The Haunted Fort (2 page)

“Here's a fort!” Joe remarked. “Senandaga! That may be the place Chet's uncle mentioned. According to this, Senandaga was an impressive stronghold, though it didn't play a large role in the campaigns.”

“If a fort's haunted, we can't expect it to be historical too,” Frank said, grinning.

“Wait a minute!” Joe looked up. “There's a small painting of this fort right in the Bayport Museum!”

“The same one?”

“Yes. What say we have a look at it tomorrow before Chet gets here?”

After a sound night's sleep the boys awoke a half-hour earlier than usual the following morning and quickly arranged their luggage on the front porch. Leaving word that they would be back by ten, they drove in their convertible to the Bayport Museum.

A small, pug-faced man carrying a large sketch pad was just leaving the building as they reached the top of the marble steps. After bumping into Frank, he bowed nervously, then hastened down the steps and up the street.

“He's sure an early-bird artist,” Joe remarked.

They passed into the cool, echoing foyer and were just about to enter the American Collection Room when they heard running footsteps and a cry for help. A distraught, bespectacled man waved to them and pointed ahead.

“That man—stop him—he's stolen our fort painting!”

“FORT painting!” The words set Frank and Joe racing after the thief. They darted outside and down the marble steps three at a time! Frank went in one direction, Joe the other. But there was no sign of the fugitive.

After the Hardys had checked several side streets, they headed back and met at the museum.

“No luck,” Frank said.

“He must have had a car,” Joe declared.

“Another thing,” Frank said, “I'll bet he hid the painting in that big sketch pad of his.”

In the foyer of the museum, the brothers were questioned by two policemen. After Frank and Joe had given their statements to the officers, they spoke with the museum director, the man who had alerted them to the theft. As Frank suspected, the thief had apparently concealed the small painting in his sketch pad.

“I don't know why he chose the picture of Fort Senandaga,” the director lamented, “but I'm sorry he did. So far as I know, ours was the only work of the Prisoner-Painter in this area.”

The Hardys started in surprise. This was the same artist whose pictures had been disappearing from Millwood Art School!

After the director had thanked them for their efforts, they returned to their car, each with the same thought: Had the morning's theft any connection with the art school mystery?

When they reached home, Chet was sitting disconsolately on the porch steps fanning himself with a blue beret.

“Leaping lizards! What a morning you fellows pick for going to a museum,” he moaned. “I could have had a second breakfast while I've been waiting for you.”

“We're sorry, Chet,” Frank apologized, “but it turned out to be a four-lap, dead-end workout.”

While the Hardys loaded their bags into Chet's freshly polished yellow jalopy, the Queen, they told him of the museum theft. Chet whistled.

“Do you think the thief's the one who threw that scalp on our lawn?”

“It's likely,” Frank replied.

When the jalopy had been loaded up to the back windows, Mrs. Hardy came out and embraced the boys warmly. “Do take care of yourselves.” She smiled. “Dad will be home in a few days. I'll tell him about your case, but I feel sure you can solve it by yourselves.”

Amid good-bys, Chet backed the car down the driveway, and soon the jalopy was headed north out of Bayport. After following the county road for half an hour, Chet guided the car onto the wide-laned state thruway extending like a white ribbon beneath a light-blue sky.

The boys conversed excitedly about their destination and the mystery to be solved there.

“You really did some tune-up job on the Queen, Chet,” Joe commented from the back seat. “One of these days she may be a threat to approaching the speed limit.”

Chet smiled good-naturedly at the gibe, then frowned, tugging at his beret to keep it from being blown off by the brisk wind. Finally he gave up. “Alas, what we artists must bear.” He sighed and stuffed the cap into the glove compartment.

Frank grinned. “What happened to that coonskin job you had yesterday?”

“Oh,” Chet said airily, “I thought I'd get into the artistic spirit.”

As they drove by a gasoline-and-restaurant service area, a black sedan pulled out onto the thruway from the service area exit. When Chet moved to the middle lane to pass, Joe glanced at the sedan and sat up sharply.

“Frank! The driver of that car—it's the picture thief!”

Immediately Chet slackened speed. Looking over, Frank too recognized the pug-faced man at the wheel an instant before the thief saw the Hardys. Clearly alarmed, the man gunned the engine. The black car shot ahead, but Frank glimpsed in its back seat a large sketch pad!

“Stay with him!” Joe urged, as the gap widened between the two cars. Futilely, Chet floored the Queen's old gas pedal, then noticed a large sign to the right: PAY TOLL—½ MILE.

“Quick a quarter!”

Ahead, they could see the black car slow down at the exact-change booth to the right. Chet closed the space quickly before the other car moved ahead, less swiftly this time. Beyond the toll, a parked State Police car was visible.

“Now's our chance to catch him!” Frank exclaimed. Chet pulled up to the same booth and hastily flipped the coin into the collection basket. Without waiting the second for the light to turn green, he gunned the Queen in hot pursuit of the black car.

Ahead, a blast of exhaust smoke told the pursuers that the thief was tromping on the gas. As Chet strained over the wheel trying to gain speed he heard a siren behind him, and the trooper waved the jalopy to the roadside.

“What happened?” Joe asked anxiously as Chet stopped.

The trooper pulled ahead, got out, and ambled over. “It's customary to drop a quarter in the toll basket, young fellow.”

“I did.”

The trooper looked annoyed. “The light still says red, and besides, the alarm bell rang.”

“But—but—” Chet spluttered in surprise.

“Let's see your license.”

“Officer,” Frank spoke up, “we're in a hurry. We're chasing a thief!”

The trooper smiled in spite of himself. “Well, I've never heard that one before.”

“But we are!” Joe insisted. “A painting was stolen in Bayport.”

“You can check with Chief Collig there,” said Frank.

The trooper eyed the trio suspiciously. “Okay. But if this is a hoax, I'll arrest all three of you.” He strode to his car and spoke into the radio. Three minutes later he trotted back. “Accept my apologies, boys. You were right. Can you describe that car?”

As Joe gave the information, including the license number which he had memorized, Chet hurried to the toll basket. He returned waving a cloth in his hand. “That's a clever crook!” he shouted. “He dropped this rag in the basket so my quarter wouldn't register.”

“He won't get away from us,” the trooper said. He ran to his car, radioed to police ahead, then sped off at ninety miles an hour.

“Now we've got action,” Frank said as Chet urged the Queen along the thruway.

Three exits later, they saw the trooper parked alongside the road. Chet pulled up behind him.

“Sorry, boys!” the officer called out. “The thief gave us the shake. But we'll track him down!”

After a brief stop at a snack bar the trio continued on toward Crown Lake, with Frank at the wheel.

The flat countryside gave way to ranges of dark and light green hills, several of them arching spectacularly up on either side of the broad road, curving toward the blue sky.

An hour later they left the state thruway and proceeded through several small towns before sighting the bluish-gray water of Crown Lake. It appeared, partially screened by a ridge of trees, then came into full view at a rise just beyond where there was a dirt road and a sign: MILLWOOD ART SCHOOL 500 YARDS AHEAD TO THE RIGHT. Frank swung into the road and in a few minutes the sloping green lawns of the estate came into view. Frank pulled the car into a parking area facing the edge of the slope and stopped next to a large oak.

Chet led the way vigorously down a graveled path which wound across the grounds. “Uncle Jim's teaching his class now,” he called back to the Hardys.

Ahead, on a level stretch of lawn, the trio saw a group of young people standing in front of easels. Near one student stood a tall, husky, blond-haired man in a painting smock. When he saw the boys, he beamed and hurried over.

“Chet! Good to see you again!”

“Hello, Uncle Jim!” Chet promptly introduced Frank and Joe to Mr. Kenyon, who shook hands warmly.

“Welcome to Millwood.” He smiled. “Fortunately, my last class today is finishing, and I can help you with your luggage.”

The painting instructor accompanied the boys back across the lawn toward the uphill path. Suddenly one of the students cried out:

“Look out! That car—it's rolling!”

A shudder passed through the boys as they saw the yellow Queen starting down the slope from the parking area. Directly in its path two girls stood rooted in terror at their easels.

Chet's jalopy gathered speed. It hurtled faster and faster toward the girls!

“We've got to stop it!” shouted Joe, on the run.

JOE sprinted across the slope and dived for the car. Hanging on, he reached through the window and wrenched at the wheel. The Queen swerved, missed the girls by inches, crushed the easels, and came to rest in a tangle of thick underbrush.

Then Joe ran up to the frightened students. “Are you all right?” he asked with concern.

Both girls nodded, trembling with relief. One said, “We owe you our lives!”

“And our paintings too,” said her companion.

Their two half-finished canvases had been knocked off the easels and lay intact, face up on the ground.

By now Frank, Chet, and Mr. Kenyon had rushed over. “Are you all right, Joe?”

“I'm fine, but I'd rather tackle a whole football team than a runaway car!”

The praises of the onlookers for his bravery embarrassed Joe. “Let's find out what happened to the Queen,” he said.

The boys found the car undamaged. “Hey!” Chet cried out. “The emergency's off! I know you set it, Frank.”

The jalopy was driven back to the parking area. This time it was left well away from the rim of the incline. Frank looked around.

“The car didn't just happen to roll. Somebody deliberately released the emergency brake.”

Mr. Kenyon frowned. “What a terrible prank!”

“I don't believe it was a practical joke,” Frank said. “What the motive was, though, I can't guess yet.”

The boys took their luggage from the car, and then Mr. Kenyon led them toward a small, newly painted building. “I'm sorry you had to be welcomed to Millbrook in this manner,” he said. “But we'll try to make up for it.”

He took the visitors through a side door into a large, cluttered room, piled with dusty easels, rolls of canvas, and cardboard boxes filled with paint tubes. “This is our storage house,” explained the art instructor.

The boys followed him down a narrow stairway into a small basement studio. The stone room smelled of oil paints. Several unframed modern paintings lay along one wall. Mr. Kenyon reached up with a pole to open the single window near the ceiling.

“This is my little garret—subterranean style,” he explained. “Make yourselves comfortable. Since the thefts, I've been rooming upstairs where I have a better view of our art gallery across the way.”

The boys set down their bags on three sturdy cots. Joe grinned. “I'm beginning to feel like an artist.”

“So am I,” Frank said. “This room is fine, Mr. Kenyon.”

“Just call me Uncle Jim. How about supper? You must be hungry.”

Chet beamed. “I could eat an easel!”

First, however, he eagerly recounted the scalp incident to his uncle, then the Hardys told of their experiences at the Bayport Museum and on the thruway. Mr. Kenyon agreed there likely was a connection with the Millwood thefts.

“But the man you describe doesn't ring any bells with me,” he continued. “Our summer session had been going along well until five days ago when I discovered a painting missing from our small gallery. The day before yesterday, a second was stolen during the night—both works of the Prisoner-Painter.” He sighed. “We have to keep the building under lock and key now, even from our students.”

“So tomorrow we'll start our sleuthing,” said Joe.

“Right. Perhaps by mingling with the students you can pick up some clue,” replied Uncle Jim. “Though I'd hate to suspect any of them.”

“Can you tell us about this Prisoner-Painter?” Frank asked.

“I could,” Mr. Kenyon said, smiling, “but I think Mr. Jefferson Davenport would rather tell you himself, since the artist is his ancestor.”

“The wealthy man who started Millwood?” Joe put in.

“Yes. He looks forward to meeting you detectives, but he won't be receiving visitors today, because of the anniversary of a battle.”

“A battle?” Frank echoed in surprise.

The instructor chuckled. “You'll find Mr. Davenport is quite a buff on the science of military fortification, in addition to his interest in painting. You'll see when you meet him tomorrow.”