Passport to Danger (3 page)

“Maybe,” Frank answered. “His hand was twisted under his body pretty near that spot, and the blue pen is under the bench.”

“Yeah, but coaches use those markers all the time to set up plays on their clipboards. That pen could have been dropped by anyone at any time. And that looks like an
M,
but it could be just four scratchy lines. Maybe somebody stepped on the open pen and skidded it back and forth across the floor.”

“Maybe,” Frank said with a nod.

When the stadium security officer returned, Frank showed him the pen and the marks on the floor. The officer carefully picked up the pen, looked at
the blue marks, and shrugged. Then he escorted Frank and Joe out of the room and closed the door.

“Okay,” Joe said, as they walked along the hall toward the tunnel leading to the field. “So you see somebody with kind of a stocky figure, wearing a red jacket, and in the same room as Coach Sant'Anna's unconscious body. Then you find an
M
scratched on the floor. So we're thinking Sant'Anna might have been scratching out
M
for ‘Montie,' right? Big, red-jacket-wearing Coach Montie Roberts?”

“It adds up so far, but we still don't have enough information,” Frank said. “At this point, it's just a good guess.”

“We need more facts,” Joe agreed.

“And I'd like to know who popped in the door and ran back out so fast without a word,” Frank added. “That was definitely weird.”

Back on the field, they had little time for more speculation. So much time had been lost by the incidents with the fireworks and Coach Sant'Anna, the volunteers had to work fast to finish their orientation and instructions. While they were completing their tour of the facility, Coach Roberts stomped across the field.
Could he have been the one I saw in the locker room?
Frank wondered.
Did he have something to do with Coach Sant'Anna's collapse?

The team captains passed out assignments. Frank was asked to help manage the equipment for the American team. Joe was assigned to the referee
squad. He would keep track of the red cards and yellow cards that referees hold up to indicate fouls and misconduct.

It was a long but exciting work day. At the end of the afternoon, the volunteers were given T-shirts, shorts, and cool blue jackets with the logo of the tournament printed on them. They were also each assigned lockers in the equipment room so they could stash some their uniforms and anything else they didn't want to cart back and forth to the field.

“So, you guys have plans for dinner?” Jacques asked the Hardys as they left the stadium. They were in an old industrial part of the city outskirts that was sprinkled with factories and warehouses.

“I don't care where we eat, as long as it's soon,” Joe said. “I'm totally starved.”

“There's some good burger places on the Champs,” Jacques said. “Even some that'll be familiar to you.”

They took the Metro, Paris's subway system, to the Champs-Elysées, the grand avenue in the center of Paris that led to the Arc de Triomphe. Frank and Joe had each bought a Paris Visite card, which gave them discount rides on the Metro and city buses for five days. In a short time they were in a restaurant filled with smells of crispy
pommes frites
and burgers.

“So did you hear all the rumors about Coach Sant'Anna?” Jacques asked the Hardys as they
finished ordering. They took their burgers,
pommes frites,
and sodas to a table by the window. There they could see the constant parade of people along the Champs as they talked.

“He didn't just collapse or have a heart attack,” Jacques continued, stuffing French fries in his mouth. “They think someone actually attacked him.”

Frank and Joe exchanged looks. “Who told you that?” Frank asked, chomping a bite of his burger.

“Everyone's talking about it,” Jacques answered. “They're just rumors now, but I hear it's going to be on the television news tonight.”

“But who would attack Coach Sant'Anna?” Joe asked.

“And why?” Frank added.

“Well, most of the players think it was Montie Roberts,” Jacques told them. Joe coughed as he swallowed a gulp of soda.

“It makes sense, really,” Jacques pointed out. “The amateurs from Brazil—Coach Sant'Anna's team—are really great, and the British team's been having problems. Everyone's heard Monster Montie rip into opposing players and coaches.”

“Yeah, but there's a difference between threats and actual physical violence,” Joe pointed out. “Has he ever really hurt anyone?”

“Only his own players,” Jacques said with a chuckle. “I've seen him yank some of them around pretty good.”

Frank had a sudden vision of the figure in the locker room with Coach Sant'Anna. In his mind, he superimposed Coach Roberts's face on the shadowy figure. “Hmm… his face would fit on the body I saw,” he whispered to himself. Then he turned back to Jacques. “I wonder how Coach Sant'Anna is. Have you heard anything about his condition?”

“My contacts say he's still unconscious,” Jacques answered.

“Man, that's rough,” Joe said, shaking his head. He took a long drink of soda.

“I won't be surprised if they find out that the fireworks incident wasn't an accident either,” Jacques said.

“So are there rumors about that, too?” Joe asked. “Does everyone think Montie had his fingers in that?”

“Haven't heard anything so far,” Jacques said. “The authorities seem to be holding that case a little closer to the vest, as they say. No one's talking much about it. But if Montie's gone beyond just bullying the opposition… ,” Jacques said, gazing out the window. “If he's trying to sabotage the whole tournament…”

Frank and Joe followed his gaze to the steady stream of characters walking by the window. No one spoke for a minute or two. “Maybe there'll be more about the fireworks incident on the news tonight too,” Frank said finally, checking his watch.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you the best part,” Jacques said. “My contacts told me that you're going to be famous by the time the newscast is over, Frank.”

“Me?” Frank exclaimed.

“You bet,” Jacques said. “First, you and Joe got everyone out of the way of the unexploded firework canister; that could have been a lot worse without your heads-up. Then Frank's the one who found Sant'Anna. You are going to be celebrities in Paris!”

“That's all we need,” Joe said with a grin.

“Tell me more about Isabelle Genet and her group, Victoire,” Frank said. He wanted to change the subject. “Have they ever done anything more dangerous than lobbing tomatoes into people's faces?”

Joe's grin faded. “Good question,” he said. “As far as I'm concerned, that group is a prime suspect for the fireworks accident—if it
was
sabotage.”

“They've pulled off some minor capers here and there, but nothing really life-threatening that I know of,” Jacques answered. “No one knows where their headquarters are. They just sort of materialize for their rallies and protests. I know where Isabelle lives, though. It's in Montmartre.” He wrote down her address and drew a simple map to her house. “I'd be glad to run you by there any time. I heard she's organized a demonstration for tomorrow morning at the Conciergerie.”

“That's the old prison,” Frank said. “Where Marie
Antoinette was held until she went to the guillotine.”

“That's it,” Jacques said. “It was originally a palace. But from the late fourteenth century to 1914, it was used as a prison and a torture chamber. We Parisians say that the gloomy air inside the structure is filled with the ghosts of Robespierre, Marie Antoinette, and others. Isabelle holds her rallies there often.”

“We don't have to report to the stadium until four,” Joe said. “Let's go to the demonstration.”

“Absolutely,” Frank said.

“Good,” Jacques agreed. “I'll meet you at ten
A.M
. outside the Conciergerie. See you then.”

Jacques left, and the Hardys followed soon after. Their Metro stop was just four blocks from the apartment where they were staying. It was a quiet neighborhood with lots of leafy trees and winding streets and with very little traffic.

“I can't wait to tell Dad about what happened at the stadium today,” Joe said. “I hope he's back at the apartment.”

“He's probably already heard about it,” Frank said. “I figure the security conference got word before anyone else. But he might not know how much we—”

Frank never heard it coming. Like a flash of fire, a large man flew out from behind the tree. One hefty arm in a bright red sleeve shoved through the air and straight at Frank's stomach.

“Ooooshhh!” When Montie Roberts's fist slammed into his stomach, the breathy groan wheezed out of Frank's mouth like air from a stabbed balloon. His eyes squinted shut, but he still saw bolts of electric blue and neon green behind his eyelids. The pain that started in his gut quickly shot through his arms and legs. Before he could catch himself, he dropped to his knees.

“Hey, you maniac!” Joe yelled. He moved fast to confront Coach Roberts.

Frank shook his head until all the colored lights and fuzzy sounds stopped. Then he stood up. Coach Roberts and Joe were sparring under the streetlight. The coach was heavier and his fists were twice the size of Joe's, but Joe was quicker on his
feet. He was able to dodge the coach's blows and land a few of his own.

“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.