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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.’”
    â€œLooks 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 intown 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 ofFenton’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 that 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.
    â€œDo 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
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    â€œI’m listening,” Frank murmured. He didn’t know whether the cold metal in his back was an umbrella