The Short-Wave Mystery by Franklin W. Dixon Page A

boys know Mr. Batter?” the taxidermist asked.
    â€œNot personally,” Frank replied, “but we’ve heard of him. You say he was a customer?”
    Roundtree nodded. “Used to drop in often for supplies. Can’t say I cared for him much.”
    â€œWhy not?” Joe queried.
    â€œOh, I don’t know. Struck me as a sly, disagreeable sort.” The taxidermist gave a slight, embarrassed cough. “Maybe I shouldn’t be saying that.”
    â€œHow’d you happen to get the wolf’s head?” Frank queried.
    Roundtree explained that Batter had traded it to him for several unprepared pelts. “Good trade, too. Elias Batter was a fine craftsman—his work would stand out anywhere. And—”
    â€œYou mean you could actually identify animals that he stuffed?” Joe put in.
    â€œYep.” Roundtree described thick eye-waxing, dramatic poses, and meticulous double sewing as characteristics of Batter’s craftsmanship. “Particularly the sewing. He had a way of using extra stitches on a skin.”
    Glancing at Frank, Joe could see that his brother had been struck by the same idea. This might explain how the thief had spotted the wolf as Batter’s work!
    â€œDid you have the wolf’s head displayed in the window?” Frank asked.
    â€œYes. The man you’re looking for came in and asked for it specially.”
    â€œHow long ago was it that he came back?”
    â€œNot long. You didn’t miss him by more than two minutes.”
    Disgusted at their bad luck, the Hardys thanked Mr. Roundtree and left his shop. A freckle-faced boy was lounging against their convertible. “Well, what d’you know? It’s our little pal!” Joe exclaimed. “Hi, Jimmy!”
    â€œHi.” The youngster acknowledged their greeting rather glumly. “I saw you two go in there, so I thought I’d wait. Just wanted to explain why I didn’t show up today.”
    â€œThat’s all right,” Frank said. “Mike told us you had to do some things for your mother.”
    â€œUh-huh. She came home early and made me do a lot of work.” Jimmy reached into the convertible and pulled out a bag of groceries which he had set on the back seat. “Like going to the store for this stuff.”
    â€œPut it back,” Frank advised. “We’ll give you a lift home.”
    Jimmy brightened at the prospect of another ride in the convertible with the top down. As the car swung away from the curb, Joe queried, “You said you saw us go into the taxidermist’s?”
    â€œYeah, I was standing in front of Zetter’s window, watching a color TV,” Jimmy replied.
    â€œYou didn’t happen to notice a man come out of Roundtree’s carrying a wolf’s head?”
    â€œSure, he was parked in front—right where you guys parked.”
    â€œWhat kind of car?” Frank asked eagerly.
    â€œA green four-door.”
    â€œThe same one he and his partner were driving Sunday, I’ll bet!” Joe exclaimed.
    Jimmy looked from one Hardy boy to the other. “What’s the deal? Is he some kind of a crook?”
    â€œSure is! He’s one of the auction thieves.” Joe immediately warmed up the convertible’s short-wave and reported this latest development to the police.
    At the tenement house where the Gordons lived, Frank suggested that he and Joe go in and meet Jimmy’s mother. He agreed, but without enthusiasm.
    Frank and Joe accompanied him up two flights of rickety stairs, then along a corridor with paint-peeling walls. Jimmy opened the door to the Gordons’ apartment and led them inside.
    A woman peered from the kitchen, which gave off an aroma of boiling cabbage. Seeing the Hardys, she came out, wiping her hands on her apron. She would have been attractive looking except for the lines of care in her face.
    â€œMa, this is Frank and Joe Hardy, the guys I was telling you