The Haunted Fort Part 2

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 ha.s.sock 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, "h.e.l.lo, 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 k.n.o.bs, 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 n.o.body takes care of the fort?" Joe asked.

"n.o.body. 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 / 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 n.o.body 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 chaine 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 chaine 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 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 cla.s.ses, 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.