Free Danger in the Extreme by Franklin W. Dixon Page A

probably did try to take you out on the icewall, and Edwards played rough in the snocross, but it’s over now. Edwards has no reason to be after me anymore.”
    Frank told Joe about his attacker saying something about Neal Jordan.
    Joe rubbed his chin. “Maybe Fred Vale put them up to it. He was hoping for a big blowup between me and Jim.”
    â€œThat’s pretty far-fetched, Joe. Those two guys were trying to put us out of commission permanently. Imagine the headlines: ‘Two Athletes Killed After Snocross Race.’ That kind of publicity would ruin Vale and the Max Games.”
    Joe had to agree.
    When they got home, Frank taped a piece of plastic over the broken window before they headed inside.
    Joe found a note on the kitchen table. “Mom and Dad are out,” he told Frank. “They say congratulations. They saw my race on TV and they’ll be at the medal ceremony tonight. Dinner’s in the oven.”
    They sat down to plates of delicious hot roast beef, carrots, and garlic bread.
    â€œI’ve got a plan,” Frank said as he ladled gravy over his meat.
    â€œLet’s hear it.”
    â€œMost of the athletes are staying at the Atlantic Bay Hotel, right?”
    Joe took a swig of milk. “It’s the only place big enough.”
    â€œWhile you and Jim Edwards are at the stadium getting your medals tonight, I’ll sneak into the hotel to see if I can get into his room. Maybe we’ll get some clue about what he and Salazar are up to.”
    â€œSounds good,” Joe said, his mouth full of bread.
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    At a little after eight o’clock, Joe killed the van’s lights and pulled into the service drive behind the Atlantic Bay Hotel. He stopped at the employees’ entrance.
    Frank was wearing black slacks and a white dress shirt. “How do I look?” he asked, adjusting his narrow black tie.
    â€œLike you’re ready to take my dinner order,” Joe said, with a laugh.
    Frank did a mock bow. “I’m here to serve you, sir.” Then he jumped out of the van. “See you in an hour or so.”
    When Joe was gone, Frank walked into the hotel, acting as though he belonged there.
    A wide, well-lit hallway led past the employee locker room. He passed through a pair of swinging doors to his right and found himself in the kitchen. It bustled with activity. A chef worked over a huge gas stove, tossing some kind of vegetables around in a skillet. Other people were busy washing dishes and adding garnishes to great-looking desserts.
    Frank kept his head down and walked fast. He went through a door at the far end of the kitchen and found himself in a little alcove with a cashregister and a coffee machine. It was the wait station, where servers calculated the customers’ bills and punched in orders.
    Frank turned toward the wall as a waitress hustled past. “Can you pick up some clean napkins?” she asked.
    Frank held his hand up to shield his face. “Sure. No problem,” he said.
    When she disappeared into the kitchen, he checked for a phone where guests would call in room-service orders. There it was, on the wall next to the cash register.
    As he’d hoped, he found a stack of room-service orders stuck to a spike on the counter.
    Frank flipped through them quickly. Some had no names on them, just the room number and the order. He was looking for Jim Edwards’s room, when he passed a familiar name. He flipped back through the last couple of receipts. There it was: R. Salazar—Rm. 506.
    Yes! Frank said to himself. Quickly, he grabbed a tray and some stainless steel dish covers from shelves under the counter. Now he looked like a real waiter.
    Carrying the tray on his shoulder, he strode to the service elevator. He was up on the fifth floor in no time.
    He stepped off the elevator cautiously. He peered down the hall in both directions. It was totally quiet. Frank headed to his right, stopping