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.
CHAPTER III
Inquisitive Student
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.”
“What about this haunted fort?” Joe asked eagerly.
“Senandaga?” Uncle Jim’s eyes twinkled. “There are apparently some weird goings-on there. But Mr. Davenport will fill you in on that, too.”
Uncle Jim then took the Hardys and Chet to the Davenport lakeside mansion, an old gabled house staffed only by a woman cook and a part-time chauffeur-gardener.
“Mr. Davenport has invited us to have meals in the kitchen during your stay here,” the instructor said.
After a hearty supper Mr. Kenyon took the boys on a tour. He explained that the Millwood grounds were tended by the students themselves, who rented rooms in the nearby village of Cedartown. Art materials, all instruction, and part of rent costs were financed by the millionaire patron. Several townspeople also painted on weekends at the school.
Uncle Jim showed his visitors the studios, the gallery building from the outside, and finally, a boathouse near the mansion. Several canoes were tied up to a dock. These, Mr. Kenyon said, were for the students’ use.
As he accompanied the boys back to their quarters the instructor said with a grin, “Don’t expect Mr. Davenport to be too—er—ordinary.” He did not explain further, and bade them good night, saying the art patron expected them to call at nine A.M. the next day.
Early the next morning Joe awoke to see an unfamiliar face peering down into their room through the single, high window. The boy, who appeared to be about nineteen, scowled at Joe, then disappeared.
At that moment Frank awakened.
“What’s the matter?” he asked his brother, who was sitting up in bed staring at the window.
“Some fellow was looking in here. He didn’t seem the cheerful type.”
Frank laughed. “One of the students, probably. Maybe he’s envious of our artist’s garret. Let’s wake up Chet and get some vittles.”
After breakfast the three boys strolled around the grounds, already dotted with students setting up easels or heading for studio classes. Joe started as he noticed one student, carrying a small easel, approaching them.
“He’s the one I saw at the window this morning!”
Like many of the other students, the boy wore a gray smock. His face, long and with pudgy lips, had a faintly insolent expression. He came up to the Bayporters.
“You new here?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.
“Yes,” Frank answered. “We plan to pick up some painting tips as guests of Mr. Kenyon.” He introduced himself and the others.
The student stared at them speculatively. “Oh, is that so? Well, my name’s Ronnie Rush.” He went on sullenly, “Kenyon would have to lock up the whole gallery
just because two measly paintings are gone. I could be doing some research.” With a shrug Ronnie added, “Guess I got nothing against you fellows, though. See you around.”
Before the Hardys or Chet could retort, the student shuffled off.
“He’s got some nerve,” Chet said indignantly, “criticizing Uncle Jim! And why was he looking in our window, anyway?”
“I don’t know,” Frank said, “but he certainly seems curious about us.”
At that moment Uncle Jim, wearing a fresh white smock, came over and greeted the boys cheerfully. He immediately led them in the direction of the Davenport mansion.
“I’m heading for my watercolor class,” he explained, “but you sleuths can have a private conference about our mystery with Mr. Davenport.”
The instructor led them onto the porch, through the open front door, and pointed down the wood-paneled hallway to a large double door at the end.
“That’s Mr. Davenport’s study, where he’s ex pecting you. We’ll get together later!”
After Chet’s uncle had left, they walked quietly down the hall to the study. Frank knocked. A few seconds later a voice from within said, “Come along.”
The boys entered, closed the doors, and found themselves in a high-ceilinged room with heavily draped windows. Bookshelves lined one wall behind a cluttered mahogany desk. The adjacent wall contained a blackboard.
As their eyes became accustomed to the gloom, Joe gave Frank a nudge. “Look there!” he whispered.
Standing on a hassock was a small, gray-haired man in a white summer suit. He held a long pointer in one hand and was looking down at a fort structure of toy logs set up on the floor.
“Never! Never!” exclaimed the man as he collapsed the fort with a swish of the stick.
The trio watched, mouths agape. The man looked up quickly and said, “Hello, boys.”
“Mr. Davenport?” Chet said, nonplused.
“I am. And you are James Kenyon’s nephew Chester, I believe, and the two Hardy boys! Much honored!” The man jumped down and shook each boy’s hand, bowing slightly. He spoke in a pleasant Southern drawl, but his twinkling blue eyes revealed a lively personality.
“Have a seat,” Mr. Davenport said.
“We appreciate your invitation to Millwood,” Frank said as they settled in comfortable chairs.
“Poor strategy,” the art patron muttered. He threw open the draperies and paced the room.
“Pardon, sir?” Joe hesitated.
“Vicksburg, of course,” Mr. Davenport answered, frowning at the scattered toy logs. “Yesterday was my annual Vicksburg Day.”
“Have you many military—er—holidays in the year, Mr. Davenport?” asked Chet.
“Fifty-seven, not a one more!” he replied. “Used to have fifty-six till I admitted Bunker Hill this year. Sad days, many of ‘em, but—”
Mr. Davenport paused. Suddenly he rushed over to the toy logs, reshuffled them into a fort, then stretched out on the floor, sighting along his pointer. Chet watched in bewilderment while the Hardys exchanged smiles. Indeed, Mr. Davenport was no ordinary person!
Seconds later, the millionaire leaped up. “Terrible defense. It would never hold! Never!” Crouching, he squinted at the logs with his face almost to the floor. Holding the pointer like a cue, he again toppled the logs.
Seating himself in a rocker, the art patron sighed heavily, thumbed his woolen vest pockets, and peered earnestly at his callers. “Now, what were you saying?”
Frank hastily told him about the scalp warning and the escaped museum thief. Upon hearing of the stolen Senandaga painting, the elderly man became upset and again paced the room.
“Could you tell us something about the Prisoner-Painter, Mr. Davenport?” Joe asked. “And the fort, too?” At that instant Frank heard a faint sound and saw the double door of the study open a fraction of an inch!
“An eavesdropper!” he thought. Frank rushed across the room, but already footsteps were racing down the hallway. Grabbing the knobs, he flung the doors wide open.
CHAPTER IV
A Crimson Clue
STUMBLING footsteps sounded at the bottom of the high porch, but by the time Frank dashed outside, the eavesdropper had vanished.
Disappointed, he returned to the others in the study. “Whoever he was, he didn’t drop any clues,” Frank reported.
“You’re alert, boys,” Mr. Davenport commented. “I like that. What’s more, you’re not afraid, like that custodian who guarded my fort.”
“Your fort?” Joe asked in surprise.
“Yes, young man, Senandaga belongs to me.”
“What happened to the custodian?” asked Frank.
“He left. Quit. Said he couldn’t stand all that haunting—queer noises and so forth. To hear him talk, there’s a whole regiment of ghosts manning the parapets.” Mr. Davenport looked thoughtful. “Of course, he claims he had some close calls.”
“Such as?” Frank queried.
“Said chunks of masonry nearly fell on him a couple of times. But”—the art patron looked skeptical—“I don’t put much stock in that.”
“Now nobody takes care of the fort?” Joe asked.
“Nobody. And there aren’t any pesky visitors, either,” Davenport said with satisfaction. “Anyhow, we have enough to do tracking down the art thieves without worrying about the fort.”
Then the boys asked Mr. Davenport about his ancestor, the Prisoner-Painter.
“Jason Davenport was a great soldier,” he began. “When hostilities broke out between the North and the South, he rose quickly to brigadier general. Then, in one rally near the Potomac, he broke the Union line but penetrated too far without logistical support and was captured. He was held prisoner for the duration at my fort.”
“A brave man,” Joe said. “An ancestor to be proud of.”
“The fort is south of here on Crown Lake, isn’t it?” Frank asked.
Mr. Davenport nodded, motioning toward the large window. “If it weren’t for the promontory nearby, you could see Senandaga.” He reflected. “Jason Davenport died shortly after the war ended. But had he not been a prisoner there, there wouldn’t be the seventeen canvases of Fort Senandaga, three of which,” he added in a rueful tone, “have been stolen.”
Mr. Davenport explained that the general had taken up painting to while away the days. He was a popular hero, well liked by his captors, and received many special favors, including the art materials necessary for his new interest.
“He showed a real genius in imagining different views of the fort from the surrounding countryside.”
“And that’s why his paintings are valuable enough to tempt a thief?” Joe asked, impressed.
“I’d like to think so,” Mr. Davenport answered, “but I fear that’s not the real reason. You see, there were rumors later that Jason had discovered an old French treasure in the fort—and that he had left a clue to its hiding place. My father and uncle didn’t believe it, but I did. So I bought the fort two years ago from a private party.”
“The general left this clue in a painting?” Chet guessed.
“Yes. Either in the picture itself, or the frame.” The art patron went on to explain that his forebear had fashioned a very unusual frame, which he used for all his paintings. “The frames themselves are valuable,” he said. “Unfortunately, some of the originals have been lost over the years, so a few of the fort pictures in our gallery are conventionally framed.”
Joe asked how many of the general’s works were in the school’s possession.
“Fourteen.”
“Who has the others?”
Mr. Davenport’s face turned an angry red. “One, I’m sorry to say, belongs to a person who doesn’t deserve it.” Suddenly, however, he chortled. “But I’ll get back at him.”
The boys were mystified,but before they could question him, the elderly man added, “Another fort picture belongs to a hermit fellow, an Englishman. He bought the painting years ago at an auction. Lives out on Turtle Island.
”
“And nobody has found a trace of any clue so far?” Frank asked.
“Not a one. I’ve been trying to find the fort treasure ever since I came here.”
“What is it?” Frank asked. “Jewels?”
“Oh, no. A boom chain, such as those used with logs for blocking ships in the French and Indian War, when Senandaga was built.” The man picked up two of the toy logs and seemed lost in thought for a moment. “Marvelous, marvelous idea, those log-and-chain defenses!”
“Could even a historical chain be tremendously valuable?” Joe inquired, to lead Mr. Davenport back to the main subject of discussion.
“This one is!” the man returned emphatically. “It’s called chaîne d’or—a chain of solid gold.”
“Gold!” The three sleuths sounded like a chorus.
Their host explained that in 1762 the proud Marquis Louis de Chambord, builder and commander of Senandaga, had ordered the chain to be forged, not to be used of course, but as a symbol of his fort’s strength. There was a disagreement, however, among historians over whether the chaîne d’or actually had been made.
“I’m of the firm opinion that it was,” he concluded, “which is why I had James invite you boys up here—to track down the art thief and uncover the gold treasure. So you boys feel free to come and go as you please in my home.”
“Could one of Millwood’s students be the thief?” Frank asked hesitantly.
The art patron wagged his head sadly. “Can’t believe it. They’re all fine young people! Which reminds me—young people get hungry. How about lunch?”
On a lakeside terrace the Bayporters were served club sandwiches and iced tea. As they ate, Frank questioned their host about his cook and chauffeur.
“I trust them implicitly. Both came with excellent references.”
The Haunted Fort Page 2
