The Haunted Fort Part 12

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 sh.o.r.e I 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 s.h.i.+mmering 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 sh.o.r.e. 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, s.h.i.+vering. "n.o.body'11 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 sh.o.r.e 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 a.s.sured 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 cla.s.ses 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 cla.s.s."

He filled two bowls from a gla.s.s 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 Rene 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 Oilman'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 sh.o.r.e. Soon he reached the Oilman property.

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

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

"The attic or the cellar!" Frank thought, wis.h.i.+ng 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 pa.s.sed 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 offsh.o.r.e from the limousine.

No boats were in sight as he made it to the sh.o.r.e 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 boat-house," 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 Davenport 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."

Oilman 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 lid 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 Oilman," 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 Oilman's dead set against me-but this-incredible."

"I feel the same way," Frank said. "I don't believe he's to blame."

Joe agreed. "If Mr. Oilman was so shook up by a fake monster," he said wryly, "I can't see him having the nerve to do anything criminal."

"How about the paintings?" Jim Kenyon asked.