Free Get Smart 9 - Max Smart and the Ghastly Ghost Affair by William Johnston Page A

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