“The millionaire who died a couple of days ago.” Shayne shrugged and tossed off the rest of his cognac. He crumpled the cups in a big fist and dropped them into a wastebasket, then closed the checkbook and shoved it aside. “All right, Miss Hamilton. Show her in.”

Shayne got to his feet behind the desk when Lucy ushered the prospective client into his office a few moments later. Miss Rogell looked to be a tough seventy. She was tall and angular, and had a seamed face that had the color and appearance of old leather. Brown hair that was liberally streaked with gray was drawn back tightly from her face into an untidy bun. She wore a gray silk suit with pleated skirt, and loose jacket that hung awkwardly from bony shoulders. Expensive white silk gloves were incongruous below brown and sinewy bare forearms. Service-weight hose accentuated thick calves, and her shoes were sturdy brown Oxfords that were probably hand-crafted.

Lucy said, “This is Miss Henrietta Rogell, Mr. Shayne,” and went out, closing the door to the private office.

Shayne blandly inclined his head and motioned to an upholstered armchair beside his desk. “Won’t you have a seat, Miss Rogell?”

She strode forward, flat-footed, and said, “Of course I’ll have a seat, young man. You don’t expect me to remain standing, do you? I expect this to be quite a lengthy interview.” Her voice matched her appearance. It was strong and deep without being harsh or masculine. She lowered herself solidly into the chair and planted both feet flat in front of her with knees together.

“Now then, before I waste any more of my time, I want to know exactly what your charges are.”

Shayne sat down in his swivel chair and leaned back comfortably. “My charges for what?”