Once a year, Perfectly Loathsome Leo Louse and his mother went on their annual Spring Harvest Holiday. After the snows had melted, they rode through the neighboring mountain country to search the roadside ditches for empty deposit bottles that skiers had flung from their speeding cars the previous winter. They would ride in Perfectly Loathsome Leo’s truck, remembering to switch off the ignition and coast down all the hills, saving gas. It was the panel truck with the sign printed on both sides:
PERFECTLY ADORABLE LEO LOUSE’S SCHOOL MEALS GUARANTEED YUMMY BEYOND COMPARE
The secret of Perfectly Loathsome Leo Louse’s popularity with private schools was his discovery, early on, of their golden rule: the more expensive the school fees, the worse the food they served to the children. On Monday morning, Perfectly Loathsome Leo was still brooding about his losses at the poker table, which he blamed on Jacob Two-Two. That child swindler, that under-age cheat. But he found some comfort flitting about his enormous kitchen, preparing the day’s school lunches, with the help of his mother. Testing a spoonful of soup, spitting it out, he said, “This won’t do, Mumsy. It’s almost tolerable. Let’s fill a pail with stagnant dishwater, pour it in, and bring the broth to the boil again.”
“Oh, what a wonderful idea, my sweetums,” she said.
Dipping a finger into a tub of mashed potatoes, he growled, “Why, this tastes almost decent. Our reputation could be ruined!”
“Think of something,” she said.
“I’ve got it,” said Perfectly Loathsome Leo, and he fetched an emergency bucket of gray, almost raw potato lumps that he kept in the refrigerator, and emptied it into the tub. “Stir it well, Mumsy.”
“Hee hee hee,” she said, “you are a genius, my truly loathsome one.”
Ever watchful, Perfectly Loathsome Leo moved on to a stack of sausages. “Just as I feared,” he said, “these aren’t sufficiently greasy. Let’s drown these sausages in hot bacon fat, and cool the pile before delivery.”
“You know something, Perfectly Loathsome,” his mother cooed, “sometimes I wonder if I really deserve to have been blessed with such an enchanting son.”
Perfectly Loathsome Leo was delighted with his mother’s five-foot-long meat loaf. “One hundred and ten per cent terrific, Mumsy. You can actually taste the sawdust in it. Where’s it going?”
It was going to Privilege House, Jacob Two-Two’s school.
“Good-o!” exclaimed Perfectly Loathsome Leo. “Wonderful!” And he danced his mother round the kitchen.
But Perfectly Loathsome Leo’s joy was short-lived. That evening as he and his mother sat in the furnace room, counting their rent money for the umpteenth time, he again recalled his hard-earned ninety-seven-dollar loss at the card table, all because of Jacob Two-Two, and he began to moan and groan.
“Whatever can be the matter, precious one?” asked his mother.
“That Jacob Two-Two humiliated me. He made me look like a monkey in front of my friends. I lost all that money only because of him. How am I going to get my revenge?”
“You’ll think of something, my heart’s delight. Something mean mean mean. Mummykins is counting on you,” she cooed.
It was beginning to grow dark.
“But now we had better go tucky-byes, my snookums. Or else,” she said, her eyes filled with horror at the thought, “it will be time to switch on the lights. Burning electricity! WASTING MONEY!”
CHAPTER 13
urprise, surprise. After school that same Monday Jacob Two-Two had actually been invited into the CHILD POWER Command Tent.
“Good to see you,” said the intrepid Shapiro.
“Care for a swig of wine?” asked the fearless O’Toole, reaching for the bottle on the table.
“It’s only cranberry juice,” said Jacob Two-Two. “Tell us how you worked the Clairvoyant’s Gamble,” said the intrepid Shapiro.
“And CHILD POWER will help you at Privilege House.”
“I can’t,” said Jacob Two-Two. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a secret.”
“In that case, you are on your own,” said the fearless O’Toole, and he was invited to leave the tent.
It turned out to be a bad week all around. The school lunches, which were either tasteless, horrible, or disgusting, depending on the day of the week, were now absolutely vile, but at least he didn’t have to eat double portions any longer. One day it was fish pie, made more of skin and bones than anything else and paved with a crust you needed an axe to break. Another day it was spaghetti, all the strands stuck together, with a sauce that was obviously boiled ketchup. Miss Lapointe whispered to the boys at her table, “I have written a letter to the editor of the Daily Doze to complain about conditions here.”
“Will he do anything?” asked Mickey Horowitz.
“We can only hope,” said Miss Lapointe.
Meanwhile, the dreaded Mr. I.M. Greedyguts feasted on roast leg of lamb, or a side of poached salmon, or a mound of veal chops, passing on the bones to Miss Sour Pickle.
“Oh, you’re too kind, Your Excellency,” she would say, blushing.
Every afternoon after school an increasingly sad Jacob Two-Two stopped at his secret mail-drop on Mr. Dinglebat’s front lawn, made sure there were no watchers in sight, and then dug into the narrow slot in the maple tree, hoping for a message. Nothing was there. Finally, on Friday, he found a note:
XBD TO JTT:
FOR YOUR EYES ONLY
READ AND DESTROY
Friday afternoon. 1700 hours. Ottawa rules.
Jacob Two-Two immediately tore the note into tiny bits, dropping the pieces into two separate waste-bins, as he had been instructed. But he was confused. Ottawa rules, Moscow rules, Washington rules, all jumbled up in his head. Then he remembered that Ottawa rules meant the park. So, at the appointed time, he slipped out of the house and headed for the Ottawa-rules bench in the nearby park. An old tramp was already lying on the bench, snoring, the sports section of the Daily Doze spread over his face. “Wake up, Mr. Dinglebat,” said Jacob Two-Two, tugging at the big toe that stuck out of a torn running shoe. “Wake up, it’s me.”
“Darn it,” said Mr. Dinglebat, “I was sure I could fool you with this get-up.”
“Where have you been all week?” asked Jacob Two-Two twice.
“Since you last saw me, dear boy, I have met with a lady called Martha on Prince Edward Island, and conferred with Prince Edward on Martha’s Vineyard. A master spy’s work is never done.”
“Gosh,” said Jacob Two-Two.
“Now I have hit upon a plan that will be the undoing of both the unspeakable Mr. Louse and the dreaded Mr. Greedyguts. You had better read this,” said Mr. Dinglebat, handing him a sheet of paper.
It was a note to Miss Lapointe, written by Mr. Dinglebat but signed with the name of Dr. Magnum Frankenstein, a dentist, excusing Jacob Two-Two from classes on Monday afternoon.
“I hope you’re not expecting me to hand this in at school,” said Jacob Two-Two, alarmed.
“Yours not to reason why,” said Mr. Dinglebat.
“But if my mother ever found out, I could get into bad trouble,” said Jacob Two-Two. “I could get into bad trouble.”
“Trouble is our business, amigo. Monday afternoon we’re going on what is known in our trade as a fishing expedition. But, don’t worry, I’ll have you outside Privilege House in time for your mother to pick you up.”
“Where to?” asked Jacob Two-Two. “Where to?”
“Time will tell.”
“And what’s your plan of action?” asked Jacob Two-Two.
Mr. Dinglebat frowned. “Remember what I told you about ‘need to know’?”
“In advance of a dangerous mission,” recited Jacob Two-Two, “a spy is told only what he needs to know, nothing more, so that if he is captured by the enemy, and tortured, he cannot reveal vital information.”
“See you anon,” said Mr. Dinglebat, leaping up from the bench and starting home, walking backwards.
“Keep out of my way tonight, you little cheater,” he said. “You’re bad luck.”
Perfectly Loathsome Leo was greeted with guffaws at the card table.
“Don’t you want to place another bet with Jacob before we start?” Jacob Two-Two’s father asked him.
“Just deal the cards,” said Perfectly Loathsome Leo Louse, his face burning red.
“I dunno,” said one of the players. “If I were you I’d phone the Clairvoyant before placing any bets.”
Everybody laughed.
“Well, I can handle my own cards,” said Perfectly Loathsome Leo, and then he saw Jacob Two-Two enter the room. Brat, he muttered to himself.
“Hey, Jake,” one of the players called out, “pull up a chair. Leo looks like he’s going to need help.”
“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 ni
ght, 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!”
Jacob Two-Two-'S First Spy Case Page 4
