Paddington 2

by Annie Wilson

  “A Broadway producer? That sounds exciting,” said Judy. She was desperate to try to delay the agent from leaving right away. “Where are you going?”

  “Where do you think? Where do all the big meetings happen? The Ritz, darling!” said Flick, taking another bun. “Hmm,” she said, munching away. “Really nice buns. Got to fly! Byeee!” she called out over her shoulder.

  Judy and Jonathan exchanged a devious smile and Jonathan pressed “Stop” on the Dictaphone.

  “Did you get everything we need?” Judy asked in a low voice.

  “I think so,” said Jonathan. “I hope Mum’s managed to carry out her part of the plan.”

  Mrs. Brown was indeed doing her bit back in Windsor Gardens. She had Mrs. Bird to help her too.

  To any passerby, it would seem that Mrs. Bird was having an innocent chat with the postman. In reality, however, she was causing a diversion so that Mrs. Brown could carry out her plan unnoticed.

  “Good morning, Marlon!”

  “Good morning, Mrs. B. How’s Paddington doing?” the postman asked.

  “Oh, he’s a tough wee bear,” said Mrs. Bird.

  She kept the postman chatting while Mrs. Brown took advantage of the diversion to sneak round the side of the van with a large hamper from Barkridges’ department store. She quickly checked around her to make sure the coast was clear, then climbed inside the hamper. Just as the postman finished his chat with Mrs. Bird, Mrs. Brown pulled the lid down so that she was completely hidden.

  “Better get on,” said the postman, waving goodbye to Mrs. Bird.

  He walked round to the side of his van and spotted the hamper.

  “Who’s this for, then?” he asked himself, reading the address label. “Mr. Buchanan? Okay. Off we go. Phew, it’s heavy!” he muttered.

  Heaving the hamper on to a trolley, the postman wheeled it round to Phoenix Buchanan’s door and rang the bell.

  Mrs. Bird was spying from a phone booth.

  She waited as Phoenix opened the door, looked delightedly at the hamper, and took it safely inside his house. Then, quickly checking to make sure no one was watching her, Mrs. Bird picked up the receiver and dialed.

  In a different phone booth, on the other side of town, Judy and Jonathan were waiting too—for Mrs. Bird to call them! As soon as the phone rang, Judy answered it. Jonathan squeezed in alongside his sister so that he could hear what Mrs. Bird had to say.

  “The parcel has been delivered,” said Mrs. Bird in a cryptic tone. “I repeat: the parcel has been delivered.”

  Judy said nothing in response. She simply replaced the receiver and then went to dial a new number . . .

  Inside Phoenix’s house, he was settling down to open the hamper.

  “Oh, this is exciting,” he said to himself. “I wonder if it’s from a fan—” He was stopped from opening it up fully, however, by the phone ringing.

  “Oh! A hamper and a phone call in one morning. Popular little me!” he trilled as he went to answer.

  “Hello?” he said. “Phoenix Buchanan. Star of the stage and screen—”

  “Phoenix!”

  “Flick? Is that you?” Phoenix asked. “It’s not every day I hear from my agent.” He sounded grumpy. “I hope it’s good news—”

  The voice on the other end cut in. “I’ve only got two minutes, so we’d better make it snappy.” It was Flick’s voice—but it wasn’t really her. It was the recording that Jonathan had made when he and Judy were in Flick’s office earlier!

  “Okay,” said Phoenix, believing it to be the agent herself. “But it better had be good. You haven’t got me any work apart from that dreadful dog-food commercial for years.”

  “We’re having lunch with a big Broadway producer,” said his agent’s voice.

  Phoenix’s mood changed dramatically. He gasped in delight. “That’s wonderful! Where should I meet you?”

  “Where do all the big meetings happen? The Ritz, darling!”

  “I’m on my way!” Phoenix cried.

  He was about to take the receiver away from his ear when he heard Flick’s voice say, “Nice buns by the way.”

  “I beg your pardon?” said Phoenix.

  Back in the phone booth, Judy and Jonathan looked at each other aghast—had they given the game away?

  “Really nice buns!” Flick’s voice said.

  “Well, thank you very much,” said Phoenix, plainly flattered.

  Judy and Jonathan let out the breath they had been holding and looked hugely relieved. “I think we got away with it!” Judy whispered as she replaced the receiver.

  Phoenix put his phone down and checked out his rear view in a mirror. “Nice buns, eh? Well, I’ve certainly never had any complaints about Mr. and Mrs. Botty-Cheek,” he said to his reflection.

  Then, with a laugh, he ran to what he thought was a very important appointment at the Ritz.

  CHAPTER 17

  Breaking and Entering, but Mainly Breaking

  As soon as Phoenix had left the house, Mrs. Brown lifted the lid of the hamper. Seeing that she was truly alone in the house, she climbed out of the straw packing.

  “Urgh. It was hot in there,” she muttered. “And if anyone had said one more time how heavy I was . . .”

  She went immediately to a pile of Phoenix’s personal papers and began riffling through for anything that might provide a clue about the whereabouts of the pop-up book.

  “What’s this?” she said under her breath. She had unearthed a notebook. It was blank, but she could see some faint marks left by a pen. “Someone has written on the previous page and torn it out,” she said to herself.

  Thinking quickly, Mrs. Brown took a pencil from her hair and shaded over the invisible writing. The words emerged in the gray shading: Saturday 06:35 Where All Your Dreams Come True.

  “What can that mean?” Mrs. Brown asked herself, chewing the end of the pencil. She was deep in thought when a sharp knock at the window startled her.

  Mrs. Brown almost jumped out of her skin. Her hands flew to her throat and her heart clamored in her chest.

  She looked up anxiously and then sighed irritably. It was her husband!

  She opened the window. “Henry? What are you doing?” she said, looking out into the street to check that Phoenix had definitely gone.

  “What are you doing, more like?” Mr. Brown asked. “Have you gone insane?”

  It was then that Mrs. Brown saw what her husband was wearing.

  “I could ask you the same question. Why are you wearing your pajamas?” she exclaimed.

  Mr. Brown looked defensive. “I was having a lazy morning,” he said. “More to the point, I looked out of the window and saw you in HERE. I rushed over straightaway to stop you from doing anything stupid. This is breaking and entering, you know,” he added, climbing in through the open window.

  Mrs. Brown turned away and resumed her hunt for clues. “We haven’t broken anything,” she said.

  Mr. Brown immediately bumped into a large vase, knocked it over, and broke it. “Good grief!” he exclaimed, sweeping at the broken pieces. “Look at the mess you’ve got us into! I wish you hadn’t started this wild-goose chase. Give me one reason why Phoenix Buchanan would steal a pop-up book? He’s already a millionaire.”

  “Was a millionaire,” Mrs. Brown corrected her husband, ignoring his panicky cries. “He owes money all over town—he hasn’t got a penny to his name.” She held up a handful of unpaid bills.

  “So, he has a lot of red bills,” said Mr. Brown impatiently. “Everyone does . . . Goodness me,” he said, picking up an invoice from the pile. “The man spends a lot on face cream!”

  “Come on,” said Mrs. Brown urgently. “We need to find that book and get out of here before Phoenix comes back. We haven’t much time.”

  “So where next?” asked Mr. Brown.

  “Let’s go upstairs . . . ,” said Mrs. Brown, already running up the stairs.

  “Look!” she said, pointing at two indentations in the carpet on the landin
g. “Marks where a ladder has been.”

  “You really have been reading too many detective novels, Mary,” Mr. Brown muttered.

  Mrs. Brown merely smiled as she pointed at a hatch door above their heads. “Give me a leg up!” she said.

  Mr. Brown did as he was asked, with much muttering and complaining. In seconds his wife had swung open the hatch to reveal a folded-up stepladder. “Carefully does it,” said Mr. Brown as his wife pulled the ladder down.

  It landed neatly in the marks on the landing carpet.

  “I knew he would have a secret room hidden away,” Mrs. Brown breathed.

  “It’s not a secret room; it’s an attic. Everyone in the street has one,” said Mr. Brown, rolling his eyes. Nonetheless, he followed his wife up the ladder.

  Mrs. Brown flicked a light switch and gasped at what she saw: the costumed mannequins leered at her in the gloom, lending the room a distinctly spooky air.

  Mr. Brown took one look at them and shuddered. “Good grief. He’s a weirdo,” he said.

  Mrs. Brown pointed at the costumes. “Look, Henry!” she said in a whisper. “The nun . . . the thief . . . the king . . .”

  Mr. Brown’s jaw dropped. “Phoenix is the thief. We were right!”

  “WE?” Mrs. Brown exclaimed hotly.

  “Well, I never said—” Mr. Brown began. But he stopped when he heard a noise. “Shh!” he said, tiptoeing toward the open hatch and listening intently. “I think I heard the front door open.”

  Mr. Brown had heard correctly. Phoenix Buchanan had forgotten his favorite cravat and come back to fetch it.

  “I need to look even more gorgeous than usual for this important lunch,” he said to himself as he came in through the front door.

  “Quick!” Mrs. Brown whispered. “Let’s get out of here.”

  They crept down the ladder from the attic and closed the hatch behind them. Mrs. Brown beckoned to her husband to come to the banister and together they peered over.

  “He’s gone into the kitchen,” Mr. Brown whispered.

  They stole down the stairs and along the hallway as quietly as they could. Just as they reached the front door they heard Phoenix come out of the kitchen. Quick as a flash Mrs. Brown darted into the living room, dragging her husband with her.

  Phoenix was on his way back out and hadn’t heard a thing, But then he happened to notice the living-room door was open.

  “I’m sure I shut that behind me when I left,” he said to himself. He peered into the room and spotted the broken vase. “Intruder!” he gasped, ducking back into the hall. He nipped over to a suit of armor standing against the wall and took an ornamental sword from the gloved hand.

  “Hello, who’s there?” he called out, brandishing the sword.

  There was no noise or movement from anywhere in the house.

  Phoenix crept back into the living room.

  At first glance everything seemed normal.

  Then Phoenix saw Mr. Brown’s legs disappearing behind the sofa.

  “Henry?” said Phoenix, puzzled. “Is that you?” He let the arm holding the sword fall to his side.

  Mr. Brown sheepishly got to his feet. “Ah, hello, Phoenix,” he said. He glanced down, noticing the weapon in Phoenix’s hand, and his legs began to shake.

  “What on earth are you doing here?” Phoenix asked.

  Mr. Brown pulled himself up to his full height and made an effort to take control of the situation. “I might ask you the same thing,” he said.

  “I live here!” Phoenix exclaimed.

  “And I”—Mr. Brown hesitated, looking for the right words—“insure it,” he said. Feeling emboldened by this excuse, he continued. “And for my company’s Platinum Club members we perform a full home inspection to verify your security arrangements.”

  Phoenix eyed him doubtfully. “In your pajamas?”

  “Hmm-mm,” said Mr. Brown, not trusting himself to say more.

  “With your wife?” Phoenix added, his voice heavy with skepticism. He pulled back the curtain to reveal Mrs. Brown, who was pretending to inspect the security of the windows by tapping the glass.

  “Ah, good. Seems pretty safe,” she said hastily. Then turning to face the others she feigned surprise. “Oh, hi, Phoenix! I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “You see?” Mr. Brown said to Phoenix. “Mary helps me out from time to time.”

  Phoenix narrowed his eyes. “We-ell,” he said slowly, “I must say that sounds . . . plausible.”

  “Does it?” said Mr. Brown brightly. “Great. Well, I’m delighted to say we can give you a clean bill of health. I’ll get the chaps in the office to type up the paperwork ASAP.”

  “Wonderful,” said Phoenix, smiling thinly.

  “Good,” said Mr. Brown. “Well, we’d better get cracking. Come on, Mary.”

  Phoenix saw them out to the door.

  Mr. Brown turned on the doorstep and said, “Cheerio! Hope to see you soon, Phoenix.”

  “Maybe not in your—erm—pajamas next time?” the actor replied.

  They all laughed and the Browns made a swift getaway.

  Phoenix watched them very carefully as they went.

  As soon as the Browns had left, Phoenix shot upstairs and scrambled up the ladder to his attic room. He frantically checked his belongings and was relieved to find that the pop-up book was still where he had left it.

  “Thank goodness it’s safe,” said Phoenix. Opening the precious book, he stood dramatically, legs wide, as though onstage. Then, addressing one of his mannequins, he said, “Hold your nerve, Macbeth. Screw your courage to the sticking post. We are almost there. I have followed this little lady all the way across London and found every one of her clever little clues.”

  He smiled down at the picture of the tiny trapeze artist, then frowned, deep in thought. “But what on earth do they mean?” he muttered. “It’s just a jumble of letters. If only Grandfather were here now to tell me himself.”

  He glanced across at another mannequin. “What would you say, Monsieur Poirot?” he asked, as though the famous detective were really standing before him. “Letters . . . what can letters mean? A code? A key . . . ? A key! That’s it! They are not letters at all—they are musical notes!”

  Phoenix’s eyes shone in the gloom as he realized what he had just discovered. “If they are musical notes, there is only one place they will be of any use,” he said. “And I am the only one who knows the truth! Without this book, the Browns have no proof. And by the time they get back, Phoenix Buchanan will have disappeared! Now be quiet, all of you,” he said to the mannequins sternly. “I must prepare . . .”

  And with that he sat down at his mirror and began applying makeup.

  CHAPTER 18

  Paddington and the Great Escape

  Later that day, the Browns and Mrs. Bird went to the police station with the evidence Mrs. Brown had gathered. They told the officer on duty all about Phoenix and the costumes in his attic and explained that they believed him to be the true thief of the pop-up book.

  The officer took notes, while looking extremely skeptical.

  “I know what you are thinking, Officer,” said Mr. Brown. “My wife is insane.”

  “Thank you, darling,” said Mrs. Brown with a thin smile.

  “But she was right all along,” Mr. Brown persisted.

  Jonathan chipped in. “Judy’s the only person who’s been printing the truth,” he said, holding up one of his sister’s newspapers.

  Judy blushed. “Jonathan helped me,” she said.

  “But don’t tell anyone,” Jonathan pleaded. “Not cool.”

  “All right, that is an amazing story,” said the policewoman, holding up a hand to stop them. “But all you’ve proved is that Phoenix Buchanan keeps his old costumes in an attic room. I need solid proof that he is the thief. Bring me the pop-up book with Phoenix’s fingerprints on it, and then we can talk.”

  “But—” said Jonathan.

  “Until then there’s nothing I can do,” said t
he policewoman firmly. “I am sorry,” she said, walking away from the Browns.

  Mrs. Brown looked horrified. “Where’s she going?” she said.

  “What are we going to do now?” Jonathan asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Mrs. Brown sadly.

  Mrs. Bird tried to cheer everyone up. “At least we can tell Paddington we know who did it now,” she said. “That should give him hope.”

  As she said this, the clock struck three.

  “Oh NO!” they cried, looking at each other in horror. “We’ve missed visiting hour!”

  While the Browns had been trying to clear Paddington’s name, Paddington had been waiting anxiously for his visitors, Knuckles’s words still ringing in his ears.

  Before you know it, they’ll have abandoned you altogether . . .

  “The Browns won’t forget me,” Paddington told himself. He repeated it over and over, but as he sat and waited and watched the other prisoners’ visitors come and go, he realized that Knuckles may well have been right.

  At three o’clock the klaxon sounded to signal the end of visiting time. Poor Paddington gave a soft growl of despair. He left the room as all the lights in the visitors’ booths went out.

  He went back to his cell and lay on his bed, looking at the photo of himself with the Browns and Mrs. Bird. He tried to imagine the photo with him no longer in it. . . . As he did so, he shed a single tear, which fell to the floor of Paddington’s cell and soaked into the floorboards.

  Paddington sat, staring at the patch where the tear had fallen. It made him think of the first raindrops in the forest back in Darkest Peru during the tropical storms. He stared at the watermark and imagined the teardrop producing a single green shoot that grew up and up. Soon, in his mind’s eye, his cell had disappeared and he was looking at the Peruvian rain forest that had once been his home. And there was his dear Aunt Lucy calling his name. If ever he needed her guidance, now was the time . . .

  “Aunt Lucy! Aunt Lucy!” It was really her!

  “Paddington!” She drew her nephew toward her in a warm embrace. “What are you doing here?” she asked. “I thought you’d be at home.”