He made a rapid search of the two sleepers, and found no burglarious implements. But separate from the bunch of keys on Varetti's gold trouser chain, he found a single key in one waistcoat pocket. He took it to the front door and tried it. It worked.
He came back, showed it to the girl, and put it in his own pocket.
"They had a key," he said. "So by your own count, they must be pals of your boy friend. Does that help?"
She didn't answer.
"I might ask them some questions," he said. "How would you like that?"
"I'd like that," she said almost intensely.
He looked at Varetti and Walsh again; but they showed no signs of life whatever, and he regretted a little that he had dealt with them quite so vigorously. But the real motive of his question had been to get her reaction. The two men themselves were obviously dyed-in-the-wool mobsters of an older school, who would endure great persuasion before they opened up their souls and became confidential. And that would take time — quite probably, too much time.
Simon located a closet full of feminine fripperies, and gave it a quick inspection. A suit of masculine pajamas hanging just inside interested him quite a little — even if Barbara Sinclair had a weakness for masculine modes, they would obviously have been too big for her. But he made no remarks about them. He heaved the two mobsters in, one after the other, and locked the door.
"They'll keep for a bit," he said; and then his eye fell again on the rawhide bag which had damaged his shin.
He pointed to it.