“Well, I’ll say I’ve seen it before!” he declared. “Old Kauffman—the best wig-maker in the country—made that for me about a year and a half ago. That’s the kind of wig I wear for Launcelot Gobbo in The Merchant of Venice . Where did you get it? I sure didn’t think I’d ever see that wig again.”
“Why?”
“Stolen from me. Some low-down egg 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 lying 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.
“How many wigs did he take?”
“About half a dozen. Funny thing about that, too. They were all red. Took nothin’ but red wigs. I told the cops to be on the lookout for a redheaded thief. I didn’t worry so much about the other wigs, for 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?”
“Oh, just a little case I’m investigating. The crook left this behind him. I was trying to trace it.”
“Well, you’ve traced it all right. But that’s all the help I can give you. The cops never did find out who cleaned out my dressing room.”
Mr. Hardy was disappointed. The clue of the red wig had led only to a blind alley. But he concealed his chagrin and tossed the wig over to Morley.