The Tower Treasure (3 page)

“Hello, Mother!” said Frank, as he pushed open the kitchen door.

Mrs. Hardy, a petite, pretty woman, looked up from the table on which she was stuffing a large roasting chicken and smiled.

Her sons kissed her affectionately and Joe asked, “Dad upstairs?”

“Yes, dear. He's in his study.”

The study was Fenton Hardy's workshop. Adjoining it was a fine library which contained not only books but files of disguises, records of criminal cases, and translations of thousands of codes.

Walking into the study, Frank and Joe greeted their father. “We're reporting errand accomplished,” Frank announced.

“Fine!” Mr. Hardy replied. Then he gave his sons a searching glance. “I'd say your trip netted you more than just my errand.”

Frank and Joe had learned early in their boyhood that it was impossible to keep any secrets from their astute father. They assumed that this ability was one reason why he had been such a successful detective on the New York City police force before setting up a private practice in Bayport.

“We ran into some real excitement,” Frank said, and told his father the whole story of Chet's missing jalopy, the wrecked car which they suspected had been a stolen one also, and the attempted holdup at the ferryboat office.

“Chet's counting on us to find his car,” Joe added.

Frank grinned. “That is, unless the police find it first.”

Mr. Hardy was silent for several seconds. Then he said, “Do you want a little advice? You know I never give it unless I'm asked for it.” He chuckled.

“We'll need a lot of help,” Joe answered.

Mr. Hardy said that to him the most interesting angle to the case was the fact that the suspect apparently used one or more wigs as a disguise. “He may have bought at least one of them in Bayport. I suggest that you boys make the rounds of all shops selling wigs and see what you can find out.”

The boys glanced at the clock on their father's large desk, then Frank said, “We'll have time to do a little sleuthing before closing time. Let's go!”

The two boys made a dash for the door, then both stopped short. They did not have the slightest idea where they were going! Sheepishly Joe asked, “Dad, do you know which stores sell wigs?”

With a twinkle in his eyes, Mr. Hardy arose from the desk, walked into the library, and opened a file drawer labeled “W through Z.” A moment later he pulled out a thick folder marked WIGS:
Manufacturers, distributors, and retail shops of the world.

“Why, Dad, I didn't know you had all this information—” Joe began.

His father merely smiled. He thumbed through the heavy sheaf of papers, and pulled one out.

“Bayport,” he read. “Well, three of these places can be eliminated at once. They sell only women's hair pieces. Now let's see. Frank, get a paper and pencil. First there's Schwartz's Masquerade and Costume Shop. It's at 79 Renshaw Avenue. Then there's Flint's at Market and Pine, and one more: Ruben Brothers. That's on Main Street just this side of the railroad.”

“Schwartz's is closest,” Frank spoke up. “Let's try him first, Joe.”

Hopefully the boys dashed out to their motorcycles and hurried downtown. As they entered Schwartz's shop, a short, plump, smiling man came toward them.

“Well, you just got under the wire fellows,” he said, looking up at a large old-fashioned clock on the wall. “I was going to close up promptly tonight because a big shipment came in today and I never have time except after business hours to unpack and list my merchandise.”

“Our errand won't take long,” said Frank. “We're sons of Fenton Hardy, the detective. We'd like to know whether or not you recently sold a red wig to a man.”

Mr. Schwartz shook his head. “I haven't sold a red wig in months, or even rented one. Everybody seems to want blond or brown or black lately. But you understand, I don't usually sell wigs at all. I rent 'em.”

“I understand,” said Frank. “We're just trying to find out about a man who uses a red wig as a disguise. We thought he might have bought or rented it here and that you would know his name.”

Mr. Schwartz leaned across the counter. “This man you speak of—he sounds like a character. It's just possible he may come in to get a wig from me. If he does, I'll be glad to let you know.”

The boys thanked the shopkeeper and were about to leave when Mr. Schwartz called, “Hold on a minute!”

The Hardys hoped that the dealer had suddenly remembered something important. This was not the case, however. With a grin the man asked the boys if they would like to help him open some cartons which had arrived and to try on the costumes.

“Those folks at the factory don't always get the sizes marked right,” he said. “Would you be able to stay a few minutes and help me? I'll be glad to pay you.”

“Oh, we don't want any money,” Joe spoke up. “To tell you the truth, I'd like to see your costumes.”

Mr. Schwartz locked the front door of his shop, then led the boys into a rear room. It was so filled with costumes of all kinds and paraphernalia for theatrical work, plus piles of cartons, that Frank and Joe wondered how the man could ever find anything.

“Here is today's shipment,” Mr. Schwartz said, pointing to six cartons standing not far from the rear entrance to his shop.

Together he and the boys slit open the boxes and one by one lifted out a king's robe, a queen's tiara, and a Little Bopeep costume. Suddenly Mr. Schwartz said:

“Here's a skeleton marked size thirty-eight. Would one of you boys mind trying it on?”

Frank picked up the costume, unzipped the back, and stepped into the skeleton outfit. It was tremendous on him and the ribs sagged ludicrously.

“Guess a fat man modeled for this,” he remarked, holding the garment out to its full width.

At that moment there was a loud rap on the front door of the store. Mr. Schwartz made no move to answer it. “I'm closed,” he said. “Let him rap.”

Suddenly Frank had an idea. The thief who used wigs might be the late customer, coming on purpose at this hour to avoid meeting other people. Without a word to the others, he dashed through the doorway into the store and toward the front entrance.

He could vaguely see someone waiting to be admitted. But the stranger gave one look at the leaping, out-of-shape skeleton and disappeared in a flash. At the same moment Frank tripped and fell headlong.

Mr. Schwartz and Joe, hearing the crash, rushed out to see what had happened. Frank, hopelessly tangled in the skeleton attire, was helped to his feet. When he told the others why he had made his unsuccessful dash to the front door, they conceded he might have a point.

“But you sure scared him away in that outfit,” Joe said, laughing. “He won't be back!”

The boys stayed for over half an hour helping Mr. Schwartz, then said good-by and went home.

“Monday we'll tackle those other two wig shops,” said Frank.

The following morning the Hardy family attended church, then after dinner Frank and Joe told their parents they were going to ride out to see Chet Morton. “We've been invited to stay to supper,” Frank added. “But we promise not to get home late.”

The Hardys picked up Callie Shaw, who also had been invited. Gaily she perched on the seat behind Frank.

“Hold on, Callie,” Joe teased. “Frank's a wild cyclist!”

The young people were greeted at the door of the Morton farmhouse by Chet's younger sister Iola, dark-haired and pretty. Joe Hardy thought she was quite the nicest girl in Bayport High and dated her regularly.

As dusk came on, the five young people gathered in the Mortons' kitchen to prepare supper. Chet, who loved to eat, was in charge, and doled out various jobs to the others. When he finished, Joe remarked, “And what are you going to do, big boy?”

The stout youth grinned. “I'm the official taster.”

A howl went up from the others. “No workee, no eatee,” said Iola flatly.

Chet grinned. “Oh, well, if you insist, I'll make a little side dish for all of us. How about Welsh rabbit?”

“You're elected!” the others chorused, and Chet set to work.

The farmhouse kitchen was large and contained a group of windows in one corner. Here stood a large table, where the young people decided to eat. They had just sat down when the telephone rang. Chet got up and walked out in the hall to answer it. Within a minute he re-entered the kitchen, his eyes bulging.

“What's the matter?” Iola asked quickly.

“I—I've been th-threatened!” Chet replied.

“Threatened!” the others cried out. “How?”

Chet was so frightened he could hardly speak, but he managed to make the others understand that a man had just said on the telephone, “You'll never get your jalopy back. And if you don't lay off trying to find me or your car, you're going to get hurt!”

“Whew!” cried Joe. “This is getting serious!”

Callie and Iola had clutched their throats and were staring wild-eyed at Chet. Frank, about to speak, happened to glance out the window toward the barn. For an instant he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. But no! They were not. A figure was sneaking from the barn and down the lane toward the highway.

“Fellows!” he cried suddenly. “Follow me!”

BY THE time the Hardy boys and Chet had raced from the Mortons' kitchen, the prowler was not in sight. Thinking he had run across one of the fields, the three pursuers scattered in various directions to search. Joe struck out straight ahead and pressed his ear to the ground to listen for receding footsteps. He could hear none. Presently the three boys met once more to discuss their failure to catch up to the man, and to question why he had been there.

“Do you think he was a thief?” Joe asked Chet. “What would he steal?”

“Search me,” the stout boy replied. “Let's take a look.”

“I believe he was carrying something, but I couldn't see what it was,” Frank revealed.

The barn door had not been closed yet for the night and the boys walked in. Chet turned on the lights and the searchers gazed around.

“Look!” Frank cried suddenly.

He pointed to the floor below the telephone ex tension in the barn. There lay a man's gray wig.

“The intruder's!” Joe exclaimed.

“It sure looks so,” Frank agreed. “And something must have scared him. In his hurry to get away he must have dropped this.”

Frank picked up the wig and examined it carefully for a clue. “No identifying mark in it. Say, I have an idea,” he burst out. “That man phoned you from here, Chet.”

“You mean he's the one who threatened me?”

“Yes. If you know how, you can call your own telephone number from an extension.”

“That's right.”

Chet was wagging his head. “You mean that guy bothered to come all the way here to use this phone to threaten me? Why?”

Both Hardys said they felt the man had not come specifically for that reason. There was another more important one. “We must figure it out. Chet, you ought to be able to answer that better than anybody else. What is there, or was there, in this barn to interest such a person?”

The stout boy scratched his head and let his eyes wander around the building. “It wouldn't be any of the livestock,” he said slowly. “And it couldn't be hay or feed.” Suddenly Chet snapped his fingers. “Maybe I have the answer. Wait a minute, fellows.”

On the floor lay a man's wig

He disappeared from the barn and made a bee-line for the garage. Chet hurried inside but was back in a few seconds.

“I have it!” he shouted. “That guy came here to get the spare tire for the jalopy.”

“The one you had is gone?” Frank asked.

Chet nodded. He suggested that perhaps the man was not too far away. He might be on some side road changing the tire. “Let's find out,” he urged.

Although the Hardys felt that it would be a useless search, they agreed to go along. They got on their motorcycles, with Chet riding behind Joe. The boys went up one road and down another, covering the territory very thoroughly. They saw no parked car.

“Not even any evidence that a driver pulled off the road and stayed to change a tire,” Frank remarked. “No footprints, no tool marks, no treads.”

“That guy must have had somebody around to pick him up,” Chet concluded with a sigh.

“Cheer up, Chet,” Frank said, as they walked back to the house. “That spare tire may turn out to be a clue in this case.”