McDowell and Doc jumped into the car and went off with the siren screaming. McDowell cursed a traffic jam at Copley Square and took the corner on one and one-half wheels into Huntington. They ignored the red light halfway up Huntington, and they skidded to a stop at Massachusetts Avenue to see a portly gentleman standing on the corner. He wasted no time, but jumped in the car and introduced himself as Dr. Muldoon. "He went this way," pointed the doctor. The car turned roughly and started down the street. They combed the rabbit-warren of streets there with no sign of the feather-headed man at all. McDowell finally gave up. "There are a million rooming houses in this neighborhood," he said sorrowfully. "He could lose himself in any one of them." "I'm sorry," said the doctor. "It's funny that this cut scalp hasn't caused him to turn up somewhere." "That's what we'd hoped for," said McDowell. "But either the guy is treating himself or he's got an illegal medic to do the job." "From what you say--a piece of scalp ripped loose--it is nothing to fool around with. How big was the piece?" "About as big as a fingernail," grinned McDowell. "Most dangerous. He might die of infection." "I wonder if he knows that?" "I wouldn't know," said Dr. Muldoon. "Well, I've combed the doctors. Now I'm going after the dermatologists, chiropodists, osteopaths, and pharmacists. I might as well take a swing at the chiropractors, too, and maybe hit that institution down on Huntington near Massachusetts. They might know about him." McDowell looked up at the second-story offices that bordered Massachusetts Avenue between Huntington and Boylston and shook his head. "A million doctors, dentists, and what-nots. And what is a follicologist?" "A hair specialist." "A what?" exploded McDowell. He jammed on the brakes with a hundred and seventy pounds of man aided with some muscle-effort against the back of the seat. The police car put its nose down and stopped. But quick. Traffic piled up and horns blasted notice of impatience until McDowell jumped out, signaled to a traffic cop to unsnarl the mess. Then McDowell raced into the office. * * * * * He paused at the door marked: Clarence O'Toole, Follicologist. McDowell paused, listening, for two voices were coming through the door. One was rumbling, low. The other was in a familiar brogue. "But this hurts," complained the rumble. "Naturally. Any scalping hurts. But money will ease any hurt." "But where's this money?" "You are to get ten percent of my profit for a year. That plus a good head of hair. Isn't that enough?" "Ordinarily, yes. But I'm in a jam, now. The police are looking for me with blood in their eyes."