The Haunted Fort Read Online Free Page B

which were hung some fifty paintings. The wall at the far end of the room contained General Davenport’s, each of which showed a different view of Fort Senandaga.
    The boys now noticed the distinctive frames mentioned by the art patron. Their corners jutted out in a diamondlike shape.
    â€œLook!” Joe pointed to a large yellowed diagram, half of which was torn off. It hung near the fort pictures. “That must be Senandaga.”
    The Hardys and Chet went over to examine the ancient parchment. Beneath was a label explaining the remnant was from one of the original drawing plans for the fort. Despite the missing part, they could see enough to tell that its layout resembled the form of a star.
    â€œThe Prisoner-Painter made his frames roughly in the same shape,” Joe observed.
    Frank nodded, then said, “I’m sure the police searched here, but anyway, let’s take a look around ourselves for a clue to the thief.”
    Chet took the end wall, Frank and Joe the sides. On their knees, the boys combed the stone floor, then studied the walls for possible telltale marks.
    After an hour, their efforts had proved fruitless. “There’s still the wall around the entrance,” Joe said with a sigh. “Let’s inspect every stone.”
    While Frank examined an empty desk, Chet and Joe pored carefully over the wall. No luck there.
    â€œSay, fellows,” Joe suddenly exclaimed, “what about the fort paintings themselves? If the thief was undecided about which one to take, he may have touched some.”
    â€œYou’re right!” Frank agreed. They rushed across to the row of aged canvases. Removing the paintings from the wall, they began inspecting the backs and edges of the frames.
    â€œLook! I found something!” Chet called out.
    Across the paper backing was a sticky smear of red oil paint! “This was made recently,” Joe observed. “It still has a strong paint odor.”
    â€œThere’s no fingerprint on the smear,” remarked Frank, looking at it closely, before rubbing some of the paint onto a small piece of paper.
    â€œI wonder if the thief is an artist himself,” Chet said.
    The three left the gallery, and locked the door behind them. The next step, they agreed, would be to identify the paint, then track down the person who used it.
    â€œExcept for Uncle Jim and Mr. Davenport,” Frank cautioned, “we’ll keep this clue to ourselves.”
    Millwood students were now strolling from their classes, and Ronnie Rush emerged from a knot of chatting young artists.
    â€œPick up many painting tips today?” he asked, setting down his easel. “I see you rated getting into the gallery.”
    â€œWe’ve just been sort of on a tour,” Frank answered, deftly concealing the paint sample in the palm of his hand. “How about you?”
    â€œOh, I’ve been working on a couple of oils,” Ronnie said importantly. “Want to see ’em?”
    â€œNot right now,” Joe replied. “We’re busy. Thanks anyway.”
    Ronnie looked annoyed and eyed the three boys sullenly as they hurried to their quarters. There they found Jim Kenyon in the storage room shifting art equipment about. He was keenly interested in the paint sample, and congratulated them on finding the clue. He immediately identified the paint.
    â€œIt’s called alizarin crimson,” he said. “Many of our students use it.”
    â€œPretty hard to pinpoint the culprit,” Frank observed. “But we won’t give up.”
    After washing his hands in turpentine and soap, the husky instructor accompanied the boys to supper. A tasty meal awaited them in the Davenport kitchen.
    After supper the boys went to the lakeside for a look at the boathouse. They peered up at the promontory behind which Fort Senandaga lay.
    â€œLet’s go over to the fort tomorrow,” Frank suggested. “Right now, we might do some boning