Jacob Two-Two-'s First Spy Case (8 page)

“Oh, yeah?” said Leo. “The truth is I'm going to take you all to the cleaners tonight.”

But once again Leo, rattled by all the teasing, ended up a loser, dropping seventy-nine hard-earned dollars at the table, and that made him so angry he
stormed out of the house without remembering to take home the food left over on the sideboard.
Drat that boy
, he thought, kicking the first lamppost he came to.
Drat him. Drat him. Drat him
.

CHAPTER 14

xcused from classes on Monday afternoon, Jacob Two-Two hurried over to Mr. Dinglebat's house, as instructed, and found him on the roof, feeding his carrier pigeons.

“At this stage in the operation,” said Mr. Dinglebat, “it is advisable to get to know your enemy, taking the measure of the man, catching him unawares, as it were.”

“Yes, sir,” said Jacob Two-Two.

“Agent-in-training Two-Two, we are going to pay the dreaded Mr. I.M. Greedyguts a visit in his lair.”

“Oh, no,” said Jacob Two-Two. “Oh, no.”

“Don't worry. He'll never recognize you.”

Mr. Dinglebat outfitted Jacob Two-Two with a fedora, dark glasses, a handlebar mustache, a T-shirt, jeans, and scuffed tennis shoes. Then he rubbed a mixture of beer and cigarette ash into their clothes. “It's the small details,” he said, “that have saved many a boy from being hanged by his thumbs, or from submitting to the Norwegian pickled herring torture.”

“What's that?” asked Jacob Two-Two.

“Better you don't know.”

A half-hour later the dreaded Mr I.M. Greedyguts was confronted by two men, one tall, one very short. Both wore fedoras, T-shirts, jeans, and scuffed tennis shoes. Both reeked of beer and tobacco. The taller of the two had a notebook in hand. The other one, no more than three feet tall, was weighed down with all manner of cameras and camera equipment.

Recognizing them for what they were, Mr. I.M. Greedyguts barred the door to his office. “I never speak to reporters from the
Daily Doze
,” he said, “and I must ask you to warn your editor that if he prints any lies about me and Miss Sour Pickle or the so-called slop I serve the boys for lunch here, I will sue for a
hundred million dollars in damages. Now out of here at once. I'm a very busy man.”

“You don't understand,
hombre
,” said Mr. Dinglebat. “We are from
Ginsburg's
, Canada's National Magazine. We're here because we're planning a cover story on the Outstanding School Headmaster of the Year. But if you're too busy to see us, we'll go quietly.”

“No, no, no. Please come in. Make yourselves comfortable, gentlemen,” said Mr. I.M. Greedyguts, and then he waddled over to sit down behind his desk.

There was a jar of jellybeans on his desk, a plate of assorted cheeses, and two foot-long Toblerone chocolate bars. The desk's surface was also covered with letters, bills, notes, and an opened diary.

“Something about the little fellow strikes me as familiar,” said the dreaded Mr. I.M. Greedyguts and, looking directly at Jacob Two-Two, he added, “Do I know you from somewhere?”

Jacob Two-Two gulped twice.

“Let me introduce you to Jacques Deux-Deux,” said Mr. Dinglebat, “two-time winner of the World's Best Midget Photographer Award.”

“Possibly,” said Mr. I.M. Greedyguts, “Mr. Deux-Deux and I met at Buckingham Palace, where I usually
take tea with Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth, when I'm in England.”

“I don't think so,” said Jacob Two-Two, remembering to say that only once.

Just then there was a knock at the door. It was a tearful Chris Lucas.

“What can I do for you, boy?” asked Mr. I.M. Greedyguts.

Between sobs, expecting the worst, Chris said, “Miss Sour Pickle asked me to report to you, sir. She says I was the one who wrote
MISS SOUR PICKLE IS A SQUEALER
on the blackboard.”

Mr. I.M. Greedyguts roared with forced laughter, his huge stomach heaving, his triple chins wobbling. “Think nothing of it, my boy, a good tease never hurt anybody.”

“I beg your pardon, sir?” said Chris, his eyes widening.

“Catch,” sang out Mr. I.M. Greedyguts, tossing him a large chunk of Toblerone chocolate. “And don't forget to come round for a game of ping-pong after classes.” Then he thrust the astonished Chris out of his office, whispering, “I'll settle with you later, you nasty little squirt.” Then he turned to Jacob Two-Two and Mr. Dinglebat, his smile sickeningly sweet. “I adore the kids here and they love me back like crazy. You ought to hear them at lunch. ‘Yummy, yummy, says my tummy.' ‘Three cheers for Mr. I.M. Greedyguts.' Etc. etc. etc.”

At this point, just as he had been instructed by Mr. Dinglebat, Jacob Two-Two slipped behind Mr. I.M. Greedyguts, pretending to take more pictures of him, but actually focusing his camera on the desk's surface.

“Would you mind if we interviewed some of the boys?” asked Mr. Dinglebat.

“Oh, no,” protested Mr. I.M. Greedyguts, mopping sweat from his brow. “You can't do that.”

“Why not?” demanded Jacob Two-Two. “Why not?”

“Because, Mr. Deux-Deux, I so cherish their love and respect I intend to keep it a private matter between us, and you guys can quote me on that.”

“Is it true,” asked Mr. Dinglebat, notepad in hand, “that you are the nephew of Senator Slimy ‘Freeloader' Greedyguts, multi-zillionaire chief benefactor of Privilege House and Chairman of the Board?”

“That's not why I got this job,” said Mr. I.M. Greedyguts.

“I never suggested such a thing,” said Mr. Dinglebat, “but what were your qualifications, exactly?”

“Love, love, love. I adore kids. I say, Deux-Deux, are you sure we haven't met somewhere before? There's something about you …”

Mr. Dinglebat stood up. “You understand this is only a preliminary interview. There are other candidates for the Out standing School Headmaster of the Year, you see.”

“If you selected me,” said Mr. I.M. Greedyguts, winking, “I'd be willing to show my appreciation, guys.”

“Are you suggesting a bribe?” asked Mr. Dinglebat, crossing his legs and aiming his shoe with the hollow heel, a tape recorder the size of a small bar of soap stuffed inside, directly at Mr. I.M. Greedyguts.

“Certainly not.”

“How much money were you thinking of?” asked Jacob Two-Two.

What a quick learner, thought Mr. Dinglebat, pleased with his apprentice spy.

“Ah,” said Mr. I.M. Greedyguts, “now you guys will be reasonable, won't you? I'm not a rich man.”

“We'll think it over,” said Mr. Dinglebat. “Oh, incidentally, you wouldn't happen to know of anyone interested in buying some Canadian military secrets, would you?”

“Buy one,” said Jacob Two-Two, “and get one free!”

“I don't understand,” said Mr. I.M. Greedyguts.

“Never mind. Forget it,” said Mr. Dinglebat. “Bye-bye for now.”

CHAPTER 15

he next night, Tuesday, was very special for Perfectly Loathsome Leo Louse and his mother. It was their
OFFICIAL SUPER-DOOPER TREASURE HUNT NIGHT
. The two of them, chortling away, stayed up after dark in the furnace room,
burning electricity
, going through the twenty bags of garbage collected from the ten apartments in their building, searching for used tea bags that could be redeemed, coffee grounds that could be recycled, refundable tin cans, and other treasures.

“Oh, lookee here, my sunshine,” exclaimed Perfectly Loathsome Leo's mother, “I just found a
toothpaste tube with a few more squeezes left in it. And, yippety-do-da, three razor blades that can be sharpened good as new, I'll betcha. And how are you doing, my angel?”

An unhappy Perfectly Loathsome Leo Louse moaned, “All I've got so far are some carrot peelings and onion skins, which will do nicely for tomorrow's soup.”

“And how about this, my sweetie?” squealed his triumphant mother, waving a leg-of-lamb bone at him.

Perfectly Loathsome Leo didn't respond.

“And, ring-a-ding, talk of winning the lottery,” she said, “here's a mayonnaise jar that hasn't been licked clean. Some people must think money grows on trees.”

“Uh-huh,” said an obviously glum Perfectly Loathsome Leo, his head hanging low.

“I've been looking forward to tonight for days,” said his mother, “and now you're ruining it for me.” Then, leaping out of her rocking chair, hoisting her skirts, she danced around her son, chanting, “Leo's a party-pooper! Leo's a party-pooper!”

“I am not!”

“Your heart of gold isn't in it tonight. And I hate to say this, honeychild, but you were not concentrating on your work this morning.”

“I was so.”

“I spied with my little eye somebody loading a bucket of sizzling, golden-brown French fries onto the truck …”

“Oh, no!”

“Somebody whose namesy-wamesy begins with the letter ‘L' forgot to have them soaked in ice-water first, to make them nice and soggy.”