'I can't say I did,' the man replied. 'My eyes were focused on that gun. Say,
wait a minute! He had red hair. You couldn't miss it! I noticed it after he
jumped into the car.'
Oscar Smuff looked bewildered. 'You say he had red hair.' The detective
turned to Mr. Harrity. 'And you say he had dark hair. Somethin' wrong
somewhere!' He shook his head in puzzlement.
The others were puzzled too. Frank asked Mr. Brown to tell once more just
when he had noticed the red hair.
'After the fellow leaned down in the car and popped his head up again,' the
New Yorker replied.
Frank and Joe exchanged glances. Was it possible the red hair was a wig and
the thief had put it on just before Mr. Brown had noticed him? The boys kept
still-they didn't want any interference from Smuff in tracking down this clue.
Harrity and Brown began to argue over the color of the thief's hair. Finally
Chief Collig had to rap once more for order. 'I'll send out an alarm for both
this holdup man and for Chet's car. I guess that's all that can be done now.'
Undaunted by their failure to catch the thief, the Hardy boys left police
headquarters with Chet Morton. They were determined to pursue the case.
'We'll talk with Dad tonight, Chet,' Frank promised. 'Maybe he'll give us
some leads.'
'I sure hope so, fellows,' their friend replied as they climbed onto the
motorcycles.
The same thought was running through Frank's and Joe's minds: maybe this
mystery would turn out to be their first case!
CHAPTER III
The Threat
'YOU'RE getting to be pretty good on that motorcycle, Frank,' Joe said as
the boys rode into the Hardy garage. 'I'm not even scared to ride alongside
you any more!'
'You're not scared!' Frank pretended to take Joe seriously. 'What about
me-riding with a daredevil like you?'
'Well,' Joe countered, 'let's just admit that we're both pretty good!'
'It sure was swell of Dad to let us have them,' Joe continued.
'Yes,' Frank agreed. 'And if we're going to be detectives, we'll get a lot of
use out of them.'
The boys started toward the house, passing the old-fashioned barn on the
property. Its first floor had been converted into a gymnasium which was used
after school and on week ends by Frank and Joe and their friends.
The Hardy home, on the corner of High and Elm streets, was an old stone
house set in a large, tree-shaded lawn. Right now, crocuses and miniature
narcissi were sticking their heads through the light-green grass.
'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 Bay-port.
'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 Bay-port. 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.'
