"In another hour we'll have all the medics in Massachusetts. Give us
six hours and we'll have 'em all over New England and part of Canada,
New York, and the fish along the Atlantic Ocean."
"Have you tried the non-medics?"
"Meaning?"
"Chiropodists, and the like. They aren't listed in the Medical
Register, but they will often take care of a cut or scrape."
McDowell laughed. "Just like a stranger to go to a foot specialist to
get a ripped scalp taken care of."
"Well, it is farfetched, but might be."
"I'm going to have the boys chalk all sorts, and we'll follow up with
the pharmacists. Does that feather-headed bird know how much money
he's costing the city, I wonder?" McDowell gritted his teeth a bit as
the phone rang again. "I wonder what this one has to say," he snarled,
and then barked: "McDowell," into the instrument.
"I have just seen the feather-headed man on Huntington Avenue,"
replied a gruff voice. "This is Dr. Muldoon, and I'm in a drugstore on
the corner of Huntington and Massachusetts."
"You've seen him? How did you know?"
"His hat blew off as he came out of the subway entrance here."
"Subway--?"
The doctor chuckled. "The Boston Elevated, they call it. He headed
toward Symphony Hall just a moment ago--after collecting his hat."
"How many people were there?"
"Maybe a dozen. They all faded out of sight because they're a bit
scared of that alien-star rumor. He grabbed his hat rather quickly,
though, and hurried out of the way as I came here to telephone."
"Stay there," snapped McDowell, "and I'll be right over."
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."
"Now, surrender yourself," said the brogue. "Go to this Lieutenant
McDowell. Explain the error. Tell them that you were afraid, that you'd
been hiding because of the ridicule attendant to the feathers on your
scalp. Then go to the press and demand satisfaction for their ridicule,
libel; throw the book at them. That will get us the publicity we want,
and as soon as the thing is explained, people will come in droves. But
first you can explain to McDowell--"
"And start now!" exploded McDowell, bursting in angrily. He pointed the
business-end of his revolver at them and waved them back. "Sit down,"
he barked. "And talk!"
"It was him," accused the feather-headed one. "He wanted me to do
this--to get into an argument. To get publicity. He can grow hair--I've
been as bald as an onion."
"Sure," drawled McDowell. "The jury will decide." He turned to O'Toole.
"Are you a doctor?"
"I am not a licensed Doctor of Medicine."
"We'll see if what you are doing can be turned into a charge of
practicing with no license."
"I'm not practicing medicine. I'm a follicologist."
"Yeah? Then what's this feather-business all about?"
"Simple. Evolution has caused every genus, every specimen of life to
pass upward from the sea. Hair is evolved from scales and feathers
evolved also from scales.
"Now," continued O'Toole, "baldness is attributed to lack of
nourishment for the hair on the scalp. It dies. The same thing often
occurs in agriculture--"
"What has farming to do with hair-growing?" demanded McDowell.
"I was coming to that. When wheat will grow no longer in a field, they
plant it with corn. It is called 'Rotation of Crops.' Similarly, I
cause a change in the growth-output of the scalp. It starts off with a
light covering of scales, evolves into feathers in a few days, and the
feathers evolve to completion. This takes seven weeks. After this time,
the feathers die because of the differences in evolutionary ending of
the host. Then, with the scalp renewed by the so-called Rotation of
Crops."
"Uh-huh. Well, we'll let the jury decide!"
Two months elapsed before O'Toole came to trial. But meantime, the
judge took a vacation and returned with a luxuriant growth of hair on
his head. The jury was not cited for contempt of court even though most
of them insisted on keeping their hats on during proceedings. O'Toole
had a good lawyer.
And Judge Murphy beamed down over the bench and said: "O'Toole, you
are guilty, but sentence is suspended indefinitely. Just don't get
into trouble again, that's all. And gentlemen, Lieutenant McDowell,
Dr. Muldoon, and Sergeant O'Leary, I commend all of your work and will
direct that you, Mr. McCarthy, be recompensed. As for you," he said
to the ex-featherhead. "Mr. William B. Windsor, we have no use for
foreigners--"
Mr. Windsor never got a chance to state that he was no foreigner; his
mother was a Clancy.