Free The Tower Treasure by Franklin W. Dixon Page A

finally admitted backstage and shown down a brilliantly lighted corridor to the dressing room of Harold Morley. It was a snug place, with 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 creamy stage make-up on his face. He did not turn around, but eyed his visitors in the mirror, casually telling them to sit down. Mr. Hardy took the only chair. The boys squatted on the floor.
    â€œOften heard of you, Mr. Hardy,” the actor said in a surprisingly deep voice that had a comical effect in contrast to his diminutive appearance. “Glad to meet you. What kind of call is this? Social —or professional?”
    â€œProfessional.”
    Morley continued rubbing the make-up on his jowls. “Out with it,” he said briefly.
    â€œEver see this wig before?” Mr. Hardy asked him, laying the hair piece on the make-up 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 wigmaker in the country —made this for me about a year and a half ago. Where did you get it? I sure didn’t think I’d ever see this red wig again.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œStolen from me. Some low-down sneak got in here and 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 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.
    â€œAll the wigs were red,” he stated. “I didn’t worry so much about the other wigs, because 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?”
    â€œOh, my sons located it during some detective work we’re on. The crook left this behind. I was trying to trace him by it.”
    Morley did not inquire further. “That’s all the help I can give you,” he said. “The police never did learn who cleaned out my dressing room.”
    â€œToo bad. Well, I’ll probably get him some other way. Give me a list and description of the articles he took from you. Probably I can trace him through that.”
    â€œGlad to,” said Morley. He reached into a drawer and drew out a sheet of paper which he handed to the detective. “That’s the same list I gave the police when I reported the robbery. Number of the watch, and everything. I didn’t bother to mention the wigs. Figured they wouldn’t be in any condition to wear if I did get them back.”
    Mr. Hardy folded the list and put it in his pocket. Morley glanced at his watch, lying face up beside the mirror, and gave an exclamation. “Suffering Sebastopol! Curtain in five minutes and I’m not half made up yet. Excuse me, folks, but I’ve got to get on my horse. 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 that evening’s performance. Mr. Hardy and his sons left. They made their way out to the street.
    â€œNot much luck there,” Frank commented.
    â€œExcept through Mr. Morley’s stolen jewelry,” his father reminded him. “If that’s located in a pawnshop, it may lead to the thief. Well, boys, would you like to go into the theater via the front entrance and see the show?”
    â€œYes, Dad,” the brothers