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."
Smith laughed. "I mean for your husband. What time would be best for killing him?"
"Oh," she said. Her brow wrinkled and she began to mutter, "Let's see, now ... home at five-fifteen, reads the paper ... takes a shower ... dinner at six-fifteen ... I can send the servants out at seven-thirty ... oh, I think eight will be perfect."
"Eight it is," said Smith, putting the information on paper. "Now for a bit of information about the house and grounds. Can't afford to bungle into the wrong place and foul up the job."
Mrs. Rogers opened her purse again and withdrew a folded sheet of paper. "I've got a floor-plan of the house here, with the address and everything marked off."