“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 wished. Don’t give up hope yet, Slim. You never know what may happen. Perhaps they’ll find the fellow who did rob Tower Mansion.”
Both boys wanted to tell their chum about the clues they had discovered the previous day, but the same thought was in their minds—that it would be unwise to raise false hopes. It would go much harder with Perry, they knew, if he began to think the capture of the thief was imminent, only to have the hope dashed to earth again. So they said goodbye to him 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 off down the street.
“Gosh, but I’m sorry for him,” said Frank as they went home. “He was such a hard worker in school and he 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.
“Perhaps Dad is back by now. There’s a train from New York at three o’clock. Let’s hurry home and see.”
But when the Hardy boys arrived home they found that their father had not yet returned from the city.
“We’ll just have to be patient, I guess,” said Frank. “No news is good news.”
And with this philosophic reflection the Hardy boys were obliged to comfort themselves against the impatience that possessed them to learn what progress their father was making in the city toward following up the clues they had given him.
XII
Days of Waiting
Fenton Hardy had high hopes of a quick solution of the mystery when he went to New York. Possession of the wig, the hat and the coat gave him three clues, any one of which might lead to tracing the previous owner quickly, and the detective was confident that it would not be long before he would unravel the tangled threads. He had not stated his optimism to the boys, being careful not to arouse their hopes, but in his heart he thought it would be but a matter of hours before he ran the owner of the red wig to earth.
But obstacles presented themselves before him in bewildering succession.
The wig appeared to be his chief clue, and when he arrived in the city he went directly to the head office of the company that had manufactured it. When he sent his card in to the manager he was readily admitted, for Fenton Hardy’s name was known from the Atlantic to the Pacific.
“Some of our customers in trouble, Mr. Hardy?” asked the manager, when the great detective tossed the red wig on his desk.
“Not yet. But one of your customers will be in trouble if I can ever trace the purchaser of this wig.”
The manager picked it up. He inspected it carefully and frowned.
“We are not, as you know, a wig-making firm,” he said. “That is, the wig department is a very small side line with us.”
“The very reason I thought it would be easier to trace this,” replied Mr. Hardy. “If you turned out thousands of them every year it might be more difficult. You sell to an exclusive theatrical trade, I believe.”
“Exactly. If an actor wants a wig of some special nature, we do our best to please him. We only make the wigs to order.”
“Then you will probably have a record of this one.”
The manager turned the wig over in his hands, glanced carefully at the inside, felt of the weight and texture, then pressed a button at the side of his desk. A boy came and departed with a message.
“It may be difficult. This wig is not new. In fact, I would say it was turned out about two years ago.”
“A long time. But still—”
“I’ll do the best I can.”
A bespectacled old man shuffled into the office at that moment, in response to the manager’s summons, and stood waiting in front of the desk.
“Kauffman, here,” said the manager, “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?” prompted the manager.
“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 is playing in Shakespearian 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 just like it.”
“Why would he do that?” asked Mr. Hardy.
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,” said Mr. Hardy, rising. “You’re sure he is the man who ordered that wig?”
“Positive!” replied Kauffman, looking hurt. “I know every wig that goes out of my shop. I give ’em all my pers’nal attention. Morley got the wig—and he got another like it
