William Johnston: Missed It By That Much!

“I hope so,” 99 said. “A person who could make us see what didn’t exist-the way he made us see that diner-would be hard to handle.”

“You’re right. But I think-”

Max looked up. A small, olive-skinned man, dressed in a flowing white Arab burnoose, was standing at the table, grinning down at them.

“Permit me,” the little man said. “I am Hassan Pfeiffer, at your service.”

Max shook his head. “Whatever you’re selling, we don’t want any,” he said.

“Perhaps if I joined you at your table we could discuss the matter,” Hassan Pfeiffer said, still grinning. “My goods are in great demand. I have jewels, stolen from King Solomon’s mines. I have fresh eggs, stolen directly from under the chickens, still warm. I have teflon-coated fry pans, stolen from Macy’s Department Store, Pahzayk branch. I have-”

“No, nothing, thanks,” Max broke in.

“I have the jewel stolen from the eye of the idol.”

“No, really- Uh, what idol?”

“What difference does it make? An eye from an idol is an eye from an idol. They’re all alike. Oh, maybe one glitters a little more than another, but, at base, they’re all the same, just a hunk of worthless paste.”

“No sale,” Max said.

“I have a genuine chain-driven saxophone-the only one of its kind,” the little man went on.

“Believe me, fella, there’s nothing you could mention that would interest us.”

“I have love potions-five parts coca cola and ninety-five parts radish juice.”

Max flinched. “What does that make?”

“Depends on what you like,” the little man replied. “It’s either great radish juice or a lousy coke.”

Max shook his head again. “Nothing. Just go away.”

“I have information about missing scientists named Dr. Livingstrom.”

Max indicated a chair. “Maybe you’d like to join us.”

The little man sat down at the table with them. “What’ll it be?” he said. “Fresh eggs? Fry pans? The eye from the idol? Chain-driven saxophone? Love potion? Or, I could make you a nice little deal on the whole kit’n’kaboodle.”

“What I had in mind was about a quart of that information on missing scientists named Dr. Livingstrom,” Max said. “What would that come to?”

“In the can or in the bottle?”

Max narrowed his eyes and leaned across the table. “I think there’s something you ought to know, Hassan,” he said. “The young lady and I are not really tourists, as you appear to think. Actually, we’re crack secret agents. I’m Max Smart, Agent 86. And the young lady is Agent 99. And, as crack secret agents, we are trained to get what we want, when we want it, in any way that we can get it. Now, I don’t want to scare you. But what we want at the moment is information about a missing scientist named Dr. Livingstrom. And we will go to any lengths to get it. Is that clear?”

“Sure. You want to bargain,” Hassan smiled.

“Not exactly. What I want is that information. And I’m prepared to get ver-ry mean about it if I don’t get the information immediately-and at the lowest possible price.”

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” Hassan said. “I’ll give you the secret agent rate. It’s better than wholesale.” He spread his hands, grinning again. “Sure, I’m losing money. But maybe you’ll send other secret agents to me, and, in the long run, I’ll make it up.”

“How much?”

“Slip me a fiver.”

Max handed him the money. “Now, what do you know about Dr. Livingstrom?”

“I know that he’s the only other man in the world with a chain-driven saxophone-the only one of its kind,” Hassan replied. “It’s just like mine. I sold it to him just before he left for the interior.”

“The interior?” Max said.

“That’s what we call the inside-the-jungle-place here in Africa,” Hassan replied.

“Are you telling me that Dr. Livingstrom has gone into the jungle? How do you know?”

“I gave him directions,” Hassan answered. “I sold him the sax, then he said, ‘Incidentally, which way to the jungle?’ So, I pointed, and he took off.”

Max turned to 99. “We’ll have to form a safari,” he said.

“Right, Max,” 99 replied.

“Wrong, Max,” Hassan said. “You don’t want a safari. You know what a safari is? Strip away all the romantic gloss and all it is is a bunch of natives. You want to be responsible for a bunch of natives? Think of the paperwork. Making deductions for Social Security. Keeping track of all those income tax withholding statements. Insuring the safari against rain damage, hit and run elephants and lion attacks. Is that what you want?” He shook his head. “That’s not what you want, Max. What you want is a plain old everyday guide. One man. A guide who knows the interior like the palm of his hand.”

“He may be right, Max,” 99 said.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I think he is,” Max said. “After all, we are on a secret mission. And if you tell a safari a thing like that, before long the whole country knows it. I saw that happen once.”

“Really, Max?” 99 said, surprised. “I didn’t know you’d been to the jungle before.”

“I wasn’t in the jungle, 99. I saw it happen to a Great White Hunter in a Tarzan movie.” He turned back to Hassan. “I suppose, just by coincidence, you happen to know where we can find a guide,” he said.

“Just by coincidence, I happen to have one right here in my Arab costume.”

“Your burnoose, you mean,” Max said.

“Is that what it’s called? Okay, in my burnoose, then.”

Max leaned forward again. “Where?”

“Me,” Hassan grinned.

Max looked at him narrowly once more. “I don’t know, Hassan. Somehow, I don’t trust you. No offense intended, of course.”

“Perhaps if I tell you something more you will believe me,” Hassan said. “I will tell you why Dr. Livingstrom went into the interior. He went in search of a rare plant-the Dog Rose. It grows only here in New Ghirzy, and only in the interior. He needs it for a new dish he is inventing.”

‘That’s Dr. Livingstrom, all right,” Max said. “All right, Hassan, I believe you-you did meet him and you did talk to him. At first, frankly, I doubted you. But, you’re hired. Your information proves, I think, that we can trust you.” He extended a hand. “Shall we shake on it?”

Hassan took his hand and pumped it. “You have made me a very happy guide,” he said. “It is such a good feeling to be trusted.”

“Ah. . Hassan. .”

“Yes?”

“I’d like to have my ring back, please. It stuck to your fingers when we shook hands.”

“Sorry about that,” Hassan grinned. “It was a mistake. I recently removed some chocolate-covered cherries from a breast of white dove, and my fingers are still sticky.”

Early the next morning, by prior arrangement, Max and 99 met Hassan Pfeiffer at the edge of the jungle. Hassan, as he had promised, had brought the supplies they would need for the long trek into the interior.

“Let’s see what we have here,” Max said, inspecting the supplies. “A dozen cans of peaches. . a fly swatter. . a number of-” He looked back over his shoulder at Hassan. “A fly swatter?”

“For malaria,” Hassan explained.

“I don’t think I quite understand that.”

“With the fly swatter, you swat the tsetse fly before it bites you. That way, you don’t get malaria.”

“Good idea,” Max said. “I wonder why the scientists didn’t think of that.” He turned his attention back to the supplies. “Another dozen cans of peaches. A can of-”

There was a ringing sound.

“There’s the doorbell,” Hassan said.

“No, Hassan, that’s my shoe,” Max explained. “You see, actually, it’s a telephone. I think my chief is calling me.”