“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.”
Mr. Schwartz shook his head. “I haven’t sold a red wig in months, or even rented one. Everybody seems to want blond or brown or black lately. But you understand, I don’t usually sell wigs at all. I rent ‘em.”
“I understand,” said Frank. “We’re just trying to find out about a man who uses a red wig as a disguise. We thought he might have bought or rented it here and that you would know his name.”
Mr. Schwartz leaned across the counter. “This man you speak of-he sounds like a character. It’s just possible he may come in to get a wig from me. If he does, I’ll be glad to let you know.”
The boys thanked the shopkeeper and were about to leave when Mr. Schwartz called, “Hold on a minute!”
The Hardys hoped that the dealer had suddenly remembered something important. This was not the case, however. With a grin the man asked the boys if they would like to help him open some cartons which had arrived and to try on the costumes.