The Haunted Fort

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Chet glanced out at the peaceful lake, which once was the scene of warring canoes or attacking fleets. “It doesn’t seem haunted,” he whispered to the Hardys.

  Frank was about to answer when a rumbling sound came from above. Looking up, he cried out:

  “Watch out! The wall!”

  A huge section of crumbling gray masonry collapsed in a cloud of dust and came toppling downward!

  CHAPTER VI

  Chet vs. Impasto

  THE crumbling wall broke into a spreading, plunging landslide.

  “Quick!” Frank shouted.

  Instantly he pulled Mr. Davenport to safety while the others leaped from the path of the rocky avalanche.

  When the danger was past, Frank saw that Mr. Davenport was holding his hand to his chest and breathing hard. “Are you all right, sir?”

  The art patron shook his head but said nothing. His face was pale and he hung onto the boy for support. Frank turned to the others. “I think we’d better get him to a doctor!”

  They quickly returned to the car. Alex drove them immediately to Mr. Davenport’s physician in Cedartown. To everyone’s relief, an examination showed that there was nothing seriously wrong.

  “Just see that you get plenty of rest,” the young doctor directed, “and stay away from dangerous ruins!”

  As the limousine headed back to Millwood, the millionaire, looking somewhat better, pursed his lips and grumbled. “No sooner get to visit my own fort than it has to fall down on me. I can’t understand it—Senandaga rock’s not likely to give way like that.”

  Joe and Frank shared a frightening thought: Had the masonry been pushed down?

  “You take care of yourself, Mr. Davenport.” Joe smiled. “Frank, Chet, and I are up here to earn our keep as detectives. We’ll investigate the fort and keep you posted.”

  All three boys were eager for a second crack at Senandaga. Was a gold chain made by order of the Marquis de Chambord hidden somewhere beneath its ruins? If so, would they be able to beat the thief, or thieves, in finding the Prisoner-Painter’s clue?

  During a late lunch the boys asked Uncle Jim about Chauncey Gilman, the man for whom Mr. Davenport apparently had a violent dislike.

  “Gilman lives across the lake,” he replied. “He’s wealthy—inherited a lot—and is an art critic. Writes a column for the local paper.”

  Uncle Jim also explained that Gilman had bought a fort painting years ago from the Millwood philanthropist. “Mr. Davenport has regretted it ever since.”

  He explained that the critic, a failure as an artist himself, had grown extremely harsh in his published statements about the school. “He’s not a very pleasant fellow,” Jim added. “You’ll probably run into him here on Senandaga Day.”

  When they had finished eating, the Hardys called the local police and learned that the stolen sedan used by the antique-shop thief had been found abandoned off a highway outside Cedartown. “Maybe he’s gone into hiding nearby,” Frank conjectured. “We’ll have to keep a sharp lookout.”

  The boys went to tell Mr. Davenport about the theft. He was disturbed to learn of the stolen frame. “If I’d known it was at the shop, I would’ve bought it,” he fumed.

  The art patron then opened a small safe and took out a photostat. It was a copy of an old, detailed map of Fort Senandaga, labeled in script, which Mr. Davenport said the boys could borrow.

  “This should be a big help when we begin combing the ruins for some clue to the treasure,” said Frank, pocketing the map.

  At Chet’s urging, the Hardys agreed to attend a studio oil-painting class that afternoon. “You sleuths can still keep your eyes open,” said the plump youth.

  Joe eyed him suspiciously. “Chet Morton, I sense you’ve got an ulterior motive.”

  Chet grinned widely, but said nothing.

  Uncle Jim welcomed the three boys to the cool, stone-walled room in which the class was held. Here, long, high windows let in ample daylight.

  “I’ll just watch,” said Frank.

  “Me too.” Joe grinned. “We’ll leave the brush-work to Chet.”

  The stout boy obtained an easel and the necessary art material, and chose a spot at the back of the room.

  Ronnie Rush stood at an easel in front of Chet. He turned around and smirked. “You have talent?”

  “I’ll soon find out,” Chet replied as the Hardys strolled over.

  On impulse Joe asked, “Say, Ronnie, you use much of that alizarin crimson?”

  Ronnie looked surprised. “Sure. Everybody does.”

  “In painting, that is?” Joe asked pointedly.

  Ronnie stared in bewilderment. “Of course. Why?”

  “Oh, just curious.”

  Jim Kenyon now came over to show his nephew about blending colors and brush techniques.

  When he had moved away, Frank murmured to his brother, “Ronnie didn’t act like he had anything to do with that cartridge shell.”

  Joe nodded. “I’d still like to find out why he’s so resentful.”

  The brothers looked at Chet. Their stout pal, completely engrossed, was wielding his brush with vigorous strokes. Joe chuckled. “Chet’s really got the painting bug.”

  A little later the Hardys decided to take a closer look at the fort paintings and headed for the gallery. As they approached the building, footsteps came up behind them. The boys turned to face Ronnie Rush. “I’d like to see those fort pictures,” he said petulantly.

  The Hardys were nonplused. Finally Frank said, “Mr. Kenyon told us no students were allowed in the gallery now.”

  Joe added, “Do you have a special interest in forts? Senandaga, for instance?”

  “Oh, just the painting techniques,” Ronnie said hastily. “And why are you two so interested?”

  “We’re doing some research on the fort’s history,” Frank replied.

  “Oh. History.” Ronnie squinted. He did not seem inclined to leave, so the brothers gave up their plan for the moment and returned to the studio where Chet was still working at his easel.

  “Can we see your masterpiece?” Joe asked, grinning.

  “Oh, no, fellows,” Chet replied earnestly, waving them off. “Not yet.”

  After supper Frank said, “We ought to try another tack. I vote we pay a visit to Mr. Davenport’s enemy.”

  Chet’s eyes widened. “Chauncey Gilman?”

  “Yes. After all, he owns a fort painting.”

  Joe was enthusiastic. “Maybe Gilman himself has information about the gold chain.”

  Taking Chet’s jalopy, the three were soon heading north along the west shore of the lake, an area lined with tourist homes. Farther on, imposing lakeside mansions came into view, and in another twenty minutes they pulled into a sloping gravel driveway. A chain-hung sign along the side read: CHAUNCEY GILMAN, ESQ. Atop the rise stood a handsome Tudor-style house overlooking the lake.

  “What a setup!” Chet whistled as he parked.

  From a shrubbed terrace at the rear, a plump, wavy-haired man arose from a lounge chair. He stared in disapproval at the vehicle and its smoking exhaust, then at the boys as they got out.

  The Bayporters had never seen a man quite so elegantly attired. He wore a green velvet jacket, striped trousers, and white cravat.

  “Are you sure you’re at the right address?” he droned nasally, removing his glasses.

  “Mr. Gilman?” Frank inquired.

  “The same.”

  Frank introduced himself and the others, explaining they were vacationing at Crown Lake and hoped to see his fort painting.

  “Are you one of those Millwood students?” the critic asked disdainfully.

  “Not exactly,” Joe replied.

  “Very well.” Gilman shrugged and ushered the boys across the terrace toward a back door.

  “Real friendly type,” Joe whispered to the others.

  Inside, the critic led them through elaborately furnished rooms, then up winding stairs into a large hall. To one side was an arched doorway.


  “My own lake-view dining room,” he announced, leading them past a suit of armor and around a long table on which lay a large dictionary. On the far wall he gestured toward a painting.

  The canvas, not in the original frame, showed a distant twilight view of Fort Senandaga, with a thorn apple tree in the foreground. The boys noticed that the scene had a three-dimensional effect.

  “A rather good effort,” Gilman intoned grudgingly. “Acquired from a most misguided man, I might add. Fine impasto, don’t you think?”

  “Er—exquisite,” Chet replied, receiving amazed looks from both Hardys. He bit off a smile and wondered what “impasto” meant. “Sounds like a salad,” he thought.

  The critic turned to Frank and Joe. “No doubt,” he went on condescendingly, “you’ll want to see the general’s other paintings at that so-called art school.” He sniggered with relish. “I’ll be paying my annual visit there to the students’ exhibition, and pass judgment on the—er—works of those amateur juveniles—a most amusing task!”

  Chet had edged over to the large dictionary. He would get one up on the Hardys, and at the same time not feel so stupid about “impasto.”

  Frank observed their stout friend from the corner of his eye, but made no move to give him away. Chet picked up the book and leafed through it, backing toward the window for better light.

  Joe, meanwhile, could not resist asking Gilman, “Do you paint?”

  The plump man looked out the window, his hands behind his back. “I am, first and foremost, a critic,” he declared haughtily, “and widely known by the elite of the artistic world. I—”

  Crash!

  The Hardys and Gilman jumped and wheeled about. On the floor lay the suit of armor. Standing over it was Chet, his face flaming red. “S-sorry,” he stammered. “I backed right into it.” Quickly he put the dictionary on the table.

  “Studying too hard?” Frank grinned as he helped right the knight figure. “No damage, sir.”

  The critic raised his eyes to the ceiling. “My nerves!”

  Chet sheepishly placed the dictionary on the table and joined the brothers as they studied the fort painting. “Impasto,” muttered the plump boy, “is the thick application of pigment to a canvas or panel, for your information.”

  “Okay, professor.” Joe chuckled.

  They peered closely at the picture’s surface, trying to detect some kind of telltale marks in the composition. From several strategic questions, the Hardys gathered that Gilman knew nothing of any clue to the chaîne d’or.

  Finally, the critic coughed meaningfully. “If you don’t mind,” he said, “I must be getting to work on an important critique.”

  The boys, disappointed in the outcome of their mission, thanked the man and left.

  “So that’s Chauncey Gilman!” Joe said scornfully as they headed south on the lake road. “What a swellhead! And he sure has it in for Millwood. No wonder Mr. Davenport doesn’t like him.”

  “You said it!” Chet agreed, “Uncle Jim and his students must resent a character like that.”

  Frank appeared lost in thought. “I wish we could do more in getting to the bottom of this mystery. If only we knew what kind of clue to look for!”

  “Do you think Gilman has any interest in the gold chain?” Chet asked.

  Frank shrugged. “He didn’t act like it—but you never know.”

  Joe’s lip curled. “He’s too busy dreaming up acid criticisms.”

  The suit of armor crashed to the floor

  A mist hung over the lake now, the water below them seeming almost colorless through the trees. Up ahead at a bend in the road, Chet noticed an observation area offering a commanding view of the lake. The boys decided to pull over for a look.

  “Maybe we can see the fort from here,” Joe said. Chet parked on the wide shoulder and they got out.

  A strong wind coursed up the slopes from the lake. Several homes were scattered along the opposite shore. The boys looked out to their right. Barely visible in the dusk was the jutting outline of one of Senandaga’s walls. The Hardys again speculated on the collapse of the fort section that morning.

  Suddenly Joe leaned forward and asked curiously, “What kind of craft is that?”

  The others looked down and saw a small white barge, coupled to a green tugboat. They could dimly make out two metal strands coming from the front of the barge.

  “Oh, that must be the cable ferry Uncle Jim mentioned,” Chet recalled. “It takes cars and passengers across the lake.” He glanced at his watch. “Let’s go back,” he said. “Supper was a long time ago!” The famished boy grinned and the brothers laughed.

  They started for the car. Joe, who was last, abruptly stopped in his tracks. His ears strained to catch a distant sound.

  “Fellows, wait! Hear that?”

  They listened intently. Echoing down the lake from the ramparts came the ominous thump, thump, thump of a drum!

  CHAPTER VII

  An Angry Sculptor

  “LISTEN!” Joe urged, as Frank and Chet joined him apprehensively at the lookout.

  “What is it?” Chet asked.

  Joe held up his hand for silence and they listened intently. Frank leaned far out in the direction of the mist-shrouded fort. The only sound was that of the wind through the trees.

  Joe explained as they got back in the car. “I’m positive it was drumbeats!” he said emphatically. “It was coming from—the fort!”

  A cold chill raced up Chet’s spine. He shuddered. “Y-you think Senandaga really is h-haunted ?”

  “It could have been the wind playing tricks,” Frank speculated. “Personally, I think it was your stomach rumbling, Chet. Why didn’t you tell us you were so hungry?”

  The three broke into laughter, and drove back to Millwood, where they persuaded the kind-hearted cook to provide them with a snack.

  The Hardys suggested they check the grounds before going to bed. The place seemed to be deserted. Joe happened to glance over toward the moonlit gallery and noticed something move in the shadows. A man was crouched at the locked door!

  “Somebody’s trying to get into the gallery!”

  The boys broke into a run across the lawn, but the man jumped up and tore into the woods.

  “Fan out!” Frank yelled to Joe and Chet.

  Separating, they crashed through the brush in pursuit. In the darkness ahead, they could hear pounding footsteps.

  “This way!” Joe yelled, heading left toward the sound of a breaking twig.

  “Where? I can’t see a thing!” Chet stumbled into a fallen tree and groaned before following a shadow to his left. “F-Frank—is that you?”

  “Yes. Come on! Over here!”

  Darting quickly from one tree trunk to the next, Frank plunged forward through bushes, then paused. Hearing a branch snap, he rushed ahead to the left.

  “He must have headed to the right!” Joe’s voice rang out.

  Squinting for a glimpse of the prowler, Frank jumped over some rocks and darted through a clearing. As he sprinted into an adjoining wooded patch, he collided with someone and went sprawling on the ground.

  “Joe—it’s you!”

  “Frank!”

  Presently they saw Chet’s chunky shadow approach. “Where did he go?” Chet panted, exhausted.

  Kneeling and breathing heavily, they listened for a sign of the fugitive. But there was only silence throughout the woods.

  “That guy’s a phantom,” said Chet, mopping his forehead.

  “One thing is certain,” Frank remarked. “He knows the area well. Probably somebody local.”

  “Wonder who he was,” Joe said as they hurried toward the gallery. “He was tall—dennitely not the thief we’ve already seen.”

  The boys found that the gallery padlock had been tampered with, and hastily summoned Chet’s uncle.

  “We didn’t get a good look at the man,” Frank reported, “but this is definite proof there’s more than one person after the fort treasure.”


  He phoned headquarters, and soon an officer arrived on the scene. He dusted the door for prints, and made a search of the grounds near the gallery.

  “No footprints,” he reported. “Check with us in the morning.”

  Afterward, the young sleuths and Uncle Jim got tools and worked by lantern light to reinforce the lock.

  Frank and Joe also inserted a high-watt bulb into the unused socket over the door, then switched on the light. It was past midnight when they gathered up the tools.

  Mr. Kenyon wiped his brow. “This bright light may discourage intruders. This gallery wasn’t designed to hold off thieves!”

  Joe grinned. “I hope we are.”

  The next morning Chet was snoring contentedly when the Hardys finished dressing. Strong tugs at his legs awakened him.

  “Come on,” Joe urged. “Up and at ’em! You’re four hours behind the birds!”

  The heavy youth grumbled and burrowed deeper into his covers.

  “Breakfast is ready!” Joe shouted.

  Covers flew up and Chet landed squarely on the floor with two feet.

  After eating, the trio went directly to the gallery. This time no one interfered. They found the remaining fort paintings were as varied in style as they were in views of the impressive fortress.

  Several were painted as if from the middle of Crown Lake; others as if from a nearby mountain. Some were night scenes, others broad daylight. Green and brown colors stood out boldly, and lighting effects were worked with fine brush strokes upon the fort’s stone ledges.

  All the paintings were signed with an interlaced J and D.

  “As I see it,” Frank observed, “there’s a choice of ways in which a painter could leave a clue on canvas.”

  “Or in the frame,” Chet added.

  Frank nodded. “But I think the paintings themselves are the best bet. The clue could be a tiny word in a corner or even a symbol. Or”—he pointed to one picture—“it might be where a figure is standing—this Union soldier for instance.”

  “Also,” Joe interposed, “we should keep our eyes open for any unusual color or brush stroke.”

  By noon they had found nothing definite, but all three had kept notes of possible clues. Back in their room, the boys placed tracing paper over the photostat of the Senandaga map and marked the places they wanted to check. Joe then locked the map in his suitcase and put the tracing paper in his pocket. After lunch the Hardys were impatient to begin exploring the fort, but Chet had a suggestion.