The Seal of Solomon (Alfred Kropp #2)(4)

Horace pulled the backpack from my hand and shoved it back into Kenny’s arms. Kenny looked at me and I nodded to him that it was all right, though I really wasn’t sure that it was. Kenny left, staggering under the weight. Betty disappeared into the kitchen while Horace tore the apron off.

“Sit, Al,” Horace hissed. “Act natural! Stick this under the sofa.” He handed me the wadded-up apron and I shoved it under the sofa before I sat down.

Horace flung open the door to reveal Mr. Baby-Face, a thin black briefcase in his hand and a puzzled expression on his chubby face.

“Is this the Tuttle residence?” he asked.

“You bet your sweet aunt Matilda it is!” Horace said. “Come on in. Take a load off.”

He had remembered the feather duster at the last second, hiding it behind his back as he waved the guy toward the family room.

“I’m Horace,” he said. “My wife, Betty, is in the kitchen, brewing.”

“Brewing?”

“Coffee. Decaf. Want some?”

“No, thank you, but perhaps a glass of water. It’s very warm for October, don’t you think?”

“Hot as Africa,” Horace said.

The bald guy had come into the family room. Horace trotted after him.

“And here he is,” Horace said. “Here is Alfred Kropp.”

“I know who Alfred Kropp is,” the bald guy said, smiling at me. He had very small teeth with sharp incisors, like a ferret, though I’ve never really studied a ferret’s mouth. He offered his hand and I took it without getting up. His hand was moist and soft.

“My name is Alphonso Needlemier, Alfred,” he said.

“What a pleasure it is to finally meet you.”

Behind him, Horace turned and shouted toward the kitchen, “Betty! Nix the coffee and bring us some ice water!”

“No ice,” Alphonso Needlemier said.

“Nix the ice!”

“But chilled, of course.”

“Chill it!” Horace yelled over his shoulder. “Take a load off, Mr. Needleman.”

“Mier,” the bald guy said.

“Mier?”

“Needlemier.”

Mr. Needlemier sat on the opposite end of the sofa and placed his briefcase on his lap. Horace sank into the lounger and tossed the feather duster behind the chair.

“You’ve been following me,” I said to Mr. Needlemier.

“I have.”

“Why?”

“Mostly to satisfy my own curiosity.”

“That killed the cat,” Horace said. “But who likes cats?” He yelled, “Betty! Water!” He smiled apologetically at Mr. Needlemier.

“The resemblance is not striking, but evident,” Mr. Needlemier said.

“The resemblance to what?” I asked.

“To Mr. Samson, of course.”

Just then Betty came into the room carrying a tray with three glasses of water. She had pulled her hair back into a bun, but some strands had come loose and hung down on either side of her face. Mr. Needlemier took a glass of water and thanked her. Horace glared.

“Coffee,” he said.

“You said nix the coffee.”

“Nix his coffee, not mine.”

Betty scurried back to the kitchen. Mr. Needlemier sipped his water and then set the glass on the coffee table.

“Alfred,” he said, “I am Bernard Samson’s personal attorney and executor of his estate.”

Alphonso Needlemier pulled a long white envelope from his coat pocket and held it toward me. It read: For Alfred Kropp in the event of my demise [signed] Bernard Samson.”

Below the signature were the words, in bold type, Personal and Confidential.

The flap was sealed in the old-fashioned way, with a glob of red wax imprinted with the image of a rider on a horse carrying a banner.

“I would have delivered this sooner, Alfred,” Mr. Needlemier said. “But I found it only two weeks ago while going through Mr. Samson’s papers. He was a very private man and I promise you I didn’t know of this letter’s existence.”

“Well, what are you waiting for, Al?” Horace said. His voice was shaking. “Open it!”

I slid my finger under the flap and tore the envelope open. Inside were two typewritten sheets of paper. Horace was leaning forward in the lounger. Mr. Needlemier studied me with a sad expression.

“Well?” Horace asked.

It read:

My dear Alfred,

If this letter finds you, then my time on earth has passed. Words cannot express my deep sorrow for not sharing the truth with you while I still drew breath. In time I hope you find it in your heart to forgive me (and your mother) for keeping your true identity a secret. I would have told you of your ancestry, but my journey has been cut short—such is the fate of one born into the line of the noblest of knights.

I pray on this, the eve of my final rendezvous with M. Mogart, that you have found a suitable home. If I have learned anything in my strange and secretive life, it is that Fortune often smiles in the darkest circumstance and it is when we reach that place between desperation and despair that we find hope. I know all too well how you must miss your mother and your uncle . . . I pray only that you understand that I have done everything within my power to see that you are kept safe, far from this dangerous business.