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.
“Not much luck there,” Frank commented.
“Except 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?”
“Yes, Dad,” the brothers replied, and Joe added, “Tomorrow we’ll try to find out the name and address of the thief through his coat and hat?”
“Right,” the detective said.
The Hardys enjoyed the performance of The Merchant of Venice with Mr. Morley as Launcelot Gobbo, and laughed hilariously at his comedy and gestures.
The next morning the detective and his sons visited the store from which the thief’s jacket and hat had been purchased. They were told that the styles were three years out of date and there was no way to tell who had bought them.
“The articles,” the head of the men’s suit department suggested, “may have been picked up more recently at a secondhand clothing store.” The Hardys thanked him and left.
“All this trip for nothing.” Joe gave a sigh.
His father laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “A good detective,” he said, “never sighs with discouragement nor becomes impatient. It took years of persistence to solve some famous cases.”
He suggested that their next effort be devoted to doing some research in the city’s police files. Since Mr. Hardy had formerly been a member of the New York City detective force, he was permitted to search the records at any time.
Frank and Joe accompanied him to headquarters and the work began. First came a run-down on any known New York criminals who used disguises. Of these men, the Hardys took the reports on the ones who were thin and of medium height.
Next came a check by telephone on the whereabouts of these people. All could be accounted for as working some distance from Bayport at the time of the thefts, with one exception.
“I’ll bet he’s our man!” Frank exclaimed. “But where is he now?”
CHAPTER XI
Anxious Waiting
THE suspect, the Hardys learned, was out of prison on parole. His name was John Jackley, but he was known as Red Jackley because when caught before going to prison he had been wearing a red wig.
“He lives right here in New York, and maybe he’s back home by this time,” Joe spoke up. “Let’s go see him.”
“Just a minute,” Mr. Hardy said, holding up his hand. “I don’t like to leave Mother alone so long. Besides, in this type of sleuthing three detectives together are too noticeable to a crook. This Jackley may or may not be our man. But if he is, he’s probably dangerous. I want you boys to take the evening plane home. I’ll phone the house the minute the thief is in custody.”
“All right, Dad,” his sons chorused, though secretly disappointed that they had to leave.
When they reached home, Frank and Joe learned that their mother had been working on the case from a completely different angle. Hers was the humanitarian side.
“I went to call on the Robinsons to try to bolster their spirits,” she said. “I told them about your trip to New York and that seemed to cheer them a lot. Monday I’m going to bake a ham and a cake for you to take to them. Mrs. Robinson isn’t well and can do little in the kitchen.”
“That’s swell of you!” Frank said admiringly. “I’ll go.”
Joe told them he had a tennis match to play. “I’ll do the next errand,” he promised.
Monday, during a change of classes, Frank met Callie Shaw in the corridor. “Hit” she said. “What great problem is on Detective Hardy’s mind? You look as if you’d lost your best criminal!”
Frank grimaced. “Maybe I have,” he said.
He told Callie that he had phoned home at noon confidently expecting to hear that his father had reported the arrest of the real thief of the Apple-gate money and the exoneration of Mr. Robinson. “But there was no word, Callie, and I’m worried Dad may be in danger.”
“I don’t blame you,” she said. “What do you think has happened?”
“Well, you never can tell when you’re dealing with criminals.”
“Now, Frank, you’re not trying to tell me your father would let himself get trapped?” Callie said.
“No, I don’t think he would, Callie. Maybe Dad hasn’t returned because he still hasn’t found the man he was looking for.”
“Well, I certainly hope that thief is caught,” said Callie. “But, Frank, nobody really believes Mr. Robinson did it!”
“Nobody but Hurd Applegate and the men who employ people. Until they find the man who did take the stuff, Mr. Robinson is out of a job.”
“I’m going over to see the Robinsons soon. Where are they living?”
Frank gave Callie the address. Her eyes widened. “Why, that’s in one of the poorest sections of the city! Frank, I had no idea the Robinsons’ plight was that bad!”
“It is-and it’ll be a lot worse unless Mr. Robinson gets work pretty soon. Slim’s earnings aren’t enough to take care of the whole family. Say, Callie, how about going over to the Robinsons’ with me after school? Mother’s sending a ham and a cake.”
“I’d love to,” Callie agreed. The two parted at the door of the algebra teacher’s classroom.
As soon as the last bell had rung, Frank and Callie left the building together. First they stopped at the Shaw house to leave the girl’s books.
“I think I’ll take some fruit to the Robinsons,” Callie said, and quickly filled a bag with oranges, bananas, and grapes.
When the couple reached the Hardy home, Frank asked his mother if any messages had come. “No, not yet,” she answered.
Frank said nothing to her about being concerned over his father, as he tucked the ham under one arm and picked up the cakebox. But after he and Callie reached the street, he again confided his concern to Callie.
“It does seem strange you haven’t heard anything,” she admitted. “But don’t forget the old saying, ‘No news is good news,’ so don’t worry.”
“I’ll take your advice,” Frank agreed. “No use wearing a sour look around the Robinsons.”
“Or when you’re with me, either,” Callie said, tossing her head teasingly.
Frank hailed an approaching bus bound for the section of the city in which the Robinsons lived. He and Callie climbed aboard. It was a long ride and the streets became less attractive as they neared the outskirts of Bayport.
“It’s a shame, that’s what it is!” declared Callie abruptly. “The Robinsons were always accustomed to having everything so nice! And now they have to live here! Oh, I hope your father catches the man who committed that robbery-and soon!”
Her eyes flashed and for a moment she looked so fierce that Frank laughed.
“I suppose you’d like to be the judge and jury at his trial, eh?”
“I’d give him a hundred years in jail!” Callie declared.
When they came to the street where the Robinsons had moved they found that it was an even poorer thoroughfare than they had expected. There were small houses badly in need of paint and repairs. Shabbily dressed children were playing in the roadway.