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  “Intent to do what?” asked Mr Brown.

  “That,” said the policeman, “is what we must look into.”

  “Have you seen the state of this gentleman’s nearside front tyre?” asked the second policeman. “A good kick is all it needs.”

  “That’s the one who checks the car,” whispered Jonathan in the back seat.

  The words were hardly out of his mouth before the officer stepped back and by way of proof, drew his right leg back and administered a hefty kick.

  There was a hiss of escaping air and the Browns’ car slowly tilted over to one side carrying its occupants with it.

  Jonathan nudged Judy. “See what I mean,” he said.

  “Awesome!” she exclaimed.

  “Thanks a heap,” said Mr Brown.

  “Shh, Henry.” Mrs Brown struck a warning note. “Why don’t you try counting up to ten?”

  “I don’t envy you changing your spare wheel in this weather, sir,” said the first policeman sympathetically.

  “Fortunately that doesn’t arise,” said Mr Brown. “I haven’t got one with me.”

  “Ah!” The policeman licked the business end of his pencil. “Travelling without a spare wheel? Oh, dear me, sir!”

  “It so happens I’m not travelling anywhere,” said Mr Brown.

  “You’re right there,” said the second policeman. “Wait till the Superintendent back at the station hears about this. You will be able to produce the relevant documents, of course. Driving licence. Insurance. Three yearly roadworthiness certificate, otherwise …”

  “You don’t know our Superintendent,” said Mr Brown. “I’ve played golf with him. He even shouts at the ball if it doesn’t go into the hole cleanly. I hardly think he’s going to laugh his head off when he hears how you kicked my front tyre with such a force all the air came out. I draw the line about using the word ‘vandalism’, but I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes.”

  The group fell silent for a moment or two and then sprang into life as a familiar figure carrying a rolled umbrella came into view.

  “Everybody out,” said the policeman. “And that’s an order. This is the one we want to question. He gave us the slip back at the postbox and it’s not going to happen a second time.”

  And without further ado the two policemen occupied the front of the car, and seeing Jonathan and Judy alighting from the back, Paddington assumed they were making room for him and made for his old seat.

  “Don’t open the umbrella whatever you do, Paddington,” called Mrs Brown. “It’s unlucky to open one indoors,” she added for the benefit of the others. “I imagine the same thing applies to a car.”

  But she was too late. Paddington had already pressed the catch in the handle and as the folds of the umbrella unfurled, so water cascaded over the other occupants.

  “If you ask me,” said the first policeman, when the fuss died down. “It’s a case of even-stevens. Bob’s your uncle, Mr Brown!”

  “I didn’t know you had an Uncle Bob, Mr Brown,” said Paddington, as he struggled with the catch on the umbrella. “Is he coming to stay? I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  “Shh!” hissed Judy. “He hasn’t. And no one is coming to stay.”

  Meanwhile the second policeman reached a decision. “In the circumstances I’ll stretch a point and call for a tow truck on my mobile,” he said brusquely. “Wait here.”

  “We can hardly do anything else,” said Mr Brown.

  “Neither can I,” said the policeman, gritting his teeth.

  It was much later that day before the Browns eventually arrived back home. It had stopped raining and Mrs Bird was waiting anxiously by the front door of number thirty-two Windsor Gardens.

  “Whatever kept you?” she asked.

  “It’s a long story,” said Mrs Brown.

  “Has it got anything to do with bears?” asked Mrs Bird.

  The Browns stared at her. It really was uncanny the way her mind worked. Nothing got past her eagle eyes.

  “It seems it was at its worst in this particular area,” continued Mrs Bird. She turned to Paddington. “Talking of which, what have you been doing to your duffle coat? It looks as though it’s been to the cleaners.”

  “Thereby hangs a tale,” said Mr Brown.

  “One we are doing our best to forget,” said Mrs Brown.

  “News travels fast in this day and age,” said Mrs Bird. “It’s in the evening paper, and it’s been on the radio. I daresay you remember those storms we had a while back when everything got covered with a film of dust and it turned out a lot of it came from the Sahara desert? Well, this time it’s bears. Apparently it’s been raining bears from Darkest Peru.

  “There’s a rumour going around that it may have something to do with the traders in the Portobello Market drumming up publicity for their carnival which has been a bit of a washout with all the rain we’ve had, and I was wondering if it was nearer home than that …”

  “Have they got any photographs?” asked Jonathan.

  “I haven’t seen any so far,” said Mrs Bird.

  “Nor will you,” said Judy. “Bears may come and bears may go, but there’s only one Paddington,” she added loyally. “Even he can’t be in two places at once. If you ask me, someone, somewhere, is putting two and two together, and making a great deal too much of it.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” said Mrs Bird. “Mark my words, it will be another nine days’ wonder. I think Paddington had better keep out of the way for the time being.”

  With that, she set about getting the supper ready, and it wasn’t until later that evening that Mr Brown remembered the promised award of a ‘little something’ for Paddington posting his letter to the Income Tax Office.

  He had already gone up to his room by then and Mr Brown followed him upstairs, only to find him sitting up in bed wearing a long white beard from his disguise outfit.

  “Don’t worry, Mr Brown,” he called. “It’s me … Paddington!”

  “Thank you for telling me,” said Mr Brown gravely. “I would never have guessed.”

  He waited while Paddington put the finishing touches to his disguise before handing him the money. “Don’t spend it all at once,” he said. “I think perhaps you should stay indoors for the next nine days or so until the fuss dies down anyway.

  “Being photographed wherever you go is one thing if you are a famous film star, but it’s something else again if you are a bear and like a quiet life. Practically everyone with a mobile telephone has a camera in it these days.”

  Paddington looked downcast behind his beard. “Fancy not being able to go out for nine days,” he said. “I shall miss my elevenses with Mr Gruber. I don’t know what he will have to say about it.”

  “Exactly the same as what I am about to say, I imagine,” said Mr Brown. “It’s only a saying in much the same way as you say a cat has nine lives or someone is dressed up to the nines.

  “Far from being closeted for exactly nine days, I suggest that in two or three days’ time and a change in the weather it will be nothing more than a memory.”

  Paddington considered the matter for a moment or two. “Thank you very much for my ‘little something’, Mr Brown.”

  “There is a saying for that too,” said Mr Brown. “Possession is nine points of the law.”

  Paddington cheered up. “I think nine is a very nice number,” he said. “When I do go out I shall buy nine buns for our elevenses. Mr Gruber will be surprised.”

  Chapter Two

  A BIRD IN THE HAND

  ONE MORNING, SOME weeks after the episode with Mr Brown’s letter to the Income Tax people, Paddington woke to the plaintive chirping of a robin redbreast outside his bedroom window.

  Apart from the fact that it was earlier than usual there was nothing untoward about it. As Mr Brown was fond of saying, a garden isn’t a garden without a robin redbreast to keep an eye on things. And it was true; he only had to apply a spade or a fork to a flower bed for it to appear in search of a worm or
two. And just lately, probably because he was around more than his father, the robin had shown more than a passing interest in Paddington’s activities.

  In fact, ever since Paddington had been given a corner of the garden to call his own he had never been short of a daily visit, and it often sang to him late into the night.

  In a funny kind of way it sounded as though his feathered friend was trying to tell him something special. There was an urgent note to its chirrup; so he got out of bed to see what it could possibly be.

  According to his best friend, Mr Gruber, another thing about robin redbreasts, was they were always first in line to herald the arrival of spring, and sure enough, when Paddington looked up at the sky there were several patches of blue in among the clouds, and the largest one of all was directly above number thirty-two Windsor Gardens.

  After the many long weeks of rain clouds they’d had to put up with, it seemed almost too good to be true, so there was no question of his going back to bed.

  So, having thanked his visitor, Paddington passed a flannel over his own face, gave his whiskers a quick going over, and donned his duffle coat before hurrying downstairs as fast as he could in order to tell the others.

  But either the robin had beaten him to it, or the rest of the family had been listening to the weather forecast on television, for according to Mrs Bird, Mr Brown had already left for his office, Mrs Brown was out doing some early morning shopping, and even their bad-tempered neighbour, Mr Curry, was up and about.

  Apparently he had given Mrs Bird a cheery wave over the fence that morning, while casually asking after the state of their garden, which was most unusual, and deep down, although she didn’t put it into words, she felt was rather suspect.

  “There’s nothing like a spot of sunshine to put a smile on people’s faces and get things moving,” she said. And to show it wasn’t simply idle chatter on her part she opened a fresh jar of her special home-made marmalade for Paddington to have with his breakfast.

  “Thank you so much, Mrs Bird,” said Paddington. “It’s very kind of you.” He couldn’t help noticing it was labelled 2014, which was a very good year.

  And to show how grateful he was, he disposed of the entire contents in one go on the remains of the toast, and then washed the jar spotlessly clean afterwards.

  “Mercy me!” exclaimed Mrs Bird, when she saw what had happened. It wasn’t quite what she’d had in mind, but not wishing to spoil such a lovely day she kept her feelings to herself.

  “Perhaps you ought to go for a run round the garden?” she suggested. “It will do you the world of good. Although if you want my advice I should keep your duffle coat on. There is an old saying, but a very true one: ‘Ne’er cast a clout till May be out.’ That means you shouldn’t take the warm weather for granted. No matter what your robin redbreast has to say, it’s still only the beginning of April, so it may not last.”

  After his mammoth breakfast, going for a run round the garden wasn’t exactly what Paddington had in mind either. Going back to bed would have been nearer the mark, but the Browns’ housekeeper held the kitchen door firmly open for him, so he didn’t have any choice in the matter.

  He toyed with the idea of having a quick lie down on the lawn, but the grass hadn’t been mown all the winter and on close inspection it didn’t look very inviting. He was also beginning to realise the wisdom of keeping his duffle coat on because despite the sunshine there was still a chill in the air. So before doing anything else he set to work making sure all the toggles were securely fastened.

  It was a bit difficult with paws, and he was still fumbling with the top one when Mrs Bird opened the back door again.

  “I didn’t mean jogging on the spot,” she said. “I meant running up and down the garden.” And since he could feel her eyes following his progress – or lack of it from that moment on – he decided there was nothing for it but to follow her instructions and carry on down to the end of the garden. If he did nothing else he could at least inspect his own plot in the far corner to see how it had survived the winter.

  “I’m glad I didn’t cast any clouts, Mrs Bird,” he called as the top toggle slipped into place at long last and he set off down the garden path.

  The rockery was a present from Mr Brown, who was a keen gardener and for most of the previous summer it had been Paddington’s pride and joy.

  It didn’t cover a vast area. It wasn’t, in fact, much larger than their dining room table but there was a lot of truth in another of Mr Brown’s sayings: “There is always work to do in the garden, even if it’s only the size of a window box,” and he had helped Paddington build a rockery which occupied a good half of it.

  There had been a robin redbreast around then, although not the same one, of course. Paddington had planted some sunflower seeds from a packet of free ones in a magazine belonging to Mrs Brown, and in no time at all they had grown so much they were twice as tall as he was, so Mr Brown set about advising him on what plants he should buy and where to plant them, without once suggesting it should come out of his pocket money.

  Thanks to his advice the following spring had been spectacularly successful. Even Mr Curry had passed some admiring glances at it over the fence when it was in full bloom.

  To help him remember which plants were which, Jonathan had given him some specially made metal name tabs with his own name on the back for his summer birthday present.

  It was a very kind thought, because most of the plants had very complicated names. For example, the one he thought of as a duffle-coat blue was a Veronica pectinata, and the one that matched his bush hat was a dwarf phlox, Temiscaming, which he had a job to pronounce, let alone spell. There was a yellow plant which was a Saxifraga called berseriana.

  Paddington liked the sound of that one and he often dropped it into the conversation when it turned to the subject of gardening.

  The man in the nursery where Paddington bought them all had been most impressed. “We don’t get many bear customers,” he said. “I suppose being so near the ground helps.”

  As Paddington approached his garden he saw there was a solitary thrush perched on one of the rocks, but it flew off as soon as it caught sight of him. Apart from that there was no sign of life whatsoever. In fact, it looked a shambles and he wondered if the foxes had been at it. Mrs Bird had been out with her umbrella chasing them off the property several times of late, and there had been talk of a number of cubs in the area. He wouldn’t put it past them.

  Taking a closer look at the rockery he decided most of the earth must have been washed away during the recent downpour, along with many of the smaller plants that hadn’t had time to take root. Even the name tags were missing. Instead of the blaze of colour he’d been hoping for it was a sorry mess.

  While he was staring at the remains of the rockery his robin redbreast landed close by to see what was going on.

  “That’s where I planted my Saxifraga berseriana,” said Paddington hotly as it dug its beak into the nearest hole. “Now look at it!”

  The robin glanced up at him noncommittally, but before he had a chance to say any more they both heard a strange noise coming from the next garden.

  It sounded like someone cutting some rusty bits of tin. Either that or the foxes were on the prowl again. If not, then it had to be Mr Curry himself, which was hard to picture.

  The Browns’ neighbour wasn’t an early riser at the best of times, and even if he had waved at Mrs Bird that very morning, he had never been known to do any work in his garden until much later in the day, if then.

  The sound of sawing was punctuated every so often by growls of disappointment. Clearly, all was not well, although there was nothing new in that; Mr Curry wasn’t noted for his prowess as a ‘do-it-yourself’ addict, but it was rather early in the day for such loud displays of bad temper, even for him.

  Paddington stood the flow of noises-off for as long as possible while he searched in vain for any signs of growth on his rockery. Then, following a louder than ever bellow
, he was unable to contain his curiosity a moment longer.

  Abandoning his search for the slightest sign of a green shoot, he made his way to the fence dividing the two gardens one from the other and peered through a convenient knothole.

  Chapter Three

  CURRY’S THE NAME

  SURE ENOUGH, ALTHOUGH Mr Curry wasn’t exactly doing a war dance, the top half of him was leaping up and down brandishing a saw. To say something was not to his liking was putting it mildly. If it had been possible to cut the air around him into little pieces there would have been a large pile of it lying at his feet, awaiting the arrival of a dustcart.

  In the hope of getting a better view, Paddington fetched a garden chair.

  “Bear!” bellowed Mr Curry accusingly, as he caught sight of Paddington’s head appearing above the top of the fence. “Spying on me again, are you!”

  “Oh, no, Mr Curry,” said Paddington hastily. “I was just trying to get a better view. It’s a bit difficult to see properly through a knothole and I thought you might be in trouble and need help.”

  Mr Curry’s eyes narrowed. “May I ask what you are doing in the garden at this early hour?”

  “I was checking my rockery,” said Paddington. “But there’s nothing to see except a lot of holes. I think the foxes may have dug them up.”

  “Foxes!” exclaimed Mr Curry. “Don’t mention the word. Look at my lawn. It’s full of holes.”

  “I didn’t know you had a lawn, Mr Curry,” said Paddington.

  “Well, there you are,” said Mr Curry. “That shows how bad things are. And then there’s the rain. We’ve had so much recently the ground has become like a marsh. Your side of the fence is all right. You have a patio, but I’ve only got earth on my side.”

  Mr Curry glared at him. “If you must know,” he said, “I’m having trouble with my legs. They weren’t too good in the first place, but with all the wet weather we’ve been having the ground is as rough as can be, so I’m cutting bits off to even things up.”