1981 - Hand Me a Fig Leaf Read Free Page B

the three steps, pushed open the door and entered a small, air-conditioned office. I hastily closed the door before the stench in the yard could invade.
    The man at the desk gave me a friendly smile. He was around forty-six, then, with thinning black hair and sharp features.
    "What can I do for you?" he asked, getting to his feet. He offered his hand. "Harry Weatherspoon."
    "Dirk Wallace," I said, shaking hands. "Mr. Weatherspoon, I'm here to waste a link of your time, but I hope you will be indulgent."
    His smile widened, but his small, shrewd eyes regarded me speculatively.
    "Right now, Mr. Wallace, I have time. In half an hour, I'll be busy, but at this moment I am digesting lunch, so take a seat and tell me what's on your mind."
    We sat down.
    "I work for an agency that collects information for writers and journalists," I said, using the never-failing cover story. "I'm the guy who feeds them with facts. They write up the facts and make millions. I don't." I gave him a rueful smile.
    "So, I'm investigating the background of Mitch Jackson, oar national hero, his father and frogs as an important magazine is planning to do a feature on Mitch."
    He scratched his thinning pate.
    "I would have thought that was stale news. There's been a lot written about Mitch Jackson."
    "Well, you know how it is, Mr. Weatherspoon. I'm looking for a new angle."
    He shrugged.
    "Well, I can tell you about frogs, but I have never met Mitch Jackson. From what I've heard, I'm not sorry. Now, frogs. You notice the smell? Well, you get used to it. Frogs are smelly and live in smelly places. Frog-legs or saddles as we call them in the trade, bring high prices. Personally, I don't like them, but, served in a garlic sauce, there are a lot of wealthy people who do like them. It's quite a flourishing industry. Here, we collect from the frog-fanners, process and sell to restaurants." He leaned back in his chair and I could see by his animated expression frogs were close to his heart. “The trick, of course, is to catch the frogs. Happily, that's not my headache. Now, Fred Jackson has been, for thirty years, our best supplier, not only in quantity, but now I don't rely on him so much. He's getting old . . . aren't we all?"
    He favoured me with another wide smile. "Frog-farmers work this way: they find the right kind of land with swamp and ponds and either rent it or buy. Fred Jackson was smart. He bought his land years ago for next to nothing. Frogs live on insects. Breeders, like Jackson, throw rotten meat around the pond. The meat attracts blowflies. Frogs like blowflies. While they are catching blowflies, the fanners catch them. Jackson is an expert. Not satisfied with a daylight catch, he's installed electric light around his ponds to attract moths and bugs. So the frogs also eat at night and Jackson is there to catch them. A female frog lays anything from ten to thirty thousand eggs a year. Ninety days later, tadpoles arrive. It takes two years before a frog is fit to eat." He smiled again. "Lecture over."
    "Thank you," I said. "That's just what I want." I paused, then went on, "You tell me that you never met Mitch Jackson, and yet you said, in spite of him being a national hero, you're not sorry. Would you explain that?" He looked a little shifty, then shrugged.
    "You should understand, Mr. Wallace, I am not a native of this town. It has taken me some time to get accepted. I bought a partnership with Morgan who retired and has lately died. I run this business. Mitch Jackson has a big reputation here because he won the medal, so I wouldn't want to be quoted. The kids here adore his memory, so what I'll tell you is strictly off the record."
    "No problem," I said. "You don't get mentioned if that's what you want."
    "That's what I want." He stared hard at me, then continued, "I came to Searle after Mitch Jackson had died. I heard plenty about him. The natives had been scared of him. According to them he had been a vicious thug, hut, when he won the medal,