The Killer

Smith made a profitable business out of murder. It was all quite simple—he killed a man and then disposed of the body—forever!
The sign on the door said Ernest H. Smith, Private Investigator. The door opened and a woman came in. She was a brunette, about five-feet-two, wearing a yellow dress with black buttons. She carried a brown alligator handbag. I am Mrs. Wilma Rogers, she said. You were recommended to me.
Smith motioned to a chair in front of his desk. Sit down, Mrs. Rogers. Do you have a card?
She sat down and opened her handbag. She took out a small card and handed it to him. He looked at the printed words, Recommended to Smith. He opened a desk drawer and removed a small bottle of red liquid, spilling a few drops on the blank side of the card. Soon there was visible writing on it. Okay for any service, it said.
All right, Smith nodded, what can I do for you?
I want you to kill my husband, she said pleasantly.
Smith swiveled his chair around to face the typewriter, inserted a blank sheet of white paper, and began to type. Why do you want him killed?
He's stingy—he won't give me enough money.
How much money will he leave you, Mrs. Rogers?
Roughly two hundred thousand, she said. There's insurance, of course, but I understand we can't count on that.
Smith smiled. That's a nice sum. Now what time would be most convenient?
She shrugged her shoulders. Any time suits me.