spelled Cohen, Cohan, Cohn, Kohn or Coen?

"If I have to take a Jewish census again tonight I'll die," he told
himself desperately, and went back to the art shop.

The sign read: B. COHN'S ART SHOP.

"I wish I knew a bootlegger's joint," poor Peck complained. "I'm pretty
far gone and a little wood alcohol couldn't hurt me much now. Why, I
could have sworn that name was spelled with an E. It seems to me I noted
that particularly."

He went back to the hotel telephone booth and commenced calling up all
the B. Cohns in town. There were eight of them and six of them were out,
one was maudlin with liquor and the other was very deaf and shouted
unintelligibly.

"Peace hath its barbarities no less than war," Mr. Peck sighed. He
changed a twenty-dollar bill into nickles, dimes and quarters, returned
to the hot, ill-smelling telephone booth and proceeded to lay down a
barrage of telephone calls to the B. Cohns of all towns of any
importance contiguous to San Francisco Bay. And he was lucky. On the
sixth call he located the particular B. Cohn in San Rafael, only to be
informed by Mr. Cohn's cook that Mr. Cohn was dining at the home of a
Mr. Simons in Mill Valley.

There were three Mr. Simons in Mill Valley, and Peck called them all
before connecting with the right one. Yes, Mr. B. Cohn was there. Who
wished to speak to him? Mr. Heck? Oh, Mr. Lake! A silence. Then--Mr.
Cohn says he doesn't know any Mr. Lake and wants to know the nature of