Jacob Two-Two-'s First Spy Case (9 page)

“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.

“Whatever,” 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