The Case of the Golden Frog

The bungalow they wanted turned out to be the second one on the left.  There were lights on inside.  They mounted the small porch and Johnson pushed the bell.  He didn’t hear it ring so he gave the wooden border of the screen door a business-like series of raps.

At first, there was no response.  Then, from the bowels of the house, a measured clumping sound began.  The sound increased until the screen door began to vibrate; then it stopped.  The door opened and Richards and Johnson gaped at the figure looming before them.

The most descriptive word for Agnes Fleeve was “vast.”  Easily six feet tall, her massive figure filled the doorway and ballooned out of sight on both sides.  Little piggy eyes stared suspiciously at them.  Uncounted chins quivered as she spoke.  “Whaddya want?” her deep, fleshy voice rumbled, causing Richards’ and Johnson’s earlobes to quiver gently.

“Are you Agnes Fleeve?” inquired Johnson, trying to keep an incredulous tone out of his voice.

“Yeah.  Whaddya want?” surged forth and broke against them.

“A gentleman named White sent us here to transact a business matter with you,” Johnson replied, handing her one of their cards.

Fleeve’s fat-smothered eyes darted over the card and back and forth between them.  Expressions flitted across her corpulent face: suspicion, fear, uncertainty, and greed.  Greed must have won because a massive, jiggling arm reached up and unlocked the screen door.  “Come in,” she rumbled, backing up like a truck.

They stepped inside, Richards busily observing.  A quick glance showed him the living room with a small dining area at one end.  He decided that the decor, if the term was applicable, could best be described as “Early Carnival.”  Every shelf and available surface was cluttered with cheap plaster figurines like the economically-awarded prizes given for winning games of skill at fairs and carnivals before they switched to stuffed junk.  The furniture showed–he savored the pun–heavy use.

For the most part, however, he couldn’t take his eyes off Agnes Fleeve.  She was attired in several muumuus; at least, it looked like more than one had been stitched together because some of the patterns were jarringly discordant.  English fox hunting scenes collided with abstract art which, in turn, careened into what appeared to be a luau.  The entire ensemble was topped off, or more accurately bottomed off, by a pair of outsized, shaggy, blue carpet slippers.

And a little red ball.

Richards found himself absolutely fascinated with the ball.  It was just a straightforward little ball, possibly a toy for her dog or cat if she had one, but it was behaving in a most unusual manner.  When he first noticed it, the ball was nestled against one of Fleeve’s slippers.  He hadn’t paid any particular attention to it at that point but, after she had moved a few feet, he happened to look down and the ball was still nudging her slipper.  That was odd.  Was it stuck?

He watched as she moved again.  No, the ball wasn’t stuck to her slipper; it was staying where it was...no, it wasn’t; it was starting to move.  He gaped as the little red ball slowly began rolling, gradually picking up speed, until it bumped to a stop against Fleeve’s nearest foot.  Even allowing for the wooden floor, the implication was staggering.  He watched the ball go through its routine several more times and was convinced that his deduction was correct: it was downhill from any point in the room to where Agnes Fleeve was standing!

Fleeve walked across to the dining room table, the little red ball trailing merrily along behind her, and laid their card down near a wrapped package.  Richards nudged Johnson and pointed out the ball’s movement.  Johnson’s eyes bulged appropriately.

“What’s the matter?” heaved Fleeve nervously, seeing both of them staring at her feet.

“Huh?” responded Johnson, still transfixed.  “Uh...uh, nothing at all,” he recovered.

Fleeve was becoming increasingly edgy.  She backed up clumsily against the table.  “I don’t want no trouble,” she rasped.

Johnson stepped toward her, reaching into his coat for the envelope.  Startled by his unexpected advance, she tried to back away but the table prevented it.

Suddenly, Johnson made a wild grab at his waist.  The gun was slipping down into his pants.  He was too late; the revolver slid down his trouser leg and clunked onto the floor.  As luck would have it, the muzzle was pointed directly at Agnes Fleeve.

Nothing happened for a moment.  Then Fleeve’s eyes began to protrude.  Her face started turning red.  “Gaaa,” said Fleeve.  “Waaa,” said Fleeve.

Drool appeared at the corners of her mouth and began a rollercoaster ride down her chins.  Purple blotches formed on her red face.  “Guuck...guuck,” said Fleeve.

She began to turn blue.  Her pudgy hands plumped desperately at her fat-swaddled throat.  Then, arms outstretched and making ghastly noises, she staggered blindly toward them.