“Kauffman is right,” put in the manager. “Morley has a very good account with us. If Kauffman says he remembers the wig, it must be so.”
“Well, thank you for your trouble,” answered Fenton Hardy. “I may be able to see Mr. Morley in his dressing room if I hurry. It lacks about half an hour of theater time.”
“You’ll just about make it. Glad to have been of service, Mr. Hardy. Any time we can do anything for you, just ask.”
“Thank you,” and Fenton Hardy shook hands with Kauffman and the manager, then left the office, bound for the Crescent Theater.
But the detective’s hopes were not as high as they had been. He knew that Morley, the actor, was certainly not the man who had worn the wig on the day the roadster was stolen, for the Shakespearian company of which Morley was a member had been playing a three months’ run in New York. It would be impossible for the actor to get away from the theater long enough for such an escapade, just as it was improbable that he would even try to do so.
He presented his card to a suspicious doorman at the Crescent and was finally admitted backstage and shown down a brilliantly lighted corridor to the dressing room of Harold Morley. It was a snug little place, the dressing room, for Morley had fitted it up to suit his own tastes once it was assured that the company would remain at the Crescent for an extended run. There were 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 cold cream on his face, and when Fenton Hardy entered he did not turn around but, eyeing his visitor in the mirror, casually told him to sit down.
“Often heard of you, Mr. Hardy,” he said, in a surprisingly deep voice that had a comical effect in contrast to his diminutive appearance. “Often heard of you. Glad to meet you. What kind of call is this? Social—or professional?”
“Professional.”
Morley continued rubbing cold cream on his jowls.
“Spill it,” he said briefly. “What’s it all about?”
“Ever see this wig before?” asked Mr. Hardy, tossing the red wig on the 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 wig-maker in the country—made that for me about a year and a half ago. That’s the kind of wig I wear for Launcelot Gobbo in The Merchant of Venice. Where did you get it? I sure didn’t think I’d ever see that wig again.”
“Why?”
“Stolen from me. Some low-down egg 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 lying 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.
“How many wigs did he take?”
“About half a dozen. Funny thing about that, too. They were all red. Took nothin’ but red wigs. I told the cops to be on the lookout for a redheaded thief. I didn’t worry so much about the other wigs, for 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, just a little case I’m investigating. The crook left this behind him. I was trying to trace it.”
“Well, you’ve traced it all right. But that’s all the help I can give you. The cops never did find out who cleaned out my dressing room.”
Mr. Hardy was disappointed. The clue of the red wig had led only to a blind alley. But he concealed his chagrin and tossed the wig over to Morley.
“Gee, and I’m sure glad to get it back again,” declared the actor. “Things haven’t gone right with me at all since I lost that wig. Losing it brought me a whole flock of bad luck. Sorry I can’t help you find the guy that took it. What’s he been up to now?”
Fenton Hardy evaded the question.
“Oh, I’ll probably get him some other way. Give me a list and description of the stuff he took from you. Probably I can trace him through that.”
“Hop to it,” said Morley breezily. “Hop right to it, old man. Here’s a list of the stuff right here.” He reached in a drawer and drew out a sheet of paper which he handed over to the detective. “That’s the same list I gave to the cops when I reported the robbery. Number of the watch, and everything.”
Mr. Hardy folded the list and put it in his pocket. Morley glanced at his watch, lying beside the mirror, face up, and gave an exclamation.
“Suffering Sebastopol! Curtain in five minutes and I’m not half made up yet. Excuse me, Mr. Hardy, but I’ve got to get busy. In this business ‘I’ll be ready in a minute’ doesn’t go.”
He seized a stick of grease paint and feverishly resumed the task of altering his appearance to that of the character he was portraying at the matinee that day. Mr. Hardy, smiling at the actor’s casual informality, withdrew from the dressing room and made his way out to the street.
“A blind alley!” he muttered. “I was sure I could trace the fellow by means of the wig. Oh, well!” He shrugged his shoulders. “I still have the hat and coat. And if the worst comes to the worst I can try to trace the chap through the stuff he stole from Morley—for
