“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 u
ncle . . . 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.
My dear son, I would have taken you in had I not believed doing so would have endangered you and your mother. Forgive me! You are my son, and though I have gone, I remain always your father.
Bernard Samson
I read the letter twice, then I folded it carefully, returned it to the envelope, and set the envelope on the little end table by the sofa.
Nobody said anything for a long time. Mr. Needlemier was looking kindly at me. Horace was glaring.
“Well—what’s it say?” he demanded in a loud voice.
“It is a privileged communication, Mr. Tuttle,” Mr.
Needlemier said.
“And I’m his guardian. Practically family. Nearly a father!”
“Not even close,” I told him.
Betty came back into the room carrying a cup of coffee.
“Oh, Alfred!” she said. “I completely forgot about you! What would you like, dear?”
“Maybe just a glass of water.”
She left again and Horace gave an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “You married?” he asked Mr. Needlemier. Mr. Needlemier didn’t say anything. He was still looking at me. “Good thing!” Horace said, which covered either possibility.