"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."