My Get Smart stories are set during the 1970s - after the original series but before the reunions. Max and 99 are married, Thaddeus is still the Chief, the twins are sometimes mentioned but seldom seen. In other words, not much has changed - ChrisR.
RHYME AND PUNISHMENT
Maxwell Smart, Secret Agent 86 of Control, sat alone in the darkened room observing silently as a swarthy little man was dragged roughly away by a group of uniformed officers.
"Help me, Rick!" the little man screamed, appealing to a craggy-faced man standing impassively nearby. But Rick seemed disinclined to intervene.
Behind Max, Agent 99, aka Mrs Smart, entered quietly behind him, quickly scanning the scene.
"Is that Casablanca again?" she asked.
"Yes," Max replied without turning around. "I want to see how it turns out."
"What do you mean 'turns out'? You must have seen that movie a hundred times. You must just about know it by heart by now."
"I keep hoping Humphrey Bogart will change his mind. I know if I was in his place I would never let the woman I love get on that plane without me."
99 smiled. "Oh, Max, I - "
"That Ingrid Bergman is a knockout."
99 glared at the back of his head. Why did Max have to be so endearing and yet so infuriating all at the same time? She was still pondering whether to flounce up the stairs in a huff when the picture on the TV abruptly changed.
"We interupt this program to bring you the following news flash," a baritone voice intoned. "It has just been announced that the historic Liberty Bell has been stolen We will have further details from our reporter on the scene in Philadelphia as they come to hand."
At the same time, the telephone began to ring.
Max picked up the receiver from the side table next to him. "Maxwell Smart here . . . Oh, hi, Chief." Max looked around at 99. Her face was already on alert status, mirroring his own. "Yes, Chief, we just saw it on TV . . . Okay, Chief, we'll be right down."
Act I
Both men stood stiffly at attention; Larabee watching silently as the Chief spoke on the Hot Line to the White House. Despite its function, from all appearances it was just an ordinary telephone.
Larabee's mind tended to wander at times like this. He sighed, remembering how disappointed he had been when the Republican administration had been re-elected in a landslide. Larabee had no real political convictions; he just missed the steerhorn phone favored by the president's predecessor.
"Yes, Sir," the Chief was saying, "I've already called my best available agent in on it . . . No. Sir, Bannister is out of the country . . . I'm afraid so, Sir . . . Yes, Sir, you have made that perfectly clear . . . Thank you, Sir." The Chief replaced the phone in the strong box on his desk, then closed the lid of the box and locked it.
The tension registered on even Larabee's conciousness. "Have you noticed how the president always seems to be on edge lately?" he asked.
"He has a lot on his mind now," the Chief replied, "and this latest news isn't helping."
"I think it must have something to do with those SALT talks with the Russians I keep hearing so much about."
"The Strategic Arms Limitation Treaty? What do you know about that?"
"Well, everyone knows that too much salt is bad for you, Chief."
"Larabee."
"Yes, Chief?"
"Go and file something."
"Right, Chief."
Larabee headed over to the door and pressed the button on the wall. The door slid open revealing Max in the outer office. He and Larabee passed each other in the doorway.
"Evening, Larabee."
"Max."
The door closed. Max sat down on the chair in front of the Chief's desk but before he could speak he was interrupted by a scraping sound comng from the outer office.
"You told Larabee to 'file something' again, didn't you, Chief?"
The Chief nodded glumly. After a few moments the scraping stopped.
"Where's 99?" the Chief asked.
"She had to wait for the sitter."
"I see. Well, unfortunately, we don't have time to wait so - "
"It's a wonder we could get one at all on such short notice, Chief."
"I'm sure, but - "
"It's very inconsiderate of them to pull a caper in the middle of the night like this."
"I'm glad you're able to see the big picture, Max," the Chief said sarcastically.
Max smiled and sat back in his chair. "Thank you, Chief."
"Max, I've just been on the phone with the president. The whole country is in an uproar over the theft of the Liberty Bell."
"Do we know who's behind this, Chief?"
"Yes, Max, I'm sorry to say that one of the most cunning villains we've ever seen has returned to Washington to taunt us."
"Thomas Dewey?
"No, Max. I'm speaking of the Rhymer."
"The Rhymer," Max repeated. "Of course it's the Rhymer. It had to be the Rhymer. Who else could it be but the Rhymer?"
"Apparently Thomas Dewey," the Chief muttered under his breath.
Max didn't hear him. He paused. "One question, Chief."
"Who is the Rhymer?"
Max frowned. "How did you know I was going to ask that?"
"Max, the Rhymer is Kaos's most colorful agent. He's variously known as the Prince of Poetry, the Count of Cadence and the Emperor of Embroidery."
Max opened his mouth to reply then, as the last sank in, checked himself and said, "Embroidery?"
"Everyone needs a hobby."
"But embroidery?"
The Chief ignored him. "He was once a respected poet and author named Jonas Flack. He once had ambitions to be the Poet Laureate of the United States but when he was passed over his ego couldn't take it and he vowed revenge. Something in his brain must have snapped because ever since then he speaks only in rhyme and has adopted the costume of a bard from Elizabethan times."
"Well, I guess that explains the embroidery."
"Forget about the embroidery, Max!"
"It's not my hobby," he said sullenly.
"Here. This is a picture of him from our files."
Max examined the 8 x 10 photograph the Chief handed him. In his frilly cravat and pastel-hued corduroy vest and pantaloons the Rhymer didn't look very dangerous and Max said as much.
"Don't let his appearance fool you," the Chief replied. "He's as deadly a villain as we've ever come across."
"Well, how was the Rhymer able to avoid security dressed like this?"
"He didn't even try," the Chief replied. "According to witnesses, he and his gang simply entered Independence Hall and sprayed everybody with knockout gas."
"So how did they get the bell out?"
"The local authorities are working on that," the Chief replied. "Our task is to figure out where he'll strike next."
"How can we do that?"
"Well, there's one other interesting aspect to his modus operandi: He's so egotistical that he always leaves a clue at the scene of the crime."
"He always leaves a clue at the scene of the crime?"
"That's what I said."
"That's where I heard it."
"Come over here, Max. There's something you should see." The Chief led Max to a corner of the office outfitted with a television set, a sofa and two easy chairs. In front of the sofa was a coffee table bearing a stack of video cassettes.
"This is quite a set-up, Chief," Max commented. "You don't happen to have a copy of Casablanca here, do you?"
"No, Max."
Max sat down on the sofa and began picking up the bulky cartridges. "'Pentagon Joint Chiefs Briefing'," he read, "'Space Shuttle Preliminary Design Review' . . . 'Tina's Hot Summer'?"
The Chief's cheeks flushed red. "That one's highly classified. You better let me put it away for safe-keeping." He took the cassette and locked it in his desk drawer. He picked up another from the top of the desk. "Here's the one I want you to see. It was found in Independence Hall by the Philadelphia P.D. He inserted the cassette into a tape machine under the TV and sat in one of the easy chairs.
The TV screen flickered before a man's image appeared on the screen. It was the Rhymer.
"Greetings to you, my friends at Control," he said.
"The beginning of your end has now begun.
Don't ask for whom the bell will toll.
Your bell is gone - it tolls for none.
"All your symbols soon will be mine
To demoralize the nation
And make a target rich and fine
For Kaos occupation.
"I'm here already in your town
Before you even know it
So put on your boots and track me down
- Although I think you'll blow it."
The Chief switched off the tape machine and the TV. "What do you make of it, Max?"
"The rhythm's a bit off," Max remarked. "No wonder he didn't make poet laureate."
"Not the poetry - the message. It's clearly a threat to steal our national treasures as part of a plan to take over the United States."
"Well, if it's so obvious, why are you asking me?"
"Because we have to figure out which part is the clue to where the Rhymer will strike next."
"I think the key word is 'boots', Chief," said a voice behind them.
Max jumped. "99! Where did you come from?"
"Idaho," she replied. "I thought you knew that."
"When did you come in?" Max clarified.
"I came in when the Chief was turning on the TV," 99 answered. "I didn't want to disturb you."
"Nice job, 99," Max said sourly.
"What were you saying about boots?" the Chief asked.
99 shifted her gaze from Max back to the Chief. "Well, that's the only part where the Rhymer isn't bragging or threatening us," she replied as she settled into the remaining easy chair. "And notice how he says 'your bell' and 'your boots'. I think his next target has something to do with boots."
The Chief nodded thoughtfully. "You may be right, 99."
"That's it!" Max exclaimed. "He's going to steal the Liberty Boots!"
The Chief's face creased in puzzlement. "'The Liberty Boots', Max? And just what exactly would they be?"
Max shrugged. "Search me, Chief. Why don't you come up with something? 99 and I are doing all the work here."
They sat in silence for a few minutes, then Max stood and picked up the telephone receiver and put it to his ear. He listened briefly and set it back in its cradle.
"What are you doing, Max?"
"Just making sure the phone is working, Chief."
"Why?"
"Haven't you noticed how often when we come to a lull in the conversation like this, someone calls with information telling us what to do next?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Max is right, Chief," 99 said. "It's as if we were characters in a story and the writer is trying to move the plot along."
The Chief looked at her sadly. I never should have gotten them permission to get married, he thought silently. "That's a ridiculous idea," he said aloud.
Just then the telephone rang.
Max opened his mouth to speak but the Chief held up his hand in a stop-sign gesture. "I don't want to hear another word - from either of you." He picked up the receiver while Max and 99 exchanged self-satisfied smirks.
"Yes, Larabee, put him straight through . . . Hello . . . Yes, I see . . . Thank you for calling." He hung up. "That was the director of the Air and Space Musem," he told Max and 99. "It seems that the boots in question are the Apollo moon boots. They've just been stolen - along with all the Apollo Program artefacts that were housed there."
-
Despite the lateness of the hour, the museum was swarming with people: police, guards, officials, reporters and others just caught up in the mayhem.
"I'll make contact with 13," Max said. "You see if you can round up any witnesses."
"Right, Max."
As 99 disappeared into the crowd, Max approached a nearby coffee vending machine and placed a coin in the slot. The metal door slid open revealing, instead of a container of coffee, the face of Max's longtime colleague, Agent 13.
"Hi, 13," Max said. "What's up?"
"My time in the spy business," 13 replied bitterly.
"Why? What's wrong now?"
"What's wrong now? I'll tell you what's wrong now. I've just come as close as I ever have to being killed and to add insult to injury there's coffee dripping into my shoes."
"What happened?" Max asked.
"Some punk wanted a free cup of coffee and he kicked the side of the machine in."
"What about the Rhymer?"
"The Rhymer wasn't drinking coffee."
"What about the robbery?" Max demanded impatiently.
"Don't take that tone with me, 86!" 13 snapped. "It's all right for you - standing out there with your feet all dry. Just try walking a mile in my soggy socks."
Max decided to try a more solicitous tack. "You're right, 13," he said. "I apologize. " When 13 appeared to be suitably mollified, he asked again, "What can you tell me about the robbery?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Well, you know, what with the knockout gas and all - Oh, there is one thing."
"Go on."
"Well, I was stationed upstairs in Neil Armstrong's moon suit when they came in. The Rhymer seemed to know I was there because he came directly up to me and personally removed the helmet. Then he put some exotic weapon up against my head. That's when I thought I was going to die. But he must have changed his mind because he said: 'Tell all the people that you see/This also counts for number three." I've never been so scared in all my life."
"And you were inside Neil Armstrong's moon suit?
"That's right."
"Some agents have all the luck."
"Whatever you say about the Rhymer, though," 13 said, "you've got to hand it to him. He's certainly raised the bar on spectacular heists."
"Yes, I suppose so," Max replied. "All right, 13. You stay on duty here and 99 and I will go back to Control and report this to the Chief."
"Right, 86."
"Oh. One more thing, 13."
"What?"
"Try to lay off the coffee. I think it's making you irritable."
With the conversation at an end, the door on the vending machine automatically slid closed.
Max turned around as he recognized the sound of 99's footsteps behind him. "Well?" he asked.
"It's just like in Philadelphia," she replied. "The Rhymer and his gang burst in spraying the knockout gas and nobody remembers anything after that. Even the surveillance cameras have been disabled. He's certainly raised the bar on spectacular heists."
Max frowned. "Well, I guess we better get back to Control." He paused. "Wait a minute, 99. What did you just say?"
"I said the Rhymer burst in and - "
"No, something about a bar."
"Oh. I said he's raised the bar on spectacular heists. It's a figure of speech."
"I know that," Max said, "but 13 just said exactly the same thing."
"Come to think of it, Max, one of the witnesses said it to me. In fact, several of them did." She thought for a moment. "Do you suppose they could have been brainwashed?"
"You mean because they had dirty minds?"
"No, Max, I mean do you think that while everyone was knocked out the Rhymer could have somehow programmed their minds with that phrase?"
Max looked at her doubtfully. "That seems rather far-fetched, 99."
"But didn't something like that once happen to you with the word 'checkmate'?"
"Oh. Right . . . then absolutely."
"Well, if that's the next clue, now we have to figure out what it means."
"Let's see," Max said thoughtfully. "Raise the bar . . . raise the bar . . . Maybe he's going to hold up a bar."
"I doubt that, Max. It's not big enough. Besides, it doesn't fit the pattern of stealing national treasures."
"What if he was thirsty?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, according to 13, he wasn't drinking any coffee."
"There are a lot of bars, Max. I think the best thing you and I can do is get this information to Control and then go home and get some rest. It's been a long night."
Max considered. "You're right, 99," he said. "And that babysitter is charging by the hour."
-
"Good morning, Chief," Max said brightly as he entered the Chief's office three days later.
"What's good about it?" the Chief demanded crossly.
"You know, Chief, people always get that wrong. When I said 'good morning' I was wishing you a good morning - not expressing an opinion about the quality of the morning."
"Well, it's a little late for that now, Max. There's been a development in the Rhymer case. He's dealt us his hardest blow yet."
"Well, what is it, Chief?"
"He's stolen the Constitution."
"The ship?"
"No, the actual constitution document."
"That's terrible, Chief."
The door opened and 99 walked in. "Good morning," she said cheerfully.
"What's good about it?" Max snapped.
"Max," she replied, "when I said 'good morning' I was wishing you - "
The Chief rolled his eyes impatiently. "The Rhymer's struck again, 99," he interrupted her. "He's stolen the Constitution."
"The newspaper?"
"No, the actual Constitution - right out of its display case at the National Archives."
Max frowned. "What I don't understand is what the Constitution has to do with a bar."
"Well, the word bar does have another meaning relating to lawyers and the constitution is the country's basic law so there is a connection."
"Did the Rhymer leave a new clue at the scene, Chief?" 99 asked.
"Not that we could find," the Chief replied. "There was nothing there but the broken display case."
"Maybe the fact that he broke the display case is a clue in itself, Chief," Max suggested. "After all, if they could steal the Liberty Bell, they could have just taken the whole thing."
"For once in your life, you may have something there, Max. I guess the key word there is 'broke'."
"You know, Chief," Max remarked, "this is kind of fun - like a game."
"Fun? Max, what are you talking about? The Rhymer's threat is coming true. The country is becoming more and more demoralized with the loss of each object."
"Well, it'd be more fun if we were winning."
"We're going to have to get a whole lot better at solving these clues if we're to have any chance of that."
"I've been thinking about that," 99 said. "I think there's a pattern to these clues over and above the pattern in the robberies."
"Like what?" the Chief asked.
"Well, first, I don't think it's just coincidence that bell, boots and bar - and now broke - all start with a 'b'. And the fact that the Rhymer referred to a 'number three' suggests that he's following some predetermined sequence."
"That's very interesting. So if we were able to discover what that sequence is, we might be able to predict his entire agenda."
"That'd be great," said Max. "Then we could be ready for him before he was ready for us to be ready for him to be ready for us to be ready."
"What did you say?"
"I'm not sure," Max admitted.
Still staring at Max, the Chief said, "I think this is a job for ARDVARC." He stood up from his desk and hit a button on the wall behind him. The wall slid aside revealing what was obviously an advanced computer system. "I'll feed the four words into it and see if it can determine any pattern."
"Don't forget the missing number three, Chief," said 99.
"Right." The Chief typed at the keyboard for several seconds and hit the 'enter' switch.
After a good deal of clattering and flashing of lights, ARDVARC's metallic voice announced, "No match found."
"Are you sure you asked the right question, Chief?" Max asked. "It sounds like it's looking for a date."
"I know how to work it, Max," the Chief replied irritably, "but all is not lost. One of the features of the new ARDVARC VI is it's ability to network with other computers."
"I told you it was looking for a date," Max insisted.
The Chief ignored him and typed in a fresh set of instructions, setting off another round of flashing and clattering.
"Search in progress," said the computer voice. "Estimated time: thirty-seven hours and nineteen minutes."
"I guess all we can do now is wait," 99 said.
They all gazed expectantly at the phone but, instead, the intercom buzzed.
"Yes, Larabee?"
"Agent 45 just called in from the South Side, Chief."
"45?" Max repeated. "I thought 78 was covering that sector."
"Haven't you heard, Max?" 99 replied. "45's replaced 78."
"What's her report, Larabee?" asked the Chief.
"She says the Rhymer is heading north on Whipple Street."
Max leapt to his feet. "We'll race there right away, Chief."
The Chief raised an eyebrow."'Race there', Max?"
Max shrugged. "It seemed like the appropriate thing to say."
-
"I don't understand what the Rhymer is doing in this part of town," 99 said as Max pulled the blue Iso Grifo coupe to the kerb. "There are no monuments or important buildings in this area."
"Well, we're about to find out, 99," Max replied. "According to 45's report, they went into that pawn broker."
"At least that ties into the word 'broke'," 99 noted.
The sign on the door said Open For Business but inside the shop was dark, dusty and dank - coincidentally the name of a crooked law firm that Max had once run into on a case in Diluth. It also seemed to be deserted. With their guns at the ready, Max and 99 moved silently around, occasionally signalling each other to come over and examine some interesting-looking knick-knack.
Eventually, they made their way behind the counter where they discovered an alcove containing a staircase. Upstairs, they found themselves in a hallway. One door stood out from the others due to a shaft of light which was visible beneath it. The low rumble of voices could be heard coming from the room beyond.
Wordlessly, Max and 99 positioned themselves on either side of the door - then Max kicked it in, revealing their first glimpse of their costumed quarry and his muscled minions.
"99?"
"Yes, Max?"
"I think I just broke my foot."
"Try putting your weight on it," 99 suggested.
Max placed his foot - which he had been holding in midair - flat on the floor and concentrated on standing up straight.
"How is it?" 99 asked.
"It's okay," Max replied in surprise.
"You sound disappointed."
"Well, it's just that I haven't made a claim on my health insurance so far this year and it's 'use it or lose it'." He turned his attention to the occupants of the room who had been waiting patiently throughout the interruption. "So, Rhymer!" he declared dramatically. "At last we meet."
"So we do," the Rhymer replied. "Too bad for you." He was seated at an antique desk where he had apparently been writing in a leather-bound journal with a large feather quill pen. He pointed the quill at the Control couple and, before they could react, yellow-colored gas issued from its tip.
Instantly, Max and 99 collapsed together in a heap on the floor.
"99?" Max mumbled as the blackness closed in on him.
"Yes, Max?"
"I think he was ready for us to be ready for him to be ready . . . to be ready . . . "
"I think so, too, Max," she murmured as they both lost conciousness.
Act II
Max's vision began to clear. He shook his head and looked around for 99. She was shaking her head and looking around for him. She was tied around the waist to a featureless metal pole which seemed to be precisely her height (including high heels). Her arms were at her sides inside the rope making her unable to move them. There was also a harness which had kept her upright as she slumbered. This hung from above but what it was connected to was not immediately apparent as they were surrounded by darkness. Illumination provided by a single spotlight was restricted to a small area directly in front of them.
Max tried to move and realized that he was likewise restrained to a similar pole - albeit one a little shorter. Well, I'm not wearing high heels, he told himself.
"They're awake, boss," a male voice rasped. It belonged to one of the henchmen. Max noticed that they were all uniformly dressed in black slacks and T-shirts with what he guessed were their names stencilled in white on the T-shirts. The speaker was evidently called STANZA. The second burly male was METER. The only woman in the group, an amply proportioned redhead, was named COUPLET.
"I can see for myself, you bumbling fool!" The Rhymer snapped. He stiffened and took a deep breath before muttering to himself, "Don't let him get to you - just keep cool."
Max and 99 looked at each other. They'd met their share of unstable villains and this one seemed to be wound as tight as they came.
Max decided to try the risky strategy of deliberately goading him. "What's with the names on the T-shirts?" he asked. "Are you afraid you'll forget them?"
But the Rhymer seemed to have calmed down. "There's no danger of that I can assure you," he replied affably. "They'll forget their own names before I do."
Max turned to 99 and shrugged. They'd have to try something alse.
"We're sorry we're keeping you from your plans," 99 offered.
"That's sweet, my dear, but have no fear. My plan up 'til now is up to date. In fact, I'm not - " He produced a pocket watch from his costume. " - no, not one second late."
Max and 99 looked at one another again in shared puzzlement.
"Oh, really?" Max said. "And just what national icon were you supposedly stealing from that broken-down pawnshop?"
"Why, you, of course. I'll make it clear: I lured you there, then brought you here."
"Me?" Max replied in surprise. "How can I be an icon? I'm a secret agent - nobody's ever heard of me."
"You're very well known in super-villain circles, Mr Smart," Couplet told him in a smoky voice.
Max started to smile back at her before remembering that 99 was beside him. He managed to muster up a stern expression in its place.
99 looked from Max to Couplet and back again. "What are you staring at, Max?"
"I'm just reading her T-shirt, 99."
"It's only one word, Max. It couldn't take that long."
"A little marital discord?" Meter inquired solicitously.
"The state of our marriage is none of your business!" 99 snapped.
"That's right," Max agreed. "And for your information, we're doing just fine."
Meter seemed genuinely pleased. "Delighted to hear it," he said.
Max and 99 looked at each other and briefly the rest of the world disappeared. They were brought back to the moment by the sound of the Rhymer's voice.
"Love and kisses from your missus," he chanted in a childlike singsong. His face grew serious. "Enough of that," he admonished. "Your time grows short. I've plans for you now that you're caught." When Max and 99 failed to respond he grew agitated. "You realize of course I mean your demise; perhaps you'd like to inquire where your future lies."
Max shook his head. "I wouldn't ask that," he declared emphatically.
The Rhymer stared gloomily in the direction of his spats. "Life is such a dreary task," he muttered. He looked up at Max. "But I have to know: Why won't you ask?"
"Because if there's one thing I've learned over the years it's that if I ask a villian what terrible fate he has in store for me then he's liable to tell me. And you know the old saying: Fool me once, shame on me; fool me twice . . . What's the rest of that old saying, 99?"
"Shame on me, Max."
"Why? You didn't do anything wrong."
In yet another sudden mood swing, the Rhymer laughed gleefully. "It doesn't matter what you say," he taunted. "I'm going to tell you anyway."
Max nodded. "See?"
"Look around you, Mr Smart. I've encased you in a work of art."
"Art is the name of the guy who built it," Meter put in.
The Rhymer glared at him reproachfully. "By all that's unholy, you will burn for speaking when it's not your turn."
"Do you want me to thump him, boss?" asked Stanza, hoping to make amends for his own earlier faux pas.
The Rhymer's eyes welled with teary emotion. "At least I have you, my loyal friend. You're so very kind. I'm afraid I'm overcome - I can't go on." He gestured to Couplet. "Dear, would you mind?"
Couplet clearly didn't mind at all. "I hope our plans for your demise are worthy of such a legend as yourself, Mr Smart," she cooed, brazenly brushing against him like a kitten.
99 gaped at her in outraged astonishment. "I'm still standing right here," she said incredulously.
"Yes," said Max, "I'll thank you to stop insulting my wife. She happens to be an excellent agent in her own right."
"Thank you, Max."
"I insist that whatever elaborate deathtrap you have planned for me include her as well."
99 nodded agreement - then frowned as realization dawned. "Uh, Max . . . "
"I wouldn't have it any other way," Couplet replied, locking eyes with 99 though continuing to speak only to Max. "Are you familiar with billiards, Mr Smart?"
"Yes," Max replied. "Well, sometimes I feel that way after I get off a merry-go-round."
"Billiards is a game," Couplet explained in a disappointed voice. "Played with balls on a table."
"Oh, you mean like pool."
"Yes."
"Well, you've come to the right man. I happen to be an expert on pool. Why, would you believe - "
"Pipe down and listen to the lady," Stanza growled.
Max turned baleful eyes on him. "Now that was just rude."
"Never mind, Max," said 99. "You can tell it to me later."
The Rhymer let out a loud sob. Everyone turned to look at him but, still too overcome to speak, he merely waved his hand, indicating that Couplet should continue.
"There isn't going to be much later for you." she hissed, lips curled at forcing herself to talk to 99 for the first time. Switching to a softer purr, she added to Max, "or for you, Mr Smart." Her eyelashes fluttered. "May I call you 'Max'?"
Max glanced at 99, intercepting a withering glare aimed at Couplet. "I think it would be best if we kept this strictly on a formal captor-captive basis," he replied.
Couplet thrust out her lower lip in a pout. "Look up there," she said in an aggrieved tone.
Max and 99 looked where she pointed. She clapped her hands twice and the lighted area expanded to reveal a television monitor mounted on a ceiling bracket. She clapped her hands again and a picture flickered onto the screen.
"There's a billiard parlor downstairs," Couplet told them. "What you're seeing is a live feed of the patrons innocently playing their games."
"And just what are you going to do to those poor devils?" Max asked disdainfully. "They haven't done anything to you."
"We're not going to do anything to them," Couplet replied in a hurt voice. She affected another pout. "We may be vicious criminals but we're not barbarians. They don't even know we're watching them."
"Well, that's even worse."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, that's spying."
"You don't seem to be taking this seriously, Mr Smart," Couplet complained. "Your fate is intimately bound up with the result of those games." She hesitated slightly as something seemed to occur to her. "Intimately," she emphasized with a sly wink. Another double handclap and the scene on the monitor changed. "This game in particular. Observe the electronic scoreboard."
"What about it?"
"This is the final game in a tournament, Mr Smart. When the final ball is pocketed, the scoreboard will mark the end of the game."
"So?"
"That will also mark the end of our game." She clapped her hands again and the rest of the room was instantly flooded with light revealing just how cavernous an expanse it contained. At the far end, previously in shadow, they could now clearly see two huge polished wooden booms mounted an a spindly supporting structure, each about 20 feet long - and one each pointed directly at Max and 99.
"Those are the second longest cue sticks I ever saw," Max remarked.
Couplet let out a squeal. "Absolutely right, Mr Smart! But that's just the beginning. This whole room is in effect a giant billiard table," she amplified.
"Nice touch with the green carpet."
"Max . . . "
"Well, you've got to admire their attention to detail, 99."
Couplet went on. "In the floor behind you is a trap door - "
"Well, that doesn't sound very - "
"- over a shute - "
"Yes, well, that still - "
"- leading to a furnace."
Max waited, unsure whether she was finished. "Is that it?"
"Isn't that enough?"
"Er . . . what was that last bit again?"
"Trap door. Chute. Furnace."
"Well, when you put it that way . . . "
At a signal from Couplet, Stanza and Meter unbuckled the harnesses, leaving Max and 99 freestanding but still tied to the poles.
"The scoreboard is counting down the number of balls left on the table," Couplet concluded. "When the final ball is pocketed, you will be pocketed - permanently," she added, crinkling her nose at him.
The Rhymer suddenly cackled in glee. "You're in trouble," he chortled. "With a capital T and that rhymes with P - or in this case B."
"And that stands for pool," Max finished.
"Billiards," 99 corrected.
"Yes, of course, billiards," Max acknowledged. "But let me tell you this, Rhymer," he continued magniloquently: "You may think you have the upper hand but if you hadn't gassed us and taken away our guns and tied us up, there'd be nothing to stop us from taking you in right now!"
The Rhymer gave him a fond smile. "You're such a joy, you foolish boy." He reached forward and tousled Max's hair, much to the Max's obvious embarassment. "Before you take your final bow," the Rhymer said kindly, "if you have any last words you may say them now."
"Last words?" Max thought a moment. "Well, Louie," he said in a gravelly voice, "I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."
"Who are you calling 'Louie'?" growled Stanza.
Max looked crestfallen. "Those are the last words from Casablanca," he explained, astounded that none of the gang had recognized them.
"Great Humphrey Bogart impression, huh?" 99 added proudly. "He's Max's favorite."
"What about this one?" Max said. Adopting the Bogie voice again he intoned, "It's the stuff that dreams are made of."
"Ooh, I know this!" Meter exclaimed. "That's The Maltese Falcon!"
Max beamed. "Right! Now it's your turn."
"Does it have to be a Humphrey Bogart movie?"
"No, but you get extra points if it was made before 1948."
For some reason that eluded Max, the Rhymer had become irritated again. "That'll be enough from you!" he shouted. "It's enough to make me heave. Your hunting's done; I bid adieu - and now I take my leave."
With a flourish, he drew his cape about himself and stalked grandly from the room with his hench people trailing behind him. Couplet brought up the rear, blowing a kiss behind her as she left.
Max frowned. "What do you suppose he meant by that?"
"I think he meant he was leaving, Max. Funny how they always do that, isn't it?"
"Do what?"
"Leave us alone just when they have us in their trap."
"Well, it's a good thing they do," Max replied. He looked around. "Are you sure we're alone?"
99 craned around to view the part of the room out of Max's sight. "Yes, Max."
"Good. Now, I want you to lean over and tear the buttons off my jacket with your teeth."
"Max! This is neither the time nor the place."
"I need to get to the equipment in my utilty suspenders."
"Utility suspenders?"
"Yes, it's something I worked out with Professor Walker in the lab. My suspenders have miniature pockets sewn into them where I can hide devices for occasions such as this."
"That's a wonderful idea, Max, but suspenders are a bit old-fashioned. Wouldn't a belt be less conspicuous?"
"A utility belt?" Max tilted his head, thinking, then shook it. "That'd never work."
99 eyed him appraisingly. "But, Max . . . even without the buttons, your jacket won't come open because of the rope around your waist."
"That won't be a problem, 99. This suit happens to made of Control's new tearaway material. The jacket'll be in shreds before you know it."
"Really?" she replied. "That's a shame."
"Why do you say that?"
"It's a nice style; it looks good on you."
"Thank you, 99. I do try to keep my wardrobe up to date. I was thinking of joining the suit-of-the-month club. Whadaya think?"
"Max."
"Yes, 99."
"We're in a Kaos trap minutes away from a grizzly death."
"Oh, yes. Thank you for reminding me."
99 rolled her eyes, as much at herself as at him, while Max, his suspenders now exposed, began twitching his upper body. "What are you doing now," she asked.
"If I can just activate the electrostatic field disruptor by flexing my pectoral muscles then the path of the giant cue sticks should be altered by enough of an angle to miss us."
"Hurry, Max! The pool game is almost over!"
"It's billiards, 99."
As Max's movements became more frantic, 99 kept watch on the screen. "There are only two balls left - no, someone just scored - one ball! He's setting up the next shot, Max! He's shooting! The ball is heading for the pocket!"
A loud humming noise began emanating from the area of Max's person.
"He sunk the shot, Max!"
As 99 spoke, the giant cue sticks started to sway. Some hidden trigger was released sending them flying toward Max and 99 - only to miss them by inches and harmlessly impact against the wall behind them.
"It worked, Max!"
"Yes. Now all we have to do is figure out how to get out of here. Wait a minute! If the giant cue sticks were supposed to push us into the trap door, then these poles must not be attached to the floor." Examination bore out this hypothesis; the poles were merely mounted on flat circular bases upon which they stood. "If they can go back they can go forward," Max elaborated. "If I can throw my weight forward and get the pole to lay down, I can just crawl off the pole."
"But, Max, if you do that, your face will smash into the floor."
"Don't worry, 99. I'm way ahead of you."
As 99 watched with concern, Max started rocking the pole, getting an idea of how it was weighted, taking care not to move too far backward. Then he leaned forward, suddenly shifting his weight. The pole tipped and fell.
"Max!" 99 screamed as Max's nose seemed headed for a contact even more violent than even Max's nose had known before. With just inches to go, a white object appeared from one of the secret pockets of Max's left suspender. There was a hissing sound as it inflated with air, cushioning the impact of his chest and keeping his face just above floor level.
Now in a horizontal position on the floor, Max wriggled along the pole until he was clear of it; then stood up.With the pole's bulk gone, the rope was now loose on his body and it fell to his ankles, freeing his arms. He touched a small control on the balloon-like device and it deflated, retracting back into its compartment.
"That's fantastic!" 99 cried. She paused. "You know, I heard they're fitting something like that to cars as a safety device in case of a collision."
"An air bag on an automobile?" Max tilted his head, thinking, then shook it. "That'd never work."
99 rolled her eyes but the frown she attempted was overcome by a smile of affection.
"Now I'll untie you and we can be on our way," Max said. He took a step toward her, forgetting that the loose but still tied rope was around his ankles. He over-balanced, sending his face toward the floor. There was a hissing sound as the air bag inflated once again.
-
It turned out that the Rhymer's hideout took up most of the innards of a city block. They emerged from a dilapidated shopfront only a few doors from where they had entered the pawn shop. The car was still where they had parked it.
Max looked up and down the street. "Well. it looks like the Rhymer's given us the slip. It looks like there's nothing else to do but go back to Control and wait for ARDVARC to figure out where he's going to strike next."
"I think the Rhymer may have already told us that, Max."
"When?"
She reflected a moment. "There was something about the way the Rhymer said 'You're hunting's done' when he thought we were in for it. I have a feeling he used those words deliberately." She stopped, deep in thought, before suddenly exclaiming, "Of course! The Hunting of the Snark! That's it!"
"Of course!" Max rejoined. ". . . The what?"
"The Hunting of the Snark," 99 repeated. "It's a poem by Lewis Carroll."
"Who?"
"Lewis Carroll. Real name: Charles Lutwidge Dodgson. Born 1832, died 1898. Best known as the author of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland."
"Did he write The Wizard of Oz?"
"No, that was L. Frank Baum."
"Is that anything like O Tannenbaum?"
"No, that's different."
"Then what's that?"
"O Christmas Tree."
"Oh."
99 shook her head to clear it. "The point is, Max, that all of the Rhymer's crimes have been linked to characters from that poem." When Max continued to stare at her, uncomprehending, she went on. "Remember how all the clues started with a 'B'? Well, so do all the characters from The Hunting of the Snark. First there's the Bellman - that was the Liberty Bell. Then the Boots was the moonsuit - which he combined with the Bonnet-maker -"
"Which was the helmet," Max broke in. "Then that's why he told 13 that it counted for number three as well - he was counting off these characters."
"Exactly, Max," 99 said in a proud tone. "Then the Barrister - that's a lawyer," she added when Max's face went blank again.
"The Constitution?"
"Then the Broker . . . the pawnbroker where he captured us!"
Max nodded slowly as the pattern penetrated his perception. "I think you're right, 99. The Rhymer would base his spree on a poem. It all fits."
"It even explains why they said it was billiards instead of pool," she went on excitedly. "That fancy scoreboard was their version of the Billiard-marker!"
"So what's next on the list?"
99 paused, running the poem's lines through in her head. "The Banker."
"Well, that can only mean the Federal Reserve Bank!" Max exclaimed. "We better get there right away."
-
Max gunned the engine as he guided the Iso Grifo through the afternoon traffic.
"I better let the Chief know what's happening," he said. He turned the dashboard knob for the windshield washer, activating the radio/speaker-phone system which operated through the ventilator grilles. Unfortunately, this modification also resulted in water tending to dribble through the car radio and cooling air blowing out of the washer ducts onto the outside of the windshield with limited benefit to the occupants of the car. Nevertheless, Max considered this arrangement to be vastly preferable to the old cigarette-lighter phone which he had refused to use since that nasty tongue-burning incident.
Chief: This is Control.
Max: Hi, Chief. This is Max.
Chief: I was just about to call you. ARDVARC has come up with the answer.
Max: We already know, Chief. We believe the Rhymer's next target will be the Federal Reserve. We're on our way there now.
Chief: How did you find out?
Max: I figured out that the clues came from The Hunting of the Shark - that's a poem y'know.
Chief: The Hunting of the Shark? . . . Do you mean The Hunting of the Snark, Max?
Max; Yes, Chief.
Chief: (pause) Do you mean 99 figured it out, Max?
Max: (longer pause) Yes, Chief.
Chief: Well, good work. That's just what ARDVARC said.
99 (interjecting): I only recognized the poem, Chief. It was Max who came up with the Federal Reserve.
Chief: Well, good work both of you. . . Wait a minute. The Federal Reserve? That would be the Banker. What happened to the Broker and the Billiard-marker?
Max: Well, to cut a long story short, Chief, they were part of a plan to kill 99 and me.
Chief: Just a minute, Max. (sound of clattering and humming) I've just fed this new information into ARDVARC. It says that now that the Rhymer's changed his M.O. by trying to kill you, instead of stealing something, there's a ninety-eight point six per cent probability that the Rhymer intends to blow up the Federal Reserve Building. If that happens the nation's financial system will be thrown into chaos.
Max: Aptly put, Chief.
-
Max stopped the car.
"We better get the gas masks from the Commando Kits in the trunk, 99," he said. "We can't let the Rhymer take us by surprise again."
"Good thinking, Max. And we can get our spare guns from there, too."
"Oh, we can't do that, 99."
"Why not?"
"You can't take a gun into a bank."
"But, Max, -"
"Besides, I don't think the Rhymer's men are armed. He always seems to rely on that knockout gas of his."
"What about that weapon he used to threaten 13?"
"He didn't use it, did he? It was probably just a prop."
99 sighed. She could tell when her husband was beyond persuasion. And he was the senior agent. By all of two weeks.
Max smiled in anticipation, pounding his right fist into his left palm. "No, 99, we're going to have to do this the old-fashioned way."
-
Max and 99 entered the building slowly, carefully.
The guards were asleep at their posts. Other snoring bodies lay scattered in the halls.
"The Rhymer's here all right," Max said. "All we have to do is follow this trail of sleepers to -"
Before he could even finish the sentence, they came upon the room where the Rhymer and his gang were just setting down a menacing-looking contraption. It appeared that it had not yet been activated. They had arrived in the nick of time.
"It's the Smarts," said Meter with the air of one greeting party guests.
"They've escaped," Stanza footnoted needlessly.
Max's voice rang out. "Yes, Rhymer! We've shown up for the showdown!"
"How did you escape from that trap?" Couplet asked in breathy wonderment.
"That is indeed vexing and quite perplexing," the Rhymer agreed, "but since I'm very busy now, we'll set aside the question of how."
He reached into the folds of his cloak and produced his quill pen. Once again he sprayed the yellow gas but this time Max and 99 were protected. However, contrary to Max's characterization, they were not wearing any ordinary gas masks. From the inventors of plastic lips had come the plastic nose, complete with an undercoating of a universal antidote. Designed to both render the wearer impervious to gases and be imperceptible to onlookers, the boys in the lab had dubbed it 'don't smell, don't tell.'
"You came prepared this time it seems," the Rhymer deduced. "We must resort to more primitive means."
He gestured to his gang and Meter and Stanza advanced on Max while Couplet moved toward 99.
After a spectacular bout of fisticuffs involving much biff! and ka-pow! it was all over. To everyone's surprise except his own, Max had prevailed over both his adversaries. Granted, Stanza had gone down fairly early on, illustrating the truth of one of Max's favorite dicta about 'the bigger they are', but Meter had proven to be an unexpectedly fierce fighter whose formal surrender had come only after a prolonged struggle fought strictly under Marquis of Queensbury rules.
Meanwhile, 99 had kayoed Couplet with a well-aimed punch to the jaw, gaining secret satisfaction for the latter's earlier shameless flirting with her husband.
Throughout it all, the Rhymer had remained at the sidelines. First calling out encouraging dithyrambs then, as he saw his team being overcome, lapsing into a morose silence. Finally, with all his underlings handcuffed or unconscious, he looked up. Max watched him expectantly, listening intently for the vanquished villain's valedictory verse. "Well," he said in resignation, "that's it. . . What can you do?" he inquired of no one in particular. "Nothing," he answered himself.
"That doesn't rhyme," Max said, disappointed.
"What do you want? I'm depressed."
"Oh. . . Well, maybe I can come up with something." Max looked pensive for a moment and then recited the following:
There once was a poetic hood
Whose end has come just as it should
It wasn't a crime
To speak all in rhyme
But he used it for evil not good
-
99 sat on the sofa savoring the chance of a quite moment to catch up on the sewing that always seemed to accumulate when she and Max were on a case. The Rhymer and his gang were behind bars, the stolen treasures had been recovered and, as Max had modestly put it in their official mission report, once again the forces of truth, justice and fredom had triumphed in their never-ending battle against the forces of the not-so-nice. From time to time, she looked up from her work, casting warm glances at the family spread out on the floor before her.
To her left, her daughter was meticulously positioning the furniture in her doll house.
And to her right, Max was attempting to teach some magic tricks to their son. Or maybe it was the other way around.
"Pick a card, Dad."
"Three of Clubs," Max replied.
"You're supposed to take one from the deck."
"Right. Sorry about that." Max selected a card from the proffered pack and examined it. "Three of Clubs."
"Dad . . . !"
"Oh. You're supposed to tell me." Max turned the card around so that it faced his son.
The boy grinned with delight. "Three of Clubs!"
The doorbell rang.
99 set down her sewing and walked over to the door. She peered through the peep-hole, undid the several locks and opened it. "Mother! I'm so glad you were able to join us."
Max got to his feet and stood next to 99. "This is an unexpected surprise."
"All surprises are unexpected," 99's mother said pleasantly.
"Max, I told you Mother was coming for dinner this Sunday," 99 said, anxious to avoid any offense.
"This Sunday? I thought you said next Sunday."
"This is the next Sunday, Max."
"I just like to have a little warning when your mother is coming, that's all," Max said. For this he received an elbow in the ribs from 99. "Uh, what I mean is, if I knew you were coming I'd have -"
"Baked a cake?" 99 suggested dryly.
Max opened his mouth to reply, couldn't think of one, and closed it again, looking at 99 thrrough narrowed, vaguely puzzled eyes.
99's mother seemed unperturbed by the exchange. "It's always confusing when daylight saving starts. Right, son?"
Max smiled broadly. "Exactly." He gave her a bear hug and ambled happily off.
99 gazed after him, all inclement thoughts forgotten, the adulation in her eyes as clear as ever; all this time later, the rapport that Max and her mother had somehow developed still coming as a pleasant surprise. Left unspoken was the fact that daylight saving had in fact started weeks earlier.
"Aren't you going to invite me in, dear?"
Somewhat belatedly, 99 stepped aside and her mother entered the apartment, her gaze settling on the twins, who had left their toys to join the welcome.
"My how you've grown!" she exclaimed. "Every time I see you you're bigger than the time before."
"I can't help it," her grandson replied simply.
"'I can't help it'," she repeated. "Isn't that cute?"
"Did you bring us anything?" his sister asked, eyeing the brightly-wrapped parcel her grandmother was carrying.
"Why, I think I might have something."
"What do you say, children?" 99 demanded crisply.
"Thank you, Grandma," they chorused.
"Isn't that cute?" she said again
Her granddaughter took the package and unwrapped it eagerly. "It's a book," she announced, happy for the opportunity to show off her precocious reading skills. "The Big Book of Nursery Rhymes."
A sudden spluttering sound came from the other side of the bar, where Max had just taken a sip from his evening Gibson. This was followed by an uncontrollable coughing fit. 99 rushed over and began pounding him on the back.
"What's the matter, son?" his mother-in-law asked. "Did something go down the wrong way?"
99 hated having to lie at times like this. The Rhymer's rampage had been public knowledge of course but she couldn't explain their connection to it or the real reason for Max's sudden discomfort without revealing their secret spy identities. "Oh, er, Mother," she temporized, fumbling for an answer, "I think your kind gift just took Max's breath away."
The End