Free Get Smart 1 - Get Smart! by William Johnston

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?”
    “Oh, oui! We are speaking, of course, of your Cousin Fred.”
    “Exactly. Now, since you say you’ve seen him, could you tell us which way he went?”
    “He went ‘Peep-a-dotta, poop-a-dotta, dippa-dotta-boop!’ ”
    “I’m referring to direction.”
    Noel pointed toward a door at the rear of the Idyll Hour. “He go thataway,” she said.
    “Through that door, eh? I wonder if that could be a trap?”
    “Oh, no.”
    “Just to be on the safe side,” Max said, “you go first, and we’ll follow.”
    “Oui.”
    Noel threaded her way between the tables. Max, Blossom and Fang trailed after her.
    When they reached the door, Noel glanced back over her shoulder cautiously, then pushed it open.
    Beyond her, Max saw a row of slot machines.