“His name is Knobs Whittaker; at least Knobs is what he goes by. The reason for the name is that on each side of his bald head, well above his ears, is a sort of knob. You’ve seen cattle that had their horns treated when they were calves and had no horns to speak of—just knobs?”
“Yes.”
“Well, his knobs are like that.”
“Sort of a dehorned Devil?”
“Exactly that, from what I hear.”
“There,” said the Chief after fumbling about in the pigeon holes of his desk, “is the address where he was last seen. He was seen entering the door that leads up the stairs to the second floor. I wish you’d go over there this morning and give the place the once over. You may see Knobs, though I doubt it. Anyway, fix the building in your mind and find out all you can about it.”
“Right,” said Johnny as he pocketed the slip of paper handed to him.
The place, he noted, was on Randolph near Franklin, not five blocks from his own room.
“Right down town,” he thought to himself. “Lot of wholesale shops in there; shoes, plumbing goods, machinery, and the like. Very respectable place. You wouldn’t look for anything queer in there; but then, you never can tell.”
In this conclusion Johnny was right.