Free The Tower Treasure by Franklin W. Dixon

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.
    â€œThe case has taken an interesting turn, and may involve considerable research. That’s why I thought you might help me.”
    â€œTell 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.
    â€œThat’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.
    â€œâ€˜Not yet,’ I said. ‘But one of them may be if I can trace the purchaser of this wig.’
    â€œThe 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.’
    â€œâ€˜Can you tell me who bought this one?’ I asked.
    â€œâ€˜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.’
    â€œâ€˜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.
    â€œâ€˜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?’
    â€œThe old man looked at it doubtfully. Then he gazed at the ceiling. ‘Red wig—red wig—’ he muttered.
    â€œâ€˜About two years old, isn’t it?’ the manager prompted.
    â€œâ€˜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.
    â€œâ€˜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.’
    â€œâ€˜Why would he do that?’ I asked him.
    â€œKauffman 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.’
    â€œâ€˜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.”
    â€œYou 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