The Haunted Fort

by Franklin W. Dixon

  The clerk shook his head. “You wouldn’t catch me in that neck of the woods. From what I hear about that fort, I’d keep as far away as I could. But—good luck.”

  After informing Uncle Jim and Mr. Davenport of their camping plan, the boys loaded up the bateau. Swiftly they pushed off and headed south. When the fort came into view, they glanced at the flagpole. The Union Jack was gone.

  Joe stopped paddling. “That’s weird,” he said. “First French, then British, now none!”

  “Whoever put them up,” said Frank, “may come by boat. He’d have an easier time getting in than climbing the fence.”

  “By boat,” Joe repeated.

  The brothers exchanged glances. “You two have an idea,” Chet said knowingly. “What is it?”

  Frank reminded him of the wet rowboat on Turtle Island, which contradicted the hermit’s claim that he had not left the island for a month. “He was mighty opposed to the French claims at Senandaga,” Frank recalled. “And don’t forget his true account of—Fort Royal. He might have raised the Union Jack.”

  The bateau was guided past protruding rocks, and into the cove. The boys landed and climbed up to the old fort.

  “We might as well start on the outside,” Frank suggested, referring to the map. “If you see anything resembling a tomahawk, let out a war whoop.”

  The boys split up, each taking a designated area of the stone perimeter. They moved slowly along the shallow ditch, inspecting the huge stone blocks as far up the wall as the eye could see.

  The task seemed endless and tedious, but they could not afford to dismiss the possibility of finding clues lying outside the foit.

  Several hours later Joe called to Chet, “Any luck?”

  A fatigued voice echoed from around a bend in the wall. “No. I think I’m going to be counting stones in my sleep.”

  The young sleuths paused to eat a sandwich, then resumed their search. The afternoon sun grew hotter by the hour. Twice they took breaks at the lakeside, refreshing themselves from canteens.

  “There must be a million square miles of stone in this fort.” Chet sighed, cooling his bare feet in the water.

  A little later first Joe, then Chet, came upon freshly dug and refilled holes outside the ditch.

  “Someone else is still searching,” Joe remarked.

  Suddenly Chet glimpsed a figure watching them from the wooded shore below.

  “Ronnie Rush!”

  They started toward the student. He turned and disappeared into the woods.

  “Snooping again,” Joe said. “Maybe he dug these holes.”

  They decided not to waste time in pursuit—Ronnie had too much of a head start.

  It was late afternoon before the boys had finished examining the wall sections still standing. No luck. There were piles of fallen masonry they had not even touched.

  “It’ll take us days to go through them,” Frank said. “I think tomorrow we should concentrate on the inside.”

  “Whew! I’m bushed—and empty!” Chet declared. “Let’s pitch camp and cook up some grub.”

  The boys decided not to build their campfire near the fort. “No use advertising our presence,” Joe said.

  As they started down to the bateau, Frank’s foot struck something metallic.

  “Look!”

  Reaching down, he picked up a wooden-handled, chisel-like tooL There were traces of clay on the blade, which was only slightly rusted.

  “It’s a sculpture knife!” Frank said, turning it over in his hand. He detected two letters scratched on the wood—R. F.

  “The owner’s initials.”

  “René Follette, the French sculptor!” Joe burst out. “I wonder what he was doing here!”

  “And he believes in Chambord’s gold chain,” Chet put in. “Except he thinks the British took it. Wow! I’m mixed up!”

  Frank said decisively, “We’re going to have a talk with Mr. Follette when we get back tomorrow.”

  Tired and hungry, they set off in the bateau. Reaching a point on the shore beyond the promontory, Joe spotted a small clearing inland. Quickly they tied up and soon had a fire going. The hungry boys thoroughly enjoyed a simple meal of frankfurters and beans. When the sun had dropped behind the western hills, they doused the fire and pushed off in the bateau.

  A chilling wind rolled down the lake as they neared the fort, its massive, jagged hulk outlined against the night sky.

  The Hardys paddled cautiously between the outjutting rocks and pulled ashore. Carrying sleeping bags and flashlights, they crept up the slope.

  Some fifty yards from the western rampart, they set their gear down behind a thorn apple tree. From here they could also keep watch on the bateau.

  For a long time the trio kept their eyes fixed on the fort, alert for any moving figure or signs of activity. Their ears strained for any suspicious sound, such as the clank of shovels or picks.

  Only the noise of summer insects broke the silence. Chet shifted to a more comfortable position.

  “Don’t even hear a drumbeat,” he said in a reassured tone.

  The Hardys were beginning to feel discouraged when Chet whispered, “What’s that?” He inched closer to his pals. “L-listen!”

  The boughs above them thrashed in a gust of wind. But the Hardys could also hear a hollow, echoing, breathlike sound from the fort!

  “Maybe only wind—along the moat,” Frank reasoned, listening as the wind died down. The strange sound subsided, but was still audible.

  “Wind! I’ve never heard wind like that!” Joe whispered. “Unless it’s coming through the holes and notches in the walls. It sounds like a seashell when you hold it up to your ear.”

  “I know what it is—a ghost breathing!” Chet muttered.

  The vigil continued until the boys’ eyes ached. Finally the three campers decided to sleep in turns. Past midnight, the wind became stronger and the moon broke through the clouds.

  As it did, Frank tensed at a strange image on the fort wall. It looked like a skull!

  But it proved to be only an area of gutted masonry with spaces resembling eye sockets and teeth.

  Later, Chet took his turn on watch and propped himself against the apple tree. “So far nothing suspicious,” he thought, relaxing. One second later he suddenly froze.

  Thump! Thump! Drumbeats!

  His breath locked tight, Chet sat up, trying to detect the direction of the sound.

  Thum! Silence. Thump!

  Frantically he shook Frank and Joe, who bolted awake. “What is it?”

  Above the sighing wind, the Hardys clearly heard the drumbeats. They were not coming from the fort but from somewhere near the lake!

  Leaping to their feet, they looked down the moonlit water. Frank scanned the calm expanse.

  “Look—out there!”

  A hooded black figure was gliding toward shore!

  Joe, unable to believe what he saw, was the first to gasp.

  “It’s a g-ghost-walking on the water!”

  CHAPTER XVI

  The Deserted Cottage

  THE black, billowing figure glided over the moonlit lake, its wind-blown shroud trailing a shimmering shadow.

  For moments Frank, Joe, and Chet remained transfixed until Joe cried, “Come on!”

  The Hardys raced down the slope. Chet, although shaking with fear, stumbled after them.

  The ghost, its draped arms outstretched, was already nearing shore. The boys saw it disappear beneath overhanging trees beyond the fort promontory.

  They ran back for flashlights, then hurried downhill to the area where the specter had vanished. But it was nowhere to be seen.

  “I still don’t believe it!” Frank said. “Maybe I was just having a nightmare.”

  “Not unless we all had the same one,” Joe said. “We all saw that-thing.”

  “But—walking on water!” Chet exclaimed, shivering. “Nobody’ll believe us.”

  “Listen—the drumbeats have stopped!” Frank said. They checked the bateau,
found nothing disturbed, and returned to their post on the slope.

  Hoping to get another glimpse of the ghost, all three remained awake for some time. But the phantom did not reappear. Near dawn the boys finally fell asleep.

  They awoke several hours later, took a dip in the lake, and had breakfast. A search along the shore turned up no clues. Eager to report their experience, they returned to Millwood. Mr. Davenport and Uncle Jim were incredulous when they related their ghost story.

  The art patron looked hard at the boys. “You all aren’t pulling an old Confederate’s leg, are you?”

  “Oh, no! We saw it. Honest!” Chet said earnestly.

  “Sir,” said Joe, “this ghost walker wasn’t another—er—lake monster, was it?”

  “No. At least, not mine.”

  “We’ll keep at our investigation,” Frank assured him.

  Later in the morning they told Uncle Jim about seeing Ronnie Rush near the fort. The instructor said that Ronnie had not appeared for any of his classes the day before. “Maybe he’s still sore about losing out at the exhibit,” said Joe. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s after the fort treasure himself.”

  The boys then showed Uncle Jim the sculpting tool. “It may be Follette’s,” he said. “I’d like to go with you to see him, but I’m getting ready for a class.”

  He filled two bowls from a glass turpentine container, then placed several brushes in one. He was about to dip his paint-covered hands into the other when Joe dashed over and grabbed his wrists.

  “Don’t!”

  “What’s the matter?”

  Joe pointed to the bowl containing the brushes. “Look!”

  Faint smoke rose from it. They all could see the brushes disintegrating!

  “That’s not turpentine—it’s an acid!” Frank cried out.

  Mr. Kenyon sniffed the liquid. “You’re right! Somebody must have put it in the turpentine bottle during the night!”

  “Could it have been just a mistake?” Chet asked.

  “I’m afraid not. I’ve never had any reason to keep acid here.” He thanked Joe for his quick action, then asked the Hardys, “Do you think whoever did this caused the other accidents and left the shotgun warning?”

  “Yes,” Frank said. “Or else a confederate. But I doubt that any of the students are involved except maybe Ronnie Rush.”

  Joe looked thoughtful. “One thing is sure. It’s someone who knows his way around here—night or day.” The Hardys and Chet left, and went to the sculpture studio. They drew René Follette aside and showed him the initialed tool.

  “Yes, yes, it is mine!” he said readily. “It has been missing—oh, maybe two days. Where did you find it?”

  The sculptor gave a start when the boys mentioned the mysterious flags at Senandaga but denied any knowledge of them.

  Feeling it wise not to reveal details of their visits to Senandaga, the boys left. Outside, Frank said, “Follette didn’t act guilty. Perhaps someone stole his knife.”

  The Hardys debated their next move, eventually deciding to do some detecting on the property of both Gilman and the English hermit.

  “I still think there’s something fishy about Everett’s wet boat.”

  “And Gilman,” Joe added. “He might have had his own reasons for getting hold of the Davenport paintings!”

  They divided forces. Joe and Chet would go in the bateau to scout Turtle Island. Frank got permission to borrow the limousine to visit Gilman’s estate.

  “Here are the keys, sir,” said Alex, outside the mansion garage.

  Frank thanked him and soon was driving north. He parked in a wooded spot, and trudged along the overgrown shore. Soon he reached the Gilman property.

  The Tudor house, as well as the lake-front patio, looked deserted. Circling the grounds convinced Frank that Gilman was not at home.

  His ears keen for the sound of a car on the driveway, Frank peered into first-floor windows. If Gilman were behind the gallery thefts, where might he hide the paintings?

  “The attic or the cellar!” Frank thought, wishing it were possible to search these places.

  He found the garage open and looked around inside. Nothing suspicious there. Next, Frank pressed his face against a cellar window but saw only garden furniture, tools, and piles of old newspapers. Feeling thwarted, Frank then walked to the lake front. Through a grove of willows to the right, he noticed a boathouse and a long dock.

  “I’ll check there,” he decided, and followed a path through the woods. Suddenly Frank heard footsteps behind him. He was about to spin around when he was struck hard on the head.

  Frank’s legs turned to rubber and everything went black.

  He had no idea how much time had passed when he came to with a throbbing headache. Sensations spun through his consciousness ... a strong, acrid smell ... hushed voices ... echoing ... a feeling of being adrift.

  Suddenly he felt a trickle of water on his face. Frank opened his eyes to darkness. He was encased in something made of metal.

  Then he saw jagged holes of light above his head. A chill of horror jolted him!

  He was trapped in a steel barrel!

  Frantically, Frank tried to turn over. But the container rolled with his movement, forcing water in through the holes.

  The steel drum was sinking in the lake!

  CHAPTER XVII

  The Accused

  FRANK kicked at the bottom of the container, then gagged as water rose over his chin.

  Sputtering, he pounded his heels against the steel, but it was no use!

  In a last desperate effort Frank gave a mighty push upward with his head and hands. The top gave a little. He pushed again, this time loosening the lid enough to free himself. His lungs at the bursting point, Frank swam away from the sinking trap and shot to the surface.

  Gasping and gulping in air, he found himself about fifty yards offshore from the limousine.

  No boats were in sight as he made it to the shore and collapsed, exhausted. As soon as his strength returned, he stood up and looked about for signs of his attackers. “Maybe someone is hiding in the boathouse,” he thought. Frank headed for the building, moving with caution. Finding the padlock open, he slipped inside.

  Gilman’s lavish craft swayed gently in its berth. Frank peered about the dim interior but saw no one lurking in the shadows. He kicked at a tarpaulin, uncovering a pile of wood molding. “Wonder what they’re for,” he mused, and picked up several pieces. Underneath lay a familiar-looking, ridged strip. It had a diamond-shaped corner !

  “It’s part of an old fort frame!” Other fragments also appeared to be from the Prisoner-Painter’s originals. “Gilman!”

  The evidence pointed to the critic as the thief. But Frank was puzzled. Would Gilman have gone so far as to try to drown him?

  “The police should know about this immediately,” he decided, covering the frames. He ran to the limousine and drove directly to the school. He called the chief, who sent officers Bilton and Turner to meet him at Gilman’s. After changing clothes, Frank went back to the critic’s house. To his surprise, Gilman was there.

  “What is the meaning of this?” the owner demanded as Frank and the policemen approached.

  “We’d like to take a look inside your boathouse,” said Officer Turner. He showed a search warrant.

  Gilman climbed to his feet, his face a mixture of alarm and bewilderment. “Why? What—?”

  “Because this young man tells us some stolen property is in there.”

  “Which I discovered,” Frank added, “after someone knocked me out and tried to sink me in a steel drum.”

  Gilman was flabbergasted. “I’m not guilty of such a terrible thing,” he protested. “I’ll have you know I am a reputable citizen.”

  “Come along with us,” Officer Turner ordered.

  Inside the boathouse, Frank pointed out the diamond-shaped piece of wood. “Recognize that, Mr. Gilman?”

  “Of course. It looks like an original frame for a Davenpor
t painting.”

  “Yes. A stolen frame,” Frank challenged. “Maybe you can tell us what it’s doing in your boathouse?”

  The critic threw up his hands. “I don’t know how any of this wood got in here. I am innocent of these hideous accusations. My driver, who also pilots the cruiser, can testify to that. He’s been with me for the last few hours.”

  The driver was questioned closely. He provided a perfect alibi and vehemently denied any part in the attack on Frank. He also maintained that the stack of wood had not been in the boathouse earlier that day.

  After searching the premises for the stolen paintings, the officers decided to recover the drum. Frank offered to dive for it, so the three took the rowboat to the spot where he had surfaced. Stripping to his shorts, Frank plunged overboard and streaked downward. Fortunately the water was clear, and he soon spotted the drum, and the lid near it, resting on the sandy bottom at a depth of ten feet.

  When Frank bobbed up bearing the evidence, he was helped aboard and the trio returned to the boathouse. The critic paled when he saw his address printed on the side of the drum. “That contained insecticide,” he said. “We used up the last of it a week ago.”

  Gilman looked completely deflated and his chin slumped to his chest. “I didn’t have anything to do with this fiendish thing,” he muttered.

  The officers ordered him not to leave the premises. “You’ll have to stay here until we find out the truth,” said Turner. He and Bilton took the container and pieces of frame as evidence. By now, Frank had dried off in the hot sun and dressed, so they drove back in the limousine.

  “You’re lucky to be alive,” Bilton remarked.

  Frank nodded. “I’m thankful that * wasn’t put on any tighter,” he replied. He remembered the voices he had heard just before sinking. “There must have been two men at least.”

  “At any rate, this is pretty heavy evidence against Gilman,” said Turner.

  Chet, Joe, Uncle Jim, and Mr. Davenport were first stunned, then angered upon hearing of Frank’s experience. He had told them his story in the art patron’s study. The elderly Southerner kept muttering, “I know Chauncey Gilman’s dead set against me—but this—incredible.”