Passport to Danger by Franklin W. Dixon Read Free Book Online

coach tossed the notepad to Frank and nodded. Frank left the top page intact—for the police to find—and tore out the second page. He jammed it in his pocket, thanked Coach Sant’Anna, and rushed to the door in two long strides.
    He could hear people people running in the hall and their excited chatter. He checked the room for another exit, but there was nothing—not even a railing outside the window. The thumping in his chest completely drowned out the scratchy creak of the turning doorknob. Finally the door clicked open and inched toward him.

7 Gimme a W?
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    Trapped in Coach Sant’Anna’s hospital room with no place to hide, Frank decided to take the offensive. He took a deep breath, and as the door opened, he strode toward it.
    The door swung open all the way, and the opening was filled with the large body of a police guard. His hand rested on the holster that hung from his hip. The room was dimly lit, but he glowed with the brightness in the hall. He had an odd sort of halo all around his body. Frank couldn’t see his face clearly, but he was sure the man wasn’t happy.
    â€œHalte!” the guard said in a deep loud voice.
    Frank stopped moving. “Pardon, pardon. Je suis Frank Hardy.”
    â€œHardy?” the guard repeated, stepping into theroom. He turned slightly, and Frank could see his face better. He was a little flushed, and his eyes narrowed as he scrutinized Frank closely. “You are Frank Hardy?” he asked in English. “The one who discovered this patient at Le Stade?”
    â€œYes,” Frank answered quickly. He talked very fast, hoping to convince the guard to overlook his secret visit. “I’m sorry to have intruded here. I just wanted to see Coach Sant’Anna and make sure he was okay.” He gave the guard his biggest, brightest smile.
    The guard did not smile back, but he took his hand off his holster. Then he walked over to the bed and spoke a few words to the patient. Frank watched as the coach nodded his head.
    The guard returned to Frank, took his arm above the elbow, and firmly walked him to the door. “I know who you are and what you did yesterday,” he said. “I also know you were the victim of an attack yourself last night. We are sorry you suffered such an experience in our beautiful city. And we are all grateful for your help. Now you must let us be. Do not trouble yourself any longer. Let us do our job, s’il vous plâit —please. You must take off your detective hat now and enjoy Paris. Merci. Au revoir. Thank you very much and good-bye.”
    The guard swiftly hustled Frank out the door. The teen started to say something more, but the guard turned his back and fiddled with the doorknob. Frank could tell the conversation was over, sohe walked around the corner. Joe was there, waiting.
    â€œSo?” Joe asked. “What happened? How’s the coach?”
    â€œOkay, I guess,” Frank answered. “He’s pretty weak and couldn’t talk. But he did give me something.” He took out the blank piece of paper he’d ripped from the coach’s notepad. “Oh, and he’s left-handed.”
    â€œWhich means ... ?” Joe asked.
    â€œWell, based on how he was lying, it was his left hand that was closest to that letter on the floor. So he actually could have drawn that M with the blue marker.”
    â€œYou don’t believe Montie’s story, then?” Joe said. “That he was set up?”
    â€œI’m not ruling anything out yet,” Frank declared. “It is definitely possible that someone tried to implicate Montie by knocking out Coach Sant’Anna, writing the incriminating M, then calling Montie to the scene to be discovered.”
    â€œDon’t forget the person who arrived just after you did and slammed the door—probably because he or she saw you. If Montie was set up, that could have been the person who did it… and then showed