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

that fiddle-faddle.”
    “Well, I’m afraid it’s just not quite that simple,” Max answered. “There was a time when you could distinguish the good guys from the bad guys by looking at their hats. The bad guys had on black hats and the good guys had on white hats. But things have changed. A lot of people these days don’t wear hats of any color. And, too, bad guys put on white hats, and good guys put on black hats. So, telling a good guy from a bad guy, or, even if you know the difference, really deciding what is essentially good and what is essentially bad is almost— Frankly, it’s so complicated, it’s absolutely impossible to explain. But, I’ll tell you what I do. I have a rule of thumb. I think of it as being like cops and robbers.”
    “I don’t see what’s so complicated about that,” the old man said. “Who’re you—cops or robbers?”
    “Actually, it’s not as simple—”
    “Cops!” 99 shouted.
    The old prospector nodded. “Got it. Now,” he asked, “what do I do to get them strangers out of here?”
    “They’re not in here,” Max said. “We’re the ones who are in here.”
    “Out of town, I mean!” the old prospector said.
    “Oh. Well, actually, that’s my job, not yours,” Max said. “You could go wave your arms at them or something, but I doubt that it would get rid of them. Not many people believe in ghosts these days. They’d probably only laugh at you. And then they’d disinfect you.”
    “But I got to get them out,” the old prospector said.
    “I couldn’t agree with you more,” Max said. “And 99 and I will be happy to do the job for you. Not only will we remove them from your town, but we will lock them up where they will never get out—so you won’t have to worry about them coming back later to look for your lost vein.”
    “ ‘Lost vein of gold’ say,” the prospector requested. “When you call it ‘my lost vein’ it sounds kind of personal. Too personal to say in front of a lady.”
    “All right—your lost vein of gold.”
    “Well, don’t think I’m not obliged,” the old prospector said. “That’s right nice of you. I’ll just disappear now and let you get about it. When you finish up, whistle or something, and I’ll reappear—if I can—and see you off on your trip to wherever it is you’ll be going. In the meantime—”
    “Hold it,” Max said. “First, there are a couple things you’ll have to do for us.”
    The old prospector nodded knowingly. “Always a catch to it,” he said. “Things haven’t changed so much. What do you want me to do—split my gold with you?”
    Max shook his head. “Nothing like that. First, I want you to get us out of here.”
    “That might be fixed,” the old prospector said.
    “Then, help us find our Coolidge-head penny.”
    The old prospector eyed Max narrowly. “Penny, I know,” he said. “Head, I know, too. But what’s a Coolidge?”
    “That’s an ex-president. His head is on the coin. He’s wearing an Indian headdress. Feathers.”
    “Feathers to you, too, bub.”
    “I mean Coolidge is wearing feathers on his head. But, just so you’ll be able to recognize it, it also looks a little like Abraham Lincoln standing on his head. If you have a vivid imagination, that is. The feathers look like his beard.”
    “But suppose when I find it I look at it upside-down?” the old prospector said. “Then it won’t look like Lincoln standing on his head. It’ll look like some total stranger right-side-up only with his beard on his head instead of on his chin. How’ll I know it’s not just some ordinary penny like all the others?”
    “That’s a problem,” Max admitted. “Tell you what. When you find a penny you’re in doubt about, check with me. I’ll recognize it.”
    “All right, that’s agreed,” the old prospector said. “I’ll show you how to get out of here, then I’ll pitch in and help you locate that feather-head penny, and then you’ll wrap them strangers up and haul