The Seal of Solomon Read Free

this damn apron . . .”
    â€œI told you to tie it in a bow.” She bit her lip and worked at the knot behind Horace’s back. The doorbell rang again. Nobody moved. Horace waved the feather duster around in a figure eight. He reminded me of a fat, round majorette, though you don’t see many majorettes with his body type. Little dust motes danced and darted in the air. Horace snapped at Betty to never mind and put the broom away. The doorbell rang a third time.
    â€œYou want me to get that?” I asked.
    â€œNo!” said Horace and Betty at the same time.
    Then Horace said, “Al, you take the sofa, but don’t sit in the middle. Betty, put the coffee on and do something with your hair. You look like Ozzy Osbourne. Far end of the sofa, Al, you smell sweaty. Kenny, why are you standing there gasping like a guppy? Get outta here.”
    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.
    â€œ 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.
    â€œIs this the Tuttle residence?” he asked.
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œI’m Horace,” he said. “My wife, Betty, is in the kitchen, brewing.”
    â€œBrewing?”
    â€œCoffee. Decaf. Want some?”
    â€œNo, thank you, but perhaps a glass of water. It’s very warm for October, don’t you think?”
    â€œHot as Africa,” Horace said.
    The bald guy had come into the family room. Horace trotted after him.
    â€œAnd here he is,” Horace said. “Here is Alfred Kropp.”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œMy name is Alphonso Needlemier, Alfred,” he said.
    â€œWhat 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!”
    â€œNo ice,” Alphonso Needlemier said.
    â€œNix the ice!”
    â€œBut chilled, of course.”
    â€œChill it!” Horace yelled over his shoulder. “Take a load off, Mr. Needleman.”
    â€œMier,” the bald guy said.
    â€œMier?”
    â€œNeedle mier .”
    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.
    â€œYou’ve been following me,” I said to Mr. Needlemier.
    â€œI have.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œMostly to satisfy my own curiosity.”
    â€œThat killed the cat,” Horace said. “But who likes cats?” He yelled, “Betty! Water!” He smiled apologetically at Mr. Needlemier.
    â€œThe resemblance is not striking, but evident,” Mr. Needlemier said.
    â€œThe resemblance to what?” I asked.
    â€œTo 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.
    â€œCoffee,” he said.
    â€œYou said