Part 4 (1/2)
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 1”
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 Oilman, the man for whom Mr. Davenport apparently had a violent dislike.
”Oilman 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 Oilman had bought a fort painting years ago from the Mill-wood 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 Cedar-town. ”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 cla.s.s 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 cla.s.s 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 sh.e.l.l.”
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 Oilman?”
”Yes. After all, he owns a fort painting.”