The Haunted Fort Read online

  The meal over, Frank, Joe, and Chet thanked Mr. Davenport and walked back to the school. There, Frank pointed to a long, skylighted building in a grove of birches.

  “What say we look for clues right where the paintings disappeared—the gallery?”

  “Good idea,” Joe agreed. They crossed a wide lawn and eagerly headed for the old stone structure. Reaching it, Frank used the key given him by Mr. Kenyon and opened the large padlock. The boys filed inside and closed the door.

  The interior was dim and cool, but sunlight came through the panes of a skylight to brighten the three windowless walls, on which were hung some fifty paintings. The wall at the far end of the room contained General Davenport’s, each of which showed a different view of Fort Senandaga.

  The boys now noticed the distinctive frames mentioned by the art patron. Their corners jutted out in a diamondlike shape.

  “Look!” Joe pointed to a large yellowed diagram, half of which was torn off. It hung near the fort pictures. “That must be Senandaga.”

  The Hardys and Chet went over to examine the ancient parchment. Beneath was a label explaining the remnant was from one of the original drawing plans for the fort. Despite the missing part, they could see enough to tell that its layout resembled the form of a star.

  “The Prisoner-Painter made his frames roughly in the same shape,” Joe observed.

  Frank nodded, then said, “I’m sure the police searched here, but anyway, let’s take a look around ourselves for a clue to the thief.”

  Chet took the end wall, Frank and Joe the sides. On their knees, the boys combed the stone floor, then studied the walls for possible telltale marks.

  After an hour, their efforts had proved fruitless. “There’s still the wall around the entrance,” Joe said with a sigh. “Let’s inspect every stone.”

  While Frank examined an empty desk, Chet and Joe pored carefully over the wall. No luck there.

  “Say, fellows,” Joe suddenly exclaimed, “what about the fort paintings themselves? If the thief was undecided about which one to take, he may have touched some.”

  “You’re right!” Frank agreed. They rushed across to the row of aged canvases. Removing the paintings from the wall, they began inspecting the backs and edges of the frames.

  “Look! I found something!” Chet called out.

  Across the paper backing was a sticky smear of red oil paint! “This was made recently,” Joe observed. “It still has a strong paint odor.”

  “There’s no fingerprint on the smear,” remarked Frank, looking at it closely, before rubbing some of the paint onto a small piece of paper.

  “I wonder if the thief is an artist himself,” Chet said.

  The three left the gallery, and locked the door behind them. The next step, they agreed, would be to identify the paint, then track down the person who used it.

  “Except for Uncle Jim and Mr. Davenport,” Frank cautioned, “we’ll keep this clue to ourselves.”

  Millwood students were now strolling from their classes, and Ronnie Rush emerged from a knot of chatting young artists.

  “Pick up many painting tips today?” he asked, setting down his easel. “I see you rated getting into the gallery.”

  “We’ve just been sort of on a tour,” Frank answered, deftly concealing the paint sample in the palm of his hand. “How about you?”

  “Oh, I’ve been working on a couple of oils,” Ronnie said importantly. “Want to see ’em?”

  “Not right now,” Joe replied. “We’re busy. Thanks anyway.”

  Ronnie looked annoyed and eyed the three boys sullenly as they hurried to their quarters. There they found Jim Kenyon in the storage room shifting art equipment about. He was keenly interested in the paint sample, and congratulated them on finding the clue. He immediately identified the paint.

  “It’s called alizarin crimson,” he said. “Many of our students use it.”

  “Pretty hard to pinpoint the culprit,” Frank observed. “But we won’t give up.”

  After washing his hands in turpentine and soap, the husky instructor accompanied the boys to supper. A tasty meal awaited them in the Davenport kitchen.

  After supper the boys went to the lakeside for a look at the boathouse. They peered up at the promontory behind which Fort Senandaga lay.

  “Let’s go over to the fort tomorrow,” Frank suggested. “Right now, we might do some boning up on art. It might sharpen our eyes to finding that treasure clue.”

  In their basement room, Chet and the Hardys spent the evening mulling over books on painting borrowed from Mr. Kenyon. Later, they went upstairs for a conference with Chet’s uncle. Using paints and a canvas, the instructor illustrated various art techniques.

  “Want to try your hand, Chet?” Mr. Kenyon offered, holding out the brush to his nephew. He winked at Frank and Joe. “I think he has the makings of a painter, don’t you?”

  But before either Hardy could answer, the building shook with a deafening roar that reverberated up the stairwell!

  Frank jumped to his feet. “That came from downstairs!” The smell of burnt powder reached them as they all charged down the narrow steps. When they entered their room, Chet gasped.

  The wall near which their luggage lay was splattered with red dots!

  “A shotgun!” Joe exclaimed, picking up a used cartridge under the window. He grimaced and held out the shell. “Look.” Everyone gasped. It was covered with red.

  “Bl-blood?” Chet quavered.

  His uncle examined the cartridge. “No. Red paint—alizarin crimson!”

  On the floor lay a small paintbrush. Wrapped around it was a piece of paper. Frank unfolded the sheet to disclose a typewritten message:A mural for the Hardy Boys. Leave Millwood or my next painting will be a coffin—yours.

  CHAPTER V

  Danger Alley

  CHET looked nervous. “Another threat!” he exclaimed. “I guess that scalp warning wasn’t any joke.”

  Uncle Jim’s face showed concern. “Whoever stuck a gun barrel through that window wants to scare you boys off—that’s plain.”

  Joe said wryly, “Lucky we weren’t on hand for the barrage.”

  Frank compared the note with that found earlier on the scalp. “Both were done on the same typewriter—and this red paint looks like that ‘blood’ on the papier-mâché.”

  With flashlights the instructor and the three boys searched the ground outside the shattered window, but no clues were found.

  While the boys swept up the broken glass and fallen plaster, they speculated on the identity of their mysterious enemy. The Hardys felt he might very well be the same person who had thrown the scalp and stolen the fort painting in Bayport.

  Chet gulped. “You mean—that thief trailed us here?” Then he asked, “Do you think that snoopy Ronnie Rush could have had something to do with this?” He told his uncle of their encounters with the boy.

  “Well,” said Mr. Kenyon, “Ronnie’s sometimes a little hard to work with, but I don’t think he’d do something like this. Our annual outdoor exhibit is to be held on Senandaga Day—next Saturday. I’ll be pretty busy getting ready for it, so I won’t have much time to help you detectives.”

  Jim explained that Senandaga Day was celebrated every year. The town decreed that the fort be opened at this time to the public. “By having our art exhibit then, we attract more visitors.”

  The Hardys decided to track down if possible the source of the empty cartridge. Frank obtained from Uncle Jim the name of a Cedartown hunting equipment shop, the only one in the area.

  “It’s run by Myles Warren,” the painter added. “He’s one of our weekend painters, by the way.”

  Before retiring, the Hardys fastened some slats across the window. The rest of the night passed uneventfully. After breakfast the next morning, the three attended the quaint little church in town and located the shop of Myles Warren.

  “We’ll come here first thing tomorrow,” Frank said.

  Back at the school, the boys had m
idday dinner, then strolled across the lawn toward several students at work on their paintings.

  Frank said in a low tone, “Let’s see who has been using the alizarin red.” The trio split up. Each boy had a paper bearing a smear of the paint. They began browsing near easels set up not only on the main lawn, but also in various nooks on the outskirts of the estate.

  “Wow!” Chet exclaimed to himself, coming upon a dazzling creation being worked on by a thin, red-haired boy in dungarees. The plump boy tried to make some order out of the reddish-brown swirlsand zigzag silver streaks. “Looks like a vegetable cart that’s been hit by lightning.”

  The student paused and greeted Chet. “Like it?” He smiled. “It’s a meadow in wintertime.”

  “Oh—er—very unusual.” Chet walked on, muttering, “Guess I’ll have to get the hang of this stuff.”

  He stopped at several other easels, some of which bore landscape scenes, and others, views of the Millwood buildings or of the surrounding lakes.

  “Hi!” A round-faced jovial girl peeked out at Chet from behind an easel. “Are you a new student at Millwood?” she asked, wiping some red paint from her hands onto a rag. Chet explained that he was trying to pick up some pointers.

  “You’ll have to see our exhibit,” she said brightly. “I’m just touching up my portrait. One of the other students modeled for it.”

  “Is that alizarin crimson?”

  “Oh, you! You’re an old pro to recognize it,” the girl said.

  Chet gulped. “She’s so nice, she couldn’t be the thief,” he thought, then peered wide-eyed at the bizarre maze of green and yellow triangles, wavy black lines, blobs of thick red shading, and one eye.

  “You say another student modeled for you? Is he all right now?”

  The girl giggled. “Quit teasing. You know well enough this is an abstract!”

  “Oh, yes, of course.” Chet smiled and moved on to inspect several other student canvases before meeting the Hardys near the gallery. “Hope you fellows had more luck than I did,” he said.

  Frank shook his head. “Everybody is using alizarin crimson. We can’t narrow down this clue.”

  The next morning they walked up the shady lake road to the quaint village of Cedartown. Picturesque shops, a small church, and a barnlike playhouse graced the narrow main street. Frank pointed out the Cedar Sport Store on the other side.

  “If the shotgun shell was bought any place in the area, there’s a good chance it was here,” he said. They crossed and entered the dimly lighted shop.

  A long, cluttered counter extended along a dusty wall hung with assorted hunting and fishing equipment. Frank rang the counter bell, and a slender hawk-nosed man with a full black beard emerged from a back room.

  “Mr. Warren?” Frank inquired.

  “Right. What can I do for you?” he asked, smiling. He spread his hands on the counter and looked with interest at the boys.

  “Can you tell us whether this was sold here?” Joe asked, handing him the paint-marked cartridge.

  The owner pulled a pair of glasses out of his shirt pocket, put them on, and looked closely at the shell. He shook his head and handed it back.

  “If it was used in this area, it’s probably my stock,” Warren affirmed. “But I sell hundreds of this brand to hunters. Although without the red paint,” he added, chuckling.

  “Then you have no way of pinpointing the customer?” Frank asked.

  “I’m afraid not.” The man then asked, “You all up here for the fishing? It’s great at the north end of the lake.”

  Frank shook his head. “Just visiting.”

  After thanking the dealer, the three left the shop. The next moment they heard a cry of anguish from an antique shop across the street. Its owner stood in the doorway gesturing frantically. “Help! Thief! Help!”

  The boys rushed to the sidewalk. “Over there!” Joe yelled.

  Directly opposite, a small man was running into a cobblestone alley. He carried a picture frame under his arm. The boys sprinted across the street and up the alley. They were closing the gap when the man stopped at a parked black sedan. The Hardys gasped.

  It was the man who had stolen the fort painting from the Bayport Museum!

  “He’s got an old fort frame!” Frank cried out, recognizing the odd shape.

  The boys put on more speed as the thief hopped into the car and started the motor.

  The sedan roared down the alley directly toward the boys! “Quick, this way!” Joe yelled.

  They darted to the right and flattened themselves against a building. The speeding vehicle almost brushed them. In a moment it had screeched around the corner and disappeared up the main street.

  A curious crowd had gathered, but were quickly dispersed by a policeman. The Hardys and Chet then went with the officer to the antique shop. The owner explained that the pug-faced man, whom he had never seen before, had offered to purchase the frame. Upon hearing the price, the man said that it was too high, and he started toward the door.

  “So I went into my workshop in back,” the dealer continued, “and returned just in time to see that scoundrel making off with the frame.” He groaned. “An irreplaceable loss.”

  Next, the boys were taken to police headquarters, where they told their story to the chief. He said a state alarm would be issued for the fugitive. Since the earlier alert, sent out right after the boys’ chase on the thruway, the police had discovered through the license number that the sedan was stolen.

  “We know the fellow’s in this area now,” the chief said. “We’ll keep you boys informed.”

  Walking back to Millwood, the three discussed the stolen frame.

  “Probably,” Frank remarked, “the thief didn’t have any luck finding a treasure clue in the paintings.”

  Joe looked thoughtful, “You think this guy stole the gallery pictures, too?”

  Frank stared at his brother. “Say! He could be in league with someone else!”

  Back at Millwood, Chet and the Hardys told Mr. Kenyon of the Cedartown incident. “Pretty bold move,” he commented, “risking a theft in broad daylight.”

  “Well,” Joe said glumly, “let’s hope the treasure clue isn’t in that frame.”

  After some further discussion of the new development in the mystery, Uncle Jim said, “How would you like to get your first look at Fort Senandaga?”

  “You bet!”

  “Good. Mr. Davenport has asked us to go.”

  The boys and the instructor went to the mansion, where they were introduced to Alex, the millionaire’s chauffeur-gardener, dressed in blue uniform and cap. Tall, with a clipped black mustache, he bowed stiffly to the boys, then moved around to the rear door of a polished limousine.

  “Boy, we’re going to ride in real style!” Chet exclaimed. “Old Queen will get jealous.”

  Mr. Davenport came out, greeted them cordially, and all took seats in back. Soon the limousine was heading south along the pretty, winding lake road. Past the end of the lake, the car turned up a gentle hill and paused at a PRIVATE PROPERTY sign. Alex got out and unlocked a wire gate. The entire south end of the fort promontory was enclosed by fencing marked with NO TRESPASSING signs.

  As they drove ahead through overgrown woods, the elderly Southerner spoke proudly of Fort Senandaga’s history. He explained that little was known of the one battle fought there between the British and French.

  “There’s dispute till this day about its outcome,” he went on, “and which side was the last to leave the fort. That’s probably why some folks believe Senandaga is haunted—ghosts of soldiers from both forces still fighting, no doubt.” He added, “Someday I aim to have that fort fully restored.”

  Chet asked if the public often visited the site at other times besides Senandaga Day. Davenport’s face turned livid and his eyes blazed. “The—the public!” he sputtered, sitting up and thumping his cane on the floor. Chet sat petrified until his uncle put a warning finger to his lips and smoothly changed the subject.

&
nbsp; Alex parked in a small clearing and everyone got out. The chauffeur stayed to guard the car. Mr. Davenport, his composure restored, led the others to a grass bluff. “There she is!”

  The entire lake could be seen, dotted in the distance with islands like scrubby green battle-ships. To the boys’ left, up a gentle slope, rose the stone fort, an expansive star-shaped ruin surrounded by a shallow ditch, overgrown with brush. Although much of the masonry was crumbling, all the walls were at least partially intact.

  As they walked toward the ramparts, Chet’s uncle pulled the boys aside and accounted for his employer’s sudden outburst.

  “I guess I should have warned you,” he said, chuckling. “There are two things you should never mention in Mr. Davenport’s presence. One is admitting the public to his fort—he has a great fear that someone will get careless wandering around the ruins and be injured. The other is Chauncey Gilman.”

  “Chauncey Gilman? Who is he?” Joe asked.

  Before Uncle Jim could answer, Mr. Davenport summoned them all down the steep counterscarp, or exterior slope of the ditch. As they proceeded, the elderly man talked excitedly.

  “Good walls, these,” he pointed out, his voice echoing upward. “The man who drew up the plans for Senandaga followed the star-shaped design made famous by Marshall Sebastian de Vauban, military engineer for Louis XIV. Genius—sheer genius!” he added as they came to a wide-angled turn in the towering wall. “A century later my ancestor was imprisoned here.”

  Frank and Joe marveled at the imposing defense the fort must have provided. “How could any army capture a place like Senandaga?” Joe asked.

  “Not without much bloodshed,” the millionaire acknowledged. “A man like Vauban could have succeeded, though. Long before Chambord built Senandaga, Vauban devised a parallel trench system for assaulting forts.” He explained how attacking armies in Europe had got nearer and nearer to fort walls by digging one parallel trench, then zigzagging ahead to dig another, and so on.

  “Boy, what terrific strategy!” Frank said.

  “Brilliant—brilliant,” Mr. Davenport agreed. “The Marquis de Chambord, by the way, was a great admirer of Vauban’s achievements.”