In Cold Blood - Truman Capote [112]
Postmistress Clare, enjoying a coffee break at Hartman's Cafe, complained of the low volume of the cafe's radio. "Turn it up," she demanded. The radio was tuned to Garden City's Station KIUL. She heard the words ". . . after sobbing out his dramatic confession, Hickock emerged from the interrogation room and fainted in a hallway. K.B.I. agents caught him as he fell to the floor. The agents quoted Hickock as saying he and Smith invaded the Clutter home expecting to find a safe containing at least ten thousand dollars. But there was no safe, so they tied the family up and shot them one by one. Smith has neither confirmed nor denied taking part in the crime. When told that Hickock had signed a confession, Smith said, 'I'd like to see my buddy's statement.' But the request was rejected. Officers have declined to reveal whether it was Hickock or Smith who actually shot the members of the family. They emphasized that the statement was only Hickock's version. K.B.I. personnel, returning the two men to Kansas, have already left Las Vegas by car. It is expected the party will arrive in Garden City late Wednesday. Meanwhile, County Attorney Duane West . . ."
"One by one," said Mrs. Hartman. "Just imagine. I don't wonder the varmint fainted." Others in the cafe - Mrs. Clare and Mabel Helm and a husky young farmer who had stopped to buy a plug of Brown's Mule chewing tobacco - muttered and mumbled. Mrs. Helm dabbed at her eyes with a paper napkin. "I won't listen," she said. "I mustn't. I won't."
". . . news of a break in the case has met with little reaction in the town of Holcomb, a half mile from the Clutter home. Generally, townspeople in the community of two hundred and seventy expressed relief . . ." The young farmer hooted. "Relief! Last night, after we heard it on the TV, know what my wife did? Bawled like a baby."
"Shush," said Mrs. Clare. "That's me."
"... and Holcomb's postmistress, Mrs. Myrtle Clare, said the residents are glad the case has been solved, but some of them still feel others may be involved. She said plenty of folks are still keeping their doors locked and their guns ready . . ." Mrs. Hartman laughed. "Oh, Myrt!" she said. "Who'd you tell that to?"
"A reporter from the Telegram." The men of her acquaintance, many of them, treat Mrs. Clare as though she were another man. The farmer slapped her on the back and said, "Gosh, Myrt. Gee, fella. You don't still think one of us - anybody round here - had something to do with it?" But that, of course, was what Mrs. Clare did think, and though she was usually alone in her opinions, this time she was not without company, for the majority of Holcomb's population, having lived for seven weeks amid unwholesome rumors, general mistrust, and suspicion, appeared to feel disappointed at being told that the murderer was not someone among themselves. Indeed, a sizable faction refused to accept the fact that two unknown men, two thieving strangers, were solely responsible. As Mrs. Clare now remarked, "Maybe they did it, these fellows. But there's more to it than that. Wait. Some day they'll get to the bottom, and when they do they'll find the one behind it. The one wanted Clutter out of the way. The brains." Mrs. Hartman sighed. She hoped Myrt was wrong.