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:
ONCE IN A LIFETIME OFFER
BUY ONE CANADIAN MILITARY SECRET
GET ONE FREE!!!
Write to X. Barnaby Dinglebat
Master Spy
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:
“Abracadabra,
kalamazoo,
let’s have some cash,
to treat Jacob Two-Two.”
Next he told Jacob Two-Two to close his eyes and count to ten backwards, and, when Jacob opened his eyes again, Mr. Dinglebat was holding a handful of money. “Holy mackerel,” said Mr. Dinglebat, “c’est vraiment incroyable! It’s wunderbar! Magnifico! We now possess sufficient loot to hire a charabanc to transport us to Schwartz’s delicatessen on the roaring Main, and get us some piping-hot, luscious smoked-meat sandwiches on rye, with golden French fries and sour pickles on the side. But first, amigo,” he said, pointing to the phone, “you must phone your mater to request permission to accompany me on this expedition.”
Jacob Two-Two’s mother said it was okay, so he and Mr. Dinglebat took a taxi to Schwartz’s and walked backwards together through the front door, just in case they were being followed by enemy agents, who would then think they were leaving, rather than entering.
Only after they had eaten their fill did Mr. Dinglebat notice that Jacob Two-Two seemed sad. “You appear triste, compañero mio,” he said. “Down in the mouth. Out of sorts. What ails you, dear boy?”
“Tonight’s the night of my father’s weekly poker game.”
“Surely you wouldn’t deny your esteemed papa an evening’s amusement?”
“It’s not that,” said Jacob Two-Two. “It means Perfectly Loathsome Leo Louse will be coming to our house.”
“I take it you are not favorably disposed to this gentleman?”
Jacob Two-Two explained that Perfectly Loathsome Leo was always playing nasty tricks on him and, furthermore, he had recently been hired by Privilege House’s new headmaster, the dreaded Mr. I.M. Greedyguts, to provide their school lunches. And those lunches were either tasteless, horrible, or disgusting, depending on the day of the week. “Robby, Chris, Mickey, and I told our parents about it,” said Jacob Two-Two, “but they either laughed, or said we were lucky to be at such an expensive school, or said we were exaggerating. But we aren’t. Honestly.”
“I see.”
“If only a man like you, a real master spy, could help us to do something about it, Mr. Dinglebat, why I would mow your lawn every week and run errands for you.”
“If we are going to mount an operation to do something about your school meals, it will require some thought. Some advance planning.”
“Then you will help us, Mr. Dinglebat!”
“I’ll think about it. But, meanwhile, mon vieux, I hope you realize that it is not for nothing that your friend is internationally renowned, feared by villains in Europe, Asia, America North and South, and the East Near and Far. Let me tell you how I once escaped the death of a thousand cuts that was to be administered by the Sultan of Morocco’s personal guard. There I was, tied hand and foot, watching the swordsmen sharpen their weapons, when the sultan asked, ‘Any last words, Dinglebat?’ ‘Sultan,’ I said, ‘if I were to put in your hands a trick that would enable you to win sacks of gold, as well as amaze your friends, if you have any, would you spare my life?’ ‘Yes,’ he said. So I taught him how to play the Clairvoyant’s Gamble, and here I am to tell the tale.”
“What’s a clair-voy-ant?” asked Jacob Two-Two twice.
“It’s somebody who can see things concealed from the sight of ordinary mortals, and it’s by playing the Clairvoyant’s Gamble, Jacob, that you will make Perfectly Loathsome Leo Louse look foolish tonight.”
“How?” asked Jacob Two-Two, eager for revenge, no matter what the risk. “How?”
Lowering his voice to a whisper, Mr. Dinglebat explained.
“But what if it doesn’t work?” asked Jacob Two-Two.
“It’s fail-safe, 100-per-cent guaranteed, my dear boy.”
“I could get nervous and mix things up.”
“But it is also a gamble.”
“I’m scared.”
“Good. Because no secret agent worthy of his name ever went into action without being frightened. Now we will practice the procedures together all the way home. Okay?”
“Okay. Okay.”
“And then, Jacob, do as I instruct you, and we shall prevail tonight. Promise?”
“Promise,” said Jacob Two-Two, gulping twice. He was worried, very worried, because he was still a little boy who never got anything right. Ask Noah. Ask Emma.
Ask anybody.
