“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.
CHAPTER VIII
Treacherous Detour
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.”
Joe insisted he felt well enough to accompany Frank and Chet to inform Mr. Davenport.
“I hope this theft won’t upset him too much,” Chet said worriedly.
“If it wasn’t the picture thief or whoever we saw at the gallery last night, I’ve got another guess,” Joe proposed. “Ronnie Rush.”
“Possibly.” Frank’s brow creased. “It would help to find out if he’s only being nosy, or if he has a special interest in the gallery besides ‘research.’ ”
They picked up Jim Kenyon at his studio and walked together to the mansion.
“Too bad,” he said upon hearing the boys’ story. “As far as I know, Ronnie’s background is okay. But I’ll try to keep a closer watch on him.”
They trudged up the drive and came upon Alex, now in overalls, weeding a flower border. Even in work clothes, the man had a formal manner. He nodded slightly to the boys as they passed.
Inside, the Hardys and their companions found the elderly Southerner in his study, moodily pok ing his cane at the toy fort. He brightened at the entrance of his visitors.
“I declare, I’m delighted to see you all. My fort problem’s sort of getting me down. Any progress on the treasure?”
Frank took a deep breath. “I’m afraid we have another theft to report.”
Mr. Davenport was greatly agitated after hearing of Joe’s experience. “Bad business,” he muttered. “Don’t like any of you boys getting hurt.”
Joe grinningly assured him, “We’re rugged. I’m sorry about the map, though.”
“Have one other copy tucked away.” Mr. Davenport extracted a photostat from his safe and handed it to Frank.
“We’d like to visit the fort again,” Frank said.
“Go right ahead. I don’t mind you boys being there, so long as the confounded pub—”
Joe broke in hastily to query him about the strange drumbeats. Mr. Davenport was intrigued, but had never heard the sounds.
Frank then asked about the sculptor’s claim that French soldiers had been the last to leave the fort in the disputed battle.
The elderly man gave a little smile. “My feeling is, boys, that there’s truth on both sides. Trouble is, both Lord Craig and Chambord lost their lives at a battle just after Senandaga. There are questions no one may ever be able to answer.”
Chet spoke up. “We’ve studied the pictures some more. We even visited Chauncey Gilman—oh!”
The forbidden name was out of Chet’s mouth before he realized it! Mr. Davenport began thumping his cane on a tea table, jarring the china.
“Gilman!” his voice rose. “Gilman! That long-nosed, uppity Yankee! If that stuffed-shirt critic’s trying to carpetbag more of my fort paintings—or the treasure—Why, I’ll—”
Chet’s uncle quickly eased the breathless art patron into a chair while Frank said soothingly, “Mr. Davenport, we understand how you feel. But as detectives we have to investigate every lead. Mr. Gilman isn’t very likable, but I don’t think he’s a thief.”
The old man gradually calmed down, and wiping his brow, apologized for his outburst. He gave Joe a key to the fort
gate and a short while later the boys departed.
Outside, Joe said eagerly, “I’m for a trip to the fort, pronto.”
Chet looked unhappy. “You go, fellows. I—er—have some work to do.”
“Work!” Joe echoed teasingly.
Uncle Jim grinned. “Chet has promised to help spruce up the grounds for our exhibit. My students are devoting all their time to finishing their entries.”
Joe grinned. “We’ll pitch in and give you a hand if you’ll drive us to Senandaga. Is it a bargain, Chet?”
“Okay, okay!”
While Jim went off to a class, the Bayporters set to work. Chet and Joe teamed up to wash windows. Frank mowed the grass, starting with the area around the gallery.
Still wondering about the stolen fort map, he kept his eyes open for Ronnie. But the youth was nowhere to be seen.
Later, at the sculptor’s studio, as the students were leaving, Frank found Joe washing the outside panes.
“This is one way to earn our keep.” Frank grinned. “Say, where’s Chet?”
“Don’t know,” Joe replied. “He and Uncle Jim went to the oil-painting studio about an hour ago. Let’s check.”
Joe put down his bucket and rags and the brothers walked over to the studio. Chet was perched atop a high, three-rung stool before an easel. He moved the brush slowly over his large canvas.
“Well,” Joe said, laughing, “from window washer to artist. I should’ve known—from those fine rag strokes on certain windows.”
Chet looked up. “I’m sorry, Joe,” Chet said. “I’ll do my share. But I just got so interested in—er—my painting. Besides, Uncle Jim thinks it’s not bad.”
“You know, Chet,” Frank said, “I have a wild hunch your painting will turn up at the exhibit.”
Somewhat embarrassed, Chet admitted this was his secret plan. The Hardys watched as their pal continued to work. When not biting the end of his paintbrush with indecision, he would hunch forward, dip the brush in a thick purple blob on his palette, and absorbedly make a squiggle on the canvas.
“What’s it going to be?” Joe asked at last.
“You’ll see,” was all Chet said.
After a while the boys returned to their chores, and it was not until after supper that everything was finished.
The Hardys and Chet went down to the lake for a cooling dip before starting out for Senandaga. The afterglow of sunset cast the opposite shore in a pale-rose light. Dusk shrouded the wide lake, Frank was swimming some distance from shore when he heard a sound that made his spine tingle.
Like a distant heartthrob behind the promontory came the single beat of a drum, then silence, then the beat again!
“Fellows! Listen!” he shouted and swam over to Joe and Chet. They strained their ears.
“The drum!” Joe hissed.
The boys dashed out of the water. They found Uncle Jim and Mr. Davenport talking near the mansion. Upon hearing the boys’ report, both men agreed the young sleuths should investigate the fort at once, but cautioned them to be on guard.
“Not that I believe in any haunts, of course,” added Mr. Davenport. “But there could be some kind of danger lurking there.”
The boys hurriedly dressed and drove off in the jalopy. Darkness was falling as they headed south. Chet switched on the high beams and guided the Queen around a series of curves until they reached the end of the lake. There were few houses, and only rarely a light in one. Chet slowed down.
The trees grew dense and overhung the road. From deep in the woods came the hoot of an owl, mournfully echoing over the constant whisper of cicadas. Like brittle witch fingers, branches clawed the side of the car.
“Willikers, it’s spooky!” Chet said, rolling up his window. He turned right up a winding dirt road, then left.
Suddenly Chet screeched to a halt. The road was blocked by two wooden sawhorses! By the light of a flashing red lantern, the boys saw an arrowed white sign: DETOUR—LEFT—ROSKSLIDE.
“Guess we haven’t much choice,” Joe said. Chet turned the car and started down what proved to be an extremely narrow, steep lane.
The lake was visible below. Suddenly a tree loomed directly in their path. Hastily Chet yanked the wheel, but the car scraped against high rocks. As the Queen bounced over a yawning hole, Frank cried out:
“This isn’t any detour! It’s a trap!”
Panicky, Chet hit the brakes. But the left front tire had already pitched steeply down. Desperately he tried to swerve the rolling car.
“I can’t stop!”
Faster and faster they skidded downward. Like bulky phantoms, trees grazed the fenders as Chet steered frantically between them. Jolted, his hands lost control of the wheel.
“We’re going into the lake!” Joe yelled.
The front of the car seemed to lurch into the air. Their heads banged the roof an instant before the Queen struck water. She stopped almost instantly.
Frank shouldered his door open and sloshed through the shallow depths to pull Chet out. Joe crawled from the back window and the three waded to shore.
“Everybody all right?” Frank asked breathlessly.
“Yes—but the Queen!” Chet exclaimed in dismay. The jalopy stood fender-deep in water.
Joe scrambled above to get help. Frank and Chet, grabbing a rope out of the trunk, moored the car to two trees to keep it from rolling out any deeper. There were dents and a smashed headlight, but the boys were worried there might be serious mechanical damage.
Chet heaved a sigh. “My poor Queen!”
Shivering in wet clothing, the two boys waited in the darkness for what seemed hours. Then they heard vehicles stopping and excited voices. Soon Joe appeared, accompanied by two policemen.
“I finally flagged down a car,” he panted. The driver had notified the police, who in turn summoned a tow truck.
Joe had already given a report to the officers. “A nasty trick—that fake detour,” one said. “We’ll step up our patrol along there.”
The boys wanted to stay until Chet’s car was pulled to safety, but the policemen insisted on driving them back to Millwood.
Huddled under blankets, the three sleuths speculated among themselves on the return trip. Who could have set the dangerous trap? And why?
“I’ll bet someone rigged it to keep us from Fort Senandaga!” Joe exclaimed.
“How’d he know we were going?”
“Could’ve overheard us talking about it,” said Frank. “Maybe those drumbeats were to lure us there.”
At the Millwood entrance they thanked the officers and headed quickly toward their quarters. “Wait until Uncle Jim hears about this!” Chet’s teeth chattered.
As they cut across the wide lawn, Joe glanced over at the grove in which the gallery stood. It was in total blackness.
“Funny,” he murmured. “What happened to the light we put over the—?”
Instinctively sensing trouble, the Hardys streaked across the lawn. Chet followed. They found the front door unlocked and cautiously pushed it open.
A flashlight beam struck them squarely in the eyes! A shadowy figure approached. The boys dashed in, ready for a fight. The next moment they stopped short.
“Uncle Jim!” Chet gasped. “What—?”
The instructor’s face was ashen. Wordlessly he flicked on the light switch and pointed toward the far wall of the room. The twelve fort paintings were gone!
CHAPTER IX
The Hermit’s Story
“ALL the Senandaga paintings—stolen!” Jim Kenyon’s words echoed dismally across the stone gallery as the boys rushed over. The wall showed twelve empty picture hooks.
Uncle Jim told them he had returned from Cedartown a short while ago. He had gone to check the gallery, found that the bulb had been smashed, and a moment later, discovered the theft. “I was about to phone the police, then break the news to Mr. Davenport.”
“But how did the thief get in?” Joe asked.
The instructor pointed upward. “The skylight.”
The boys noticed a large section of panes was missing where the glassed roof met a wall.
“The thief must have had a lookout,” Frank surmised, “while he was cutting the panes.”
The police were called and arrived shortly to examine the gallery. They found the missing glass panes, but there were no fingerprints. Nothing of significance was discovered. When the officers had left, Jim and the boys went to the mansion.
It took them a long while to persuade Mr. Davenport that the twelve paintings actually had been stolen. The art patron kept shaking his head, as if in a daze.
“What are we to do?” he lamented. “The thieves are still at large and growing bolder—Jason’s paintings in their possession, and likely, the clue to Chambord’s gold chain.”
Suddenly he and Uncle Jim became aware of the boys’ disheveled appearance. “What on earth happened to you?” asked the instructor.
In the excitement, the Hardys and Chet had temporarily forgotten their own experiences. Quickly they described the ill-fated drive.
The two men listened in great astonishment and concern. Mr. Davenport snapped out of his gloom. “Desperadoes!” he stormed. “Why, you boys could’ve been hurt something dreadful!”
“They’re desperate all right,” said Frank. “Which means they may tip their hand soon and give themselves away. The trouble is,” he added, “somebody in the area seems to know every move we make, or are going to make.”
“Do you think,” asked Uncle Jim, “those drumbeats and your accident are related to the painting thefts?”
“Yes,” replied Frank. “Whoever the master-mind is, he doesn’t want us at Fort Senandaga to look for the gold chain.”
Joe set his jaw. “We’ll get there yet and do some hunting.”
The weary boys slept late the next morning. After breakfast Chet phoned the Cedartown police. His jalopy had been salvaged, but it would take at least a week for repairs.
The Haunted Fort Page 5
