“I came to report a theft,” Chet spoke up. “My hot rod has been stolen.”
“Why, it was one of those crazy hot rods this fellow drove!” Ike Harrity cried out. “A yellow one!”
“Ha!” exclaimed Oscar Smuff. “A clue!” He immediately pulled a pencil and notebook from his pocket.
“My Queen!” shouted Chet.
Chief Collig rapped on his desk for quiet and asked, “What’s a queen got to do with all this?”
Chet explained, then the chief related Harrity’s story for him.
“A man drove up to the ferryboat office and tried to hold up Mr. Harrity. But a passenger came into the office and the fellow ran away.”
As the officer paused, Frank gave Chief Collig a brief account of the wrecked blue sedan near the Morton farm.
“I’ll send some men out there right now.” The chief pressed a buzzer and quickly relayed his orders.
“It certainly looks,” Joe commented, “as if the man who stole Chet’s car and the fellow who tried to hold up the ferryboat office are the same person!”
“Did you notice the color of the man’s hair?” Frank asked Mr. Harrity.
Smuff interrupted. “What’s that got to do with it?”
“It may have a great deal to do with it,” Frank replied. “What was the color of his hair, Mr. Harrity?”
“Dark brown and short cropped.”
Frank and Joe looked at each other, perplexed. “You’re sure it wasn’t red?” Joe asked.
Chief Collig sat forward in his chair. “What are you driving at, boys? Have you some information about this man?”
“We were told,” said Joe, “that the guy who stole Chet’s car had red hair. A friend of ours saw him.”
“Then he must have turned the jalopy over to someone else,” Chief Collig concluded.
At this moment a short, nervous little man was ushered into the room. He was the passenger who had gone into the ferryboat office at the time of the attempted holdup. Chief Collig had sent for him.
The newcomer introduced himself as Henry J. Brown of New York. He told of entering the office and seeing a man run away from the ticket window with a revolver in his hand.
“What color was his hair?” Frank asked eagerly. “Did you notice?”
“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.”