The Hardys spotted Uncle Jim and Chet among the spectators back of a cordoned area near a police car. Chet was glad to see his pals.
“Was anybody hurt?” Frank asked, worried.
“Fortunately, no,” Mr. Kenyon replied. “But our boat area is a complete ruin.”
In an hour the fire had been extinguished. According to a student, the conflagration had apparently broken out suddenly—on the lake itself.
“Which means somebody poured a kerosene slick on the water and ignited it,” Frank said.
Chet nodded solemnly. “With the wind and floating pieces of burning wood, we’re lucky it didn’t spread along the whole shore front.”
By now, most of the onlookers had dispersed and the fire trucks and police car were leaving.
The Bayporters surveyed the grim, charred skeleton of the boathouse, wondering who the arsonist could have been, and what his motive was. Another attempt to discourage the Hardys from investigating Fort Senandaga?
“It wasn’t Ronnie Rush who set it, anyway,” Chet declared. “He was too busy making fun of my painting.”
The three boys searched the burned wreckage for evidence. They found nothing but a fat, charred cork, smelling of kerosene, bobbing on the waterfront.
“A pretty slim clue,” Joe muttered, stuffing the cork into his pocket. After supper they stopped in with Uncle Jim to see Mr. Davenport. He seemed inconsolable. The school’s exhibit was only two days away, and the blackened ruins would detract greatly from the estate’s appearance. Joe had an idea.
“We’ll begin clearing away the debris first thing tomorrow, and have the lake front in good shape by Senandaga Day.”
Mr. Davenport brightened, and Uncle Jim said, “That would be a big help. At least the lake residents will be able to beach their boats.”
“There’s one person I suspect,” the art patron burst out angrily, “who would want to spoil our exhibit. A certain party down the lake.”
The boys assumed he meant Chauncey Gilman, but somehow they could not picture the critic in the role of an arsonist.
The brothers then told the others about the mysterious French flag they had seen at the fort. Mr. Davenport expressed complete bewilderment.
“A flag over Senandaga!” he exclaimed incredulously. “It must be the work of some blamed touristl A trespasser!”
Frank doubted this, saying that even a practical joker might not go to the trouble of climbing the fence.
“Don’t tell me a ghost put up that flag,” Chet gulped.
Mr. Davenport shook his head. “You can get to the fort by boat, too.”
The Hardys left him, wondering if the strange incident was part of the puzzle they were trying to solve.
Directly after breakfast the boys plunged into the task of cleaning up the dock site. With axes and wheelbarrows, charred wood was cut up and carted away, as well as burned shrubbery. Up to their waists in water, Frank and Joe hewed down the remaining boathouse supports and dock stakes.
“Whew!” Chet exclaimed as noontime approached. “I feel as though I’d been building a fort.”
Ronnie Rush came up just then and looked on smugly. “Want to help?” Joe asked him.
“My time is too valuable,” Ronnie said, and sauntered off.
“He may not have burned the docks, but he sure burns me up!” Chet muttered.
At last the boys finished their project, having set up bright buoys offshore. After lunch they were summoned to Cedartown Police Headquarters, where the chief handed them a photograph. “Recognize him?”
“The picture and frame thief!” Joe exclaimed.
“His name’s Adrian Copier,” the chief informed them, adding that the man had a long criminal record as a thief, especially of art objects. There was no indication of his being an arsonist.
“I wonder if he’s the brains behind the thefts at Millwood,” Frank said, “or if he’s working for a higher-up.”
The chief shrugged. “Copler seems to be as elusive as he is clever. But I’ll keep men on the lookout.”
Back at the school, the boys discussed their future trips to the fort. “The Queen’s still laid up and we can’t keep borrowing the limousine,” said Frank. “A canoe would be fine—but the fire took care of that.”
“Guess we’ll have to rent a boat,” Joe said.
When Mr. Davenport heard of the boys’ quandary, he called them into his study.
“We can’t have you detectives grounded,” he said. “How would you like to use a Colonial bateau?”
“A what?” Chet asked.
He smiled. “A bateau was a boat used during the French and Indian campaigns.” Mr. Davenport explained that the wooden craft, resembling a modern dory, had been used by the English as well as the French for carrying supplies and for scouting. The original bateaux were up to forty-five feet long; later, they varied in length.
“Sounds great!” Joe broke in. “But where can we get a bateau?”
“My carpenter, George Ashbach, has a keen interest in historical boats. Out of curiosity, he put together a bateau last year. Doesn’t use it much, but I understand it’s navigable. I’m sure he’d be glad to let you boys borrow it.”
“Super!” Chet exclaimed.
The elderly Southerner beamed. “Mr. Ashbach will be finishing up—my—er—job today. I’ll talk to him.”
“Are you building something?” Joe asked.
A devilish gleam sparkled in the patron’s eyes. He smiled, but gave no answer.
That evening, as dusk fell, the boys sat on the bank, wondering whether they would hear the eerie drumbeats again.
“I’d like to know if that French flag was lowered at sundown,” Joe commented.
“By the same ghost, maybe,” Frank said, grinning.
Chet was not amused. “Aw, fellows!” He shivered. “Can’t we talk about something-er-cheerful ?”
The only sound was lapping water, ruffled by a chilly breeze. Chet glanced out over the lake to the grayish islands, huddled like waiting phantom ships. Dim lights were visible across the water, but to the south, where the fort lay, all was black.
Suddenly Chet stiffened. Out on the water, about fifty yards from where the boys sat, something broke the surface, then disappeared !
Rooted to his place, Chet blinked and looked again, his eyes as big as half dollars.
“What’s the matter?” Joe asked. “Do you—?”
He broke off with a gasp as all three stared in disbelief.
A speck of white showed on the dark water. Then an immense, curved black shadow loomed larger and larger, gliding, waving toward them.
Chet stuttered with fear as the shadow drew near. It had a long neck and a huge glistening head, gaping jaws and long sharp teeth!
CHAPTER XII
A Strange Tomahawk
JUMPING up, Chet screamed. “A sea monster!”
In a burst of foam, the phantasmal creature sank beneath the surface and again emerged, its white eyes gleaming above moving jaws.
Frank and Joe dashed along the bank until they were abreast of the weird figure. It seemed at least thirty feet in length!
“It’s a serpent!” Joe cried out.
They watched for the monster to surface. Then a subdued, drawling laugh broke the silence. Chet, terrified, had caught up to the brothers. The three stopped short as two figures emerged from the nearby woods.
“Mr. Davenport!” Joe burst out, recognizing one of them.
“Frank! Joe! Chester!” The art patron grinned. “I reckon I must ask your forgiveness for being victimized by my Crown Lake monster!”
He introduced the tall, lean man with him as Mr. Ashbach, the Cedartown carpenter.
“You mean that thing we just saw was artificial?” Joe asked.
The carpenter chuckled. “Joe,” he said, “we had to test it on somebody, and we figured you young detectives were as tough a test as anybody.”
Mr. Davenport nodded. “Now you know what my building project is!”
Still mystified, the boys noticed wires in the men’s hands trailing off into the water. They began reeling in and soon the “serpent” broke the surface. A minute later it lay on the shore. The boys walked around the huge object.
Shaped like a brontosaurus with gills, it had been built over a wood-and-wire frame. The “skin” was of inflated rubber, touched in spots with luminous paint. Both the neck and jaws were hinged, and the snouted head had been fitted with two light-bulb eyes and jagged rubber “teeth.”
“It’s ingenious!” Frank laughed.
“Thank you.” The millionaire smiled, patting the wet rubber proudly.
Chet kicked a pebble, embarrassed. “Jiminy, do I feel like a goof! But what are you going to do with this—er—serpent, sir?”
“You boys will see, soon!”
The curious sleuths could learn no more about the redoubtable monster.
“A sea monster!” Chet screamed
The Hardys arranged with Mr. Ashbach to pick up the bateau at his shop the next day.
Later, walking back to their room, Chet was preoccupied with Mr. Davenport’s lake serpent. “I bet he’s going to give rides on it!” Chet guessed finally.
Joe grinned. “Beats me.”
After breakfast the next morning the Bayporters found the school grounds a beehive of activity. Uncle Jim and the students were busy getting the pictures in final shape for Saturday’s exhibit.
Hurriedly the Hardys and Chet tidied up their quarters. Frank’s mind kept turning over an idea which had been growing steadily. “Maybe it’s a wild one, but—” Suddenly he dashed from the room. “Come on, fellows!”
Mystified, Joe and Chet followed him across the grounds to the Davenport mansion. The door was open. Frank led the way upstairs to the musty attic alcove. Joe was excited. What inspiration had struck his brother so forcibly?
Frank lifted the fort painting carefully onto the table. Chet wore an expression of utter perplexity as Frank pointed to the date on the back of the canvas. “This was the last picture Jason Davenport did. I think that’s why the style is so different—he knew he was going to die.”
“I get it!” Joe exclaimed excitedly. “He must have left the clue in this picture, knowing he’d never have a chance to get the treasure himself,” Joe guessed.
“Right.” Frank now indicated the specklike daubs on the canvas. “Let’s study them from a distance.”
Frank set the painting against an opposite wall. At first the boys noticed nothing unusual. Then they were startled to see, out of gray and yellowish dabs, a design taking shape in the corner!
It was a tomahawk, entwined by a chain!
“The treasure clue!” Chet whooped.
The image seemed to lose itself as they stepped closer, then to reappear when they stood back.
“There must be a similar marking somewhere inside the fort!” Joe exclaimed.
The boys then noticed hat the tomahawk handle had small notches, and wondered what these meant.
“The main thing is to keep this a close secret,” Frank cautioned.
When they showed Mr. Davenport their discovery, he congratulated the boys heartily.
“It was Frank’s brainstorm,” Joe said.
The art patron looked at the painting. “I should have known Jason had a special reason for using that strange style.”
The millionaire, too, was puzzled by the notched tomahawk.
“Did Indians fight at Senandaga?” Frank asked.
“They were involved in the Crown Lake campaigns,” Davenport replied, “but it’s not known whether they played a major role at the fort itself. I’ve studied the battle for years, but there always seems to be a piece missing.”
The boys wondered if the chain-entwined tomahawk had any relation to the mysterious fort conflict?
“We’ve got to get inside Senandaga,” Joe declared.
The boys hurried to tell Uncle Jim the good news, and their plan to search the fort that evening. Chet then excused himself to work on his painting. The boys were about to part when the French sculptor came running over. He carried three pamphlets.
“Bonjour!” he cried. “I hear you will use a bateau. Wonderful! A fine boat it is, used by le Marquis de Chambord. Here, my friends, these for you !”
He handed each boy a pamphlet. The title was The Final French Victory at Fort du Lac.
Follette pounded his chest proudly. “This I wrote to give the true account of this battle. Read it. Au revoir!”
Joe chuckled. “The second ‘true’ story of Seriandaga.”
After the Hardys left for Mr. Ashbach’s shop, Chet worked feverishly on his painting, even forgetting to eat lunch. By midafternoon the chunky boy realized he was ravenous and went to the house for a snack.
As Chet came outside he heard a horn beep urgently. He looked up in astonishment. A car, with a trailer bouncing behind it, was pulling into the lot. On the trailer sat an unusual-looking gray boat, flat-bottomed and tapered at both ends.
The car stopped and Frank and Joe hopped out. As Chet hurried over, Joe grinned. “Behold the bateau!”
“You sure she’s seaworthy?” Chet asked, cocking his head.
“Indeed she is,” came a deep voice as the carpenter, Mr. Ashbach, got out of the car.
He and the boys hauled the old-fashioned craft down to the lake and beached it a short distance from the water. The young detectives thanked Mr. Ashbach, who wished them luck and left.
Chet now studied the bateau curiously, noting its overlapping board construction. He asked about a pair of long poles lying in the bottom beside the paddles.
“The poles are used in shallow water,” Frank explained.
As soon as dusk fell, the boys eagerly launched the bateau and clambered in. Jim Kenyon came to see them off. “Be careful,” he warned. “Weather doesn’t look good.”
Heavy dark clouds shrouded the lake and the wind was rising, but the boys were undaunted. Chet was in the middle seat while Frank stood in the rear and Joe in the bow. Plying the poles, the Hardys got the Colonial craft under way.
“Wow, this is smooth!” Chet said. “How long is she?”
“Fifteen feet,” Joe answered, “and four wide.”
The brothers at first had trouble but soon were poling in rhythm. They were amazed at the ease with which the bateau could be moved.
With the strong wind at their backs, they passed several islands. The darkening sky remained overcast and few private boats were out. “Hope the rain holds off for Senandaga Day tomorrow,” Chet said anxiously.
Joe grinned. “You can always put an umbrella over your painting.”
Reaching deeper water, the Hardys switched to paddles. Presently they approached the cable-ferry dock on the west shore.
The passenger barge was just pulling out. There was only one car aboard. The boys could barely see the cables stretching taut, reaching into the water.
The wind was now lashing the lake into a mass of whitecaps.
“It won’t be any picnic returning against this gale,” Joe remarked, as they paddled abreast of the chugging ferry. Its tugboat pilot waved to them from the lighted cabin.
Suddenly they saw him spin the steering wheel frantically, then race out onto the passenger barge.
“Something’s wrong!” Joe exclaimed. The three boys leaped to their feet. Frank looked back at the dock and saw two metal strands lying slack on the choppy surface!
“The cables have broken!” he cried out.
The pilot had dashed to the rear of the pitching barge. Suddenly he staggered in a terrific blast of wind and toppled overboard!
Horrified, the boys watched the ferry veer wildly off course!
CHAPTER XIII
Detective Guides
THE ferry drifted aimlessly on the storm-tossed lake past the dock, while its pilot was struggling to keep afloat. Paddling strenuously, the Hardys swung about to the rescue.
Swiftly the bateau closed the gap. The ferry passengers, two women, huddled pani
c-stricken in their car.
“You fellows get the pilot!” Frank said, flipping his paddle to Chet. “I’m going for the boat.”
In a flash he was overboard and swimming through the choppy waves. Finally he managed to grasp the end of the ferry barge and pull himself aboard. Frank ran past the car, tore into the pilot’s cabin of the tug, and spun the wheel hard to the left.
He realized cutting the motor would be dangerous, since the heavy craft would only drift farther. Determinedly, he steered against the strong current.
At first it seemed useless. Then, slowly, the ferry backed toward the cable area, where Frank swung her to the right and headed for the far dock.
Just before reaching it, Frank cut the engine. Three men quickly secured the ferry and raced into the pilot’s cabin.
“Young fellow—we can’t thank you enough!” one of them said to Frank. “There could have been a tragic accident.”
The women, shaken and pale, added their praise, then were helped ashore.
Frank peered worriedly out over the wind-driven water. To his relief he saw the bateau, with Joe and Chet paddling and the pilot safely aboard, plowing crosscurrent. When they pulled in, all three boys were warmly congratulated.
“Your presence of mind saved us all!” the pilot said gratefully.
Trying to determine what had happened, two of the dockworkers began reeling in the cable sections attached to the pier.
“How could they have broken so suddenly?” Chet asked, as the ends of the cables came to view. To everyone’s astonishment, there was no sign of fraying.
“The cables were cut!” Joe cried out.
The pilot and dockers agreed. They said that the ferry had run for years without a cable breakdown. “I’m afraid,” said the pilot, “it’ll be some time before we’re able to repair the damage.”
After local authorities had been notified, the pilot insisted on driving the boys back to Millwood. He located a boat trailer on which to tow the bateau.
During the trip they discussed the accident. Who could have cut the ferry cables? Was there any connection between this, the art thefts, and the other strange occurrences?
“It’ll probably cut down the turnout at our exhibit tomorrow.” Chet sighed gloomily.
The Haunted Fort Page 7
