Paddington on Top Page 3

  “There have been some ‘goings-on’ down at the market this morning, Mr. Brown,” broke in Mr. Gruber. “That’s why I popped in. Someone’s been selling dud vacuum cleaners, and when I heard you’d been seen talking to him I began to get worried.”

  “When you were so late back we thought something might have happened to you,” said Mrs. Brown.

  “Well,” said Paddington vaguely, “I think it has!”

  Paddington launched into his explanations. It was a bit difficult, partly because he wasn’t too sure how to put some of it into words, but also because there was a good deal of noise going on outside. Shouts and bangs, and the sound of a loud argument, followed a moment or so later by the roar of a car drawing away.

  “Fancy trying to take advantage of someone like that,” said Mrs. Bird grimly, when Paddington had finished.

  “He seemed quite a nice man, Mrs. Bird,” said Paddington.

  “I didn’t mean the vacuum cleaner salesman,” said Mrs. Bird. “At least he gave you something for your money—even if it didn’t work. I meant Mr. Curry. He’s always after something for nothing.”

  “He’s too mean to get his chimney swept for a start,” said Judy.

  “And I bet he’s still waiting to see if electricity catches on before he changes over,” agreed Jonathan.

  They broke off as the telephone started to ring and Mrs. Bird hurried across the hall to answer it.

  “Yes,” she said after a moment. “Really? Yes, of course. Well, we’ll do our best,” she added after a while, “but it may not be for some time. Probably later on this morning.”

  The others grew more and more mystified as they listened to their end of the conversation.

  “What on earth was all that about?” asked Mrs. Brown, as her housekeeper replaced the receiver.

  “It seems,” said Mrs. Bird gravely, “that the police think they may have caught the man who’s been selling the dud vacuum cleaners. They want someone to go down and identify him.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Mrs. Brown. “I don’t really like the idea of Paddington being involved in things like that.”

  “Who said anything about Paddington?” asked Mrs. Bird innocently. “Anyway, I suggest we all have a nice hot drink before we do anything else. There’s no point in rushing things.”

  The others exchanged glances as they followed Mrs. Bird into the kitchen. She could be very infuriating at times. But the Browns’ housekeeper refused to be drawn, and it wasn’t until they were all settled round the kitchen table with their second lot of elevenses that she brought the matter up again.

  “It seems,” she mused, “that the man they arrested was caught right outside our house. He was carrying a cleaner at the time. He said his name was Murray, or Hurry or something like that. . . . Anyway, he insists we know him.”

  “Crumbs!” exclaimed Jonathan as light began to dawn. “Don’t say they picked on Mr. Curry by mistake!”

  “I bet that’s what all the row was about just now,” said Judy. “I bet he was coming round here to complain!”

  “Which is why,” said Mrs. Bird, when all the excitement had died down, “I really think it might be better if Paddington doesn’t go down to the police station. It might be rubbing salt into the wound.”

  “I quite agree,” said Mr. Gruber. “In fact, while you’re gone perhaps young Mr. Brown and I can go next door and clear up some of the mess.”

  “Bags we help too,” said Jonathan and Judy eagerly.

  All eyes turned to Paddington, who was savoring his drink with even more relish than usual. What with Mr. Gruber’s book on diseases and the disastrous events in Mr. Curry’s house he’d almost begun to wonder if he would ever have any elevenses again.

  “I think,” he announced, as he clasped the mug firmly between his paws, “I shall never take my cocoa for granted again!”

  Chapter Three

  PADDINGTON GOES TO COURT

  Mr. Gruber was still laughing over Paddington’s adventure with the vacuum cleaner when they met the next morning.

  “Fancy all that coming about just because I happened to be reading a book on cocoa beans, Mr. Brown,” he said.

  He gave another chuckle. “I wish I’d seen Mr. Curry being marched off to the police station. It must have been a sight for sore eyes.”

  Paddington nodded his agreement. His own eyes were feeling sore at that moment, but mostly through keeping them tightly shut in case he bumped into Mr. Curry.

  Apart from his eyes, his paws were also rather stiff. It had taken them quite a while to clear up the mess in Mr. Curry’s dining room, but many hands make light work, and it was generally agreed that not even the Browns’ neighbor could have complained about the way his room looked after they had finished.

  “Anyway,” said Mr. Gruber, as he brought out the tray for their elevenses, “all’s well that ends well. Although I must say it’s a good job it didn’t happen in some countries I could think of. In some countries, Mr. Brown, you are thought to be guilty until you are proved innocent, whereas here it’s the other way round. It’s a very fine point, but it can make a great deal of difference sometimes.”

  Paddington listened carefully while Mr. Gruber went on to explain about the workings of the law.

  “It sounds very interesting, Mr. Gruber,” he said at last. “But it’s a bit hard to understand if you’ve never been inside a court.”

  Mr. Gruber slapped his knee. “Why didn’t I think of it before?” he exclaimed. “If you could spare the time, Mr. Brown, perhaps we could have one of our excursions. It’s about time we had another outing. We could visit the Law Courts and then you could see what goes on. Would you like that?”

  “Ooh, yes please, Mr. Gruber,” said Paddington eagerly. “I would like that very much indeed.”

  Paddington polished off the rest of his elevenses with all possible speed and then hurried back home to tell the others.

  While he made some marmalade sandwiches, Mrs. Bird prepared a flask of hot cocoa, and shortly afterwards he donned his duffle coat again and disappeared back up the road carrying his suitcase.

  “I do hope they’ll be all right,” said Mrs. Brown. “It’s not that I don’t trust Mr. Gruber, but things do happen to Paddington and you know what some of these judges are like. I would hate to think of them both ending up in gaol.”

  “Knowing that bear,” said Mrs. Bird darkly, “I think it’s much more likely that any judge he meets will end up giving himself six months!”

  Paddington would have been most offended had he been able to overhear Mrs. Bird’s last remark, but by then he was already heading towards the bus stop where he’d arranged to meet Mr. Gruber.

  Paddington liked bus journeys, especially when he was able to sit on the top deck and listen to his friend talking. Mr. Gruber knew a great deal about London, and if Paddington had any complaint at all, it was that he always made the journey pass twice as quickly, so that it seemed no time at all before they drew up outside a group of imposing gray stone buildings and Mr. Gruber announced that they had reached their destination.

  He led the way through some tall iron gates and then up a flight of stone steps.

  Paddington’s eyes grew larger and larger as they passed through the entrance and he found himself in an enormous hall, almost as large as a cathedral. It was full of people bustling to-and-fro: some in ordinary clothes, others dressed in wigs and black gowns, and it was quite unlike anything he’d ever seen before.

  Mr. Gruber consulted his guidebook. “This is the main hall of the Royal Courts of Justice,” he explained. “It’s seventy-two meters long and twenty-four meters high.”

  He led the way up some more steps, and suddenly they found themselves in a maze of corridors. “The courts themselves,” he went on, “are dotted around the outside of the main hall, and you’ll find that each one is hearing a different case.

  “There are two sides to every disagreement, Mr. Brown,” he continued. “It’s the job of the lawyers to argue the righ
ts and wrongs and find out who is telling the truth.”

  “Can’t they just ask them?” suggested Paddington.

  Mr. Gruber chuckled. “Unfortunately,” he said, “the truth isn’t always quite as simple as it looks, and even more unfortunately people aren’t always as truthful as they like to make out. In the end it’s the judge who has to make up his mind. That’s why he’s so important. It’s like watching a television play—except, of course, it’s much more serious if you happen to be playing one of the leading roles.

  “Justice,” said Mr. Gruber, as he paused outside a door, “not only has to be done, but it has to be seen to be done as well. That’s why they have a Public Gallery, and it’s the right of every citizen to be present if he so wishes.”

  Mr. Gruber’s face fell as he tried the handle. “Oh, dear,” he said. “It seems to be locked. How very disappointing. I’m sure there must be some mistake. If you care to wait here a moment I’ll see if I can find someone in authority.”

  Excusing himself, Mr. Gruber hurried off down the corridor, leaving Paddington to wait outside the door. In point of fact he wasn’t at all sorry to have a moment’s rest so that he could take in all that Mr. Gruber had told him, and there was so much activity all around he was only too happy to sit back and watch for a while.

  Opening his suitcase, he took out a marmalade sandwich and then poured himself a cup of cocoa to while away the time. Mrs. Bird’s thermos flask was a very good one indeed. It always kept things extremely hot, and the present contents were no exception. In fact, so much steam rose from the cup of cocoa, he had to wipe his eyes several times in order to see what was going on.

  He put the top back on the flask and had only just finished closing his suitcase again when a man in uniform came up to him.

  He stared at Paddington in surprise. “What do you think you’re doing?” he asked. “This isn’t a snack bar, you know.”

  “I’m waiting to go in,” said Paddington. “I want to see justice done.”

  The man gave him an odd look. “What’s your name?” he enquired.

  “Brown,” said Paddington. “Paddington Brown.”

  “Brown?” echoed the man. A change suddenly came over him. “Dear, oh, dear,” he said. “It’s a good thing for you I came along. They’re calling for you downstairs!”

  “They’re calling for me downstairs?” exclaimed Paddington. “Mr. Gruber must have been quick!”

  “I don’t know about Mr. Gruber,” said the man, helping him to his feet, “but if you take my advice you’ll get a move on.”

  Paddington didn’t need asking twice. Grabbing hold of his suitcase he hurried down a flight of steps after the man and rounded a corner into another long corridor where, sure enough, he heard someone calling his name.

  “Here he is,” called his companion. “Found him upstairs having a tuck in.”

  “Well, you’d better look slippy,” cried the second man, waving him on. “It’s old Justice Eagle today and he doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

  Looking most alarmed, Paddington hurried through some doors and suddenly found himself in a room full of people.

  The whole of one half was taken up by rows of seats on tiers, not unlike a small theater, and facing them behind a bench on a raised platform was an imposing-looking man wearing a large wig.

  He glared at Paddington over the top of his glasses. “Where have you been?” he asked severely. “I suppose you realize you’ve been keeping the court waiting?”

  Paddington raised his hat politely. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Eagle,” he announced, “but I’m afraid my eyes got steamed up.”

  “Your eyes got steamed up?” repeated the judge. “Upon my soul! In all my years I’ve never heard of that one before!”

  “Mr. Gruber and I were trying to get in,” said Paddington, “but we were locked out.”

  “You were locked out!” exclaimed the judge. He gazed round the court in the hope of seeing who might be responsible. “This is an outrage. I will not have people prevented from appearing in this way.”

  “Mr. Gruber wasn’t very pleased either,” agreed Paddington. “He’s gone to see if he can find someone in authority.”

  “Er . . . quite so,” said the judge, looking slightly more benevolent. He motioned to a man sitting in the well of the court. “Let us proceed. We’ve lost enough time already.”

  To Paddington’s surprise, the man led him to a box-like compartment at the side of the court and opened a small door for him.

  Feeling very pleased that he was being given a seat with such a good view of all that was going on, Paddington climbed inside and was about to settle down when the man handed him a book.

  “Do you swear . . . ?” he began.

  “Never,” said Paddington firmly. “Mrs. Bird wouldn’t like that at all. And even if she did, I wouldn’t.”

  The man looked around apprehensively at the judge and then decided to have another go. “Do you swear,” he repeated, “to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Paddington more cheerfully. “I was brought up by my Aunt Lucy, and she taught me never to tell lies.”

  “Silence in Court!” exclaimed the judge, as a titter ran round the assembly.

  He consulted a sheaf of papers in front of him and then directed his gaze at a man in a wig and gown on the other side of the room.

  “I see no mention of Aunt Lucy, Mr. Cloudsworthy,” he said. “Do I take it that the prosecution are not going to call her?”

  “I don’t think she would hear if you did, Mr. Eagle,” said Paddington. “She’s in Peru.”

  “Aunt Lucy’s in Peru?” repeated the judge. He adjusted his glasses and gazed at the prosecuting counsel. “I find this very hard to accept.”

  Mr. Cloudsworthy looked as if he found Aunt Lucy’s absence even harder to accept than the judge. Looking most confused, he shuffled through his own pile of papers and then had a hurried conversation with one of his assistants.

  “Er, with respect, me lud,” he said. “I don’t think she’s very important.”

  Paddington gave Mr. Cloudsworthy a hard stare. “Aunt Lucy’s not important!” he exclaimed. “She brought me up!”

  “I think,” said the judge, after a long pause, “that you’d better start your questioning, Mr. Cloudsworthy. We will deal with the matter of Aunt Lucy later.”

  “Yes, me lud,” said Mr. Cloudsworthy. He turned and directed his attention towards Paddington. “I take it,” he said, “that you realize why you are here today?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Paddington. “I’m here because it’s my right as a citizen.”

  Mr. Cloudsworthy looked slightly taken aback. “Er, yes,” he said. “Very commendable. Very commendable indeed. I take it, from your reply, that you have some knowledge of the law. May I ask if you’ve ever taken articles?”

  “Never!” exclaimed Paddington hotly. “That’s worse than telling lies.”

  “I didn’t mean those sort of articles,” said Mr. Cloudsworthy crossly. “I mean the sort you have to take when you learn a profession. It’s like an agreement to say you have to stay with someone until . . .” He broke off under Paddington’s steady gaze and hurriedly changed the subject.

  “I’ll have you know,” he continued, “that I have a very big case here.”

  Paddington peered at him with interest. “I’ve got a small one,” he announced, holding up his suitcase. “I brought it with me all the way from Darkest Peru. It’s got a secret compartment where I keep all my important papers.”

  “Really?” said Mr. Cloudsworthy, trying to strike a jocular note as he caught sight of the expression on the judge’s face. “I thought perhaps that was where you kept your briefs.”

  “My briefs?” echoed Paddington. “I’m only here for the day.”

  The judge took hold of his gavel and rapped the desk sharply. “Silence!” he bellowed. “This is no laughing matter.

  “Briefs,” he said, turning to Pad
dington, “are papers lawyers have to bring with them when they attend court.”

  “Oh, I don’t have any of those,” said Paddington, opening his case. “But I’ve got some marmalade sandwiches.”

  “May I see that?” asked the judge, as Paddington held one of them up for everyone to see.

  Paddington handed the sandwich to one of the ushers, who in turn crossed and passed it up to the judge.

  “Is this really part of the evidence you are submitting, Mr. Cloudsworthy?” demanded the judge distastefully, as he took a closer look. “A bear’s sandwich!”

  Mr. Cloudsworthy looked as if he was hardly sure of anything anymore. Removing a handkerchief from inside his gown, he lifted up his wig and began mopping his brow. “Er . . . I . . . er, I’m not really sure, me lud,” he stuttered.

  “Mark this sandwich ‘Exhibit A,’” said the judge, handing it back to an official. “I will examine it more closely later.”

  “My sandwich is being marked ‘Exhibit A’!” exclaimed Paddington excitedly. “That’s some of Mrs. Bird’s special homemade marmalade. She will be pleased.”

  “We’d better call her then,” said the judge. “Perhaps she’ll be able to throw some more light on the matter.”

  “I’ve never even heard of Mrs. Bird!” cried Mr. Cloudsworthy.

  The judge looked at him severely. “I really don’t think, Mr. Cloudsworthy,” he said, “that you are conducting your case in the best possible fashion. You don’t even appear to know your own witnesses. Call Mrs. Bird!”

  “Call Mrs. Bird!” shouted someone at the back of the court.

  “Call Mrs. Bird!” echoed a voice outside.

  “I don’t think she’s here either, Mr. Eagle,” said Paddington.

  “Mrs. Bird’s not here?” repeated the judge. “But she’s obviously a most important witness. Why isn’t she here?”

  “I expect she’s out shopping with Mrs. Brown,” said Paddington. “She always goes out on Tuesday afternoons.”

  “Really!” barked the judge. “This is intolerable.” He glared across the courtroom at the unfortunate counsel. “I’ve a very good mind to call a halt to the whole case.”