Part 6 (1/2)
”Don't like any of you boys getting hurt.”
Joe grinningly a.s.sured him, ”We're rugged. I'm sorry about the map, though.”
”Have one other copy tucked away.” Mr. Davenport extracted a photostat from his safe and handed it to Frank.
”We'd like to visit the fort again,” Frank said.
”Go right ahead. I don't mind you boys being there, so long as the confounded pub-”
Joe broke in hastily to query him about the strange drumbeats. Mr. Davenport was intrigued, but had never heard the sounds.
Frank then asked about the sculptor's claim that French soldiers had been the last to leave the fort in the disputed battle.
The elderly man gave a little smile. ”My feeling is, boys, that there's truth on both sides. Trouble is, both Lord Craig and Chambord lost their lives at a battle just after Senandaga. There are questions no one may ever be able to answer.”
Chet spoke up. ”We've studied the pictures some more. We even visited Chauncey Oilman-oh!”
The forbidden name was out of Chet's mouth before he realized it! Mr. Davenport began thumping his cane on a tea table, jarring the china.
”Oilman!” his voice rose. ”Oilman! That long-nosed, uppity Yankee! If that stuffed-s.h.i.+rt critic's trying to carpetbag more of my fort paintings-or the treasure-Why, I'll-”
Chet's uncle quickly eased the breathless art patron into a chair while Frank said soothingly, ”Mr.
Davenport, we understand how you feel. But as detectives we have to investigate every lead. Mr. Gilman isn't very likable, but I don't think he's a thief.”
The old man gradually calmed down, and wiping his brow, apologized for his outburst. He gave Joe a key to the fort gate and a short while later the boys departed.
Outside, Joe said eagerly, ”I'm for a trip to the fort, p.r.o.nto.”
Chet looked unhappy. ”You go, fellows. I-er-have some work to do.”
”Work!” Joe echoed teasingly.
Uncle Jim grinned. ”Chet has promised to help spruce up the grounds for our exhibit. My students are devoting all their time to finis.h.i.+ng their entries.”
Joe grinned. ”We'll pitch in and give you a hand if you'll drive us to Senandaga. Is it a bargain, Chet?”
”Okay, okay!”
While Jim went off to a cla.s.s, the Bayporters set to work. Chet and Joe teamed up to wash windows.
Frank mowed the gra.s.s, starting with the area around the gallery.
Still wondering about the stolen fort map, he kept his eyes open for Ronnie. But the youth was nowhere to be seen.
Later, at the sculptor's studio, as the students were leaving, Frank found Joe was.h.i.+ng the outside panes.
”This is one way to earn our keep.” Frank grinned. ”Say, where's Chet?”
”Don't know,” Joe replied. ”He and Uncle Jim went to the oil-painting studio about an hour ago. Let's check.”
Joe put down his bucket and rags and the brothers walked over to the studio. Chet was perched atop a high, three-rung stool before an easel. He moved the brush slowly over his large canvas.
”Well,” Joe said, laughing, ”from window washer to artist. I should've known-from those fine rag strokes on certain windows.”
Chet looked up. ”I'm sorry, Joe,” Chet said. ”I'll do my share. But I just got so interested in-er-my painting. Besides, Uncle Jim thinks it's not bad.”
”You know, Chet,” Frank said, ”I have a wild hunch your painting will turn up at the exhibit.”
Somewhat embarra.s.sed, Chet admitted this was his secret plan. The Hardys watched as their pal continued to work. When not biting the end of his paintbrush with indecision, he would hunch forward, dip the brush in a thick purple blob on his palette, and absorbedly make a squiggle on the canvas.
”What's it going to be?” Joe asked at last.
”You'll see,” was all Chet said.
After a while the boys returned to their ch.o.r.es, and it was not until after supper that everything was finished.
The Hardys and Chet went down to the lake for a cooling dip before starting out for Senandaga. The afterglow of sunset cast the opposite sh.o.r.e in a pale-rose light. Dusk shrouded the wide lake. Frank was swimming some distance from sh.o.r.e when he heard a sound that made his spine tingle.
Like a distant heartthrob behind the promontory came the single beat of a drum, then silence, then the beat again!
”Fellows! Listen!” he shouted and swam over to Joe and Chet. They strained their ears.
”The drum!” Joe hissed.
The boys dashed out of the water. They found Uncle Jim and Mr. Davenport talking near the mansion.
Upon hearing the boys' report, both men agreed the young sleuths should investigate the fort at once, but cautioned them to be on guard.
”Not that I believe in any haunts, of course,” added Mr. Davenport. ”But there could be some kind of danger lurking there.”
The boys hurriedly dressed and drove off in the jalopy. Darkness was falling as they headed south. Chet switched on the high beams and guided the Queen around a series of curves until they reached the end of the lake. There were few houses, and only rarely a light in one. Chet slowed down.
The trees grew dense and overhung the road. From deep in the woods came the hoot of an owl, mournfully echoing over the constant whisper of cicadas. Like brittle witch fingers, branches clawed the side of the car.
”Willikers, it's spooky!” Chet said, rolling up his window. He turned right up a winding dirt road, then left.
Suddenly Chet screeched to a halt. The road was blocked by two wooden sawhorses! By the light of a flas.h.i.+ng red lantern, the boys saw an arrowed white sign: DETOUR-LEFT-ROCKSLIDE.
”Guess we haven't much choice,” Joe said. Chet turned the car and started down what proved to be an extremely narrow, steep lane.
The lake was visible below. Suddenly a tree loomed directly in their path. Hastily Chet yanked the wheel, but the car sc.r.a.ped against high rocks. As the Queen bounced over a yawning hole, Frank cried out: ”This isn't any detour! It's a trap!”
Panicky, Chet hit the brakes. But the left front tire had already pitched steeply down. Desperately he tried to swerve the rolling car.
”I can't stop!”