An old man stood there in morning dress. His scalp showed pink through wisps of fine white hair. He inclined his head briefly, a token bow, but his blue eyes were frosty and remote. Rising to the solemnity of the occasion, I fished in my bag and handed him a card without speaking.

“Very good, miss. Mr. Humboldt will see you now. If you’ll follow me …”

He walked slowly, either from age or from some concept of a butler’s proper gait, giving me time to gawk in what I trusted was a discreet fashion. About halfway along the length of the building he opened a door on the left and held it for me to enter. Looking at the books lining three walls and the opulent red-leather furniture in front of a fireplace in the fourth, my keen intuition told me we were in the library. A florid man, heavy without being corpulent, sat in front of the fire with a newspaper. As the door opened he put the paper down and got to his feet.

“Ms. Warshawski. How good of you to come on such short notice.” He held out a firm hand.

“Not at all, Mr. Humboldt.”

He motioned me to a leather armchair on the other side of the fire from him. I knew from the Who’s Who entry that he was eighty-four, but he could have said sixty without anyone raising an eyebrow. His thick hair still showed a touch of pale yellow, and his blue eyes were sharp and clear in a face almost free of wrinkles.

“Anton, bring us some cognac—you drink cognac, Ms. Warshawski?—and then we’ll be fine on our own.”

The butler disappeared for perhaps two minutes, during which my host courteously made sure the fire wasn’t too hot for me. Anton returned with a decanter and snifters, poured, carefully placed the decanter in the center of a small table at Humboldt’s right hand, fiddled with the fire tongs. I realized he was as curious as I about what Humboldt wanted and was trying to think of ways to linger, but Humboldt dismissed him briskly.

“Ms. Warshawski, I have an awkward matter to discuss, and I beg your indulgence if I don’t do so with maximum grace. I’m an industrialist, after all, an engineer more at home with chemicals than beautiful young women.” He had come to America as a grown man; even after close to sixty years a mild accent remained.

I smiled sardonically. When the owner of a ten-billion-dollar empire starts apologizing for his style, it’s time to hold tightly to your purse and count all your fingers.

“I’m sure you underestimate yourself, sir.”

He gave me a quick, sidelong glance and decided that warranted a barking laugh. “I see you are a careful woman, Ms. Warshawski.”

I sipped the cognac. It was staggeringly smooth. Please let him call me for frequent consultations, I begged the golden liquid. “I can be reckless when I have to, Mr. Humboldt.”

“Good. That’s very good. So you’re a private investigator. And do you find it a job that allows you to be both careful and reckless?”