Passport to Danger

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “I’m going to teach you punks a lesson,” Coach Roberts snarled, his face as red as his jacket. “You’re going to learn to stay out of my way.”

  Still reeling from the blow to his stomach, Frank gasped for air. He stumbled into the apartment and to Fenton’s room. He took a pair of handcuffs out of a small brown bag from his dad’s suitcase, stuck them in his pocket, and returned to the sidewalk.

  By the time he was back outside, his strength had begun to return. He sidled into the fight and delivered a few well-aimed blows of his own. Frank thought it was like fighting an enraged grizzly.

  Frank motioned to Joe to help push the coach over to the dark green wrought-iron fence that bordered the front lawn. The coach put up a huge fight, but both Hardys were too much for him. He staggered back under Joe’s steady jabs until his back was against the fence.

  Frank’s timing was perfect. He remembered the drills his dad had put him through to cuff a perpetrator: left hand, grab the perp’s arm tightly and swing it back around; right hand, pull out the handcuffs and slap them against the perp’s wrist.

  This time it was Coach Roberts who got the surprise. Frank pulled the coach’s arm back so that the cuffs closed—and locked—around both his wrist and the long horizontal bar of the wrought-iron fence.

  Joe leaned over, bracing his hands against his knees. He sucked in big gulps of air, then stood back up. “You okay?” he asked his brother.

  “Yeah,” Frank said with a smile. “Just catching my breath.”

  “Me too,” Joe said, nodding. “I’ll call the police.”

  At first Coach Roberts said nothing. He made a few feeble tries at pulling loose, but quickly gave up. He started just to lean against the fence and rub his forehead with his free hand.

  “What’s going on, Coach?” Frank asked. Every breath reminded him of the blow he’d taken earlier. But Roberts was silent.

  Two French policeman arrived quickly, and the Hardys told them what had happened earlier at Le Stade and the ambush Coach Roberts had set up for their return to the apartment. At first Roberts refused to talk, but eventually he broke down.

  “I didn’t plan this,” he said.

  “Yeah, right,” Joe countered. “You just followed us home and jumped Frank on a whim.”

  “I mean I didn’t plan to attack him,” Coach Roberts said. “I followed you here, yes, but just to talk. I recognized Frank when he surprised me in the locker room. That was a setup. I’d gotten a note telling me to come to the locker room for an important scouting report on the Brazilian team. But when I got there, I found Gabriel lying on the floor.”

  “He was already unconscious when you got there?” Frank asked.

  “Yes,” Coach Roberts said. “I could tell he’d been attacked. You came in just minutes after I found him, and I panicked. I figured everyone would think I was the one who beat him up.” His face started to flush again, and his eyes flashed with anger.

  “It was you,” he said, pointing to Frank. “You were the one who set me up! Why else would you show up just a minute or two after I did? You must have been the one who’d sent me the note. Which means you must have been the one who beat up Gabriel Sant’Anna.”

  “You’re nuts,” Joe said. “My brother would never do anything like that.”

  “Well, that’s what I came here to find out,” Coach Roberts said. “I was just going to talk to you,” he added, looking at Frank. “But when I saw you, I lost it. You set me up, and you deserved everything you got.”

  “I didn’t set you up, Coach Roberts,” Frank said. “And I don’t know who did.”

  “Well, I didn’t beat up Gabriel,” Coach Roberts insisted, this time to the police. “He’s a great coach and a worthy adversary. I prefer to beat him on the field.”

  “Right now, it doesn’t make any difference whether you attacked Coach Sant’Anna or not,” one of the officers said. “You did attack these gentlemen here, and that’s enough for us to take you in.”

  Assailed by the coach’s loud protests, the police bound the coach with their own handcuffs and carted him away.

  Frank and Joe watched the police car pull away before walking into their apartment. “Nice move with the handcuffs, bro,” Joe said, clapping Frank on the shoulder. “How’s your gut?”

  “Sore,” Frank admitted. “But I’ll live.” He put his dad’s cuffs back in the brown bag and returned them to the suitcase. Then he and Joe went to their room to clean up.

  “There’s a note from Dad,” Joe said as Frank peeled off his T-shirt. “He’s going to be really late tonight—says he might not see us till breakfast tomorrow.”

  Frank emptied the pockets of his khakis. The small gold ball that he’d found near the fireworks compound rolled around the dresser top.

  “Hey, look,” Joe said as he watched the small charm roll around. “That’s not a soccer ball after all. It’s kind of got wrinkles on it, and—”

  “It’s a walnut,” Frank said, picking it back up and looking closer. “It’s a gold walnut.”

  “Who’d carry that around?” Joe wondered. “That’s pretty weird.”

  The bed felt good to Frank’s sore body. While the rest of him sank down into much-needed rest, his mind still jumped. Was the fireworks incident really sabotage? he wondered. Was the assault on Coach Sant’Anna an unrelated incident by a rival—somebody like Montie Roberts? Or were the two connected somehow? Were they both part of some greater plot to disrupt the tournament—maybe planned by the radicals of Victoire?

  • • •

  Thursday morning was overcast and surprisingly chilly. Frank pulled on a tan sweater and his khakis. Joe grabbed a blue striped rugby shirt and jeans. Their father was waiting for them with breakfast and the morning English-language tabloid papers.

  “So, looks like you guys were busy yesterday,” their dad said with a grin. He shoved the newspapers across the table. The headline stories were full of the fireworks mishap at Le Stade and the attack on Coach Sant’Anna. Frank was mentioned in two of the stories.

  “Oh, man, did you see this?” Joe asked, and then read aloud from one of the stories. “‘Frank Hardy is in Paris as a volunteer for the soccer tournament and, with his brother and father, one of an American family trio of professional and amateur detectives.’”

  “Looks like we’ve been discovered,” Fenton said with a crooked smile. “Everyone knows who we are. At least they don’t seem to know that I’m in town too. We need to keep that quiet if we can.”

  The three compared stories about their first day. Fenton conceded that his was a lot quieter than his sons’ had been. “You know I can’t tell you any of the specifics about what’s going on in the conference,” he reminded Frank and Joe. “But I can show you some of the stuff we’re trying out.”

  For the next hour, the three Hardys checked out some of the booty that their father had gotten from various security firms. Commercial sponsors and associates of the symposium distributed samples, demos, and prototypes to the people at the conference. Fenton and the others would try out the equipment and report their findings.

  Fenton showed his sons sunglasses equipped with hidden digital cameras and amazing handheld devices. Then they tried out surveillance microphone/recorders that looked like small belt-radios with earplugs. “These can pick up conversation fifty yards away,” Fenton told them. “And the listening device is a remote; it doesn’t have to be connected to the recorder.”

  Soon the breakfast dishes were pushed aside and the table was covered with cutting-edge inventions and gadgets. At nine o’clock Fenton’s unmarked, tinted-windowed car arrived. The three Hardys said their good-byes and exchanged warnings to use caution and keep their eyes open.

  At nine-thirty Frank and Joe packed some of Fenton’s surveillance equipment in their backpacks—just in case—grabbed their jackets, and headed for the Conciergerie.

  As they walked along the street bordering the Seine, Joe stopped at a computer café. “Something’s nagging me about th
at gold walnut I found,” he said. “I want to check something out. I’ll only be a few minutes.”

  While Joe was inside the café, Frank walked over to join the crowds strolling along the famous tree-shaded bookstalls lining the riverbank. He was drawn to one particular stall that specialized in maps. He zeroed in on a large portfolio of antique sailing charts. While he carefully turned the yellowed pages, he felt for a moment as if he were back at home on his boat.

  The chill had lifted and the sun peered from around the clouds. It was just enough to warm the busy quai, the embankment where the bookstalls were located. Many people milled along this popular spot, jostling one another as they reached for a book, magazine, or drawing.

  Frank held tightly to his spot as individual shoppers wove in and out of the crowd. He took care to cradle the leather portfolio in his arms and keep the old maps safe and untorn. Occasionally he’d feel an elbow dig lightly into his side or a shoulder press against his arm—but he was able to stand firmly.

  Finally he checked his watch. It was close to ten o’clock—almost time for the Victoire demonstration. As he closed the portfolio he turned slightly, looking toward the computer café for Joe. He started to nudge his way through the crowd, but his path was suddenly blocked by someone.

  For a second he felt almost caged. Adrenaline flooded through him as he realized he was wedged against the side of the bookstall. Then he felt a strange, cold, steely-hard object jammed into his kidney and someone’s breath on the back of his neck.

  “Do not turn around,” someone ordered in heavily French-accented English. “Just keep looking at the nice books, and listen carefully to what I say.”

  5 Hanging with Marie

  * * *

  “I’m listening,” Frank murmured. He didn’t know whether the cold metal in his back was an umbrella handle, a comb, a knife, or the barrel of a gun. And he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. He dropped the portfolio onto the stack of books displayed at the front of the bookstall and pretended to page through it slowly. And all the while, he listened.

  “I know who you are,” the voice behind him said. “And I know what you’re doing. This will be the only warning you get. Stay out of the situation at Le Stade. It is none of your business. Do as I say if you want the ‘American family trio of detectives’ to remain intact.”

  Frank nodded. He hoped to keep the person talking a while longer. Maybe then he could get a clue as to who it was. So he decided to risk a conversation.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “What is it you think we’re doing?”

  There was no answer from behind, but he still felt something jammed in his back.

  “What do you mean by the situation at Le Stade?” Frank said, trying again to get the person to talk. “I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Again there was no response. Suddenly Frank felt the object leave his back. The person had left. As quickly as the threat arrived, it was gone, the bruising pain in his back with it. Frank whirled around, scanning the area for clues. He couldn’t tell which one of the dozens of people moving away was the one who had delivered the message.

  Frank met Joe as he came out of the computer café. When he told his brother what had happened, both looked around the bookstall, hoping to find a clue. But they found nothing. Plus, the person was impossible to find in the crowd of strollers.

  “Okay, we’re going to have to be very careful from now on,” Frank concluded. “Dad was right. We’ve been totally found out. Anyone keeping up with the news knows who we are.”

  Frank looked around. He felt edgy as he scanned the crowd. Then he looked back at Joe. “Did you find what you were looking for in the computer café?” he asked.

  “Sure did,” Joe answered, showing Frank a printout from the computer he’d been using. “It’s a biography of Montie Roberts. Something’s been nagging me about that gold walnut, and I found out what it was.”

  Before Frank could read the printout, Joe pulled it back. “Listen to this,” he said. “Montie wasn’t always a university coach. He had once coached at a boarding school outside of London. That school’s arch-rival was another private school with an English walnut in its crest.”

  Then Joe read directly from the printout. “‘Before every game with his rival, Monster Montie’s pep talk always ended with his pulling a real walnut from his pocket and placing it on the floor. Then he lifted his size nineteen brogan off the ground and slammed it down on the walnut, crushing it to bits.’”

  “That pretty much gets the message across to the team, doesn’t it?” Frank said.

  “Absolutely,” Joe agreed. “When he left that school, the team gave him a golden walnut as a keepsake and good luck charm. The bio says he’s carried it ever since.”

  “Until yesterday,” Frank said.

  “It’s got to be his,” Joe said. “There’s probably no one else in Paris carrying around a golden walnut.”

  “So the question is, what was Magnificent Montie doing hanging around the fireworks crew?” Frank wondered.

  “You know, if he is behind all this, he must have sent the guy to threaten you just now,” Joe pointed out.

  “He swears he was set up,” Frank reminded his brother.

  “Yeah? Well, that’s getting harder to believe, isn’t it?” Joe said.

  The Hardys hurried on to meet Jacques at the Conciergerie, where the Victoire members were assembling outside a huge Gothic palace with pointed towers. “I can see why Isabelle Genet picked this site for Victoire’s protest demonstrations,” Joe said. “It’s pretty spooky.”

  Isabelle was already standing on a platform and talking to the small crowd. She had on her camouflage uniform and combat boots, and her red hair looked even brighter in the sunlight. Joe, Frank, and Jacques blended in with the group and then fanned out a little.

  Joe listened for a while. Isabelle switched back and forth from French to English, so although Joe wasn’t as good at translating as his brother, he still picked up most of what she said. It was pretty much the same speech that she had been giving when he caught the tomato in the face.

  While listening, Joe observed the crowd. He tried to pick out the ones who were really members of Victoire. Some were easy to peg. They wore tan T-shirts with VICTOIRE scribbled across them in large purple letters.

  As he watched the rest, he noticed a young woman who seemed to be watching him. When he caught her eye, she looked startled. Then she turned and disappeared quickly into the growing crowd.

  Joe wandered along, watching for her. Finally he saw her again. This time she seemed to be signaling to one of the other Victoire members. She nodded her head toward the building and then back at the man. He nodded back and then disappeared into the crowd.

  Joe ducked out of her sight and watched as the woman moved toward the building and crept around the corner. He looked around for Frank or Jacques. He wanted to let them know what was happening, just in case. But he couldn’t see either one.

  Joe decided he’d better not wait for them, as it might mean losing the opportunity. He cautiously followed the woman around the corner of the Conciergerie. As he walked, Joe remembered the disturbing warning that Frank had been given earlier. He kept his guard up and a healthy distance between himself and the woman he was following.

  Joe watched the woman go into the Conciergerie, and after a short wait, he walked through the entrance after her. He found himself in a large vaulted stone chamber that was dimly lit and gloomy. He felt his muscles tense. His senses were on high alert.

  He sidled close to the shadowy wall and followed the young woman down a spiral staircase. Downstairs, prison cells with costumed mannequins displayed life as it had once been in the prison and the torture chamber.

  The woman suddenly stopped and looked around. Joe ducked back into the shadows, waiting. The woman was standing in front of Marie Antoinette’s old cell.

  Inside the room were two life-size figures. A mannequin dressed like Marie A
ntoinette sat in a chair reading. A mannequin dressed as a uniformed guard stood watching. A few other chairs, a cot, and a small writing table filled out the small cell.

  Quietly Joe reached into his backpack and took out the long-range microphone/recorder that his dad had gotten at the conference. The Victoire woman paced back and forth until the man she had signaled to earlier arrived.

  Joe backed up about thirty yards to a spot where he could still see the two. Then he hoisted himself up to a beam overlooking the cell and the two Victoire conspirators. He turned on the recorder, aimed the mike, and placed the earpiece in his ear.

  The two began speaking quietly, but then got into a heated argument. Joe could translate some of the conversation, and two terms he understood very well: “Le Stade” and “spectateur.”

  The Victoire couple left after about twenty minutes. Joe packed up his gear and swung down from his spy perch.

  When he reached up to pull down his backpack, he heard a shuffling noise coming toward him. Before he could turn, he was hit with a crushing blow, and someone’s head butted into his side.

  “Oooomph!” Joe groaned as he doubled over and crashed onto the stone floor. Fighting down the searing pain, he scrambled back up just in time to see someone grab his backpack and take off.

  6 Gimme an M?

  * * *

  Joe ignored the hot pounding pain in his side and chased after the thief. He could hear footsteps. In a flash he realized that the recorder he borrowed from his father was still on. He was able to follow his backpack thief by paying attention to the volume of the footsteps. The quieter they were, the farther away the culprit. “Thanks, Dad!” he whispered, winding through the halls and rooms until he caught up with his attacker.

  “Hey!” he yelled at the man just ahead. “Drop that pack!” Yelling made his side hurt all over again, but he had no choice. They had come to a wall, with halls going both right and left. Within moments his attacker turned. Joe recognized him as the Victoire man he’d watched earlier.