by Michael Bond
The man was much younger than he had expected. In fact, he didn’t seem much older than Mr and Mrs Brown’s son, Jonathan, who was still at school. He looked slightly apprehensive when he caught sight of Paddington, rather as though he didn’t know quite what to make of him.
“Er… Sprechen Sie Deutsch?” he ventured nervously.
“Bless you,” said Paddington, politely raising his hat. “You can borrow my handkerchief if you like.”
The policeman gave him a funny look before trying again.
“Parlez-vous français?”
“Not today, thank you,” said Paddington.
“Pardon me for asking,” said the officer. “But it’s ‘Be Polite to Foreigners Week’. Strictly unofficial, of course. It’s the Sergeant’s idea because we get a lot of overseas visitors at this time of the year, especially round the Portobello Road area, and I thought perhaps…”
“I’m not a foreigner,” exclaimed Paddington hotly. “I’m from Darkest Peru.”
The policeman looked put out. “Well, if that doesn’t make you a foreigner, I don’t know what does,” he said. “Mind you, it takes all sorts. I must say you speak very good English, wherever you’re from.”
“My Aunt Lucy taught me before she went into the Home for Retired Bears in Lima,” said Paddington.
“Well, she did a good job, I’ll say that for her,” said the policeman. “What can we do for you?”
“I’ve come to see you about my vehicle,” said Paddington, choosing his words with care. “It isn’t where I left it.”
“And where was that?” asked the policeman.
“Outside the cut-price grocers in the market,” said Paddington. “I always leave it there when I’m out shopping.”
“Oh, dear,” said the officer. “Not another one gone missing. There’s a lot of it about at the moment, especially round these parts…” He reached for a computer keyboard. “I’d better take down some details.”
“It had my buns in it,” said Paddington.
“That’s not a lot to go on,” said the policeman. “I was wondering what make it is?”
“It’s not really a make,” said Paddington vaguely. “Mr Brown built it for me when I first went to stay with them.”
“Home-made,” said the officer, typing in the words. “Ahhhhh! Colour?”
“I think it’s called wickerwork,” said Paddington.
“I’ll put down yellow for the time being,” said the man. “Did you leave the handbrake on? That always slows them down a bit when they want to make a quick getaway.”
“It doesn’t have a handbrake,” said Paddington. “It doesn’t even have a paw brake. If I need to stop on a hill I usually put some stones under the wheels. Especially if I’ve been to get the potatoes.”
“Potatoes?” echoed the policeman. “What have potatoes got to do with it?”
“They weigh a lot,” explained Paddington. “Especially King Edwards. If my vehicle started to roll down a hill I don’t know what I would do. I expect I would close my eyes in case it hit something and all the potatoes fell out.”
The policeman looked up from his keyboard and stared at Paddington. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” he said, not unkindly. “That sort of thing wouldn’t go down too well if it was read out in court. You might find yourself ending up in prison.
“Mind you,” he continued. “It’s probably on its way to the Czech Republic or somewhere like that by now.”
“The Czech Republic!” exclaimed Paddington hotly. “But it’s only just gone ten o’clock.”
“You’d be surprised,” said the man. “These people don’t lose any time. A quick going over with a spray gun. Who knows what colour it is by now. A new numberplate… On the other hand we don’t let the grass grow under our feet.” He picked up a telephone. “I’ll put out an all stations call.”
“I don’t have one of those,” said Paddington, looking most relieved.
“One of what?” asked the policeman, holding his hand over the mouthpiece.
“A numberplate,” said Paddington.
The policeman replaced the receiver. “Hold on a minute,” he said. “You’ll be telling me next you haven’t renewed your road tax…”
“I haven’t,” said Paddington. He stared back at the man with growing excitement. It really was uncanny the way he knew about all the things he hadn’t got.
“I’m glad I came here,” he said. “I didn’t know you had to pay taxes.”
“Ignorance of the law is no excuse,” said the policeman sternly. Reaching under the counter he produced a large card showing a selection of pictures.
“I take it you are conversant with road signs?”
Paddington peered at the card. “We didn’t have anything like that in Darkest Peru,” he said. “But there’s one near where I live.”
The policeman pointed at random to one of the pictures. “What does that one show?”
“A man trying to open an umbrella,” said Paddington promptly. “I expect it means it’s about to rain.”
“It’s meant to depict a man with a shovel,” said the policeman wearily. “That means there are roadworks ahead. If you ask me, you need to read your Highway Code again. Unless, of course…”
“You’re quite right,” broke in Paddington, more than ever pleased he had come to the police station. “I’ve never read it.”
“I think it’s high time I saw your driving licence.” said the policeman.
“I haven’t got one of those either,” exclaimed Paddington excitedly.
“Insurance?”
“What’s that?” asked Paddington.
“What’s that?” repeated the policeman. “What’s that?”
He ran his fingers round the inside of his collar. The room had suddenly become very hot. “You’ll be telling me next,” he said, “that you haven’t even passed your driving test.”
“You’re quite right,” said Paddington excitedly. “I took it once by mistake, but I didn’t pass because I drove into the examiner’s car. I was in Mr Brown’s car at the time and I had it in reverse by mistake. I don’t think he was very pleased.”
“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 path.”
The policeman gave him a long, hard look. He seemed to have grown older in the short time Paddington had been there. “You do realise,” 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 round to the front of the counter. “Would you mind holding yours out in front of you?”
Paddington did as he was bidden, 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 offences. 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 licence 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… 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 colour 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 safe keeping 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 dare say 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’.”
LIKE MOST HOUSEHOLDS up and down the country, number thirty-two 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 whoever 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 the details down 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 non-dry, anti-burglar 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 sceptically, 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 a 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 round the house. And don’t forget, it’s non-dry paint. If that bear makes any mistakes, the marks will be there for ever more.”
“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 torch 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.
