Get Smart 9 - Max Smart and the Ghastly Ghost Affair

by William Johnston

  The mule stared at the rocks for a moment. Then it turned around and with its hind hoofs gave the pile of rocks a vicious kick. The rocks flew in all directions, as if blasted out by an explosion.

  “That’s marvelous!” Max said.

  “Yup. Too bad I didn’t think of it a hundred-year-or-so ago when I got caught in this tunnel by a rock slide,” the old prospector said. “The idea just come to me a couple days ago. But . . . live and learn, they say, eh?”

  Max and 99 hurried from the tunnel. A second later, the old prospector and the mule followed them out into the light. Max pointed toward the cluster of buildings. “They’re down there somewhere,” he said. “In the hotel, probably. Or perhaps in the barbershop. Or maybe— But, that’s not important. First, we’ll go to the saloon.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” the old prospector said.

  “We’ll go to the saloon to find the Coolidge-head penny,” Max explained. “It dropped through a crack in the floor.”

  “I got a better idea,” the old prospector said. “First, let’s lock up them strangers and make lost veins of gold safe for cranky old prospectors, like you said you were going to do. After that, we’ll look for the penny.”

  Max shook his head. “I need the penny first,” he said. “You see, I’ll rub it. And then the Chief, back in Washington, will get the signal, and he’ll send a squad of Control agents out here, and they’ll surround the hotel or the barbershop or wherever the KAOS agents are holding their meeting, and they’ll take them captive and transport them back to Washington and lock them up. But first I have to— Why are you looking at me that way?”

  “You’re going to rub a penny and somebody’s going to hear it in Washington? I know Indians’ve got good hearing. But it’s not that good.”

  “What Indians?”

  “The Chief, you said.”

  “The Chief of Control—not an Indian chief,” Max explained. “And it’s not that he’ll hear me rubbing the coin. It isn’t as simple as that. This is an electronic— No, that won’t mean anything to you, will it? I’ll just have to start at the beginning. Once upon a time, you see, there was a Founding Father named Benjamin Franklin who liked to fly his kite in thunder storms. Well, one day—”

  “Max,” 99 broke in, “couldn’t you, just for once, give a simple answer? We don’t have time for a full explanation.”

  “You’re right, 99,” Max said. He turned back to the old prospector. “It’s magic,” he said.

  “Now, you’re making sense,” the old man told him.

  5.

  CAUTIOUSLY, AND AS quietly as possible considering that the pots and pans dangling from the pack on the mule’s back were clanging, Max, 99, the old prospector and the mule made their way down the hillside toward the town.

  “Can you do something with those pans?” Max said to the old prospector.

  “Sure. I cook in them. What do you think I have them for? Just to keep the mule from getting lost?”

  “What I mean is, isn’t there some way you can keep them quiet?”

  “Well . . . I don’t need them any more, since I don’t cook,” the old prospector replied. “So, I guess I could get rid of them. A ghost don’t eat, you know. Anything a ghost eats, it goes straight on through and drops to the ground. Who wants to eat stuff that’s dropping on the ground all the time?”

  Max halted the march. “The pans . . . please?”

  The old prospector unfastened the pots and pans from the pack and tossed them aside. They went banging and clattering down the hill.

  “Why don’t you just go down there to the hotel and make a general announcement to those KAOS assassins that we’re coming,” Max said sarcastically.

  “You sure don’t know much about sneaking up on folks,” the old prospector said. “That’s no way to do it. You got to take them by surprise.”

  Max decided there was nothing to be gained by further discussion. He motioned and proceeded and 99 and the old prospector and the mule tagged after him again. Soon, they reached the bottom of the hill. Then, Max led them into town. When he saw that they would have to pass the hotel, where he assumed the seminar was in progress, to get to the saloon, he signalled the march to a halt.

  “We’ll have to keep down,” he said in a hushed tone. “If those KAOS assassins spot us, all is lost. There are too many of them for us to handle alone. Now, everyone down. Flat on the ground. From here to the saloon, we’ll crawl on our bellies.”

  “That sounds kind of dumb to me,” the old prospector said.

  “It just so happens that it’s a generally accepted military tactic,” Max replied. “Haven’t you ever heard the phrase ‘an army travels on its stomach?’ ”

  “I heard it. But I never believed it,” the old prospector said. “How about the mules? Look at Madame DuBarry—you think you’re going to get her down on her belly? She’s got too much dignity for that.”

  “All right—everybody stoop, then,” Max said, compromising.

  The old prospector addressed the mule. “Think you can do that, Madame?” he asked. “Think you can look stoopid like this fella here?”

  “Isn’t there another way you could phrase that?” Max asked.

  “Max—we’re wasting so much time!” 99 protested.

  “You’re right, 99.” He turned to the old prospector again. “The important thing is to get to the saloon,” he said. “If you and your mule want to walk upright, that’s your business. But 99 and I happen to be experienced secret agents and we know how to do these things, so we’ll crawl on our stomachs. Now—ready?”

  “Max . . . if it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll walk upright, too,” 99 said. “This dress just came back from the cleaners, and I don’t see—”

  “Well, I’ll crawl!” Max said disgustedly. And he dropped to the ground and began slithering through the dust toward the saloon.

  99 and the old prospector and the mule ambled along behind.

  “He does that good,” the old prospector remarked to 99.

  “He’s had a lot of practice,” she replied. “He drops his cuff links a lot, and they always roll under the bed, and he always has to crawl under after them.”

  “He’s sure got to be expert,” the old prospector said, genuinely impressed. “If there was any demand for that kind of thing, I bet he could make a good living at it.” He addressed the mule. “Watch that technique,” he said. “You might want to crawl under a fence someday, and that’s the way to do it. You might have a little trouble pulling yourself forward with your elbows, though. I never noticed that before—you got no elbows, Madame.”

  The mule hee-hawed.

  “True, true,” the old prospector nodded.

  Max stopped crawling and got to his feet. “What did she say?” he asked the old prospector, indicating the mule.

  “He’s not a she, he’s a he,” the old prospector replied.

  “A he? Named Madame DuBarry?”

  “That was his idea, not mine,” the old prospector said. “I didn’t give him a name at all when I got him. I figured that ought to be his right, picking a name for himself. So, for the first nine years I just called him ‘Hey, you!’ Then, on his tenth birthday, I told him to take any name he wanted. Madame DuBarry was the pick. He figured being French it had class.”

  “I’ll accept that,” Max said. “Now, what was it he replied when you made that comment about him not having any elbows?”

  “He said it saves him the trouble of sewing patches on his sweaters.”

  Remaining upright, Max moved on toward the saloon once more. The others hurried after him. As Max neared the entrance to the saloon, however, he abruptly halted. He cocked his head, listening. Then he gestured urgently to the others, signalling them to flatten themselves against the side of the building.

  “What is it?” 99 whispered.

  “Somebody’s in there!” Max whispered back. “I heard a voice—talking. Let’s get close to a window. Maybe we can hear what’s going on.”
/>   Quietly and warily, they advanced to a window. They could all hear the voice, then.

  “It’s Arbuthnot!” 99 said. “What’s he doing—talking to himself?”

  “I don’t think so, unfortunately,” Max replied. “Evidently the seminar is being held in the saloon instead of in the hotel. All those assassins must be in there.”

  “I see—it’s the KAOS assassins he’s addressing,” 99 nodded. “Then, that means—”

  “It means we can’t get in there to look for the Coolidge-head penny,” Max said gloomily. “Unless— Let’s listen. The meeting may break up soon. Then, when the KAOS assassins leave, we can slip in and find the penny.”

  “We might pick up some helpful hints, too, listening,” 99 said. “After all, Arbuthnot is recognized as the master. Even around Control he’s known as the assassins’ assassin.”

  “Shhhhh!” Max said. He stood on tippytoes to get closer to the window in order to be able to hear better.

  “The important thing, when you get an assignment to assassinate some sick person, is not to get that sick person’s germs,” Arbuthnot was saying. “Or, in the words of the prophet: ‘What does it profit an assassin to carry out his mission and then come down with pneumonia?’ ”

  “That makes a lot of sense,” Max said to 99.

  “Shhhh—I don’t want to miss any of this!”

  “There is a lot of agitation these days for a code of ethics for assassins,” Arbuthnot went on. “And, regarding that, I would like to say that, in my personal opinion, what is needed is not a code of ethics for assassins, but a code of ethics for assassins’ victims!”

  There were cheers.

  “And, thinking along that line,” Arbuthnot continued, “I have compiled a list of rules that I think victims ought to be compelled to abide by. Let’s see what you think of the list. Now, number one, all victims ought to be completely disinfected at least one hour prior to the assassination. Free disinfection clinics ought to be set up for those victims for whom the process would cause economic hardship. I, personally, do not want to assassinate anybody knowing that he, she or it will end up in debt because of it. Agreed?”

  Again, cheers.

  “Number two,” Arbuthnot resumed, “all victims should be penalized for not covering their mouths when coughing during an assassination. There are enough diseases going around as it is. Let’s not start any epidemics.”

  “Hear! Hear!” the assassins cried.

  “And, three,” Arbuthnot went on, “no assassin will be required to sneak up barefoot on any victim who has athlete’s foot. I consider this the most important rule of all. It is not generally known, but I still have an itch I picked up in ’46. You might say that I am my victim’s victim.”

  “That’s sheer poetry,” Max said to 99, the old prospector and the mule. “But we better not stay here and listen any more. This meeting could go on for hours yet. And the longer we stay here, the greater the chance is that we’ll be spotted.” He motioned to them and then led them a short distance away. “We better hide somewhere until night,” he said. “Then, after dark, we can come back and look for the Coolidge-head penny. Any suggestions on where we could hide?”

  “Me and Madame DuBarry can just disappear,” the old prospector said.

  “For the time being, let’s stick together,” Max said. “Seeing is believing, you know. If I couldn’t see you, I’d probably stop believing in ghosts. And that would be unfortunate because we need every pair of eyes we can muster to look for that Coolidge-head penny.”

  “We better not stay in town, Max,” 99 said. “Before long, the assassins will probably find out that we’re not still in that abandoned mine. And they’ll start looking for us. They’ll begin, I imagine, by searching all the buildings in town.”

  “You’re right,” Max replied. “We’ll have to get out of the city.” He turned to the old prospector. “Where is the nearest suburb?” he asked.

  “Come again?”

  “Where is ‘yonder’?” Max translated.

  “Oh. Well, yonder is up in them mountains.”

  “Good,” Max decided. “We’ll hide in the mountains until after dark.” He frowned. “We won’t get lost in the mountains, will we?” he asked the prospector.

  The old man chuckled. “Me and Madame DuBarry know them mountains like we know the inside of a gnat’s ear,” he said.

  “Not at all—right?”

  “That about sums it up,” the old prospector nodded. “But, you can’t get lost on a mountain. All you got to do is keep going downhill and you’re bound to get to the bottom sooner or later.”

  “I wonder why people who get lost on mountains never think of that?” Max mused.

  “They’re not deep thinkers,” the old prospector said. “Tell you the truth, I never wouldn’ve thought of it, either. It was Madame DuBarry that give me the idea.”

  “Animal instinct,” Max guessed. He looked toward the peak of the nearest mountain. “We better get started,” he said.

  Max, 99, the old prospector and the mule left town. They soon reached the foot of the hills, then began the climb up the mountain. The incline was fairly steep and they proceeded slowly. By evening they were approximately halfway to the top. Max decided to stop.

  “We’ll make camp here,” he announced. “One of us will build a fire and the rest of us will fan out and look for game.”

  “Max, if we build a fire, the assassins will see it and know we’re up here.”

  “That’s a good point, 99. No fire. Let’s just fan out and look for game. We’ll have to eat it raw. It won’t be pleasant. But if we keep in mind the fact that the free world is depending on our survival, I think we’ll be able to do it.”

  “The free world can go take a flying jump at a tulip bulb,” the old prospector said. “You’re not going to get me to eat any raw game! I’d die first!”

  “You’re already dead,” Max pointed out.

  “It’s the spirit that counts,” the old prospector said. “I wouldn’t eat no raw game when I was alive, either.” He pointed to the pack on the mule’s back. “What do you think’s in there?” he said. “I always toted my own goodies. Now that I’m a ghost, I don’t eat no more. But, if you two are hungry . . .”

  Max looked at the pack warily. “Let’s see what you have.” he said.

  The old prospector opened up the pack. “Well . . . let’s see . . .” he said, looking inside. “We’ve got some les pattes de crabe vinaigrette, and some filets de triute vauclusienne, and some fonds d’artichauts, and some caneton froid à la Montmorency, and some carre d’agneau roti.” He faced back to Max. “ ’Course, none of it’s fresh—it’s all canned,” he said apologetically.

  Max and 99 stared into the pack, flabbergasted.

  “He’s right! It’s all there!” Max said. He turned to the old prospector. “That’s fantastic!” he said. “How do you do it?”

  “It’s not my doing,” the old man replied. “It’s Madame DuBarry’s.”

  “Then how does he do it?”

  “Well . . . I’ve give it some thought over the years,” the old prospector said, “and I’ve finally figured out that, with a name like DuBarry, it’s on account of he must really be French.”

  “I guess that’s as good an explanation as any,” Max nodded. He reached into the pack. “I’ll just have some of this les pattes de crabe vinaigrette for starters,” he said. “How long has he been packing these delicacies around, anyway?”

  “Oh, years and years and years and years,” the old prospector replied. “Since long before we got caught in that abandoned mine and turned to ghosts.”

  “You mean you’ve never had any of it?” Max said.

  “Nope.”

  “That’s hard to believe. Why not?”

  “No can opener,” the old prospector explained.

  “Oh.”

  Max tossed the can of les pattes de crabe vinaigrette back into the pack.

  “Shall I go look for some game, Max?”
99 said sympathetically.

  Max shook his head. “For health reasons, I think I’ll go hungry,” he replied.

  “Raw game wouldn’t hurt you, Max.”

  “It might not do anything to my stomach,” he said. “But eating raw squirrel, with all those delicacies around, would probably break my heart.” He sat down on a stump. “Let’s talk about something besides food,” he said.

  “I know some tall tales,” the old prospector said, squatting. “Tall tales always help to pass the time.”

  “Better than that, how about some ghost stories,” Max suggested.

  The old prospector shuddered. “Too scary,” he said. “Anyway, all my ghost stories have sad endings. All ’cept one—the story about the Indian that died and become a ghost and went to the happy haunting ground. Me, personally, though, I didn’t hit it that lucky. If I had it to do all over again, I’d be almost anything but a ghost. Too many drawbacks.”

  “For instance?”

  “Well, when Madame DuBarry and me are disappeared we’re always running into and straight through each other. Ever have a mule walk through your chest? It gives you a funny feeling.”

  “I can imagine,” Max replied.

  “And you get so you don’t pay any attention to whether you’re disappeared or appeared,” the old prospector said. “I got a habit of tightening my bandana up tight around my neck—sort of like a rube necktie. Well, it’s all right when I do it and I’m disappeared. It just tightens up into a hard knot. But when I do it when I’m appeared—thinking I’m disappeared—I sometimes like to strangle myself.”

  “Yes, well—”

  “But the biggest drawback of all—not just for me, but for Madame DuBarry, too—is, we still haven’t quite got the hang of disappearing and appearing. Myself, I’ve got a little quirk where when I raise my right arm I sometimes just disappear right out from under myself. And Madame DuBarry has to watch out how he switches his tail.”