Chief Collig propounded this query with the expression of one who has triumphantly settled all difficulties.
“He had short, dark hair!” said Harrity doggedly.
“And I’m sure he had long, red hair!” shouted Henry J. Brown, very indignantly. “Do you think I’m blind? Do you think I’d tell a lie about it?”
“He had dark hair.”
“It was red.”
“It was dark.”
“It wasn’t.”
“It was!”
“Stop it!” commanded Chief Collig. “I don’t think either of you know what kind of hair he had. Probably he was bald-headed. But I’ll send word out to keep a watch for the yellow roadster. I’ll notify the police in other towns too. I guess that’s all that can be done now.”
And with that, the Hardy boys and Chet Morton had to be content.
When they left the office it was with little hope that the thief or the car would be found. Their misgivings were justified. When they returned to see Chief Collig that night they learned that no word had been received concerning the yellow roadster from any of the outlying towns or villages and that despite a diligent search conducted by Detective Smuff and other members of the Bayport force, the roadster had not been located in the city.
V
Chet’s Auto Horn
Fenton Hardy, the internationally famous detective, was reading in the library of his home that evening when his sons tapped on the door.
Although he was a busy man, Mr. Hardy was not the type of father who maintains an air of aloofness from his family, the result being that he was on as good terms with his boys as though he were an elder brother.
“Come in,” he shouted cheerfully, putting aside his book, and when Frank and Joe entered the room he motioned to a deep leather sofa near the window. “Sit down. What have you been doing all day? Burning up all the roads in the country, I suppose?” He grinned amiably at them and puffed vigorously at his pipe.
“Well, we didn’t travel very far today, Dad,” Frank replied. “We were—well, we—we were—”
“Investigating,” prompted Joe.
“Aha!” exclaimed Mr. Hardy, in mock surprise. “So my sons were investigating, eh? What was it? A murder? A plot to blow up the White House? A train wreck? Something big, I hope.”
“No—not quite that bad,” admitted Frank. “It was a car theft.”
Mr. Hardy shook his head.
“I’m disappointed in you,” he said solemnly. “I really am. To think that sons of mine should investigate a car theft. I thought you wouldn’t bother about anything less than a murder!” His eyes twinkled, and the Hardy boys, who were accustomed to their father’s good-natured banter, smiled back at him.
“We weren’t just practicing detective work, Dad,” explained Frank. “You see, Chet Morton’s roadster was stolen this morning.”
“Is that so!” exclaimed Mr. Hardy, genuinely concerned. “Why, that’s too bad. Chet was mighty proud of that car, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, he was. And it hasn’t been found yet.”
“No trace of the thief?”
“He tried to hold up the steamboat ticket office after he stole the car.”
Mr. Hardy whistled.
“Why you have been on a case worth while. Tell me all about it.”
He settled back in his chair while his sons told him the story of the day’s doings. When they told of the difference of opinion as to the color of the man’s hair he did not laugh with them, as they had expected, over the argument between Harrity and Mr. Brown. On the contrary, he knitted his brows and his face wore a serious expression.
“It wasn’t any ordinary auto thief you were dealing with,” he said slowly. “I’ve no doubt the man who tried to rob the ticket office and the man who almost ran you down on the shore road were one and the same. And the same man stole Chet Morton’s car.”
“But how about the color of his hair? There must have been two men,” said Joe.
“Think so? I have my own theories. But then—the average witness is very unreliable. For instance, I’ll give you a test. You have each seen Superintendent Norton of Bayport high school—well, how often?”
“About two or three thousand times, I guess,” answered Frank.
“Over a period of three years. Well, what color is his hair?”
Frank looked blankly at Joe.
“Why, it’s—it’s—”
Joe scratched his head.
“Brown, isn’t it?”
“I think it’s black.”
“You see?” said Mr. Hardy, smiling. “Your powers of observation have not been trained. A good detective has to school himself to remember all sorts of little facts like that, until it gets to be a habit with him. Both of you have been looking at Mr. Norton for about three years and you don’t know the color of his hair. And if I asked you whether he was in the habit of wearing laced shoes or buttoned shoes you would be stumped altogether. As a matter of fact, Mr. Norton is bald and he wears a chestnut wig. You never noticed that? He always wears buttoned shoes, he belongs to the Elks, and his favorite author is Dickens.”
The boys looked at their father in amazement.
“But, Dad, you’ve never met him.”
“I’ve never been introduced to him, but I’ve passed him on the street a number of times. When your powers of observation have been trained as mine have been it’s no trick at all to take away a mental photograph of a man after seeing him once. If you are specially observant it isn’t hard to notice such details as that regarding the wig. A wig never has the same appearance as natural hair.”
“But how do you know he belongs to the Elks?” asked Joe.
“He wears the lodge emblem as a watch charm.”
“And how do you know his favorite author is Dickens?”
“On three separate occasions that I met Mr. Norton I noticed that he was carrying a book. Once it was Oliver Twist. Another time it was A Tale of Two Cities. The third time it
