Jacob Two-Two-'s First Spy Case (5 page)

The next afternoon, in fact, they wandered as far as his father's old neighborhood, which Noah had once described as
DADDY'S HARD TIMES TOUR
, a trip each child in the family had to endure at least once, obliged only to say “oooh” or “aaah” at the right moments. Now Jacob Two-Two told his father that in the week since the dreaded Mr. I.M. Greedyguts had been appointed headmaster of Privilege House, the lunches they had to eat were either tasteless, horrible,
or downright disgusting, and sometimes all three, and he went on to describe a few.

“Aw,” said Jacob Two-Two's father, “you only feel that way because your mother cooks such delicious meals for us. It can't be that bad.”

“But it is,” said Jacob Two-Two. “It is.”

“Why when I was your age, the school I attended didn't even serve lunch to the children. No sirree. I had to get up in the wintry dark, shake out the ice that had formed on my blanket during the night, and make my own lunch. Usually a lettuce sandwich made with one-day-old bread, which my mother could buy more cheaply than fresh bread.”

“Oooh,” said Jacob Two-Two. “Oooh.”

“And sometimes,” said his father, “I had to share that stale bread sandwich with boys who were even poorer than we were.”

“Aaah,” said Jacob Two-Two. “Aaah.”

“You see that building over there?” said his father, pausing to blow his nose. “It's the Stuart Biscuit Company. When I was your age, they used to let us in a side door, where we could buy a bag of broken biscuits for two cents, and sometimes a couple of us chipped in to buy a bag.”

“Oooh,” said Jacob Two-Two. “Oooh.”

On the next street Jacob Two-Two's father said, “In winter, we used to play street hockey out here, using a piece of coal for a puck, because that's all we could afford.”

“Aaah,” said Jacob Two-Two. “Aaah.”

“And when the game was over, we'd fight over who got to keep the piece of coal, which could be added to the furnace fires that kept our homes from freezing. Now, you, on the other hand, are lucky enough to attend the most expensive private school in town. So I don't want to hear any more complaints about your lunches. As it happens, they are prepared by my old schoolfriend Perfectly Loath-some Leo Louse, who enjoys an excellent reputation as a cook.”

When they got home Jacob Two-Two took his problem to his mother.

“Well now,” she said, opening the oven to test a baked potato, “you must remember that the starving children of Africa would be grateful for any kind of school lunch. And isn't it possible that you're exaggerating, darling, if only just a little?”

“No, I'm not. I'm not.”

“Jake, if I talk to you any more now, our dinner will burn.”

So Jacob Two-Two raced to the
CHILD POWER
Command Tent in the backyard to consult with the dynamic duo, Noah and Emma, alias the fearless O'Toole and the intrepid Shapiro.

“What did you bring us?” asked Emma, blocking the entrance.

“A problem,” said Jacob Two-Two, pushing past her. “A problem.” And then he told them about it.

“
CHILD POWER
is overwhelmed with problems these days,” said the fearless O'Toole, alias Noah.

“Busy, busy, busy,” said the intrepid Shapiro, alias Emma.

“We have a report of a babysitter who raids refrigerators and then blames it on the kids left in her charge.”

“Then there's the case of the apartment building that won't rent to families whose kids keep rabbits, gerbils, snakes, cats, hamsters, canaries, dogs, or other pets.”

“But I'm your brother,” said Jacob Two-Two. “My problem should come first.”

“If you don't care for your school lunches why don't
you
do something about it?”

“Me?” Jacob Two-Two asked, startled. “But I'm so little.”

“We will only help you once you've learned to help yourself,” said the fearless O'Toole.

“You're no longer a baby,” said the intrepid Shapiro.

There was only one thing for it now, thought Jacob Two-Two. He would have to take his problem to his new friend, Mr. Dinglebat. But as he approached the house next door, he noticed a huge yellow balloon tied to the trunk of the maple tree on the front lawn. That meant Mr. Dinglebat was away on a secret and undoubtedly dangerous mission, and there was no saying when he would return.
Whatever am I going to do?
thought Jacob Two-Two, trudging home for dinner.
Whatever am I going to do?

CHAPTER 9

he next morning at Privilege House, Miss Sour Pickle caught Jacob Two-Two daydreaming during geography class. Sneaking up behind him, she demanded, “Jacob Two-Two, I want you to tell me the names of the capital cities of Fiji, Taiwan, and Liberia before I count to five. Onetwothreefourfive.”

“Don't know,” said Jacob Two-Two twice.

“In that case, you will stay in for an hour after school today,” she said, smiling sweetly.

Hiding behind a locker about an hour later, Mr. I.M. Greedyguts saw Mickey Horowitz reach into his
jacket pocket to unwrap a bagel smothered in cream cheese. Mickey was just about to bite into it when the headmaster pounced. “Mustn't spoil your appetite for lunch,” he said, snatching it away and popping it into his own mouth.

At lunch, Mr. I.M. Greedyguts rose from his multi-pillowed throne at the head table, burped loudly, wiped his three wobbly chins on his sleeve, and called out, “What do we say before we start pigging it, boys?”

“
THREE CHEERS FOR MR. I.M. GREEDYGUTS, FROM WHOM ALL GOOD THINGS FLOW!
” they chorused back.

For lunch the boys were served soup made from hot water poured over a carrot, followed by rubbery chicken legs with boiled potatoes that were raw in the middle and, for dessert, gluey rice pudding; and Jacob Two-Two was served two portions of each, which just about made him sick to his stomach.

“Poor Jacob,” said Miss Lapointe.

Meanwhile, Mr. I.M. Greedyguts devoured a whole roast turkey with chestnut stuffing, washed down with a bottle of champagne, and followed by an entire cheesecake. Staggering to his feet, yawning, he said, “I am not to be disturbed for the next hour,” and then he waddled out of the dining hall.

At three o'clock Mr I.M. Greedyguts came upon Chris Lucas reaching into his locker for a can of Coca-Cola. “I'll take that,” said Mr. I.M. Greedyguts, gulping it down.

When Jacob Two-Two got home that day, his stomach still aching, he was told that a letter had arrived for him. The envelope was empty, just as he expected. But, with Marfa's help, he heated a kettle and steamed the stamp off the envelope. Then he was able to read the secret message underneath. “Back Friday. X. Barnaby Dinglebat, Master Spy.”

CHAPTER 10

hen Jacob Two-Two's mother pulled into their driveway on Friday afternoon, after driving him home from school, Jacob was delighted to notice not six, but five pineapples set out on Mr. Dinglebat's front doorstep. “I'm going to visit Mr. Dinglebat now, Mummy,” he said.

“Are you sure he won't mind your dropping in just like that?”

“Oh yes, I'm sure.”

Poor Mr. Dinglebat was in a state. He had, he told Jacob Two-Two, recently invested a good deal of money in buying Canadian military secrets, and
now he was stuck with them. “No customers,” he said.

Mr. Dinglebat showed Jacob Two-Two the ad he had placed in
The Certified Snooper's Monthly Journal
:

But there were no offers. “Not even a nibble,” said Mr. Dinglebat. “But, fortunately, my dear boy, I have another source of funds. Wait for me here.”

Mr. Dinglebat retreated into his dressing room and, when he emerged again, he was wearing an Afro wig, an earring, mirrored sunglasses, a sheepskin vest, numerous gold chains, purple trousers, and yellow platform shoes. “In this outfit,” he said, “nobody will give me a second look downtown, and that's where we're headed. I can now safely join the passing parade, where I will appear to be merely another misunderstood, unappreciated teenager, who is getting no satisfaction, to quote the teenagers' great poet, Mr. Mick Jagger.”

They walked as far as the Royal Bank of Canada building on Sherbrooke Street. “Is there anybody following us?” whispered Mr. Dinglebat.

“No.”

“Are you sure, Jacob?”

“Yes.”

“Are there no unmarked police patrol cars or low-flying army helicopters in sight?”

“No.”

“Come with me, then, dear boy. Quickly!”

They entered the bank's lobby.

“You see this thing there?” said Mr. Dinglebat. “That's my personal, top-secret, state-of-the-art, money-making machine. Watch this.”

Mr. Dinglebat turned around three times, clapped his hands twice, stood on his head, kicking his heels, then righted himself and inserted a plastic card into the machine, punched out some numbers, and recited: