Get Smart 2 - Sorry, Chief . . .

by William Johnston

  “Yes, I thought so. The secret is to keep your wits about you and present a logical, wholly believable explanation. It works every time.” He gestured toward the open doorway. “After you, 99 . . . Fang.”

  The two entered, then Max raised the door and leaned it in place in front of the opening.

  “Now, then . . .” he said, pleased.

  “Max . . .” 99 called from inside the stateroom, “. . . you closed yourself outside. You’re in the corridor.”

  Max looked around. “I thought this was an odd shape for a stateroom—long and narrow,” he said. “And very poorly furnished, too.”

  He lifted the door aside, entered the stateroom, then put the door back in place.

  “Now, then . . .” he said again.

  “Max, it’s dark in here.”

  “Exactly why I brought along the ultra-violet flashlight, 99. Here it is. I’ll just turn on the beam, and . . .”

  “Max, it’s still dark.”

  “That’s because the ultra-violet beam cannot be seen by the naked eye, 99. And, you and I and Fang, being only human, are equipped with naked eyes.”

  “But, Max, what good is it if we can’t see the beam? There isn’t any light.”

  “Yes, I better make a note of that for R and D,” Max said. “99, will you flip on the light switch, please. I can’t write in the dark.”

  “Yes, Max.”

  Light flooded the room.

  “That’s better,” Max said, making the note to pass on to R and D.

  “Where shall we start searching, Max?” 99 asked.

  “The suitcases,” Max replied. “That’s what we’re looking for, remember? A suitcase containing six invisible guinea pigs. Not three, not four, not five, but six invisible guinea pigs. However, if you do find a suitcase with five invisible guinea pigs in it, you better let me know. It’s just possible that one of the little beggars might have escaped.”

  “It will be difficult to know,” 99 said. “Since it would be invisible.”

  “That’s why I’m here,” Max said. “To make those difficult decisions for you. All right, 99, let’s start the search.”

  99 opened the closet door and pulled out a suitcase.

  Max kneeled and peered under the bunk.

  “Rorff!” Fang barked.

  “No, nothing but dust,” Max reported.

  “Max! I’ve found them!” 99 cried.

  Max leaped to his feet and rushed to her side. He peered into the suitcase that lay open on the floor.

  “Empty as Mother Hubbard’s cupboard!” he said. “This just might be it, 99!”

  “How can we be sure?”

  “By feel. That’s the only way.”

  Max reached a hand into the empty suitcase and squeezed.

  But there was no response.

  Max sighed. “No, 99, I’m afraid that’s not it. Until we find an empty suitcase that squeals, we’ll just have to keep looking.”

  “Sorry, Max,” 99 said, closing the suitcase.

  “It could happen to anybody.”

  99 took another suitcase from the closet.

  Max kneeled again and, this time, peered under the chest of drawers.

  “Rorff!”

  “Same old dust,” Max reported.

  At that moment, another voice was heard—a challenging, gutteral, masculine voice.

  “Vot you doink in mine staderoom?”

  99 turned. Max looked up. Fang ducked under the bed.

  A large, dark man with a long dark beard was standing in the doorway. The door was nowhere to be seen.

  “Hi, there,” Max said cheerily, getting to his feet. “Dr. Zee, I presume.”

  “Vot you doink in mine staderoom?” Dr. Zee repeated, a touch more belligerently.

  Max’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps I should have said, ‘Dr. X, I presume’,” he said. “That is your true identity, isn’t it, Doctor?”

  “Vot you doink in mine staderoom?” the man persisted.

  “That’s right, play it cool,” Max snapped. “But it won’t wash, Doctor. It so happens that we’re on to you. So, just hand over that formula, and, I might add, those half-dozen invisible guinea pigs, and let’s get this over with.”

  The man glared at him. “Vot you doink in mine staderoom?”

  “Pret-ty clever,” Max said. “Won’t give us anything but your name, rank and serial number, eh? It just so happens, however, that this case is not covered by the Geneva Convention. There are no rules in the game of espionage, Doctor. It’s every man for himself.”

  “Rorff!”

  “Dogs, too,” Max added. “And come out from under that bunk!”

  The man tried once more. “Vot you doink in mine staderoom?”

  “So, that’s your story, and you’re going to stick to it, eh? Well, Dr. X, we have ways . . .”

  The man backed out of the doorway and disappeared.

  “Max, shouldn’t we stop him?” 99 cried.

  “Why? He’ll have to come back here eventually,” Max said. “He didn’t even take his toothbrush with him.”

  “What shall we do now, Max?”

  “Keep searching. Those invisible guinea pigs are here somewhere.”

  “Rorff!” Fang barked, crawling out from under the bunk.

  “Dust yourself off,” Max commanded.

  “Max . . .” 99 said.

  He turned to her. “Yes? What now?”

  She pointed toward the doorway.

  Max looked—and saw Dr. Zee (or Dr. X) and a steward standing in the opening.

  “A-ha, went to get your confederate, eh?” Max said. “Well, it won’t do you any good. You’re still outnumbered. Three of us to two of you.”

  Fang ducked under the bunk again.

  “All right, let’s just say that it’s even-Steven,” Max said. “But that still gives us the edge. Because we’re the Good Guys.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” the steward said. “I’m not sure what this is all about, but Dr. Zee, here, wants to know—”

  “Vot you doink in mine staderoom?” Dr. Zee said, breaking in.

  “Max,” 99 said, “do you know what I think?”

  “Yes,” Max replied, “and I’m beginning to think the same thing.”

  “That Dr. Zee is really Dr. Zee?”

  “Yes, that just about sums it up.” He addressed the steward. “Steward, there’s been a slight mistake,” he said. “You see, my friends and I were looking for the, uh, main ballroom—we heard the music and it set our toes to tapping—and, inadvertently, we wandered into Dr. Zee’s stateroom.” He turned back to 99. “See? A logical, wholly-believable explanation will do it every time.”

  “How do you explain the door?” the steward asked. “It looks like it’s been blown right off the hinges.”

  “Rorff!” Fang barked from beneath the bunk.

  “Yes, of course,” Max smiled. “There’s the explanation right there—we didn’t have a key.”

  “Vot you doink in mine staderoom?” Dr. Zee asked again.

  “Sorry—that’s classified information,” Max replied.

  “I’ll have to take you to the Captain,” the steward said.

  “Yes, I understand that—that’s your duty,” Max said. He gestured to 99. “Come along.” Then he bent down and called to Fang. “You, tool”

  The three stepped out into the corridor, joining the steward.

  Max frowned at the door, which had been leaned against the wall. He turned back to Dr. Zee. “Sorry about that,” he said.

  “Vot you doink in mine staderoom?” Dr. Zee growled.

  The steward led Max, 99 and Fang away.

  As they moved along the corridor, Max fell in beside the steward. “This is going to be a lot of fuss and bother for you,” he said. He reached into a pocket and brought out a ten-dollar bill. “Couldn’t we settle it among ourselves?”

  “I couldn’t accept a bribe, sir,” the steward replied.

  “A bribe? Bribe? Of course not. I had no intention of bribing
you.” He smiled slyly. “But, you could accept a little gift, couldn’t you?”

  “I don’t think that would be improper,” the steward said, smiling slyly in return.

  “Good, good.” Max pressed the ten-dollar bill into the steward’s hand. “We’ll call it a Christmas gift—and just say that Santa came a little early this year,” he said.

  “Thank you, sir,” the steward said. He stopped at a door. “Right in here, sir.”

  “Where is this?” Max asked.

  “The Captain’s quarters, sir.”

  “Now, wait a minute—what about that bribe!”

  The steward looked hurt. “But you said that was a gift, Santa.”

  Max glared at him. “All right, steward. But just don’t be surprised next Christmas when you get lumps of coal in your stocking.”

  The steward opened the door and ushered the trio inside.

  The Captain, a large, rotund man, was seated at his desk. He looked up as they entered. His face was pinched in an expression of indecision. “Tell me again, steward,” he said, “which is left—port or starboard?”

  “Port, sir.”

  “Thanks.” He smiled at Max. “I can never get that straight,” he said. “And it’s important to know when you’re in command of a ship. We have rules of the road, you know—just like on land. We have to keep to the starboard. Except, of course, when making a port turn.” He got to his feet. “Now . . . what is it, steward?”

  “I found these people—and this dog—looting another passenger’s stateroom, sir.”

  “Oh . . . petty thieves, eh?” He nodded cordially. “Welcome aboard.”

  Max stared at him blankly. “Welcome aboard?”

  The Captain spoke to the steward. “That will be all,” he said. “I’ll handle this.”

  The steward departed.

  “Welcome aboard?” Max said again.

  “Yes, of course,” the Captain replied.

  “But the steward referred to us as looters. And you yourself called us petty thieves.”

  The Captain shrugged. “Business is business. You paid your fare, didn’t you? As a matter of fact, most of our passengers are looters, petty thieves and card sharks. They’re on board to take advantage of the few passengers who aren’t in the trade—the rich tourists. But, if we depended on rich tourists, we’d go broke in a week. You looters, petty thieves and card sharks make up the bulk of our passenger list. We appreciate the patronage.”

  “I see,” Max said dimly.

  “However, there are limits to our appreciation,” the Captain went on. “If you get caught too often, I’m afraid I’ll have to get nasty about it. It’s bad for business.”

  Max nodded. “Bad for business.”

  “Yes. You see, if we catch too many looters, petty thieves and card sharks on board our reputation will suffer. Bad public relations. And that will chase away the rich tourists. And, if we don’t have a lot of rich tourists aboard, we’ll lose all the business we get from looters, petty thieves and card sharks. So . . . be careful. One hand washes the other, you know.”

  “I’ll try to remember that,” Max said foggily. “Let’s see . . . wash my hands . . .”

  “You may go now,” the Captain said. “But stay out of the way of that nosy steward. He’s the conscientious type—no feel for public relations at all. Keeps bringing looters, petty thieves and card sharks in here, expecting me to do something about it.”

  “Yes, he isn’t very likeable,” Max agreed.

  “Nobody likes him,” the Captain said. “Last Christmas, he got coal in his stocking.”

  Max, 99 and Fang backed toward the door. “We’ll be careful,” Max promised.

  “Oh . . . before you go,” the Captain said. “How does it go again? Starboard is left? Is that right?”

  “Yes, that’s left—starboard is right,” Max replied.

  “Thanks. I can never—”

  Max closed the door.

  “What now, Max?” 99 said.

  “Back to looting—that is, searching—staterooms,” Max replied. “Who’s next on the list?”

  “It’s getting a little late, Max. The staterooms will probably be occupied. I imagine the scientists are all in bed by now.”

  “That’s a thought,” Max replied. “All right, we’ll knock off for the night, hit the sack ourselves, and get an early start in the morning. To paraphrase a wise old saying—it’s the early secret agent who catches the invisible guinea pig.”

  They left the main deck and trudged wearily down the stairway toward C Deck. When they finally reached there, Max and Fang said good-night to 99, and she disappeared into her stateroom.

  Max and Fang squeezed into their own room.

  “Well, old buddy, who gets the top bunk and who gets the lower bunk?” Max said to Fang.

  “Rorff”

  “That sounds fair—we’ll flip for it.” He reached into a pocket and brought out a coin. “Call it, Fang.”

  “Rorff!”

  “Heads you win, tails I lose? Sorry, old buddy. You don’t expect me to fall for that old ruse, do you? I couldn’t possibly win that way. Now, which do you want—heads or tails?”

  “Rorff!”

  “Okay.”

  Max tried to flip the coin. But there wasn’t space enough to maneuver. “Well, that’s out,” he said. “This stateroom isn’t even large enough to flip a coin in.”

  “Rorff!”

  Max brightened. “Yes, that’s a good way to settle the matter. Okay—first one into his jammies gets the bottom bunk. On your mark, get set—”

  “Rorff!” Fang barked—from under the covers in the lower bunk.

  “No fair” Max complained. “I hadn’t even got to ‘Go’ yet!”

  “Rorff!”

  Max sighed resignedly. “I guess you’re right. When you’re in a jammy race against an adversary whose overcoat serves as his business suit, bathing suit, tennis togs, tuxedo and jammies too—you can’t win!”

  5.

  EARLY THE next morning, Max, Fang and 99 met in the dining room for breakfast and to plan the day. After eating, Max and 99 had a second glass of milk, and Fang had a second bowl of coffee.

  “That’s quite unusual,” the waiter said, placing the bowl of coffee in front of Fang.

  “Yes, it is,” Max admitted. “Normally, he drinks it out of a cup. But, today, I asked him to have it in a bowl—like any other dog. We’re trying not to draw attention to ourselves.”

  “That’ll do it,” the waiter said. “Who would pay any attention to a dog having his morning coffee out of a bowl?”

  “My thinking exactly,” Max said.

  The waiter departed.

  Max turned to 99. “Now then,” he began. “To take up where we left off—”

  But he was interrupted by the appearance of the Tour Director, Herbert Wai, at the table. Wai peered interestedly at Fang. “That’s fascinating,” he said. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a dog drinking coffee out of a bowl before.”

  “Rorff!” Fang barked.

  “I don’t think he really cares whether it’s your first bowl or second bowl, Fang,” Max said irritably.

  “Does he do that often?” Wai asked.

  “Well . . . no,” Max said. “Usually, he drinks it out of a cup—like any other dog.”

  “I would think so,” Wai said. Then he went ambling off, shaking his head in wonder, muttering, “Coffee in a bowl—most unusual.”

  “Max,” 99 said, “are you sure we can cross that Mr. Wai off our list? There’s something . . . well, very suspicious about him. Why did he stop at our table? I think he was trying to eavesdrop.”

  “Nonsense,” Max said. “Wai doesn’t fit the picture at all. Think about it a moment, 99. Who are we looking for? The diabolical Dr. X—right? Now, picture Dr. X in your mind. A beard—right? And a foreign accent—right? And a slinky sneaky manner—right?”

  “Yes . . . I guess so, Max.”

  “You know so. At least, that’s the way t
he diabolical Dr. X has always looked in every movie I’ve ever seen him in. Why, if he changed, no one would recognize him. And Dr. Xs are just like the rest of us—they need recognition.”

  “You’re probably right, Max.”

  “Of course I’m right. Now, let’s get back to business. As soon as Fang finishes his bowl of coffee, we’ll begin searching staterooms again.”

  “Max, suppose we get caught—you know what the Captain said.”

  “There is no chance whatever that we’ll get caught this time, 99,” Max said. “I did a little digging in that attache case before we came up to breakfast. And I found a disguise for us.” He rested his hand on a small package that he had placed on the table. “In here, 99, I have three white coats with the words Acme Air-Conditioning Repair stenciled on the backs. We will enter the staterooms posing as air conditioning repairmen—or, to be more exact, as an air conditioning repair man, and air conditioning repair girl, and an air conditioning repair dog.”

  “But, Max,” 99 pointed out, “this ship isn’t air conditioned. The sea breezes keep it cool.”

  “99, you underestimate Research and Development,” Max said. “Also in this package is a collapsible air-conditioner. And, not only that—it’s out-of-order!”

  “You mean we provide our own malfunctioning air-conditioner?”

  “Right. And, according to the instructions on the tag, it is absolutely impossible to get this machine to work. That means that we can take all the time we want to trying to repair it—it will never operate. Meanwhile, of course, we will be doing a little snooping.”

  “I just hope it works, Max,” 99 said doubtfully.

  “You mean you hope it doesn’t work,” Max corrected. “If it works, we’re sunk.”

  “Rorff!”

  “Fang is finished with his coffee,” Max said. “Let’s go.”

  They left the dining room, then went out on deck and found a secluded corner. Max opened the package. It contained three white coats—one dog-sized—and a tiny tin box. After each had put on a coat, Max inspected the metal box.

  “The tag said there was a button here to punch,” he muttered. “Let’s see . . . button, button, who’s got the—”

  The tin box suddenly popped open, becoming an air-conditioner the size of a breadbox.

  “There we are,” Max said. “Now, where do we go from here?”