“A thousand dollars?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Twelve dollars and change?”
Max suddenly reached out and snatched the suitcase from subject. “Now, we’ll get at the truth!” he gloated.
“Keep it right-side-up,” subject warned. “The thousand-dollar bills are fragile.”
Max placed the suitcase on the bed, then, dramatically, opened it. He turned slightly green.
99 peered over his shoulder. “Money!”
“A million dollars,” Max sighed. He picked up a sheaf of thousand-dollar bills. “Here’s a little sticker attached,” he said. “It says: ‘Stolen from the Boston Sheep Drovers and First National Bank’.”
“That’s cute,” 99 giggled.
Max turned to subject. “I’m sorry,” he said. “We thought you were someone else.”
“A fine time to be sorry,” subject grumbled. “Chasing a man in and out of lifeboats, interrupting his watusi, chasing him down dark corridors, trapping him in his own stateroom. An honest man isn’t safe any more.”
“My apologies,” Max said.
“Treating a man like a common criminal!”
“Really, we’re very sorry.”
“I ought to report you to the Captain. And, I would, too—except that he’d probably ask a lot of questions about that stolen million dollars.”
“I don’t think so,” Max said. “The Captain has a big heart.”
“Still, it would be a lot of bother,” subject said. “I accept your apology.”
“Thank you, thank you.”
“That’s all right. Just get out of here now, will you? I want to count my money.”
“The bank’s money, you mean.”
“My money,” subject replied. “Finders keepers, losers weepers.”
Max, 99 and Fang backed toward the door. “My regards to your friend at the Boston Sheep Drovers and First National,” Max said.
“Thank you. And the same to Dr. X.”
Max closed the door. “Sweet guy,” he said.
“Maybe we should report him,” 99 mused.
“I think we’ve caused him enough trouble,” Max said. “Besides, if we did, he just might turn nasty and report us to the Captain. And you know what a kettle of fish that would be. The Captain warned us—next time, into the brig.”
They moved down the corridor. At a corner, Max nearly collided with a man carrying a suitcase.
“Sorry,” Max said.
“No, no—my fault.”
The man walked on.
“This ship is full of a bunch of sweet guys,” Max said.
“Max—that man—”
“Nice as could be,” Max said.
“But, Max—he was carrying a suitcase.”
Max stopped and looked after the man, who was ambling leisurely down the corridor.
“Yesss—he is carrying a suitcase. Do you suppose—”
“Stop him, Max!”
Max shook his head. “No, we almost got into trouble that way. This time, we’re going to use a little finesse.”
“Rorff!”
“No, it isn’t a mushroom. It means we’re going to play it cool. Instead of chasing that fellow all over the ship, we’re going to follow him, and, when the opportunity occurs, gain his confidence, then spring the trap.”
“Isn’t that dirty pool, Max?” 99 said.
“Not in the least,” Max replied. “When they do it, yes, it’s dirty pool. When we do it, it’s tactics.”
“Oh.”
“All right—after him,” Max said, leading the way. “But remember—cool!”
7.
THE TRIO followed the man with the suitcase along the corridor, then up a stairway, then along the deck. A moment later he entered the small lounge where after-midnight snacks were served.
Max, 99 and Fang tagged after him. When they entered the lounge they saw the man seating himself at a table. Like the man from Boston, he was small and round. He wore a jolly expression.
“What a disguise!” Max said, impressed. “You’d never know, would you, that, actually, that fellow is tall and thin and dark-complected and wears a beard.”
“He could have fooled me,” 99 admitted,
“We’ll sit at the counter,” Max said.
“Why don’t we sit at a near-by table?” 99 asked.
“It isn’t cool,” Max said.
They went to the counter and Max and 99 sat down on and Fang hopped up on a stool.
“What’ll it be?” the counterman asked.
“Nothing, thank you,” Max said. “We’re just tailing a suspect.”
The counterman nodded and went back to washing glasses.
“What’ll we do now, Max?” 99 asked.
“Observe,” Max replied. “Casually turn in that direction and—oops!”
Max found himself facing the little round man with the jolly expression.
“I think we’ve met before,” the man smiled. “In the corridor a moment ago, wasn’t it?”
Max played it cool. “That’s possible,” he said. “I don’t recall the incident, but you may be right.”
“I bumped into you,” the man said.
“It must have been someone else,” Max said.
“No, no, it was you.” He raised an arm. “Remember? I was carrying this suitcase.”
Max shrugged. “I’ll take your word for it,” he said. “But, frankly, I still think it was someone else.”
“I was wondering . . .” the man said. “I was sitting over there at that table alone . . . would you care to join me?”
“Well . . . we don’t want to butt in,” Max said.
“I would consider it a favor.”
“We don’t usually sit with strangers,” Max said.
“Who’s a stranger? We met in the corridor a few minutes ago. Please—join me.”
“Well . . .”
“Oh, let’s, Max,” 99 said.
“Well, if Fang and 99 want to . . .”
“Rorff!”
“Maybe you didn’t say you wanted to—but you were thinking it. Cool can be overdone, Fang.”
“See?” the man beamed. “We’re friends! I know your names—Max, 99 and Fang. And, my name is Henry L. McHenry—call me Hank. So, who’s strangers?”
Max, 99 and Fang followed Hank to his table. When they were seated, Hank ordered snacks for all of them—cocoa and cookies for himself and Max and 99, and peanut butter on rye for Fang.
“I suppose you’re wondering why I carry this suitcase around with me wherever I go,” Hank said.
Max looked at him blankly. “What suitcase is that?”
Hank pointed to the suitcase, which he had placed on the floor next to his chair. “That suitcase.”
Oh, that suitcase. No, I can’t say that I noticed it,” Max said.
“It’s a nice color—green,” 99 offered.
“You ought to see it with jingle bells hanging on it,” Hank said.
“Rorff!”
“Eat your peanut butter and rye!” Max snapped.
“That suitcase—there’s a story connected with that,” Hank said. “It’s not just an ordinary suitcase. There’s something inside that would knock your eyes out. If you could see it.”
“This is very good cocoa,” Max said, sipping.
“Maybe you’d like to hear the story,” Hank suggested.
“About cocoa?” Max said. “No, I know the story about cocoa. The beans are picked when they’re very, very tender, then carried down the mountain on mule back, where a covey of Italian maidens are waiting, barefoot, to stomp them into powder. The powder is then—”
“No, no, I mean the story of the suitcase,” Hank interrupted.
“I’ve probably heard that story, too,” Max said. “I hear a lot of stories.”
“But this is unique. A fantastic story.”
“Max, let’s listen,” 99 said. “It will kill some time, at least.”
Max sighed. “All right . . . tell awa
y.”
“Well, it begins over twenty years ago,” Hank said, settling back. “I was a buck private in the army of occupation, stationed in Paris.”
“I think I’ve heard this story,” Max said.
Hank shook his head. “You couldn’t have. I’ve never told it before. But, somehow, I have confidence in you.” He settled back again. “It was a wonderful life for a buck private,” he said, smiling, remembering. “Paris was heaven. The people of Paris were destitute. They would do anything for a candy bar.”
“Sounds nice,” Max said.
“Delightful. War isn’t all fighting and killing, you know. It has its nice side, too—taking advantage of the destitute civilians.”
“Not everyone is sensitive enough to see that, though,” Max commented.
“But I was,” Hank went on. “I was young, I had feelings, I knew a good thing when I saw it. Well, to make a long story short, one day I met an old Parisian—a really desperate old man—who owned a Picasso. A painting, you know. A very valuable painting. This dirty old Parisian had once been a very rich and very honored man. But he had lost everything—except, of course, the Picasso—in the war. He was starving, his family was starving—oh, it was horrible.”
“You took pity on him,” Max said.
“Yes. I said to myself, ‘What does a man, a man who is starving, a man whose family is starving, what does a man like this need with a valuable Picasso?’ ”
“You were all heart in those days,” Max said.
“How true. There I was with a candy bar, and all this sad old man had was a valuable Picasso.”
“So you traded him on the spot.”
“Exactly. It was the least I could do. My candy bar for his Picasso.”
A tear escaped 99’s eye. “That’s sweet,” she murmured.
“Well, to make a long story short,” Hank went on, “when I returned to the States, I sold the Picasso for one-hundred thousand dollars.”
“That’s a very heartwarming story,” Max said. “Now, if you’ll excuse—”
“Oh, that’s only the beginning,” Hank said.
“What happened next?” 99 asked.
“Well, to make a long story short, I invested my one-hundred thousand dollars in hula-hoops. Do you remember hula-hoops? They were very big in those days. It was a big plastic hoop, and you got inside it—the hoop—then you twirled it around your waist. Great fun!”
“As I recall, the market for hula-hoops fizzled out all of a sudden, didn’t it?” Max said.
“Yes. I was stuck with a hundred-thousand dollars worth of hula-hoops—wholesale. But I wasn’t discouraged. I invented a new pastime. I called it Giant Ring Toss. I bought up a lot of old telephone poles—on credit—and, with each telephone pole, I sold a half-dozen hula-hoops. The idea of the game was to stand back and toss hula-hoops at the telephone pole. Great fun!”
“Sounds like a big seller,” Max said.
“Well, yes, to make a long story short, it was. I made a million dollars on it.”
“Good,” Max said. He started to rise. “But, it’s getting late, and—”
“Oh, there’s more to the story,” Hank said.
“Like what?” 99 asked.
“Well, to make a long story short,” Hank continued, as Max settled back in his seat, “I lost the million dollars.”
“Careless?” Max asked.
“You might say so. You see, I heard a rumor that hula-hoops were going to make a comeback. So, I chased around the country buying up all the Giant Ring Toss games I could find. For the hula-hoops, of course. I didn’t need the telephone poles.”
Max nodded, yawning.
“But, to make a long story short,” Hank said, “hula-hoops did not make a comeback. I’d spent a million dollars on hula-hoops, and it was all lost.”
“That’s the way the hoop twirls,” Max said.
“Which brings us up-to-date,” Hank said. “I’m broke. I spent my last cent for a ticket back to Paris.” He smiled. “But I’m not licked,” he said. He pointed to the suitcase. “My second fortune is right in there.”
Max perked up. “Actually, what you mean is, the means to acquire your second fortune is in there—right?”
“Right.” Hank beamed.
Max turned to 99. “Well, apparently our cool has paid off,” he said. “We have gained the diabolical Dr. X’s confidence and he has revealed himself to us.”
“It was a brilliant strategy, Max,” 99 gushed.
“Aren’t we still friends?” Hank said. “Somebody talk to me.”
“I’ll talk to you,” Max said. “Hand over that formula and those invisible guinea pigs.”
Hank looked at Fang. “What he say?”
“Rorff!”
Hank turned back to Max. “What he say?”
“He said ‘Rorff!’ Translated, that means that the jig is up. We know what you’re carrying in that suitcase. And we know how you intend to make your second fortune—by peddling those invisible guinea pigs to KAOS!” He pulled his gun and pointed it at Hank. “All right, open that suitcase!”
“You must be crazy!” Hank protested.
“Yes—crazy like a fox! Open that suitcase!”
Hank shrugged. He lifted the suitcase and put it on the table. Then, reluctantly, he opened it.
Max stared into the suitcase. “A candy bar?”
“Yes,” Hank said. “I have to start at the bottom again. I’m going back to get another Picasso.”
Max put his gun away. “Well, good-night,” he said, rising. “It was an interesting story.”
“I can also tell it with a French accent,” Hank said. “Would you like to hear it?”
“No, I think we’d better be toddling along. It’s getting late.”
99 and Fang also rose.
“Have some more cocoa and cookies, another peanut butter on rye,” Hank urged. “I’ll tell you about my childhood. I like to talk to you three—I have confidence in you.”
“Some other time,” Max said, backing away. “We have to turn in now. Busy day tomorrow.”
“I could talk to you while you sleep,” Hank said, getting up.
“Run for it!” Max yelled.
He and 99 and Fang dashed for the exit. They ran from the lounge, out onto the deck, then back inside, and down the stairway that led to C Deck. At Deck B-3 they paused.
“I think we’ve lost him,” Max said, panting.
“I think we overdid it, gaining his confidence, Max,” 99 said.
“Sometimes those things get out of control.”
“Max, speaking of Control—shouldn’t we check in with the Chief?”
“That’s probably a good idea,” Max said. He looked around. “There—there’s a closet. We can duck in there.”
They crowded into the closet and closed the door.
“Now, I’ll remove my shoe,” Max said, “and we’ll—”
“What’s the matter, Max?”
“It’s too tight a fit in here. I can’t reach my shoe.”
“We’ll wait, Max.”
Max opened the closet door, stepped out, removed his shoe, then stepped back in and closed the door.
Max: Chief, this is Agent 86 calling. Are you there?
Chief: Wuzza-bubba whosiz?
Max: I think we have a bad connection, Chief. You’re coming in fuzzy.
Operator: Don’t knock the connections. It’s him. He’s half asleep. What do you expect at three o’clock in the morning?
Max: Sorry, Operator. I didn’t mean to knock the connection.
Operator: Just watch it!
Max: Chief—are you awake now?
Chief: Max, you better have something important to report, calling me at this hour.
Max: I’m sorry, Chief. There’s a time difference, you know. It’s only two o’clock in the morning here.
Chief: Max, what is it!
Max: Just keeping you informed, Chief. After all, it was your idea. ‘Keep me informed, Max.’ That’s what you sa
id.
Chief: All right, Max. Inform me.
Max: Well, actually, Chief, we don’t have a great deal to report. Although, we did run into a rather interesting character a few minutes ago. He’s taking a candy bar to Paris to trade for a Picasso.
Operator: You woke him up at three o’clock in the morning to tell him that!
Max: Operator . . . do you mind?
Operator: You’re keeping me awake, too, you know. Who do you think is handling this call? The Supervisor? Oh, no, not the Supervisor. You know what the Supervisor is doing right now? Sacked out in the ladies’ lounge, that’s where the Supervisor is right now.
Chief: Max, call me later, will you, please. There’s too much interference on this line.
Operator: Just how do you mean that!
Chief: Max . . . please . . . call me back later.
Max: Right, Chief.
Max opened the closet door, stepped out, and hung up his shoe.
99 yawned. “Finally, we can get some sleep,” she said.
“You go on ahead,” Max said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Aren’t you coming, Max?”
“I can’t. The Chief asked me to call him back.”
“But I don’t think he meant—”
“I’ll wait about five minutes,” Max said. “Then I’ll give him another ring.”
“But, Max—”
“I know, I know, it’s an inconvenience to me,” Max said. “But I can’t let the Chief down. I promised I’d call him back. Good-night, 99.”
“Good-night, Max.”
“Good-night, Fang.”
“Rorff!”
“Don’t worry, if we get the same operator, I’ll just hang up and call him back again in another five minutes.”
8.
THE TRIO slept late the next morning. It was nearly noon when they arrived in the dining room for breakfast. When they were seated, the waiter handed out menus.
“What’s this?” Max said, frowning at the menu. “Roast beef? Roast turkey? Roast lamb? This isn’t the sort of thing a man likes for breakfast.”
“Sorry, sir. Breakfast is over. It’s time for lunch.”
Max sighed. “All right. I’ll have the roast turkey—but scrambled. And with sausage, buttered toast and coffee.”
“I’ll have two four-minute lambs,” 99 said. “And bacon, buttered toast and coffee.”
Get Smart 2 - Sorry, Chief . . . Page 8
