon complain about his run of lousy cards, when all along Forrest thought he was winning due to his artful skill with the deck. “Darn,” Forrest said pushing back his chair, “I was nearly a quarter ahead!” He began to walk toward the door when, suddenly, his arm was grabbed by one of the Secret Service guys. “What the...hey”, he said, “what’s the big idea?”
“You need to come with us,” one of the big dudes said. Before he had a chance to protest Beefy Brute and his partner Burly Brute, physically dragged him toward a side door. Across the snow Forrest stumbled, and was pushed harshly down four concrete steps that led into the basement of the main house. The first agent opened the door, and unceremoniously shoved Forrest into the dark, dankness of a cold cellar. The only light in the room came from the door they just entered, but it was night outside and overcast, not much light was available to illuminate the interior of his basement dungeon. Off to one side Forrest could hear someone or something emitting muffled, grunting sounds. The noise was akin to a human or... or... a bear. Forrest
thought, I sure hope it isn’t the bear.
In the darkness, he could not recognize who or what it was. He heard someone rip fabric, or it sounded like someone tearing tape. It was – duct tape. The piece was securely stuck over his mouth. Now he was making the same grunting sounds he heard when he first entered the basement. In a way, he was glad, he knew the sound he heard surely wasn’t an animal it had to be human – a human with their mouth also duct taped.
He could hear the crackly noise of a two-way radio, but he could not see who answered; the second agent had tied a bandana across his eyes and bound his wrist tight with tape. He could only hear his response, “Okay... roger... yes they are tied up in the basement... they are not to leave this room... yes, understood... yes get rid of them after the ‘event’ tomorrow... roger... tie up loose ends... understood, over and out.”
Now Forrest realized the ‘they’ and ‘them’ meant there must be at least himself and one other prisoner in this basement. Two people? He was glad to have company but was afraid they might never meet, and the part about not leaving this room - that didn’t sound good either. He could hear the two agents walking away. One positioned himself next to the same door they entered. The other he could hear went up some wooden stairs, which obviously let to the floor upstairs. As soon as the upstairs door had closed, Forrest grunted once. The person on the far side of the room grunted once. He grunted twice, it returned the grunt two times. It was then he fully realized there undoubtedly was another person being held hostage in this basement along with himself.
“Shut up!” the guard at the basement door ordered. “Keep quiet or I’ll come smack you!!”
He wished he could talk to whoever was in this cellar imprisoned with him. The shooting of the President tomorrow was going to be a tremendous deal, the two of them sitting in this basement with their mouths taped shut and their wrists bound were small potatoes. He was thinking they were not going to survive their predicament. Especially after hearing the words, ‘get rid of them after the ‘event’ tomorrow’. Forrest knew the real meaning of the word ‘event’. He was scared. Throwing-up type scared. No one even knew where he and Olive Marie were. Olive Marie? He thought. What had he gotten Olive Marie into? Is she okay? He wondered if she was able to maintain her disguise?
Forrest, sitting there in the dampness figured out how the Secret Service found out about him – his announcement of driving for Captain Robert Scarburg. One of the chauffeurs obviously reported the information to the Secret Service. They may have been more muscle than brain, but it didn’t take those blue suited bozos long to figure out there wasn’t a Captain Robert Scarburg at the party.
If he could talk with the other person held prisoner with him, maybe they could come up with a plan. Darn my plans! He thought. Look where they have gotten me, these people will never allow us to leave and I will never be able to tell the world who the people are that’s attending this party. After tomorrow’s ‘event’ – we are going to die. They are going to kill us - they have nothing to lose. We are nothing but ‘loose ends’ to these people.
The time was 12:30 a.m., Friday, November 22, 1963.