"Dixon, Franklin W - Hardy Boys 044 - The Haunted Fort (b)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dixon Franklin W)

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 shell."

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."

Joe was enthusiastic. "Maybe Oilman himself has information about the gold chain."

Taking Chet's jalopy, the three were soon heading north along the west shore of the lake, an area lined with tourist homes. Farther on, imposing lakeside mansions came into view, and in another twenty minutes they pulled into a sloping gravel driveway. A chain-hung sign along the side read: CHAUNCEY OILMAN, ESQ. Atop the rise stood a handsome Tudor-style house overlooking the lake.

"What a setup!" Chet whistled as he parked.

From a shrubbed terrace at the rear, a plump, wavy-haired man arose from a lounge chair. He stared in disapproval at the vehicle and its smoking exhaust, then at the boys as they got out.

The Bayporters had never seen a man quite so elegantly attired. He wore a green velvet jacket, striped trousers, and white cravat.

"Are you sure you're at the right address?" he droned nasally, removing his glasses.

"Mr. Oilman?" Frank inquired.

"The same."