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.
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.
Mr. Needlemier flipped the gold clasps on his briefcase. Horace gave a little jump at the sharp snapping sound.
“There is one other matter we should discuss, Alfred,” Mr.
Needlemier said. “As I mentioned, I am executor to Mr. Samson’s estate.” He pulled a legal-sized folder from the briefcase. He tapped it with his pudgy index finger. “Alfred, his will names you as sole beneficiary.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“That means you are due to inherit control over Samson Industries and his entire personal fortune valued at . . .” Mr. Needlemier glanced at the papers in the folder. “Yes, four hundred million dollars—give or take a million.”
3
A glass shattered and everybody jumped. Betty had come into the room with my water, and when Mr. Needlemier said “four hundred million dollars,” the glass slipped from her hand and smashed on the floor. She ran into the kitchen for a towel to clean up the water and broken glass.
All the color had drained from Horace’s face. He reminded me of a middle-aged Casper the Friendly Ghost.
“Naturally, as is usually the case in these matters, you are not due to gain control of the money until you reach the age of eighteen,” Mr. Needlemier said. “Until then a trustee will manage your inheritance.”
“A trustee?” I asked.
“Trustee,” Horace whispered.
“Someone to look over your financial concerns. A guardian of your interests, as it were.”
“Who’s the trustee?” I asked.
“Who? Yeah, who’s the who?” Horace whispered.
“Unfortunately, the will does not designate a trustee. That choice falls to me, as executor.”
“So who’s it gonna be?” Horace asked.
Just then Betty came back with a towel and a whisk broom, saying, “Oh, don’t you hate breaking a glass? You never can get all the little pieces and when they get in your foot—”
“So let’s stop the pu**yfooting around, Mr. Needlehiemer,” Horace said. “Who’s the trustee?”
Mr. Needlemier stared at Horace for a second. “I haven’t decided.”
“You haven’t decided?”
Mr. Needlemier shook his head. “That is one of the reasons I’m here.” He turned back to me. “I want to know Alfred’s wishes.”
“Alfred’s wishes?” Horace asked. “Alfred’s wishes! You’re telling me you’re gonna let a kid—and, forgive me here, Al, but a kid with not much wattage in the brains department— decide who manages four hundred million dollars?”
“Actually,” Mr. Needlemier said, “the figure is closer to a billion dollars, if you include the assets of Samson Industries.”
Horace’s mouth came open but no sound came out, as if the word “billion” had sucked all the air out of him.
“I’ll have to think about it,” I said.
“Of course,” Mr. Needlemier said. “It’s a great deal to think about.”
Horace got some of his breath back and whispered hoarsely, “I’ll help him. Alfred. Think about it. Al’ll need my help with that. The thinking.”
“Alfred means the world to us!” Betty called from the kitchen doorway.
“I was saving the news for a big surprise,” Horace told Mr. Needlemier. “But I guess this is a red-letter day for big surprises. See, Betty’s right; the kid means the world to us and funny thing is, Mr. Needlemanner, we’ve talked to our lawyer to get the ball rolling.”