The Haunted Fort (13 page)

Frank thanked him and soon was driving north. He parked in a wooded spot, and trudged along the overgrown shore. Soon he reached the Gilman property.

The Tudor house, as well as the lake-front patio, looked deserted. Circling the grounds convinced Frank that Gilman was not at home.

His ears keen for the sound of a car on the driveway, Frank peered into first-floor windows. If Gilman were behind the gallery thefts, where might he hide the paintings?

“The attic or the cellar!” Frank thought, wishing it were possible to search these places.

He found the garage open and looked around inside. Nothing suspicious there. Next, Frank pressed his face against a cellar window but saw only garden furniture, tools, and piles of old newspapers. Feeling thwarted, Frank then walked to the lake front. Through a grove of willows to the right, he noticed a boathouse and a long dock.

“I'll check there,” he decided, and followed a path through the woods. Suddenly Frank heard footsteps behind him. He was about to spin around when he was struck hard on the head.

Frank's legs turned to rubber and everything went black.

He had no idea how much time had passed when he came to with a throbbing headache. Sensations spun through his consciousness ... a strong, acrid smell ... hushed voices ... echoing ... a feeling of being adrift.

Suddenly he felt a trickle of water on his face. Frank opened his eyes to darkness. He was encased in something made of metal.

Then he saw jagged holes of light above his head. A chill of horror jolted him!

Frantically, Frank tried to turn over. But the container rolled with his movement, forcing water in through the holes.

FRANK kicked at the bottom of the container, then gagged as water rose over his chin.

Sputtering, he pounded his heels against the steel, but it was no use!

In a last desperate effort Frank gave a mighty push upward with his head and hands. The top gave a little. He pushed again, this time loosening the lid enough to free himself. His lungs at the bursting point, Frank swam away from the sinking trap and shot to the surface.

Gasping and gulping in air, he found himself about fifty yards offshore from the limousine.

No boats were in sight as he made it to the shore and collapsed, exhausted. As soon as his strength returned, he stood up and looked about for signs of his attackers. “Maybe someone is hiding in the boathouse,” he thought. Frank headed for the building, moving with caution. Finding the padlock open, he slipped inside.

Gilman's lavish craft swayed gently in its berth. Frank peered about the dim interior but saw no one lurking in the shadows. He kicked at a tarpaulin, uncovering a pile of wood molding. “Wonder what they're for,” he mused, and picked up several pieces. Underneath lay a familiar-looking, ridged strip. It had a diamond-shaped corner !

“It's part of an old fort frame!” Other fragments also appeared to be from the Prisoner-Painter's originals. “Gilman!”

The evidence pointed to the critic as the thief. But Frank was puzzled. Would Gilman have gone so far as to try to drown him?

“The police should know about this immediately,” he decided, covering the frames. He ran to the limousine and drove directly to the school. He called the chief, who sent officers Bilton and Turner to meet him at Gilman's. After changing clothes, Frank went back to the critic's house. To his surprise, Gilman was there.

“What is the meaning of this?” the owner demanded as Frank and the policemen approached.

“We'd like to take a look inside your boathouse,” said Officer Turner. He showed a search warrant.

Gilman climbed to his feet, his face a mixture of alarm and bewilderment. “Why? What—?”

“Because this young man tells us some stolen property is in there.”

“Which I discovered,” Frank added, “after someone knocked me out and tried to sink me in a steel drum.”

Gilman was flabbergasted. “I'm not guilty of such a terrible thing,” he protested. “I'll have you know I am a reputable citizen.”

“Come along with us,” Officer Turner ordered.

Inside the boathouse, Frank pointed out the diamond-shaped piece of wood. “Recognize that, Mr. Gilman?”

“Of course. It looks like an original frame for a Davenport painting.”

“Yes. A stolen frame,” Frank challenged. “Maybe you can tell us what it's doing in your boathouse?”

The critic threw up his hands. “I don't know how any of this wood got in here. I am innocent of these hideous accusations. My driver, who also pilots the cruiser, can testify to that. He's been with me for the last few hours.”

The driver was questioned closely. He provided a perfect alibi and vehemently denied any part in the attack on Frank. He also maintained that the stack of wood had not been in the boathouse earlier that day.

After searching the premises for the stolen paintings, the officers decided to recover the drum. Frank offered to dive for it, so the three took the rowboat to the spot where he had surfaced. Stripping to his shorts, Frank plunged overboard and streaked downward. Fortunately the water was clear, and he soon spotted the drum, and the lid near it, resting on the sandy bottom at a depth of ten feet.

When Frank bobbed up bearing the evidence, he was helped aboard and the trio returned to the boathouse. The critic paled when he saw his address printed on the side of the drum. “That contained insecticide,” he said. “We used up the last of it a week ago.”

Gilman looked completely deflated and his chin slumped to his chest. “I didn't have anything to do with this fiendish thing,” he muttered.

The officers ordered him not to leave the premises. “You'll have to stay here until we find out the truth,” said Turner. He and Bilton took the container and pieces of frame as evidence. By now, Frank had dried off in the hot sun and dressed, so they drove back in the limousine.

“You're lucky to be alive,” Bilton remarked.

Frank nodded. “I'm thankful that
^*
wasn't put on any tighter,” he replied. He remembered the voices he had heard just before sinking. “There must have been two men at least.”

“At any rate, this is pretty heavy evidence against Gilman,” said Turner.

Chet, Joe, Uncle Jim, and Mr. Davenport were first stunned, then angered upon hearing of Frank's experience. He had told them his story in the art patron's study. The elderly Southerner kept muttering, “I know Chauncey Gilman's dead set against me—but this—incredible.”

“I feel the same way,” Frank said. “I don't believe he's to blame.”

Joe agreed. “If Mr. Gilman was so shook up by a fake monster,” he said wryly, “I can't see him having the nerve to do anything criminal.”

“How about the paintings?” Jim Kenyon asked.

“Not a sign,” Frank replied.

“Do you think Gilman knows anything about that ghost we saw last night?” Chet put in.

Frank shrugged. “Remember, Adrian Copler's still at large, and his partners. If we only had some leads to their identity!”

Joe reported that he and Chet had found Turtle Island deserted. Everett and his rowboat were gone. There was no trace of the stolen paintings.

“His dog was there, but chained up, lucky for us,” Chet added.

Mr. Davenport declared he himself would visit Chauncey Gilman that afternoon. “I don't like him, but I won't judge him guilty till it's proved.”

The boys had a late lunch, after which Frank suggested revisiting the fort. “We can give the interior a good going-over this time,” he said.

Jim Kenyon offered to accompany the boys, since he had the afternoon free.

“Swell,” said Joe. “We could use a hand combing the fort.”

After getting some digging tools, they climbed into the bateau and set off. When they reached Senandaga, the foursome went directly through the entrance tunnel. Pausing in the middle of the parade ground, Frank took out their map.

“Let's see. We're facing south.” He pointed to a long, roofless building to his right. “That must be the West Barracks—”

“Or what's left of it,” Chet interrupted.

“—And the ruin behind us—here—the North Barracks. This building to our left was for officers. Other than the two demilunes outside, the four corner bastions, and the ramparts themselves, that's the setup aboveground.”

“How about the dungeons?” Joe asked. “Jason Davenport must have been kept prisoner in one.”

Frank turned the map around. “They were under the West Barracks.” They walked over to the stone structure, which rose just above the rampart. Rubble clogged an entrance which evidently led underground.

“It'll be a job getting down there,” Frank said.

“Of course General Davenport likely had the run of the fort,” Mr. Kenyon reminded them. “He could have found the
chaîne d'or
anywhere.”

They decided to comb the barrack ruins first, Frank taking the one to the west, Joe the old officers' building, and Chet and Uncle Jim the North Barracks.

Originally three-storied, these were now little more than shells with empty window and door frames. Two bleak chimneys remained standing.

Joe climbed through a broken wall section and began searching among the chunks of stone and mortar, most of it from the fallen upper floor.

Hours passed as the boys and Jim worked. Senandaga echoed with the sound of shovels and shifting stones. Each began to doubt the clue could ever be found. What if it were hopelessly buried?

“Look, here's an old sword blade!” Frank called out.

“Great!” Chet responded. “We just found a rusted grapeshot rack!”

Joe later uncovered a wooden canteen almost intact. But none of them saw anything resembling a tomahawk or a chain. Finally the weary searchers took a break, relaxing on the shore near the bateau.

Suddenly they were startled by men's angry shouts from inside the fort!

Frank and Joe, followed by Chet and his uncle, ran up the slope and through the tunnel, then halted in amazement.

At one side of the parade ground, two men were furiously exchanging blows!

“RENÉ FOLLETTE and Lloyd Everett!” cried Frank in astonishment.

The Hardys, Chet, and Jim Kenyon rushed over and separated the fighting men. Mr. Kenyon silenced them. “What's this all about, René?”

“This hermit—he insults my ancestor, the great Marquis de Chambord!”

Everett snorted. “Who was brought to heel by
my
forebear, Lord Craig!”

“Then it's
you
two who have been raising the French and British flags,” Frank declared.

Reluctantly, first Everett, then Follette admitted having done so to have his country's flag flying for Senandaga Day. Each man had lowered the other's banner, but neither had been looking for the golden chain. Each had, however, come at various times to search for proof of his ancestor's victory.

René grunted. “You, Everett, struck me unconscious last Tuesday!”

“Utter nonsense! Besides—you struck
me
cold yesterday!”

“A lie!”

The Hardys exchanged glances. Who had knocked out the Englishman and the sculptor? Frank asked them if they had seen a black-robed “ghost” around the fort.

“Ghost, no!” Follette waved emphatically. “But I still feel that blow on my head!”

Jim Kenyon, with some difficulty, got the two to shake hands and declare a truce.

After the men had pushed off in their boats, the boys and Uncle Jim resumed their explorations, skirting the ramparts. Frank and Joe noticed small openings at foot level along the entire parapet, evidently rifle ports to reinforce cannon fire. But looking through one, Joe found it obstructed.

“Look!” he called to his brother. “Somebody's wedged a tin can in here! And in the next opening, too!”

Frank found the same thing true along the north rampart.

“This explains the eerie noise of the wind we heard!” he said. “These might have been stuck in to make the spooky sounds!”

Suddenly he knelt down and yanked out a rectangular can from one port. Joe sniffed at the open top. “This held kerosene!” he exclaimed. He pulled the cork from his pocket. It fit perfectly.

Frank held onto the tin. Crouching, the Hardys moved along the notched wall guarding the fort. Bend by bend, they checked for markings or loose stones.

“Let's try the demilunes,” Frank urged at last.

They were just crossing the wooden planking to the southern demilune when Chet's voice rang out.

“Frank—Joe—Uncle Jim, come here!”

Rushing down to the end of the North Barracks, the others found Chet holding up a piece of black cloth. Excitedly the Hardys examined it.

“Frank—you think—?”

“It's from the ghost? Could be!”

Jim Kenyon took the torn fragment and rubbed his fingers over the cloth.

He looked at the boys. “If so, your ghost got his costume from Millwood! This is a piece of a painting smock—dyed!”

He pointed out white markings still faintly visible beneath the black dye. They spelled “Mil.”

“Wow!” Chet burst out. “You think the phantom is an artist?”

“Whatever he is,” Joe said, “how did he walk on water?”

Frank showed Chet and his uncle the kerosene tin, and told of the other cans he and Joe had found. “They look like fruit-juice cans,” he added. “Maybe someone bought supplies in Cedartown.”