Get Smart 1 - Get Smart! Read online

  “Push it! Push it!”

  “It isn’t the type button you push,” Max said. “It’s a pull button.”

  “Then pulllllllit!

  “You really ought to come up here and watch this,” Max said. “It’s something to see. I’ll pull this button, a jet of thick, black smoke will shoot out the exhaust pipe, and the car behind us will be completely enveloped.”

  “Don’t talk!” Blossom begged. “Show me!”

  “Well, all right . . . if you want to miss a good show.”

  Grimly—but not without a flicker of smug expectation in his eye—Max pulled the button.

  From the rear of the car came an explosion. “That’s it!” Max cried exultantly.

  It was.

  A thick cover of black smoke began to enclose and then—through the open window—infiltrate Max’s car.

  “It’s coming in here!” Blossom screamed.

  Max tried to scatter the smoke from in front of his eyes. “There appears to be a malfunction,” he said. “The smoke is supposed to go backwards, not forward. Apparently the wind is in the wrong direction.”

  The fog inside the car thickened. Blossom began coughing. Fang began howling.

  “Stop the car!” Blossom wailed.

  “That might not be a bad idea—since the street seems to have disappeared,” Max said.

  He jammed on the brakes. The car screeched to a halt.

  “All out—women and dogs first!” Max cried.

  The car doors flew open. Max, Blossom and Fang ran from the car—then stopped at the edge of the cloud of smoke that completely obscured it.

  “No harm done,” Max said confidently. “The smoke will settle in a few minutes, then we can get back into the car and go on.”

  “Fred!” Blossom said. “He’s still in there!”

  “Fang will get him!” Max said. “Go to it, boy!”

  Fang dashed off—in the opposite direction. He holed up in a doorway.

  “All right for you!” Max called after him. “It will be a hot day in January before you get any liverwurst out of me—sale or no sale.” To Blossom, he said. “Don’t worry! I’ll get Fred out of there!”

  Max ran to the car. He disappeared into the cloud of smoke.

  “Hurry!” Blossom wept.

  From the denseness of the smoke came Max’s voice. “I’ve got him! I’m coming out!”

  Max reappeared. He staggered from the smoke, carrying an armload of mechanism. Wires hung from it. A lever dangled loose.

  “Oh, Fred, Fred!” Blossom sobbed. “What happened to you?”

  “Looks like he tangled with the wrong end of my lower left front headlight,” Max commented.

  Fang came crawling back. “Rorff!” he barked.

  Max peered more closely at the mangled mechanism he was holding. “By George, you’re right,” he said to Fang.

  “What did he say?” Blossom wept.

  “He pointed out that this isn’t Fred,” Max said. “It’s my radar gear. I grabbed the first thing that felt like Fred, and, apparently, I made a slight error.”

  “But where’s Fred?”

  They turned toward the car. The smoke had lifted. The car was empty.

  “Offhand, I would say that Fred has done it again,” Max said. “He’s skipped.”

  Blossom began to sob again. “Oh, Fred, Fred, poor Fred, all alone in the cold, cruel world!”

  “I don’t think that’s exactly right—about being alone,” Max said. “My guess is that he’s got a whole carload of FLAG agents on his tail.”

  “We’ve got to do something!”

  “I’ll go along with that,” Max said. “We’ve got to find him again. Which, once more, brings up the question: Where could a computer go to hide?”

  “Rorff!”

  “That’s a definite possibility,” Max nodded.

  “What did he say?”

  “He said that since Fred is looking for freedom of the spirit and this is manifested in a near-psychotic compulsion to go without shaving, he has probably headed for Greenwich Village. And, I’m inclined to go along with that. Despite his obviously superior mentality, Fred has struck me as somewhat of a kook. I think he’d be right at home in the Village. Also, there’s the factor that he could mingle with the natives without drawing any undue notice to himself.”

  “A robot?”

  “You miss the point,” Max said. “The point is, nobody in the Village ever shaves. Not even the females.”

  Blossom headed for the car. “Let’s go!”

  “You took the words right out of my mouth,” Max said, following.

  Fang bounded after him.

  5.

  SOME THIRTY minutes later, after a zigzagging drive at breakneck speeds through midtown Manhattan, they arrived in the Village.

  “Keep your eyes peeled for some sign of Fred,” Max said as they cruised along Eighth Street.

  “Gee, there are a lot of them who don’t shave,” Blossom said, observing the natives.

  “Let’s limit it to those who don’t shave but who don’t have a beard either,” Max said.

  “Rorff!”

  “I know that fellow doesn’t have a beard,” Max replied. “But that’s because he’s a policeman.”

  “Rorff!”

  “Yes . . . that’s an idea.”

  Max pulled up to a policeman, who was standing in the middle of the intersection, directing traffic. “Excuse me, officer,” he said. “We’re looking for a computer—who masquerades as a robot—and who has revolving eyes and a lever at his side. I wonder if perhaps you’ve seen him?”

  The policeman leaned down and put his head in the car window. “Where’s the camera?” he said, glancing about the car interior.

  “Officer, you don’t understand. This isn’t Candid Camera. We’re on the trail of a robot. The fate of the entire civilized world hangs in the balance. Now, have you seen anyone answering to that description?”

  The officer waved gayly. “Hi, Mom!”

  “Officer, believe me, this isn’t Candid Camera!”

  “What night’ll it be on?” the policeman asked.

  Max sighed. “Never mind,” he said. “We’ll just keep looking.”

  As they pulled away, the officer called after them. “What night? You didn’t tell me what night!”

  “Exhibitionist!” Max grumbled.

  “Max, we’ll never find him just driving around,” Blossom said. “I think we ought to—” She interrupted herself—then pointed. “Look! That car! The long, black car parked over there! Isn’t that the car that was following us, shooting at us!”

  “It looks like it, all right,” Max said. “There’s somebody in the back seat. I’ll cruise by it, and you look in. It may be Fred. They may be holding him captive!”

  Max drove slowly by the other car.

  “It’s Boris!” Blossom cried.

  “Boris? Boris from Zinzinotti, Alleybama?”

  “Yes . . . it’s him!”

  “Good old Boris!” Max said warmly. “Boris to the rescue again. I’ll bet he saw that car shooting at us and followed it. He’s probably waiting there for the culprits to come back so he can make a citizen’s arrest.”

  “Then, on the other hand,” Blossom said, “maybe he was in the car when it was shooting at us. Maybe he was doing the shooting.”

  “Nonsense! Boris? After all he’s done for us? I think that’s a nasty thing to even think!” He turned the car toward the curb. “I’ll park and we’ll go back there and assist him when he makes the arrest!”

  “I hope we’re not making a mistake,” Blossom fretted.

  “Max Smart doesn’t make mistakes,” Max said. “If I didn’t know what I was doing every second, I wouldn’t last five minutes in this business.”

  They parked and left the car and hurried toward the limousine in which they had seen Boris. When they reached the car, Boris was still there.

  Max opened the rear door and climbed into the back seat, followed by Fang and
then Blossom.

  “Boris! Friend!” Max said.

  Boris peered at him, then opened the door on his side, got out, slammed the door, and walked away. At the same instant. Blossom slammed the door closed on the other side.

  “Darn! He didn’t see us!” Max said. “I’ll call him back!”

  He tried to open the car door that Boris had slammed. It would not open.

  “Okay, back out—through the other door,” Max said. “This one is locked from the outside.”

  Blossom tried her door. It, too, was locked. “We’re trapped!” she said.

  “Impossible. Roll down your window.”

  She tried. It wouldn’t roll.

  Max’s window would not roll down either. And neither would the front windows.

  Max rapped on the glass. “Boris! Come back!”

  “He isn’t paying any attention.”

  “He can’t hear us, obviously,” Max said.

  “Look—he’s going into that coffee house!”

  “Taking a coffee break while he waits for the culprits to return,” Max said. “Clever.”

  “Max!” Blossom said. “Toot the horn. That will attract attention and somebody will let us out!”

  “It so happens, I was just going to do that,” Max said.

  He leaned over the front seat and pressed the horn button.

  Silence.

  “The horn doesn’t work,” Max reported. “Those FLAG agents are in real trouble now. There’s an ordinance against driving a car without a working horn.” He sank back into the rear seat. “This is a pretty limousine of fish,” he muttered.

  “What are we going to do?” Blossom whimpered.

  “Rorff!”

  Max looked at Fang thoughtfully, then said, “It might work.” To Blossom, he said, “Give me your lipstick,”

  She pawed in her purse. “What for?”

  “Just watch.”

  Max opened the tube of lipstick that Blossom gave him, then wrote

  HELP!

  on the car window.

  Next, he rapped on the window again, trying to get the attention of a passerby.

  A beatnik stopped, stared for a second at the writing, then applauded. But after that he simply walked on.

  “Didn’t get through to him,” Max said. He knocked with his knuckles on the window again.

  A girl beatnik heard and paused. She squinted at the wording, then moved to the car. But she didn’t open the door. She held a small card up to the window.

  Max read the words on it. “Life is the ultimate psychodrama.”

  Max applauded.

  The girl curtsied, then walked on.

  “This isn’t helping at all,” Blossom complained.

  “Well, we’re meeting some interesting people.”

  “We’ll suffocate in here!”

  “Look on the bright side,” Max said. “A lot of poor souls suffocate, and never meet any interesting people.”

  “Can’t they understand what HELP! means?”

  “Apparently it isn’t in the beatnik vocabulary,” Max said. “We’ll have to try something else.” He looked around. “I wonder if this car is equipped with a telephone.”

  “What good would that do?”

  “Well . . . see that telephone booth over there? Right near the coffee house? We could ring that booth, and when somebody answered, we could get him to come over here and let us out.”

  Blossom began helping him search for a telephone.

  “Rorff!” Fang barked.

  “That’s right!” Max said.

  “What did he say?”

  “He reminded me that I’m standing on a telephone.”

  Blossom looked at him warily.

  “My shoe,” Max explained. “It’s a telephone.”

  Blossom clapped her hands to her cheeks in panic. “You’re going out of your mind!”

  “I’m going to get us out of here, that’s where I’m going,” Max said, removing his shoe.

  Blossom screamed.

  “Quiet! I’m on the phone!”

  Max: Hello . . . Operator? I’d appreciate a little assistance. You see, I’m trapped in a limousine in Greenwich Village, and I’d like you to ring that telephone booth over there. My hope is that someone will answer it and then come and get us out of here.

  Operator: I beg your pardon, sir. We must have a bad connection. I thought you said you were trapped in a limousine in Greenwich Village.

  Max: Operator, the fate of the entire civilized world depends on this, so, if you don’t mind, I’ll just skip the explanation. All I want you to do is ring that phone booth.

  Operator: Is it a bell?

  Max: I don’t think I get that.

  Operator: You asked me to ring it. Is it a bell?

  Max: That’s very funny, Miss. But, if it’s just the same to you, could we dispense with the humor? Would you please just ring that phone booth?

  Operator: The phone booth . . . Which one? We have quite a few, you know. At least three.

  Max: The one by the coffee shop. (Pointing) Right over there. The one with the man standing, leaning against it. As a matter of fact, he may be able to— Excuse me, Operator. There’s someone knocking at my window. Hold on.

  Max lowered his shoe and turned toward the policeman who had rapped on the window of the car. He shouted out to him. “Yes? What is it, officer?”

  The policeman answered. But he could not be heard inside the car.

  “I think he’s trying to tell us something,” Blossom said.

  “Wouldn’t you know it? Here I am, right in the middle of an emergency, trying to get someone to come over here, and that cop has to stand out there asking questions.” Again, he shouted out to the officer. “I’m sorry . . . I’m on the phone. Come back later!”

  But the policeman didn’t go away. Instead, he opened the car door.

  “I couldn’t hear a word,” the policeman said.

  “I said, I’m on the phone!” Max yelled.

  “You don’t have to shout. I can hear you now.”

  “Oh . . . yes.”

  “You’re on what phone?” the policeman said.

  Max waggled the shoe. “This phone. And if you want to talk to your mother in Brooklyn, I’m sorry, but I’m in the midst of an emergency.”

  “Oh. Well, I don’t want to bother you,” the policeman said. “I’ve just got one question. I got a call from headquarters. There’s some nut down here that’s calling the telephone company and saying he’s trapped in a limousine. I just wondered if you’d seen anybody like that. The operator is stalling the fella, and she’s traced the call to this vicinity.”

  Max stared blankly at the policeman for a moment. Then he looked at Blossom, then at Fang, then back to the policeman. “I haven’t seen him,” he said.

  “All right. Thanks for your cooperation.” He started to close the door.

  “You can leave it open, officer,” Max said.

  “Whatever you say.”

  The policeman strolled on, looking this way and that for a lunatic trapped in a limousine.

  Max spoke into his shoe again.

  Max: Operator, I don’t think that was very nice of you.

  Operator: I’m sorry. I heard what you said to the policeman, and I apologize. But it did sound a little crazy. Do you still want me to ring that telephone booth?

  Max (smirking): Ring the telephone booth?

  Operator: Yes.

  Max: What do you think it is—a bell?

  Operator: Yes, sir. All our telephones are Bell’s.

  Max hung up his shoe.

  “If there’s anything I can’t stand,” he muttered, “it’s a smart telephone operator.”

  Max, Blossom and Fang climbed out of the car. Max slammed the door.

  Glancing back, Blossom said, “So that’s why!”

  “Why what?”

  “Why nobody paid any attention to that message for help you wrote on the glass.”

  Max looked. In lipstick on the
car window he saw written:

  !PLEH

  “Still . . . you’d think one of those beatniks would have understood it,” he mused. “Oh, well . . . another lesson learned. In every manner and every way, we grow smarter and smarter, day by day.”

  A few seconds later, the trio entered the coffee house, the Idyll Hour.

  “Before we continue the search for Fred,” Max explained, “I want to find Boris. There are a lot of sharpies down here in the Village, and an innocent tourist like Boris could be fleeced out of his eye teeth and never even know it. It’s my duty, as a typical New Yorker, to protect him. After all he’s done for us, it’s the least I can do.”

  The interior of the Idyll Hour was dimly lit. Heavy drapery kept the sunlight out. Max squinted into the dimness and saw a long counter that held a number of espresso machines and a clutter of tables and chairs, all of which seemed to be occupied by young men and women in various modes of eccentric dress.

  “I don’t see Boris,” he said.

  The hostess approached them. She was a gorgeous brunette, dressed in tight-fitting pants and a heavy-knit sweater. She looked remarkably like Noel, the girl guide and secretary to the ambassador from Fredonia.

  “Don’t tell me,” Max said. “Paree, Illinois, right?”

  “Oui! Summer of ’61?”

  “Could be,” Max replied. “Frankly, the summer of ’61 is not very clear in my mind. So much was happening. But, enough of this chit-chat. I’m here, first, on a mission of mercy, and, second, on a mission of grave importance to the entire civilized world. So . . . number one . . . have you by any chance seen a little fat tourist from Zinzinotti, Alleybama?”

  Noel shook her head. “Non.”

  “Then try this one. How about a tall, skinny computer with revolving eyeballs?”

  Noel brightened. “Oui, oui!”

  Max turned to Blossom. “The translation of that is ‘yes and no.’ No, she hasn’t seen Boris, but, yes, she has seen Fred.” Then, facing Noel again, he said, “There’s more to this than meets the eyeballs, but, for the sake of expediency, let’s just say that this computer with the revolving orbs—who shall remain nameless—is a cousin of mine whom I’m trying to track down to deliver a message from his draft board.” He winked. “Get it?”