In Cold Blood - Truman Capote [59]
felt "too old to fit in somewhere different." Still, he must work, and he wanted to. He wasn't, he said, the kind to kick off his shoes and sit by the stove. And yet it was true that the farm nowadays made him uneasy: the locked house, Nancy's horse forlornly waiting in a field, the odor of windfall apples rotting under the apple trees, and the absence of voices - Kenyon calling Nancy to the telephone, Herb whistling, his glad "Good morning, Paul." He and Herb had "got along grand" - never a cross word between them. Why, then, did the men from the sheriff's office continue to question him? Unless they thought he had "something to hide"? Maybe he ought never to have mentioned the Mexicans. He had informed Al Dewey that at approximately four o'clock on Saturday, November 14, the day of the murders, a pair of Mexicans, one mustachioed and the other pockmarked, appeared at River Valley Farm. Mr. Helm had seen them knock on the door of "the office," seen Herb step outside and talk to them on the lawn, and, possibly ten minutes later, watched the strangers walk away, "looking sulky." Mr. Helm figured that they had come asking for work and had been told there was none. Unfortunately, though he'd been called upon to recount his version of that day's events many times, he had not spoken of the incident until two weeks after the crime, because, as he explained to Dewey, "I just suddenly recalled it." But Dewey, and some of the other investigators, seemed not to credit his story, and behaved as though it were a tale he'd invented to mislead them. They preferred to believe Bob Johnson, the insurance salesman, who had spent all of Saturday afternoon conferring with Mr. Clutter in the latter's office, and who was "absolutely positive" that from two to ten past six he had been Herb's sole visitor. Mr. Helm was equally definite: Mexicans, a mustache, pockmarks, four o'clock. Herb would have told them that he was speaking the truth, convinced them that he, Paul Helm, was a man who "said his prayers and earned his bread." But Herb was gone. Gone. And Bonnie, too. Her bedroom window overlooked the garden, and now and then, usually when she was "having a bad spell," Mr. Helm had seen her stand long hours gazing into the garden, as though what she saw bewitched her. ("When I was a girl," she had once told a friend, "I was terribly sure trees and flowers were the same as birds or people. That they thought things, and talked among themselves. And we could hear them if we really tried. It was just a matter of emptying your head of all other sounds. Being very quiet and listening very hard. Sometimes I still believe that. But one can never get quiet enough . . .") Remembering Bonnie at the window, Mr. Helm looked up, as though he expected to see her, a ghost behind the glass. If he had, it could not have amazed him more than what he did in fact discern - a hand holding back a curtain, and eyes. "But," as he subsequently described it, "the sun was hitting that side of the house" - it made the window glass waver, shimmeringly twisted what hung beyond it - and by the time Mr. Helm had shielded his eyes, then looked again, the curtains had swung closed, the window was vacant. "My eyes aren't too good, and I wondered if they had played me a trick," he recalled. "But I was pretty darn certain that they hadn't. And I was pretty darn certain it wasn't any spook. Because I don't believe in spooks. So who could it be? Sneaking around in there. Where nobody's got a right to go, except the law. And how did they get in? With everything locked up like the radio was advertising tornadoes. That's what I wondered. But I wasn't expecting to find out - not by myself. I dropped what I was doing, and cut across the fields to Holcomb. Soon as I got there, I phoned Sheriff Robinson. Explained that there was somebody, prowling around inside the Clutter house. Well, they came raring right on out. State troopers. The sheriff and his bunch. The K.B.I. fellows. Al Dewey. Just as they were stringing themselves around the place, sort of getting ready for action, the front door