Paddington Here and Now (2 page)

“Examiners are funny that way,” said the policeman. “Bears like you are a menace to other road users.”

“Oh, I never go on the road,” said Paddington. “Not unless I have to. I always stick to the sidewalk.”

The policeman gave him a long, hard look. He seemed to have grown older in the short time Paddington had been there. “You do realize,” he said, “that I could throw the book at you.”

“I hope you don’t,” said Paddington earnestly. “I’m not very good at catching things. It isn’t easy with paws.”

The policeman looked nervously over his shoulder before reaching into his back pocket.

“Talking of paws,” he said casually, as he came around to the front of the counter. “Would you mind holding yours out in front of you?”

Paddington did as he was bid, and to his surprise
there was a click and he suddenly found his wrists held together by some kind of chain.

“I hope you have a good lawyer,” said the policeman. “You’re going to need one. You won’t have a leg to stand on otherwise.”

“I shan’t have a leg to stand on?” repeated Paddington in alarm. He gave the man a hard stare. “But I had two when I came in!”

“I’m going to take your dabs now,” said the policeman.

“My
dabs
!” repeated Paddington in alarm.
“Fingerprints,” explained the policeman. “Only in your case I suppose we shall have to make do with paws. First of all I want you to press one of them down on this ink pad, then on some paper, so that we have a record of it for future reference.”

“Mrs. Bird won’t be very pleased if it comes off on the sheets,” said Paddington.

“After that,” said the policeman, ignoring the interruption, “you are allowed one telephone call.”

“In that case,” said Paddington, “I would like to ring Sir Bernard Crumble. He lives near here. He’s supposed to very good on motoring offenses. I don’t know if he does shopping baskets on wheels, but if he does, they told me in the market that he will have your guts for garters.”

The policeman stared at him. “Did I hear you say shopping basket on wheels?’ he exclaimed. “Why ever didn’t you tell me that in the first place?”

“You didn’t ask me,” said Paddington. “I have a special license for it. It was given to me when I failed my driving test in a car. They said it would last me all my life. I expect Sir Bernard will want to see it. I keep it in a secret compartment of my
suitcase. I can show it to you if you like. At least I could if I had it with me and I was able to use my paws.”

He stared at the policeman, who seemed to have gone a pale shade of white. “Is anything the matter?” he asked. “Would you like a marmalade sandwich? I keep one under my hat in case of an emergency.”

The policeman shook his head. “No, thank you.” He groaned as he removed the handcuffs. “It’s my first week on duty. They told me I might have some difficult customers to deal with, but I didn’t think it would start quite so soon.”

“I can come back later if you like,” said Paddington hopefully.

“I’d much rather you didn’t—” began the policeman. He broke off as a door opened and an older man came into the room. He had some stripes on his sleeve, and he looked very important.

“Ah,” said the man, consulting a piece of paper he was holding. “Bush hat…blue duffle coat…Wellington boots…fits the description I was given over the phone…you must be the young
gentleman who’s had trouble with his shopping basket on wheels.”

He turned to the first policeman. “You did well to keep him talking, Finsbury. Full marks.”

“It was nothing, Sarge,” said the constable, who seemed to have got some of his color back.

“It seems there’s been a bit of a mix-up with the lads in the tow-away department,” continued the sergeant, turning back to Paddington. “They put your basket on their vehicle for safekeeping while they were removing a car and forgot to take it off again. It went back to the depot with them.

“They’ve put some fresh buns in it for you. Apparently, somehow or other the ones that were in it got lost
en route
. Even now the basket’s on its way back to where you left it. And there’s nothing to pay. “What do you say to that?”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Sarge,” said Paddington gratefully. “It means I shan’t have to speak to Sir Bernard Crumble after all. If you don’t mind, I shall always come here first if ever my shopping basket on wheels gets towed away.”

“That’s what we’re here for,” said the sergeant. “Although I think I should warn you, it may be a bit heavier now than when you first set out this morning.”

“Quite right too,” said Paddington’s friend Mr. Gruber when they eventually sat down to their
elevenses and Paddington told him the full story, including the moment when he got back to the market and found to his surprise that his basket on wheels was full to the top with fruit and vegetables.

“You have been a very good customer over the years, and I daresay none of the traders want to see you go elsewhere. It is a great compliment to you, Mr. Brown.

“All the same,” he continued, “it must have been a nasty experience while it lasted. If I were you, I
would start your elevenses before the cocoa gets cold. You must be in need of it.”

Paddington thought that was a very good idea indeed. “Perhaps,” he said, looking up at the antique clock on the wall of the shop, “just this once, Mr. Gruber, we ought to call it twelveses.”

L
IKE MOST HOUSEHOLDS
up and down the country, number 32 Windsor Gardens had its own set routine.

In the case of the Brown family, Mr. Brown usually went off to his office soon after breakfast, leaving Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Bird to go about their daily tasks. Most days, apart from the times
when Jonathan and Judy were home for the school holidays, Paddington spent the morning visiting his friend Mr. Gruber for cocoa and buns.

There were occasional upsets, of course, but on the whole the household was like an ocean liner. It steamed happily on its way, no matter what the weather.

So when Mrs. Bird returned home one day to what she fully expected to be an empty house and saw a strange face peering at her through the landing window, it took a moment or two to recover from the shock, and by then whoever it was had gone.

What made it far worse was the fact that she was halfway up the stairs to her bedroom at the time, which meant the face belonged to someone
outside
the house.

She hadn’t seen any sign of a ladder on her way in; but all the same she rushed back downstairs again, grabbed the first weapon she could lay her hands on, and dashed out into the garden.

Apart from a passing cat, which gave a loud shriek and scuttled off with its tail between its legs
when it caught sight of her umbrella, everything appeared to be normal, so it was a mystery and no mistake.

When they heard the news later that day, Mr. and Mrs. Brown couldn’t help wondering if Mrs. Bird had been mistaken, but they didn’t say so to her face in case she took umbrage.

“Perhaps it was a window cleaner gone to the wrong house,” suggested Mr. Brown.

“In that case he made a very quick getaway,” said Mrs. Bird. “I wouldn’t fancy having him do our windows.”

“I suppose it could have been a trick of the light,” said Mrs. Brown.

Mrs. Bird gave one of her snorts.

“I know what I saw,” she said darkly. “And whatever it was, or
who
ever it was, they were up to no good.”

The Browns knew better than to argue, and Paddington, who had been given a detective outfit for his birthday, spent some time testing the windowsill for clues. Much to his disappointment, he couldn’t find any marks on it other than his own.
All the same, he took some measurements and carefully wrote down the details in his notebook.

In an effort to restore calm, Mr. Brown rang the police, but they were unable to be of much help either.

“It sounds to me like the work of Gentleman Dan, the Drainpipe Man,” said the officer who came to visit them. “They do say he’s usually in the Bahamas at this time of the year, but he could be back earlier than usual if the weather’s bad.

“He didn’t get his name for nothing. He bides his time until he sees what he thinks are some empty premises, and then he shins up the nearest drainpipe. He can be in and out of a house like a flash of lightning. Never leaves any trace of what we in the force call his dabs, on account of the fact that being a perfect gentleman, he always wears gloves.”

The Browns felt they had done all they could to allay Mrs. Bird’s fears, but the officer left them with one final piece of advice.

“We shall be keeping a lookout in the area for the next few days,” he said, “in case he strikes again. But if I were you, to be on the safe side I’d invest in a can of Miracle nondry antiburglar paint and give your downpipes a coat as soon as possible.

“It’s available at all good do-it-yourself shops. Mark my words, you won’t be troubled again, and if by any chance you are, the perpetrator will be so covered in black paint he won’t get very far before we pick him up.

“Not only that,” he said, addressing Mr. Brown before driving off in his squad car, “you may find
you get a reduction on your insurance policy.”

“It sounds as though he’s got shares in the company,” said Mr. Brown skeptically, as he followed his wife back indoors. “Either that or he has a spare-time job as one of their salesmen.”

“Henry!” exclaimed Mrs. Brown.

In truth, the next day was Friday, and after a busy week at the office Mr. Brown had been looking forward to a quiet weekend. The thought of spending it up a ladder painting drainpipes was not high on his list of priorities.

In normal circumstances he might not have taken up Paddington’s offer to help quite so readily.

“Are you sure it’s wise?” asked Mrs. Brown when he told her. “It’s all very well Paddington saying bears are good at painting, but he says that about a lot of things. Remember what happened when he decorated the spare room.”

“That was years ago,” said Mr. Brown. “Anyway, the fact that he ended up wallpapering over the door and couldn’t find his way out again had nothing to do with the actual painting. Besides, it’s not as if it’s something we shall be looking at all the
time. Even Paddington can’t do much harm painting a drainpipe.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” warned Mrs. Bird. “Besides, it isn’t just one drainpipe. There are at least half a dozen dotted around the house. And don’t forget, it’s nondry paint. If that bear makes any mistakes, the marks will be there forevermore.”

“There must come a time when it dries off,” said Mr. Brown optimistically.

“We could get Mr. Briggs in,” suggested Mrs. Brown, mentioning their local decorator. “He’s always ready to oblige.”

But Mr. Brown’s mind was made up, and when he arrived back from his office that evening he brought with him a large can of paint and an assortment of brushes.

Paddington was very excited when he saw them, and he couldn’t wait to get started.

That night he took the can of paint up to bed and read the small print on the side with the aid of a flashlight and the magnifying glass from his detective outfit.

According to the instructions, a lot of burglars climbed drainpipes in order to break into people’s homes. In fact, the more he read, the more Paddington began to wonder why he had never seen one before; it sounded as though the streets must be full of them. There was even a picture of one on the back of the tin. He looked very pleased with himself as he slid down a pipe, a sack over his shoulder bulging with things he had taken. There was even a thinks balloon attached to his head saying: “Don’t you wish you had done something about
your
pipes?”

Paddington opened his bedroom window and peered outside, but luckily there were no drainpipes anywhere near it; otherwise he might have tested the paint there and then, just to be on the safe side.

Before going to sleep, he made out a list of all the other requirements, ready for the morning. Something with which to open the tin, a wire brush for cleaning the pipes before starting work, a pair of folding steps—the instructions suggested it was only necessary to paint the bottom half of the pipe; there was no need to go all the way up to the top—and some paint remover to clean the brushes afterward.

The following morning, as soon as breakfast was over, he waylaid Mrs. Bird in the kitchen and persuaded her to let him have some plastic gloves and an old apron.

Knowing who would be landed with the task of getting any paint stains off his duffle coat if things went wrong, the Brown’s housekeeper was only too willing to oblige.

“Mind you, don’t get any of that stuff on your whiskers,” she warned, as he disappeared out
through the back door armed with his list. “You don’t want to spoil your elevenses.”

Paddington’s suggestion that it might be a good idea to have them
before
he started work fell on deaf ears, so he set to work gathering the things he needed from the garage. While he was there, he came across a special face mask to keep out paint fumes.

Clearly it wasn’t meant for bears, because although it covered the end of his nose, it was nowhere near his eyes. All the same, having slipped the elastic bands over his ears to hold the mask in place, he spent some time looking at his reflection in the wing mirror of Mr. Brown’s car, and as far as he could make out, all his whiskers were safely tucked away inside it.

Once in the garden, he set to work with a wire brush on a rainwater pipe at the rear of the house.

“I must say, he looks like some creature from outer space,” said Mrs. Bird, gazing out of the kitchen window.

“At least it keeps him occupied,” said Mrs. Brown. “I can’t help being uneasy whenever he’s at a loose end.”

“The devil finds work for idle paws,” agreed Mrs. Bird, almost immediately wishing she hadn’t said it in case she was tempting fate.

But much to everyone’s surprise, Paddington made such a good job of the first pipes even Mrs. Bird’s eagle eyes couldn’t find anything amiss when she inspected them. There wasn’t a single spot of paint to be seen anywhere on the surrounding brickwork.

And even if it meant she would never be able to use her rubber gloves or her apron again, she didn’t have
the heart to complain. It was a small price to pay for having number 32 Windsor Gardens made secure,
and
keeping Paddington occupied into the bargain.

“What did I tell you, Mary?” said Mr. Brown, looking up from his morning paper when she passed on the news.

“I only hope he doesn’t try shinning up the pipes to see if it works,” said Mrs. Brown. “You know how keen he is on testing things.”

“It’s a bit like giving someone a hot plate and telling them not to touch it,” agreed Mrs. Bird.

As it happened, similar thoughts had been going through Paddington’s mind most of the morning. At one point when he stopped for a rest, he even toyed with the idea of hiding around a corner in the hope that Gentleman Dan might turn up, but with only one more drainpipe to go, he decided he’d better finish off the work as quickly as possible.

It was the one just outside the landing window at the side of the house, which had been the cause of all the trouble in the first place, and he had left it until last because he wanted to make an especially good job of it for Mrs. Bird’s sake.

Having scrubbed the bottom section of the pipe clean with the wire brush, he mounted the steps and began work on the actual painting.

He hadn’t been doing it for very long before he heard a familiar voice.

“What are you doing, bear?” barked Mr. Curry. Paddington nearly fell off the steps with alarm. The last person he wanted to see was the Browns’ next-door neighbor.

“I’m painting Mr. Brown’s drainpipes,” he announced, regaining his balance.