Paddington 2

by Annie Wilson

  “This is Farmer Jack,” Paddington went on. “Old-timer . . . Mad Dog . . . Sir Geoffrey Willcot . . .”

  “I hope I can rely on your vote?” said Sir Geoffrey.

  “Johnny Cashpoint,” said Paddington.

  “Kerching!” said Johnny.

  “And Charley Rumble.”

  Charley growled and Mr. Brown jumped in alarm.

  Mrs. Brown was charmed. “It’s so lovely to meet you all,” she said with a warm smile. “I must say it is such a relief to know that Paddington has already made such sweet friends.”

  “Would you excuse me for a moment?” Mr. Brown said to Paddington. He leaned over and flicked a switch on the countertop. The lights went out on the Browns’ side of the glass. “What are you DOING, Mary?” he said.

  “I’m talking to the nice men,” his wife replied.

  Mrs. Bird smirked.

  “NICE MEN?” Mr. Brown exclaimed. “We can’t trust this lot. I mean, look at them! Talk about a rogues’ gallery. Hideous. As for that bearded baboon in the middle—he hasn’t got two brain cells to rub together—”

  “We can still hear you, Mr. Brown.” Knuckles’s voice came through the microphone.

  Mr. Brown froze.

  “That was the light you turned off, Mr. Brown,” Knuckles went on. “The microphone switch is the one that says ‘microphone’ on it.”

  Judy rolled her eyes and flicked the light back on.

  Mr. Brown swallowed nervously. “Gentlemen, if I have offended you in any way—” he began.

  Knuckles grinned. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “We’re fond of the little fella.” He ruffled Paddington’s fur. “About the pictures in that paper, though,” he said, pointing to the photos. “You should realize that if anyone can recognize a criminal gang it’s us lot.”

  Judy sat up and said eagerly. “Really?” she said. “That’s amazing. We’d be so grateful for your help.” She held the paper up to the glass again. “Recognize any of them?”

  Knuckles took a good look, then shaking his head, he said, “’Fraid not—lads?”

  All the prisoners shook their heads.

  Sir Geoffrey said primly, “I’m afraid I couldn’t possibly comment.”

  “I’m sorry to say it,” Knuckles said to Paddington, “but I think your family are barking up the wrong tree. A nun, a beefeater, and a king? Looks more like a fancy-dress party than a criminal gang to me.”

  Poor Paddington was completely crestfallen. “What are we going to do now?” he asked.

  The Browns looked at one another sadly.

  Mrs. Bird leaned forward and looked Paddington in the eye. “Don’t despair, dearie,” she said firmly. “We’ll have you out of here soon. You must just sit tight for now.”

  It doesn’t look as though I have much choice, thought Paddington.

  CHAPTER 15

  Phoenix Buchanan Acts the Innocent

  Autumn turned into winter and the Browns missed Paddington more than ever. They were still trying everything they could to get his name cleared. Judy had printed yet another edition of her newspaper and Mrs. Brown was on her way to deliver them to Miss Kitts. She left 32 Windsor Gardens, thinking sadly of poor Paddington locked in his cell. She walked past all the friends that Paddington used to greet on his daily trips to see Mr. Gruber. Everyone was trying to get on with their lives as normal, but some were finding this harder than others—Dr. Jafri, for one.

  “Bottoms!” he exclaimed as he locked himself out of his house again. Then, catching sight of Mrs. Brown, he blushed and said, “Ah, sorry.”

  Mrs. Brown smiled sadly. “That’s all right,” she said.

  “Windsor Gardens just isn’t the same without Paddington, is it?” said Dr. Jafri.

  Mrs. Brown shook her head, sighing, and went on her way to the newspaper kiosk.

  As she walked down the street she passed Mr. Curry, who was berating Fred Barnes, the garbage collector. He was sitting on the back of his parked truck, reading an A–Z map of London.

  “You can’t park here!” Mr. Curry barked.

  “I’m not parked,” said Fred. “I’m doing the bins.”

  “You are not!” Mr. Curry exclaimed. “You’re studying—I know your game. You’re studying to be a black cab driver, aren’t you?” he said, gesturing to the map of London. “And on council time too. I could report you for this.”

  Mrs. Brown rolled her eyes as she passed him. She walked over to the kiosk and saw that the Colonel was there talking to Miss Kitts.

  “Morning, Colonel! Morning, Miss Kitts!” she called. She handed a bundle of Judy’s newspapers to Miss Kitts. “Judy asked me to drop these off,” she said.

  Mr. Curry came over and picked up one of the newspapers.

  “Uh-oh,” the Colonel muttered. “Here comes trouble.”

  “What’s this?” said Mr. Curry, scouring the front page of the newspaper. “Propaganda! You’re wasting your time trying to peddle that rubbish,” he snarled at Mrs. Brown. “Everyone knows your bear did it. And this street is a better place without him.” He was distracted from saying more when he spotted Wolfie, the stray dog that had helped Paddington chase the thief. “Oi!” he shouted at the dog. “Get out of here, you mangy hound! You should be taken to the dog pound.” And he ran off after Wolfie.

  Mrs. Brown exchanged knowing looks with Miss Kitts and the Colonel.

  “He doesn’t change, does he?” said the Colonel.

  “Give them here, Mary,” said Miss Kitts. “I have to sell them under the counter, but people are buying them, you know.”

  “Really?” said Mrs. Brown. She was heartened at the news.

  Miss Kitts nodded. “More than you might think,” she said.

  “It’s a bloomin’ good read,” said the Colonel. “Made a couple of people think twice about your young bear,” he added. He smiled kindly.

  “You just need to find that thief,” said Miss Kitts, patting Mrs. Brown on the arm.

  “We’re trying,” said Mrs. Brown with a sigh. She turned to Miss Kitts’s parrot, who was sitting on a pile of newspapers nibbling at his claw. “I don’t suppose you know where the thief is, do you, Feathers?”

  The parrot looked at her with his beady eye. “He’s behind you!” he squawked.

  “I’m sorry?” said Mrs. Brown, frowning.

  “Mary!” said a familiar voice.

  Mrs. Brown turned to see Phoenix Buchanan waving from his balcony.

  “Oh, hello, Phoenix!” Mrs. Brown called back.

  “Come on in, I want to hear all about the investigation,” Phoenix said, waving her over to his house.

  Mrs. Brown was intrigued. She said goodbye to Miss Kitts and the Colonel and went over the road to where Phoenix was now waiting at his front door.

  The actor invited Mrs. Brown into his living room. It was a huge room, lavishly decorated with throws, rugs, and paintings. Mrs. Brown couldn’t help noticing a particularly enormous portrait of Phoenix himself posing on a rock in the Scottish Highlands, wearing a kilt. She edged away from it and sat down.

  “Come on, then, Mrs. Brown,” Phoenix said, his eyes shining. “Tell me all the news.”

  “It’s hard to know where to start,” said Mrs. Brown. “Some very mysterious things have been happening.”

  “What sort of things?” asked Phoenix.

  “Well, strange people have been spotted at every landmark in that pop-up book that the thief stole from Mr. Gruber’s,” Mrs. Brown said. “Very strange people—in sort of fancy-dress costumes.”

  “Really?” said Phoenix with exaggerated interest.

  Mrs. Brown shook her head. “Perhaps it’s all a coincidence. Henry says I’ve let my imagination run away with me.”

  “Well, you’re an artist, Mrs. Brown, like me,” said Phoenix indulgently. “We let our imaginations run free, don’t we? It’s what makes us special.” He paused and put on a more serious expression. “Have to say, though, I fear old Henry might be right about this one.”

  M
rs. Brown looked at him despondently. “Great. That means we are back to square one.”

  “Listen,” said Phoenix. He sat up and leaned forward as though about to deliver some very important information. “I’ve got something to tell you that might turn that little frown upside down. It looks like the funding is coming through for my one-man show!” He paused to let his exciting news sink in.

  It did not have the desired effect.

  “Oh, right,” Mrs. Brown said, visibly unimpressed.

  Phoenix tried harder to pique Mrs. Brown’s interest. “It’ll be an evening of monologues and song—all my greatest creations back on the stage. I call it The Phoenix Rises! Of course, you and your family will get free tickets to the opening night. But how about I give you a little preview right now? This one’s from Follies.” Phoenix struck a pose and counted himself in to a song. “A-one, two, three, four . . . ‘Listen to the rain on the roof go pit-pitty-pat’ . . .”

  Mrs. Brown was not really paying attention, however, and her frown had certainly not turned “upside down.”

  Phoenix stopped and looked mildly offended. “What’s the matter? Don’t you like musicals?”

  “It’s not that,” said Mrs. Brown sadly. “It just seems strange that Paddington’s still in prison and yet life still carries on.”

  Phoenix’s face collapsed into a fake expression of sympathy and regret. “Oh, I know,” he said. “It must be hard to accept that he’s won—the man with the dazzling blue eyes.”

  Mrs. Brown snapped to attention. “What did you say?”

  Phoenix saw his mistake and began to babble. “I mean . . . the man on your poster—in your wonderful drawing. His eyes are startling, don’t you think?” he said.

  “But how did you know he had blue eyes?” said Mrs. Brown. “It’s a pencil sketch.” She rummaged in her bag and brought out a poster.

  “Oh, so it is,” said Phoenix. He made an effort to recover his composure. “Well, it must have been the way you capture the light,” he said casually. “It obviously made me think he had blue eyes. You’re such a good artist.”

  But Mrs. Brown was not listening to Phoenix’s empty flattery. She was thinking of all the sketches she had done since Paddington had gone to prison. She stared at Phoenix Buchanan now as though she was seeing him in a completely new light.

  Back at home in the Browns’ kitchen, Mrs. Brown explained her theory to the rest of the family. They listened intently as she told them how Phoenix had reacted.

  Mr. Brown was not convinced by his wife’s idea.

  “Phoenix Buchanan?” he exclaimed. “You really are letting your imagination run away with you now, Mary.”

  “You have to admit, as an actor, he is a master of disguise,” Mrs. Brown persisted.

  “She’s gone mad,” Mr. Brown muttered to the others.

  Mrs. Brown was not going to be put off that easily, however. “Think about it, Henry. Somewhere out there is the missing treasure—”

  “Alleged fortune,” Mr. Brown corrected her.

  “And Knuckles said we weren’t looking for a criminal gang,” Mrs. Brown reminded him.

  Judy had picked up on her mother’s train of thought. “Because there was no gang!” she cried.

  Jonathan was following too. “It was one man!” he said.

  Mrs. Brown nodded. Her eyes shone with excitement. “And Feathers knew all along,” she said.

  “Feathers?” asked Henry. “Who’s Feathers?”

  “No one,” said Mrs. Brown quickly, realizing she may have gone too far.

  But it was too late, Mr. Brown had worked out what she meant. “The parrot at the newsstand?” he said in disbelief. “You’re not going to take seriously the testimony of a talking bird now, are you?”

  Mrs. Brown stared at her hands and said nothing.

  Mr. Brown let out an exasperated noise. “Can we please return to planet Earth for one minute?” he said. “Phoenix Buchanan is a highly respected and award-winning actor, not to mention a member of my company’s Platinum Club. He is not a petty thief. And before you go casting aspersions about a pillar of our community, Mary, I might remind you that you don’t have any proof.” He glared at his wife, then, getting up from the table, walked out of the room, saying, “If anyone wants me, I shall be at the law library.” And with that he slammed the door behind him.

  “He’s right,” said Judy. “We do need proof.”

  Mrs. Bird patted Mrs. Brown’s hand. “Well, I believe you, Mary,” she said. “Actors are some of the most evil, devious people on the planet. They lie for a living. If we’re going to catch one, we’ll need a foolproof plan.”

  CHAPTER 16

  The Browns Have a Master Plan

  Over in Portobello Prison, Paddington’s new friends were coming up with a plan of their own.

  Paddington was fast asleep in his cell when he was awoken by a loud metallic CLANG.

  He sat up and blinked. “What’s that?” he said, his voice bleary with sleep.

  Suddenly Knuckles’s voice rang out along the pipe on the wall.

  “Paddington? Paddington!” Knuckles called urgently.

  Paddington opened a vent so he could hear better. “What’s up?” he asked.

  “Ah, good. You’re awake. Got a proposition for you, kid,” said Knuckles. “Me and the boys have been talking. It seems to us that, if you’re going to clear your name, you’re going to need our help.”

  Phibs’s voice joined in. “The Browns may mean well but—”

  Spoon took up the thread. “It takes a thief to catch a thief.”

  Knuckles agreed. “If the three of us were to get out of here,” he went on, “we could hit the streets together and we’d soon find him.”

  Paddington was horrified. “You’re not talking about escape?”

  “We certainly are,” said Knuckles. “And we’ve got a plan, but it’s a four-man job and we need your help. What do you say?”

  Paddington felt sorely tempted. He had well and truly had enough of his cell. But escaping? He wasn’t sure about that. When it came down to it, he just wasn’t that kind of bear.

  “It’s very kind of you, Knuckles,” he said, “but I don’t think Aunt Lucy would like the idea of me breaking out of prison.”

  “But you’re innocent,” Knuckles reminded him.

  “I know—but you’re not!” said Paddington. “You robbed a bank.”

  “That’s not fair!” said Knuckles, sounding hurt. “I did leave an IOU note.”

  “And I’m a locksmith by trade,” said Spoon. “I just so happen to like practicing at night on jewelry shops.”

  “And I’ve always wanted to fly an airplane,” said Phibs. “Is that a crime?”

  “It is if you steal it,” said Paddington. “Look, I know you mean well, but the Browns will take me home in the end, you’ll see,” he said.

  There was a pause and Paddington thought the others had gone.

  Then Knuckles said quietly, “You may not want to hear this, kid, but sooner or later the Browns will give up on you.”

  Paddington felt his stomach churn as he listened to the other prisoners back Knuckles up.

  “When they don’t find that thief,” said Phibs, “they’ll start to question your story.”

  “They’ll miss one visit, then two . . . ,” said Spoon.

  “And before you know it,” finished Knuckles, “they’ll have abandoned you altogether.”

  Paddington was affronted by this. “You’re wrong,” he said. “You’re all wrong. The Browns aren’t like that. They’ll come tomorrow and they’ll have good news, you’ll see.”

  He closed the vent very firmly.

  But, as he tried to get back to sleep, he couldn’t get Knuckles’s words out of his head.

  Paddington needn’t have worried. Ever since Mrs. Brown had come back from Phoenix’s house, she and the children had been busy plotting with Mrs. Bird. They felt sure they had come up with a master plan that would catch the devious actor red-handed and al
low Paddington to finally come home to his family.

  The first part of the plan had Judy and Jonathan traveling across London to the office of Flick Fanshawe, Phoenix Buchanan’s agent.

  They rushed up to the door of Flick’s office and pressed a buzzer next to her name.

  Judy leaned in and spoke into the intercom. “Good morning,” she said. “This is Judy Brown from the Portobello Express. I have an appointment.”

  The door clicked open and Judy and Jonathan climbed the stairs to Flick Fanshawe’s office. They knocked on the door.

  “Come in!” a voice called out.

  Judy went in first. The office was a large room with theater posters and photographs of actors up on the walls. Flick herself sat behind an enormous desk. She stood up when the children came in and held out a well-manicured hand.

  Flick flashed her white teeth in a dazzling smile. “What’s this for, darlings? A school newspaper, you say?”

  “That’s right,” said Judy.

  Jonathan put a Dictaphone on the desk and pressed “Record” while Judy explained.

  “We’re doing a career profile,” Judy was saying. “We thought an interview with the agent of THE Phoenix Buchanan would be really interesting. Oh, and we brought these with us, by the way,” she said, offering Flick a basket of Chelsea buns. “As a thank-you for seeing us at such short notice.”

  “Lovely!” said Flick. She took one. “I’m sure an interview with me would be just the thing for your little newspaper. Inspiring to the kiddies, no doubt! Right, I’ve only got two minutes, so we’d better make it snappy,” she said, biting into the bun. “Hmm. Nice buns by the way.”

  Not wanting to waste a moment, Jonathan jumped in with a question. “When can we expect to see Mr. Buchanan back on stage?”

  “Phoenix?” Flick said through a mouthful of crumbs. “I wouldn’t hold your breath, darling. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a fantastic actor but he’s got one teensy-weensy problem, which is that he won’t work with other actors—thinks they ‘dilute his talent’—” She broke off to check the time on her expensive watch. “Ooh, look! I must scoot,” she cried. “We’re having lunch with a big Broadway producer.” She finished off the Chelsea bun and leaped from her chair.