"So let's talk to Slater."
But the intercom said, "He hasn't come on duty yet."
"He has the room at the head of the stairs," Thornberry said.
The door was locked, but the psychologist produced a set of master keys.
"I want a set of those, too," Bennington said.
The room was heavy with the smells of cheap whiskey, stale cigarette smoke and human sweat. Two figures were sprawled on the bed. A hairy, bearlike man, Slater; a big well-built brunette.
Thornberry squinted through the gloom, then turned on the lights. "That's Mona Sitwell," he said, "and I'm sure she was supposed to be on orders to leave here two weeks ago."
Bennington remembered the case, the spinster who had found her parents a hindrance to her extensive enjoyment of male companionship. She had literally chopped up their objections.
"Follow through on the orders you give sometime," Bennington said dryly. "You may meet a few more surprises."
The man on the bed stirred, threw his arm up over his eyes. "What do you want?" he mumbled sleepily.