The Tower Treasure (8 page)

Mr. Hardy leaned forward in his desk chair as Frank pointed out the labels and the two strands of red hair.

“And besides,” Frank went on, “I guess the only way to prove that the thief owns these clothes is by comparing the hairs in the hat with the red wig. And Joe and I don't have the wig.”

With a grin the detective went to his files and brought it out. “Chief Collig left this here.”

The strands of hair were compared and matched perfectly!

“You boys have certainly made fine progress,” Mr. Hardy praised his sons. He smiled. “And since you have, I'll let you in on a little secret. Chief Collig asked me to see what I could figure out of the wig. He says there's no maker's name on it.”

“And there isn't?” Joe asked.

His father's eyes twinkled once more. “I guess Collig's assistants weren't very thorough. At any rate, I discovered there's an inner lining and on that is the maker's name. He's in New York City and I was just thinking about flying there to talk to him. Now you boys have given me a double incentive for going.”

Frank and Joe beamed with pleasure, then suddenly their faces clouded.

“What's the matter?” Mr. Hardy asked them.

Joe answered. “It looks as if you're going to solve the case all alone.”

“Nothing of the sort,” the detective replied. “The person who bought the wig may not have given his name. The hat may have been purchased a long time ago, and it isn't likely that the clerk who sold it will remember who bought it. The same with the jacket.”

Frank and Joe brightened. “Then the case is far from solved,” Frank said.

“All these are good leads, however,” Mr. Hardy said. “There is always the chance that the store may not be far from where the suspect lives. Though it's a slim chance, we can't afford to overlook anything. I'll take these articles to the city and see what I can do. It may mean everything and it may mean nothing. Don't be disappointed if I come back empty-handed. And don't be surprised if I come back with some valuable information.”

Mr. Hardy tossed the wig, coat, and hat into a bag that was standing open near his desk. The detective was accustomed to being called away suddenly on strange errands, and he was always prepared to leave at a moment's notice.

“Not much use starting now,” he said, glancing at his watch. “But I'll go to the city first thing in the morning. In the meantime, you boys keep your eyes and ears open for more clues. The case isn't over yet by any means.”

Mr. Hardy picked up some papers on his desk, as a hint that the interview was over, and the boys left the study. They were in a state of high excitement when they went to bed that night and could not get to sleep.

“That thief must be pretty smart,” murmured Joe, after they had talked long into the night.

“The smarter crooks are, the harder they fall,” Frank replied. “If this fellow has any kind of a record, it won't take long for Dad to run him down. I've heard Dad say that there is no such thing as a clever crook. If he was really clever, he wouldn't be a crook at all.”

“Yes, I guess there's something in that, too. But it shows that we're not up against any amateur. This fellow is a slippery customer.”

“He'll have to be mighty slippery from now on. Once Dad has a few clues to work on he never lets up till he gets his man.”

“And don't forget us,” said Joe, yawning. With that the boys fell asleep.

When they went down to breakfast the following morning Frank and Joe learned that their father had left for New York on an early-morning plane. Their mother remarked, “I'll be so relieved when he gets back. So often these missions turn out to be dangerous.”

She went on to say that her husband had promised to phone her if he wasn't going to be back by suppertime. Suddenly she added with a tantalizing smile, “Your father said he might have a surprise for you if he remains in New York.”

Mrs. Hardy refused to divulge another word. The boys went to school, but all through the morning could scarcely keep their minds on studies. They kept wondering how Fenton Hardy was faring on his quest in New York and what the surprise was.

Slim Robinson was at school that day, but after classes he confided to the Hardys that he was leaving for good.

“It's no use,” he said. “Dad can't keep me in school any longer and it's up to me to pitch in and help the family. I'm to start work tomorrow at a supermarket.”

“And you wanted to go to college!” exclaimed Frank. “It's a shame!”

“Can't be helped,” replied Perry with a grimace. “I consider myself lucky to have stayed in school this long. I'll have to give up all those college plans and settle down in the business world. There's one good thing about it—I'll have a chance to learn supermarket work from the ground up. I'm starting in the receiving department.” He smiled. “Perhaps in about fifty years I'll be head of the firm!”

“You'll make good at whatever you tackle,” Joe assured him. “But I'm sorry you won't be able to go through college as you planned. Don't give up hope yet, Slim. One never knows what may happen. Perhaps the thief who did rob Tower Mansion will be found.”

Frank and Joe wanted to tell Slim about the clues they had discovered the previous day, but the same thought came into their minds—that it would be unfair to raise any false hopes. So they said good-by and wished him good luck. Perry tried hard to be cheerful, but his smile was very faint as he turned away from them and walked down the street.

“I sure feel sorry for him,” said Frank, as he and Joe started for home. “He was such a hard worker in school and counted so much on going to college.”

“We've just
got
to clear up the Tower robbery, that's all there is to it!” declared his brother.

As they neared the Hardy home, the boys' steps quickened. Would they find that their father had returned with the information on the identity of the thief? Or was he still in New York? And were they about to share another of his secrets?

FRANK and Joe's first stop was the Hardy garage. Looking in, they saw that only Mrs. Hardy's car was there. Their father had taken his sedan to the airport and not brought it back.

“Dad's not home!” Joe cried excitedly. “Now we'll hear what the surprise is.” Dashing into the kitchen, he called, “Mother!”

“I'm upstairs, dear,” Mrs. Hardy called back.

The boys rushed up the front stairway two steps at a time. Their mother met them at the door of their bedroom. Smiling broadly, she pointed to a packed suitcase on Frank's bed. The boys looked puzzled.

Next, from her dress pocket, Mrs. Hardy brought out two plane tickets and some dollar bills. She handed a ticket and half the money to each of her sons, saying, “Your father wants you to meet him in New York to help him on the case.”

Frank and Joe were speechless for a moment, then they grabbed their mother in a bear hug. “This is super!” Joe exclaimed. “What a surprise!”

Frank looked affectionately at his mother. “You sure were busy today—getting our plane tickets and money. I wish you were going too.”

Mrs. Hardy laughed. “When I go to New York for a week end I want to have fun with you boys, not trot around to police stations and thieves' hide-outs!” she teased. “I'll go some other time. Well, let's hurry downstairs. There's a snack ready for you. Then I'll drive my detective sons to the airport.”

In less than two hours the boys were on the plane to New York City. Upon landing there, they were met by Mr. Hardy. He took them to his hotel, where he had engaged an adjoining room for them. It was not until the doors were closed that he brought up the subject of the mystery.

“The case has taken an interesting turn, and may involve considerable research. That's why I thought you might help me.”

“Tell us what has happened so far,” Frank requested eagerly.

Mr. Hardy said that immediately upon arriving in the city he had gone to the office of the company which had manufactured the red wig. After sending in his card to the manager he had been admitted readily.

“That's because the name of Fenton Hardy is known from the Atlantic to the Pacific!” Joe interjected proudly.

The detective gave his son a wink and went on with the story. “‘Some of our customers in trouble, Mr. Hardy?' the manager asked me when I laid the red wig on his desk.

“‘Not yet,' I said. ‘But one of them may be if I can trace the purchaser of this wig.'

“The manager picked it up. He inspected it carefully and frowned. ‘We sell mainly to an exclusive theatrical trade. I hope none of the actors has done anything wrong.'

“‘Can you tell me who bought this one?' I asked.

“‘We make wigs only to order,' the manager said. He pressed a button at the side of his desk. A boy came and departed with a written message. ‘It may be difficult. This wig is not a new one. In fact, I would say it was fashioned about two years ago.'

“‘A long time. But still—' I encouraged him,” the detective went on. “In a few minutes a bespectacled elderly man shuffled into the office in response to the manager's summons.

“‘Kauffman, here,' the manager said, ‘is our expert. What he doesn't know about wigs isn't worth knowing.' Then, turning to the old man, he handed him the red wig. ‘Remember it, Kauffman?'

“The old man looked at it doubtfully. Then he gazed at the ceiling. ‘Red wig—red wig—' he muttered.

“‘About two years old, isn't it?' the manager prompted.

“‘Not quite. Year'n a half, I'd say. Looks like a comedy-character type. Wait'll I think. There ain't been so many of our customers playin' that kind of a part inside a year and a half. Let's see. Let's see.' The old man paced up and down the office, muttering names under his breath. Suddenly he stopped, snapping his fingers.

“‘I have it,' he said. ‘It must have been Morley who bought that wig. That's who it was! Harold Morley. He's playin' in Shakespearean repertoire with Hamlin's company. Very fussy about his wigs. Has to have 'em just so. I remember he bought this one, because he came in here about a month ago and ordered another like it.'

“‘Why would he do that?' I asked him.

“Kauffman shrugged his shoulders. ‘Ain't none of my business. Lots of actors keep a double set of wigs. Morley's playin' down at the Crescent Theater right now. Call him up.'

“‘I'll go and see him,' I told the men. And that's just what we'll do, Frank and Joe, after a bite of supper.”

“You don't think this actor is the thief, do you?” Frank asked in amazement. “How could he have gone back and forth to Bayport so quickly? And isn't he playing here in town every night?”

Mr. Hardy admitted that he too was puzzled. He was certain Morley was not the man who had worn the wig on the day the jalopy was stolen, for the Shakespearean company had been playing a three weeks' run in New York. It was improbable, in any case, that the actor was a thief.

The three Hardys arrived at Mr. Morley's dressing room half an hour before curtain time. Mr. Hardy presented his card to a suspicious doorman at the Crescent, but he and his sons were finally admitted backstage and shown down a brilliantly lighted corridor to the dressing room of Harold Morley. It was a snug place, with pictures on the walls, a potted plant in the window overlooking the alleyway, and a rug on the floor.

Seated before a mirror with electric lights at either side was a stout little man, almost totally bald. He was diligently rubbing creamy stage make-up on his face. He did not turn around, but eyed his visitors in the mirror, casually telling them to sit down. Mr. Hardy took the only chair. The boys squatted on the floor.

“Often heard of you, Mr. Hardy,” the actor said in a surprisingly deep voice that had a comical effect in contrast to his diminutive appearance. “Glad to meet you. What kind of call is this? Social —or professional?”

“Professional.”

Morley continued rubbing the make-up on his jowls. “Out with it,” he said briefly.

“Ever see this wig before?” Mr. Hardy asked him, laying the hair piece on the make-up table.

Morley turned from the mirror, and an expression of delight crossed his plump countenance. “Well, I'll say I've seen it before!” he declared. “Old Kauffman—the best wigmaker in the country —made this for me about a year and a half ago. Where did you get it? I sure didn't think I'd ever see this red wig again.”

“Why?”

“Stolen from me. Some low-down sneak got in here and cleaned out my dressing room one night during the performance. Nerviest thing I ever heard of. Came right in here while I was doing my stuff out front, grabbed my watch and money and a diamond ring I had lying by the mirror, took this wig and a couple of others that were around, and beat it. Nobody saw him come or go. Must have got in by that window.”

Morley talked in short, rapid sentences, and there was no mistaking his sincerity.

“All the wigs were red,” he stated. “I didn't worry so much about the other wigs, because they were for old plays, but this one was being used right along. Kauffman made it specially for me. I had to get him to make another. But say—where did you find it?”

“Oh, my sons located it during some detective work we're on. The crook left this behind. I was trying to trace him by it.”

Morley did not inquire further. “That's all the help I can give you,” he said. “The police never did learn who cleaned out my dressing room.”