Jacob Two-Two-'S First Spy Case Page 5

  “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.”

  “It won’t happen again. I swear it won’t.”

  “Come sit on Mumsy’s lap, honeybunch, and tell me why you’re feeling so blue.”

  Perfectly Loathsome Leo snuggled into her lap. “It’s that Jacob Two-Two,” he wailed. “Because of him I’ve lost money at the poker table for two weeks in a row. I’ve got to figure out a way to fix him.”

  “Does his family love him?”

  “Love that little card cheat? They spoil him rotten.”

  “Then you’ve got to trick him into doing something that will make his daddy punish him.”

  “Yes. But what?”

  “You’ll think of something, my only port in a storm, my bundle of joy, but now we had better turn down the thermostat on the furnace, to save some money, and hit the hay.”

  Perfectly Loathsome Leo Louse retreated to his room and was soon fast asleep in spite of the cold. But at one a.m. he wakened with a start and, popping his thumb out of his mouth, shouted, “Eureka! I’ve got it! Jacob Two-Two’s goose is cooked!”

  He rolled out of bed, got into his overcoat, and tiptoed to the phone. He dialed the police station’s emergency number, put on a little boy’s voice, and said twice, “This is Jacob Two-Two speaking. I wish to report an armed robbery in progress …”

  CHAPTER 16

  arlier that evening, Miss Sour Pickle, wearing her favorite ballroom gown, had entertained the dreaded Mr. I.M. Greedyguts. She had invited him to a candlelit dinner in her apartment. Setting an enormous rib roast of beef on a platter before him, and a bucket of baked potatoes alongside, she called out, “Bon appétit,” and waited to be served.

  Mr. I.M. Greedyguts sliced off a sliver of beef, not much thicker than a Kleenex tissue, flung it at her, and then lifted the roast off the platter and began to dig in, growling with pleasure. Between bites, even as hot fat dribbled down his chins, he allowed, “You may now call me Isadore or Monty or both, for those are my given names.”

  Miss Sour Pickle, thrilled by the privilege she had just been granted, replied, “And my name is Natasha.”

  Working his way through the rib roast in no time, gnawing every last morsel on the bones, Mr. I.M. Greedyguts wiped his greasy mouth on Miss Sour Pickle’s best white linen tablecloth, blew his nose into his linen napkin, and barked, “That was delish. Absolutely fab. Now be a good girl and bring on the main course, will you, Nat?”

  “But I’m afraid that was the main course, Monty.”

  “No kidding,” said Mr. I.M. Greedyguts, frowning.

  “Would you care for some cheese? Or some chocolate mints, perhaps?”

  “Both. Right now.”

  Mr. I.M. Greedyguts left just after midnight, enabling him to get to his favorite late-night delicatessen before it closed, so that he could relieve his hunger pangs. Miss Sour Pickle, now that she was alone, could indulge in her secret passion: ice hockey.

  She had taped that evening’s game, Montreal Canadiens vs. the Boston Bruins, but before slipping the tape into her vcr, she hurried into her bedroom and, as was her habit on such occasions, got into her Montreal Canadiens uniform, including a helmet, laced on her skates, fetched her hockey stick out of a closet, fished a six-pack of beer out of the fridge, and then settled into an easy chair in front of her TV set. No sooner did her beloved Canadiens skate out onto the ice than she hollered, “GO, HABS, GO! GO HABS, GO!”

  The first period was scrambly, not to her taste, but early in the second period there was some exciting action at last. Patrice Brisebois, a Canadiens defenseman, speared Raymond Bourque of Boston. “ATTA BOY,” shouted Miss Sour Pickle, banging her hockey stick against the floor. “TEACH HIM A LESSON, PAT!”

  The two players dropped their gloves and began to slug it out. Leaping out of her chair, waving her stick at the TV set, an enthralled Miss Sour Pickle yelled, “SMASH HIM, PAT. PULVERIZE HIM! KNOCK HIS TEETH OUT!”

  Which is exactly when three policemen knocked down her door and spilled into her living room, the first one tumbling head over heels, the second tripping and sent sprawling by the third. All three of them were brandishing revolvers.

  A terrified Miss Sour Pickle began to scream.

  “Don’t worry, lady,” said the first policeman, retreating a step.

  “You’re safe now,” said the second, the hand that held his revolver shaking.

  “J-j-just tell us w-w-where the r-r-r-robbers are,” said the third.

  “What robbers?” asked Miss Sour Pickle, cowering in a corner.

  “I hope they’re not too big,” said the first policeman.

  “Or rough,” said the second.

  “Or tough,” said the third.

  “I don’t understand,” said Miss Sour Pickle.

  “I’m Law,” said the first policeman.

  “I’m Order,” said the second.

  “And I,” said the third, “am the Officer-in-Charge. Go to it, men!”

  Law, muttering a prayer to himself, entered the bedroom. “Nobody in there,” he said, emerging, and collapsing onto a chair.

  Order tiptoed into the kitchen. “Or in here,” he said, coming out again.

  “In that case,” said the Officer-in-Charge, “I think I’ll sit down.”

  “This is an outrage!” protested Miss Sour Pickle. “I demand to know what’s going on here!”

  “We are responding,” said Law.

  “– to an emergency call,” said Order.

  “– that reported an armed robbery in progress in your apartment,” said the Officer-in-Charge.

  “Well, I certainly made no such call,” said Miss Sour Pickle.

  Wearily the Officer-in-Charge flipped open his notebook and read aloud: “‘This is Jacob Two-Two speaking,’ said the caller twice. ‘I wish to report an armed robbery in progress at the home of my beloved geography teacher, Miss Sour Pickle. Her address is 3427 Bile Street. You may have to break down her door, but never mind. So long as you hurry. Hurry, please!’”

  “He said that, did he?” asked Miss Sour Pickle.

  “Yes,” said Law.

  “He did,” said Order.

  “Why, that Jacob Two-Two,” said Miss Sour Pickle, “just wait until I get my hands on him.”

  “Hey, that’s some outfit you’ve got on,” said the Officer-in-Charge.

  “And it isn’t,” said Law.

  “– even,” said Order.

  “– Hallowe’en,” said the Officer-in-Charge.

  “The fact is,” said Miss Sour Pickle, “I have just returned from a costume party. And you have been misled. There are no robbers here. Now I will thank you to replace my door as best you can before you leave. Good night, gentlemen.”

  “Good,” said Law.

  “– night,” said Order.

  “– Ma’am,” said the Officer-in-Charge.

  CHAPTER 17

  he next morning a joyful, giggly Perfectly Loathsome Leo Louse phoned Jacob Two-Two’s father. “Greetings,” he said, “just calling to make sure we’re playing poker as usual Friday night.”

  “Sorry,” said Jacob Two-Two’s father. “I can’t talk now. Have to run.”

  “Nothing wrong, I hope,” said Perfectly Loathsome Leo, hard put to contain his glee.

  “I’m not sure. But Mr. I.M. Greedyguts wants us to report to his office with Jacob Two-Two at nine sharp this morning.”

  “Oh dear,” said Perfectly Loathsome Leo Louse, “I hope Jacob hasn’t done something very, very bad.”

  “So do I,” said Jacob Two-Two’s father.

  “Whate
ver,” said Perfectly Loathsome Leo, “you mustn’t be too hard on little Jacob. He’s such a lovely boy,” and then he hung up. Certainly that stinker Jacob Two-Two will be punished, he thought. The police will be on the case now. Maybe he will even have to appear in juvenile court. Oh boy! Oh boy! he thought, and he was so excited he had to go and pee immediately.

  CHAPTER 18

  obble, gobble, gobble. An enraged Mr. I.M. Greedyguts, breathing fire, zipped through breakfast in his office at a record pace: a stack of lamb chops, six scrambled eggs, hash browns, and croissants were washed down with a family-sized bottle of Coca-Cola, and were followed by two chocolate éclairs topped with three scoops of strawberry ice cream. “I’m so upset this morning,” he said, glaring at Jacob Two-Two’s parents, “that I’ve lost my appetite.”

  “I can see that,” said Jacob Two-Two’s father.

  “You don’t understand,” said Mr. I.M. Greedyguts. “I woke up with my stomach rumbling, because I had to go without a decent dinner last night.”

  “Why, Monty,” said an aggrieved Miss Sour Pickle, “how could you?”

  “Sorry. Forgot. Don’t know what I was saying. But now I’m bound to suffer from indigestion for the rest of the day.”

  “No wonder,” said Jacob Two-Two’s mother.

  Mr. I.M. Greedyguts belched twice, farted once, and then pointed a finger thick as a sausage at Jacob Two-Two. “All because this hoodlum,” he said, “this criminal born and bred, sneaked out of his bed after midnight last night, phoned the police, and was responsible for a SWAT team hitting Miss Sour Pickle’s apartment.”

  Miss Sour Pickle wiped tears from her eyes. “There I was in my nightie,” she said, “when they broke down my door.”

  “This poor, dedicated woman,” said the dreaded Mr. I.M. Greedyguts. “This dear soul could have died of a heart attack, and that stinker, your son, would have been guilty of cold-blooded, premeditated, first-, second-, third-, or fourth-degree murder. How about that?”

  “I didn’t do it,” said Jacob Two-Two. “I didn’t do it.”

  “Liar, liar, liar!” shouted Mr. I.M. Greedyguts, banging his fist against his desk.

  “Now hold on a minute,” said Jacob Two-Two’s father.

  “If Jacob Two-Two says he didn’t do it,” said his mother, “he didn’t do it.”

  “You would say that, being his mother,” said Mr. I.M. Greedyguts.

  “Our children were brought up to tell the truth, no matter what,” said Jacob Two-Two’s mother.

  “Fiddlesticks,” said Miss Sour Pickle. “Stuff and nonsense. I expect you to pay for my new door, and the treatment prescribed by my doctor to deal with my state of shock.”

  “And what did your doctor prescribe?” asked Jacob Two-Two’s father.

  “A round-the-world cruise,” said Miss Sour Pickle, “where I could kick up my heels on long nights, dancing the boog-a-loo, the boogie-woogie, the conga, and the tango, and, of course,” she said, smoothing her tartanplaid skirt, “improve my knowledge of geography.”

  “But I didn’t do it!” said Jacob Two-Two. “It was somebody pretending to be me.”

  “Blah blah blah,” said Mr. I.M. Greedyguts. “You will stay in after school for the next two months to wash blackboards, clean toilets, sweep the schoolyard, and perform other necessary chores.”

  “But what if he’s innocent?” asked Jacob Two-Two’s mother.

  “Furthermore,” said Mr. I.M. Greedyguts, looking directly at Jacob Two-Two’s father, “I expect you to punish him in a proper manner at home. If you don’t own a strap, I can lend you mine. Wham, wham, wham!”

  “Look here,” said Jacob Two-Two’s father, “We don’t need your advice about how to bring up our children.” Then, turning to Jacob, he said, “Jake, would you leave the room, please. I would like to have a word with your esteemed headmaster.”

  Jacob did as he was asked.

  “A round-the-world cruise,” sang out Miss Sour Pickle, “where I could dance the cha-cha-cha, the jig, the fox-trot, the can-can, the polka, the lindy-hop, and rock ’n’ roll by the light of the silvery moon with the man of my dreams.”

  Mr. I.M. Greedyguts blushed.

  “Look here, Miss Sour Pickle,” said Jacob Two-Two’s father, “if you are intent on a round-the-world cruise, you had better start saving your pennies, because I wouldn’t even consider paying your taxi fare to the ship. As for you, Greedyguts, let me tell you Jacob may be many things, but stupid isn’t one of them. Has it ever occurred to you that if he were to make such a phone call he is far too bright to have given the police his name?”

  “All the evidence points to your son as the guilty party.”

  “Okay,” said Jacob Two-Two’s father, “let’s say, for the sake of argument, that Jacob did make that phone call, not that I’m admitting it for a minute … but weren’t you ever a mischievous little boy?”

  “Why, when I was a shining morning face, I never played with anything but educational toys. I didn’t read comic books, or even waste time watching hockey games on television.”

  “Which have become increasingly violent,” said Miss Sour Pickle in a disapproving voice, “setting a bad example.”

  “The report I brought home from school every month had a gold star pasted to it. I was a Queen’s Scout. I won the Junior Red Cross Hygiene Badge. I never ate with my elbows on the table, or peed on the toilet seat, or stuck out my tongue at the school headmaster behind his back.”

  “I caught your son at it,” said Miss Sour Pickle to Jacob Two-Two’s father.

  “And, as an adult, I’m proud to say, I have never indulged in bad language, tobacco, or hard liquor. I don’t even jaywalk. I floss my teeth every morning without fail. And now, if you don’t mind, I am a very busy headmaster. Case dismissed.”

  “Before I’m through with you, Greedyguts, you’re the one who may be dismissed.”

  “Oh, yeah. What for?”

  “For not being qualified to have children entrusted to your care.”

  “Ha ha ha. Ho ho ho. You just happen to be looking at a man who will shortly be featured on the cover of Ginsburg’s, Canada’s National Magazine, named Outstanding School Headmaster of the Year. And now, will you please leave my office at once?”

  “I will,” said Jacob Two-Two’s father. “But you’ll be hearing from me.”

  CHAPTER 19

  hat afternoon, Jacob was picked up from school by a neighbor, as previously arranged by his parents, who were watching Noah in a basketball game at his school. There, waiting in front of Jacob Two-Two’s house, reading comic books, were three policemen.

  “I’m Law,” said one.

  “I’m Order,” said another.

  “And I,” said the third, his chest thrust forward, “am the Officer-in-Charge.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Jacob Two-Two. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “And you, you little squirt,” said Law.

  “– must be the notorious Jacob Two-Two,” said Order.

  “Confess.”

  “Admit it.”

  “Don’t you dare deny it,” said the Officer-in-Charge.

  “But I didn’t. I didn’t,” said Jacob Two-Two.

  “You are charged,” said Law.

  “– with interrupting our beauty rest last night,” said Order.

  “And making a phone call,” said the Officer-in-Charge, “that required us to go out on a wild-goose chase, breaking into Miss Sour Pickle’s apartment. That is a criminal offense.”

  “I didn’t make that phone call!” said Jacob Two-Two twice.

  “A likely,” said Law.

  “– story,” said Order.

  “And in due course,” said the Officer-in-Charge, “you may be obliged …”

  “– to appear in juvenile court,” said Law.

  “– before Mr. Justice Rough,” said Order.

  “– who believes that all children,” said the Officer-in-Charge.

  “– are guilty,” said Law.

>   “– unless proven,” said Order.

  “– innocent,” said the Officer-in-Charge.

  “When my father comes home,” said a frightened Jacob Two-Two, “I’m going to tell him everything you said.”

  A sudden change came over Law, Order, and the Officer-in-Charge.

  “Why, you pint-sized criminal,” said Law, turning pale, “are you …”

  “– threatening us?” asked Order, retreating a step.

  “He sure is,” said the Officer-in-charge, “and that’s not very nice.”

  “It’s horrid.”

  “Shame on you.”

  “Bully.”

  Emboldened, Jacob Two-Two pointed at the first car to turn the corner. “There comes my bad-tempered, mean, two-fisted father right now,” he said.

  “It’s every man for himself,” said the Officer-in-Charge.

  And Law, Order, and the Officer-in-Charge raced for their car, stumbling, leading with the elbows, shoving, and pinching, each one trying to get into the driver’s seat.

  “It’s my turn to drive,” said Law, kicking Order in the shin.

  “No, it’s mine,” said Order, pulling Law’s cap down over his eyes.

  “Forget it,” said the Officer-in-Charge, bopping both of them over the head with his nightstick. “I will be driving.”

  And Law, Order, and the Officer-in-Charge stumbled into their car and were about to drive off, when Jacob Two-Two rapped on the window.

  “What is it now?” asked the Officer-in-Charge, lowering his window.

  “According to every police TV show I’ve ever seen,” said Jacob Two-Two, “if an emergency call is made to the station, a record is made of the phone number the call came from.”

  “Are you trying to teach us,” asked Law.

  “– our own business?” said Order.

  “Smarty-pants,” said the Officer-in-Charge, and then the car roared off, brakes squealing.

  But they had only gone a couple of blocks when the Officer-in-Charge said, “Maybe we should look into it.”

  “Tomorrow,” said Law, yawning.

  “Or the day after,” said Order, beginning to snore in the back seat.