Get Smart 9 - Max Smart and the Ghastly Ghost Affair (8 page)

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.”

“That doesn’t seem to be—”

“What’s bad about it is,” the old prospector went on, “we sometimes disappear for weeks or months and can’t reappear again for the life of us. Madame DuBarry was gone the whole month of April back in ’52. And me, I missed the winter of ’61 altogether. I reached up with my right hand to pick a leaf off a tree in late September and I didn’t get back until long past March.”

“Well, I suppose that—”

“Missed Christmas completely. New Year’s Day, too. I guess I shouldn’t complain, though. I missed my birthday—which is in February—too. So, that makes me a year younger than I really am. Not that it does me any good. Being dead, I can’t look forward to living a year longer. Outside every silver lining, there’s a dark cloud.” He looked up into the sky. “Speaking of that,” he said. “It’s coming on dark. Maybe we better get started back toward town.”

“Good idea,” Max said, rising. “By the time we get there, the assassins will probably all be in bed asleep. That will give us a chance to search for the Coolidge-head penny. Ready, 99?” he asked.

“Yes, Max.” She peered into the dimness. “I’m just glad we have a guide to lead us back,” she said. “I don’t think I could find my way to town again even if it is all downhill.”

“I doubt that I could, either,” Max said. He addressed the old prospector. “Which way is it?” he asked.

“Follow me,” the old man replied. And he raised his right arm and waved—and immediately disappeared.

“I guess that proves it—he
does
have trouble with his disappearing and appearing,” Max said. “Did you see that, 99? He raised his right arm—and POOF!” He looked at his watch. “Let’s see how long it takes him to reappear.”

“I just hope we don’t have to wait until next March,” 99 said worriedly.

“So do I. I’d hate to miss Christmas.” He raised his arm and shook his wrist. “I think my watch has stopped,” he said. “The hands keep going around—” He put it to his ear. “—and it’s still ticking—” He shrugged, puzzled. “—but the old prospector hasn’t reappeared.”

“Max . . . maybe we better try to find our way back ourselves.”

“And get lost, 99? What would that accomplish?”

“We’d be doing something. What are we accomplishing now, just standing here?”

“99, we’re not
just
standing here. We’re standing here and waiting. There’s a difference. The old prospector will be back in a minute or so.”

“The last time—”

“I know about the last time. The last time he missed the whole winter of ’61. But this is not the last time. This is this time.” Max looked around nervously. “You’re right—we better start worrying,” he said. He peered into the darkness. “Prospector?” he called. “Are you out there?” There was no response. Max looked at the mule. “Maybe we ought to send Madame DuBarry after him,” he said.

“Fine. But how?”

Max faced the mule.
“Parlez-vous Francais?”

“Max, just because his name is Madame DuBarry, that doesn’t mean he speaks French.”

“It’s just as well,” Max said. “We wouldn’t be able to converse, anyway. I speak French fluently, but, unfortunately, I don’t understand a word of it.” He addressed the mule again. “I’ll try to make this as simple as possible,” he said. “Remember the old prospector who was around here a little earlier? Sic ’em!”

The mule stared back at Max.

“Mules are the dumbest of all beasts,” Max said to 99. “This one is stupid in two languages, English and French.”

“Hee-Haw!” the mule protested.

“He’s even poor in mule,” Max said. “I didn’t understand a word of that!”

Looking annoyed, the mule switched its tail aggitatedly—and disappeared.

“Oh, Max!” 99 said. “Now, we’re completely alone.”

“Take it easy, 99. Maybe Madame DuBarry went looking for the old prospector.”

“Do you believe that, Max?”

He shook his head. “It’s my honest opinion, 99, that we just lost the mule, too. I guess we’ll have to try to make it back to town without a guide.” He looked around. “Which way is down?”

“That way, I think—” 99 said, pointing. “I think I remember seeing a path over in that direction.”

“That’s not enough, 99. Was it a path going up or a path going down?”

“Let’s try it and find out,” 99 suggested. “If it goes up, we can turn around and take it in the other direction. It won’t go up in both directions?”

“How can we be so sure about that?” Max asked. “99—be honest with me, now—have you been up on this mountain before?”

“Max, of course not!”

“I hope not. When we told each other everything about our pasts before we got married, you didn’t say a word about being up here on this mountain and knowing so much about the paths.”

“Max . . . honest! It was only a wild guess when I said the path couldn’t go up on both ends.”

“All right.” Max got 99 by the hand and moved cautiously into the darkness. “We’ll go slowly,” he said. “It seems to be headed downward, just as you said, 99. I hope it’s just coincidence. If I ever find out that— Oops!”

“Who bumped me?” a voice asked.

“Old prospector?” Max asked. “Is that you?”

“It’s either me or my mule,” the voice replied. “We been together so long, sometimes I have trouble telling us apart. You that secret agent, Max 86?”

“Yes and no,” Max replied. “The name is Max Smart. It’s the number that’s 86. Where have you been, anyway?”

“Trying to get back,” the voice replied. “But I’m here, now. Let’s not waste a lot of time jawing. Follow me and I’ll lead you down.”

“Where are you?” Max asked.

“Over here.”

“Oh . . . yes . . . I can see you now . . . very dimly. All right, we’re ready.”

“Follow me,” the voice said, “this way. We’ll be—”

“Max! What happened?” 99 asked.

“I’m not sure,” Max replied. “He raised his right arm and waved and that was the last I saw of him.”

D
EPRIVED OF THE
expert assistance of the old prospector, Max and 99 started down the mountain path alone again in the darkness.

“Max . . . I can’t see a thing!” 99 complained.

“I can’t either, 99. I wonder why we can’t see the town. Surely, those assassins must have at least one lantern lit.”

“Maybe they didn’t bring kerosene.”

“A candle, then.”

“Assassins just aren’t known for lighting candles in the darkness, Max.”

“I guess you’re right. But—99 . . . are you whispering?”

“No, Max. But I was just going to ask you the same thing. I can hardly hear you.”

“Uhhhh . . . 99, do you have the feeling you’re going uphill again? I do. And if you don’t, that probably means that we’re no longer together. Or, to put it another way, that somehow we separated, and you’re still going down, while I’m going up.”