The Haunted Fort (6 page)

The boys, disappointed in the outcome of their mission, thanked the man and left.

“So that's Chauncey Gilman!” Joe said scornfully as they headed south on the lake road. “What a swellhead! And he sure has it in for Millwood. No wonder Mr. Davenport doesn't like him.”

“You said it!” Chet agreed, “Uncle Jim and his students must resent a character like that.”

Frank appeared lost in thought. “I wish we could do more in getting to the bottom of this mystery. If only we knew what kind of clue to look for!”

“Do you think Gilman has any interest in the gold chain?” Chet asked.

Frank shrugged. “He didn't act like it—but you never know.”

Joe's lip curled. “He's too busy dreaming up acid criticisms.”

The suit of armor crashed to the floor

A mist hung over the lake now, the water below them seeming almost colorless through the trees. Up ahead at a bend in the road, Chet noticed an observation area offering a commanding view of the lake. The boys decided to pull over for a look.

“Maybe we can see the fort from here,” Joe said. Chet parked on the wide shoulder and they got out.

A strong wind coursed up the slopes from the lake. Several homes were scattered along the opposite shore. The boys looked out to their right. Barely visible in the dusk was the jutting outline of one of Senandaga's walls. The Hardys again speculated on the collapse of the fort section that morning.

Suddenly Joe leaned forward and asked curiously, “What kind of craft is that?”

The others looked down and saw a small white barge, coupled to a green tugboat. They could dimly make out two metal strands coming from the front of the barge.

“Oh, that must be the cable ferry Uncle Jim mentioned,” Chet recalled. “It takes cars and passengers across the lake.” He glanced at his watch. “Let's go back,” he said. “Supper was a long time ago!” The famished boy grinned and the brothers laughed.

They started for the car. Joe, who was last, abruptly stopped in his tracks. His ears strained to catch a distant sound.

“Fellows, wait! Hear that?”

They listened intently. Echoing down the lake from the ramparts came the ominous thump, thump, thump of a drum!

“LISTEN!” Joe urged, as Frank and Chet joined him apprehensively at the lookout.

“What is it?” Chet asked.

Joe held up his hand for silence and they listened intently. Frank leaned far out in the direction of the mist-shrouded fort. The only sound was that of the wind through the trees.

Joe explained as they got back in the car. “I'm positive it was drumbeats!” he said emphatically. “It was coming from—the fort!”

A cold chill raced up Chet's spine. He shuddered. “Y-you think Senandaga really is h-haunted ?”

“It could have been the wind playing tricks,” Frank speculated. “Personally, I think it was your stomach rumbling, Chet. Why didn't you tell us you were so hungry?”

The three broke into laughter, and drove back to Millwood, where they persuaded the kind-hearted cook to provide them with a snack.

The Hardys suggested they check the grounds before going to bed. The place seemed to be deserted. Joe happened to glance over toward the moonlit gallery and noticed something move in the shadows. A man was crouched at the locked door!

“Somebody's trying to get into the gallery!”

The boys broke into a run across the lawn, but the man jumped up and tore into the woods.

“Fan out!” Frank yelled to Joe and Chet.

Separating, they crashed through the brush in pursuit. In the darkness ahead, they could hear pounding footsteps.

“This way!” Joe yelled, heading left toward the sound of a breaking twig.

“Where? I can't see a thing!” Chet stumbled into a fallen tree and groaned before following a shadow to his left. “F-Frank—is that you?”

“Yes. Come on! Over here!”

Darting quickly from one tree trunk to the next, Frank plunged forward through bushes, then paused. Hearing a branch snap, he rushed ahead to the left.

“He must have headed to the right!” Joe's voice rang out.

Squinting for a glimpse of the prowler, Frank jumped over some rocks and darted through a clearing. As he sprinted into an adjoining wooded patch, he collided with someone and went sprawling on the ground.

“Joe—it's you!”

“Frank!”

Presently they saw Chet's chunky shadow approach. “Where did he go?” Chet panted, exhausted.

Kneeling and breathing heavily, they listened for a sign of the fugitive. But there was only silence throughout the woods.

“That guy's a phantom,” said Chet, mopping his forehead.

“One thing is certain,” Frank remarked. “He knows the area well. Probably somebody local.”

“Wonder who he was,” Joe said as they hurried toward the gallery. “He was tall—dennitely not the thief we've already seen.”

The boys found that the gallery padlock had been tampered with, and hastily summoned Chet's uncle.

“We didn't get a good look at the man,” Frank reported, “but this is definite proof there's more than one person after the fort treasure.”

He phoned headquarters, and soon an officer arrived on the scene. He dusted the door for prints, and made a search of the grounds near the gallery.

“No footprints,” he reported. “Check with us in the morning.”

Afterward, the young sleuths and Uncle Jim got tools and worked by lantern light to reinforce the lock.

Frank and Joe also inserted a high-watt bulb into the unused socket over the door, then switched on the light. It was past midnight when they gathered up the tools.

Mr. Kenyon wiped his brow. “This bright light may discourage intruders. This gallery wasn't designed to hold off thieves!”

Joe grinned. “I hope
we
are.”

The next morning Chet was snoring contentedly when the Hardys finished dressing. Strong tugs at his legs awakened him.

“Come on,” Joe urged. “Up and at 'em! You're four hours behind the birds!”

The heavy youth grumbled and burrowed deeper into his covers.

“Breakfast is ready!” Joe shouted.

Covers flew up and Chet landed squarely on the floor with two feet.

After eating, the trio went directly to the gallery. This time no one interfered. They found the remaining fort paintings were as varied in style as they were in views of the impressive fortress.

Several were painted as if from the middle of Crown Lake; others as if from a nearby mountain. Some were night scenes, others broad daylight. Green and brown colors stood out boldly, and lighting effects were worked with fine brush strokes upon the fort's stone ledges.

All the paintings were signed with an interlaced J and D.

“As I see it,” Frank observed, “there's a choice of ways in which a painter could leave a clue on canvas.”

“Or in the frame,” Chet added.

Frank nodded. “But I think the paintings themselves are the best bet. The clue could be a tiny word in a corner or even a symbol. Or”—he pointed to one picture—“it might be where a figure is standing—this Union soldier for instance.”

“Also,” Joe interposed, “we should keep our eyes open for any unusual color or brush stroke.”

By noon they had found nothing definite, but all three had kept notes of possible clues. Back in their room, the boys placed tracing paper over the photostat of the Senandaga map and marked the places they wanted to check. Joe then locked the map in his suitcase and put the tracing paper in his pocket. After lunch the Hardys were impatient to begin exploring the fort, but Chet had a suggestion.

“Uncle Jim told me there's a new instructor in sculpture. He's French, and has definite views on Fort Senandaga. Maybe we should see this René Follette.”

The Hardys agreed, although they strongly suspected their chum was trying to postpone another visit to the old fort. First, Frank phoned headquarters. No trace of the thief or of last evening's prowler had turned up. The fingerprints had proved inconclusive.

The Bayporters headed for the sculpture studio. On the way, they passed Ronnie at his easel. Chet twirled his beret and sang out, “Getting ready for the exhibit?”

The student sneered. “I'm all set to take first prize. Half the kids here can't paint a barn door.”

Chet glanced at the garish orange and purple circles on Ronnie's canvas. “Rush” was signed at the bottom in large flourishing letters.

“You wouldn't understand it.” Ronnie guffawed, then said slyly, “I saw you three coming out of the gallery. Did you give up painting lessons ?”

“Not me,” Chet declared cheerfully.

“Ha! I suppose you're going to enter the exhibit.”

Chet's face grew red. The Hardys winked at each other but said nothing. The young detectives moved on.

As they entered the sculpture workshop, the fresh smell of clay reached their nostrils. Colorful pottery and ceramic figures stood on high tables, as well as several in bronze. A stocky, red-faced man with snapping black eyes was darting among his students. About fifteen boys and girls were standing before long tables, working on both clay and metal sculptures.

When he saw Chet and the Hardys the instructor beamed. “Come in, come in!” He made a sweeping gesture of welcome. “You are new,
n'est ce pas?
I am René Follette.”

The boys explained that they were visiting Millwood as guests. “We're especially interested in Fort Senandaga,” said Frank. “Could—”

“Ah!
Magnifique!”
the Frenchman broke in dramatically. “I shall tell you the story.” The boys settled down at an empty table by a narrow open window. Follette removed a denim apron and joined them.

His first words were startling. “Senandaga!
Bah!
Fort du Lac is the real name!” He struck his chest. “It was built by a Frenchman—le Marquis de Chambord.”

Intrigued by the peppery sculptor, the Hardys asked him about the battle said to have taken place during the French-Indian conflict. “Is it true the British conquered the fort?” Frank asked.

“Jamais!
Never!” was the violent protest. Waving his hands, the Frenchman told how the British, under the command of Lord Craig, coming by boat down Crown Lake, had attacked the bastion. They had forced the French to flee, but apparently had not held the fort long, since Chambord's men had returned to drive out their foe.

“Chambord was a great man!” Follette exulted. “His men were the last seen on the ramparts of Fort du
Lac-not
the Englanders!” He pounded the table fiercely.

At that moment Joe glimpsed a flash of gray moving away from the window. He could not be sure, but assumed it was someone in an artist's smock. Had the person been listening, or just passing by?

Frank was asking René Follette about the gold boom chain ordered by Chambord.

“I believe it
was
made,” the sculptor replied. His voice lowered. “I also believe it was stolen—by the Britishers. It is my intention,” he added, “to find the truth. In my own way.”

With that, the excitable Frenchman arose and resumed his instruction.

Outside, the boys looked at one another. Chet grinned. “Mr. Follette is ready to fight that battle all over again,” he said. “Think it's true about the French being the last holders of Senandaga?”

Frank chuckled. “Mr. Davenport may know. Why don't we drop over and see him?”

“Let's take the map along,” Joe said. “I'll go back for it and meet you outside the mansion.” He headed across the grounds to the storage building. At the top of the stairwell inside, he heard a scrambling noise from below. Somebody was in their room!

Tensely, Joe swung down the winding metal steps and burst inside the open door. Too late he heard a sound behind him. A crashing blow descended on his head. The room reeling, Joe sank to the floor.

REGAINING his senses, Joe found himself on his cot, looking up at the anxious faces of Frank and Chet. He sat up groggily, wincing as he touched his throbbing head.

“Ooo, who—scalped me?”

“The same person who stole our map of the fort,” Frank said, handing his brother a cool gauze compress.

“The map!” Joe exclaimed. “Stolen!” He remembered hearing the rummaging noise before he was struck unconscious.

Frank pointed to their scattered clothing. “Somebody pried open our suitcases. Anyhow, the photostat's gone. Too bad we didn't come back sooner to find out why you didn't show up.”