But obstacles presented themselves before him in bewildering succession.
The wig appeared to be his chief clue, and when he arrived in the city he went directly to the head office of the company that had manufactured it. When he sent his card in to the manager he was readily admitted, for Fenton Hardy's name was known from the Atlantic to the Pacific.
"Some of our customers in trouble, Mr. Hardy?" asked the manager, when the great detective tossed the red wig on his desk.
"Not yet. But one of your customers will be in trouble if I can ever trace the purchaser of this wig."
The manager picked it up. He inspected it carefully and frowned.
"We are not, as you know, a wig-making firm," he said. "That is, the wig department is a very small side line with us."
"The very reason I thought it would be easier to trace this," replied Mr. Hardy. "If you turned out thousands of them every year it might be more difficult. You sell to an exclusive theatrical trade, I believe."
"Exactly. If an actor wants a wig of some special nature, we do our best to please him. We only make the wigs to order."
"Then you will probably have a record of this one."
The manager turned the wig over in his hands, glanced carefully at the inside, felt of the weight and texture, then pressed a button at the side of his desk. A boy came and departed with a message.