by Michael Bond
There was a lady standing in one of the windows, peering out into the gloom, and he was about to tap on the glass and ask where the nearest bus stop was when he suddenly stopped in his tracks, the marmalade sandwich poised halfway to his mouth and all thoughts of returning home momentarily forgotten.
Pulling the handkerchief over his face, Paddington stepped back a pace into the mist and then watched with ever-growing astonishment as a man with a beard crept through a door at the back of the window, and threw a white sheet over the lady. Before she had time to cry out let alone put up any kind of a struggle, he picked her bodily up and then crept out again, closing the door behind him in what could only be described as an extremely furtive manner indeed.
It was all over in a matter of seconds and Paddington could hardly believe his eyes. It was The Case of the Miserable Mummies all over again, only more so because he’d actually seen it happen with his own eyes.
In the book of that name, Carlton Dale had solved a particularly dastardly crime to do with kidnapping, in which the unfortunate victims had been hypnotised and then left in a shop window disguised as dummies to await collection during the night.
The likeness of the two stories was uncanny, even down to the fog and the man with the beard. Most of the crimes in Carlton Dale’s casebook took place under cover of a thick fog – when the police were powerless to act, and a great many of them were committed by men with beards. Indeed, Carlton Dale himself seemed fascinated by beards of any sort, and he was forever pulling them off on the final page in order to unmask the true villain.
Mr Dale had solved The Case of the Miserable Mummies by taking on a job in the store itself, and if Paddington had entertained any thoughts about reporting his strange experience to the police, they disappeared for good and all a moment later when he caught sight of a notice pasted to one of the shop windows near the main entrance. It said, simply:
VACANCIES GOOD PROSPECTS. OWN CANTEEN. APPLY MISS GLORIA. STAFF APPOINTMENTS.
It was unusually late before Paddington finally turned out his bedside light that night, and even then he was much too excited to sleep.
Once or twice he switched it back on again in order to make an entry on a large sheet of paper headed ‘CLEWS’, and it needed several quite long sessions on his violin before he finally dropped off to sleep.
Fortunately, the Browns were so thankful he’d arrived home safely after his long absence they managed to turn a deaf ear, but on the last two occasions Mr Curry was heard to fling open his bedroom window and empty a jug of water into the garden below. And if the tone of his voice was anything to go by, any tomcat who happened to be passing at the time would have been well advised to turn back without delay.
However, despite his late night, Paddington woke early next morning. When he drew his curtains he was pleased to see the fog had almost cleared and after a quick wash, followed by an even quicker breakfast, he got ready to depart again.
“I do wish I could see into Paddington’s mind,” said Mrs Brown, as the front door closed behind him. “I know something’s going on. I can recognise the signs. Besides, it’s bonfire night at the weekend and there was a letter from Jonathan this morning asking him to see about the fireworks. He hasn’t done a thing yet. It’s most unusual.”
“If you ask me,” said Mrs Bird, “it’s a good job we can’t see into that bear’s mind. There’s no knowing what we might find sometimes!”
Despite her words the Browns’ housekeeper looked as if she would have liked to ask Paddington a few questions as well, but by that time he was much too far away, and busy with problems of his own.
It took him some while to find the Appointments Office of the store where the mysterious goings-on had taken place the night before, and as he approached a lady sitting behind a desk at the far end of the room, a clock was already striking ten somewhere in the distance.
“Excuse me, Miss Gloria,” he announced urgently, “I’ve come about the job in the window. I’d like to be taken on, please.”
The lady in charge of appointments appeared to have problems of her own, for she carried on writing. “Are you an ‘under ten thousand pounds a year man’?” she asked briefly.
“Oh, yes,” said Paddington eagerly. “I’m a pound a week bear.”
“A pound a week bear?” Miss Gloria gave a start as she glanced up from her work.
“I don’t think you’re quite what we’re looking for,” she began, breaking off as Paddington fixed her with a hard stare.
“Er… have you tried the Post Office?” she asked, in a slightly more helpful tone. “Perhaps you could put your name down as a Christmas ‘temp’.”
“A Christmas ‘temp’?” repeated Paddington hotly. “I don’t want to work for the Post Office – I want to work for you. It’s a matter of life and death!”
“Oh, really?” Miss Gloria’s expression changed and she began to look quite flustered. “Er… how nice. I… er… I’d like to help you,” she continued, patting her hair, “but I don’t think I can put you behind a counter. You may have trouble seeing over the top. After all, you are rather… er…” Once again her voice trailed away as she caught Paddington’s gaze. “I really don’t think I can offer you anything in the way of a four-figure job,” she said unhappily, riffling through some cards.
“Have you a three-figure one?” asked Paddington hopefully.
Miss Gloria paused and withdrew a card from the file. “There is one here,” she said. “And I suppose you could call it a three-figure job. It’s five pounds fifty a week, actually, and we do supply a free mackintosh.”
“A free mackintosh?” repeated Paddington, becoming more and more surprised. “Isn’t the job inside?”
“Well,” said Miss Gloria uneasily. “It is and it isn’t. Most of you is under cover. You’d be in charge of our sandwich board, actually.”
Paddington’s eyes glistened. It seemed even better than he’d dared hope for. “Do I bring my own sandwiches?” he inquired. “Or do you supply them?”
Miss Gloria gave a shrill laugh. “I’ll give you a chit,” she said hurriedly. “You’d better go down and see our Mr Waters. He’s in charge of the stores and he’ll fit you out. That is, if you want the job?”
“Oh, yes, please,” said Paddington. He’d never been in charge of any sort of board before, let alone a sandwich one at five pounds fifty a week, and after thanking the lady very much for all her trouble he hurried back downstairs as fast as he could.
The storeman eyed Paddington gloomily as he examined the chit. “I suppose they ’as to take what they can get these days,” he said. “But I shouldn’t go joining no pension scheme if I were you. I doubt if you’ll last that long!”
Mr Waters disappeared behind some metal racks for a moment or two and when he returned he was staggering beneath a pile of what looked like old tables with advertisement slogans painted on them.
“Try this on for size,” he said, lifting the conglomeration over Paddington’s head. “’Ave a walk up and down and get the feel of it.”
Paddington peered at the storeman over the top of his board as if in a trance. Far from needing to walk up and down he knew just what it felt like without even moving.
“What do you think?” asked Mr Waters. “I don’t know as we ’ave a smaller one.”
Paddington took a deep breath. His hat had been pushed down over his head; his whiskers were ruffled; and to make matters worse, the straps were biting into his shoulders as if he was supporting a tonne weight.
He was about to tell the storeman exactly what he thought about sandwich boards in general and the one belonging to the store in particular when he suddenly froze, hardly able to believe his good fortune. For a new figure had come into view through the door. Or rather, not a new figure, but an all-too familiar one with a beard.
“Hallo, ‘Soapy’!” The newcomer nodded towards the back of the store as he addressed Mr Waters. “You’ve still got ‘you know who’ all right?”
The sto
reman gave a wink. “She ’asn’t moved, Mr Adrian,” he chuckled. “Snug as a bug in a rug. All right for the weekend, eh? No change of plans?”
The man with the beard nodded again. “There’s a whole gang coming,” he said. “Can’t stop now. My turn to get the coffee this morning – all twenty-three! Just thought I’d check on my way to the canteen.”
Paddington stood rooted to the spot as the voices died away. It hadn’t occurred to him that he might have a gang to deal with. It was The Case of the Dozen Desperadoes all over again, only with eleven extra members, and it took him some moments to digest this new piece of information.
“I ’as to lock up now,” said the storeman, breaking into his thoughts as he came back into the room. “It’s coffee time. If you want my advice you’ll get a cuppa while you’ve got the chance. It’s thirsty work lugging sandwich boards about. The canteen’s just along on your right. Follow Mr Adrian – you can’t miss it.”
But Mr Waters was addressing the empty air, for Paddington was already clumping his way along the corridor in hot pursuit of his suspect.
Regardless of the odd looks being cast in his direction, he pushed his way into the canteen past a row of startled onlookers and made his way along the front of the counter until he was right behind the man with the beard.
Although Carlton Dale had never mentioned having to wear a sandwich board on any of his cases, Paddington was glad he hadn’t stopped to remove it, for at least it gave him cover while he considered his next move.
Peering over the top, he racked his brains as the man in front loaded a tray with cups and saucers and then felt in a purse for the money.
It was as the lady behind the cash register handed over the change and slammed the till shut that Paddington had a sudden flash of inspiration; for the sight of all the money reminded him of yet another of Mr Dale’s famous cases – The Affair of the Forged Florins – in which the criminal had been tracked down with the aid of fingerprints taken from the coins themselves.
“Excuse me,” he called, addressing the lady behind the counter. “Have you seen what’s on the wall behind you?”
As the cashier looked round, Paddington seized his opportunity. Reaching out from beneath the board he hastily turned the cash register round until it was facing him and then pressed one of the buttons.
He wasn’t at all sure what happened next, for it was all over before he had time to blink, let alone see inside the till. There was a ‘ping’ as the drawer shot out, and a split second later a crash echoed and reechoed around the canteen as twenty-three cups of coffee went flying in all directions.
“Mr Adrian! Mr Adrian!” The lady behind the cash desk peered under the counter as a cry of mingled pain and astonishment came from somewhere underneath. “Are you all right?
“What a thing to happen,” she cried, turning to one of me assistants. “And only two days before Bonfire Night!”
“He’s been to so much trouble and all,” clucked someone else. “They say he’s made a marvellous guy from a dummy out of one of his windows. Been keeping it down in the stores as a surprise.”
“He did it!” shouted another assistant, pointing at Paddington. “The one with the whiskers behind that sandwich board. He did it on purpose.”
“I knew he was up to no good as soon as he came in,” cried a waitress. “He pushed me in my vanilla slices, he was in such a hurry!”
“Help! Bandits!” shouted yet another voice, taking up the call.
Immediately the whole canteen was in an uproar as attention suddenly switched from the unfortunate Mr Adrian, still lying under the counter in a pool of brown liquid, and focused on the sandwich board.
But Paddington was no longer inside it. Like Carlton Dale at his most elusive, he had disappeared. He still hadn’t had time to take in all that had been said, but of one thing he was perfectly certain; any working out of the problem which remained was much better done in the quiet of number thirty-two Windsor Gardens rather than the store’s canteen.
“There’s a funny case in tonight’s paper,” said Mr Brown, later that same evening. “Quite near here. Apparently they had some sort of to-do in that big store.
“‘Sandwich board runs amok in staff canteen,’” he read. “’Bearded window-dresser attacked by mystery coffee-throwing bandit!’”
“What will people get up to next?” asked Mrs Brown from behind her knitting. “You’re not safe anywhere these days.”
Mr Brown tossed the paper on to the floor for the others to see. “Sounds like a case for you, Paddington,” he called jokingly. “I bet you five pounds you can’t solve that one!”
Paddington, who’d spent most of the evening busily writing notes in his scrapbook, nearly fell off the pouffe with astonishment.
“Would you really, Mr Brown?” he exclaimed excitedly.
“Er… yes,” replied Mr Brown, suddenly looking slightly less enthusiastic about the matter. “That’s what I said.”
There was a confident note in Paddington’s voice he didn’t entirely like the sound of, and he looked even more unhappy a moment or so later when Paddington cut a picture out of the paper and began pasting it alongside his notes.
“Don’t tell me you’ve been working on the case already?” he asked.
Paddington nodded as he licked a gummed label to place under the photograph of a coffee-stained Mr Adrian being interviewed with his guy. He suddenly felt very much better about everything. Carlton Dale rarely received any sort of reward for solving his crimes, let alone five pounds, and although he didn’t think he could possibly make as good a guy as the one in the picture, he was quite certain Mr Brown’s money would go a long way towards it, and supply a goodly number of extra fireworks for Jonathan and Judy into the bargain.
“I’ve called it The Case of the Doubtful Dummy,” he announced importantly, clearing his throat as everyone gathered round to listen. “It all began yesterday evening when I wrote to Carlton Dale…”
MRS BROWN TORE open the first of the morning’s mail, withdrew a large piece of white pasteboard, and then stared at it in amazement. “Good gracious!” she exclaimed. “Fancy that! Mrs Smith-Cholmley is holding a Christmas ball in aid of the local children’s hospital and we’ve all been invited.”
Paddington peered across the table with a slice of toast and marmalade poised halfway to his mouth. “Mrs Smith-Cholmley’s holding a Christmas ball?” he repeated in great surprise. “I hope we get there before she drops it!”
“It isn’t that sort of a ball, dear,” said Mrs Brown patiently.
“It means she’s having a dance,” explained Judy.
“Who’s Mrs Smith-Cholmley when she’s at home?” asked Mr Brown.
Mrs Brown handed him the card. “Don’t you remember, Henry? Paddington met her when he was out Carol Singing last year. She’s the one he cooked the baked elastic for by mistake.”
“Crikey!” broke in Jonathan, as he read the invitation. “She’s either left it a bit late or it’s been delayed in the post. It’s tomorrow night!”
“And that’s not all,” added Mrs Brown. “Have you seen what it says at the bottom?”
Paddington hurried round the table and peered over Mr Brown’s shoulder. “Ruzzvup!” he exclaimed.
“No, dear,” said Mrs Brown. “R.S.V.P. That simply means ‘Répondez, s’il vous plaît’. It’s French for ‘please reply’.”
“You mean the bit about evening dress?” Mr Brown looked around at Paddington, who was waving his toast and marmalade dangerously near his left ear. “Well, that’s put the tin lid on it. I suppose we shall just have to say no.”
There was a note of relief in Mr Brown’s voice. He wasn’t too keen on dancing at the best of times and the thought of going to a ball with Mrs Smith-Cholmley filled him with gloom. But any hopes he’d entertained of using Paddington as an excuse were quickly dashed by the chorus of dismay which greeted his last remark.
“I think we ought to try and arrange something, Henry,” said Mrs B
rown. “After all, it’s in a very good cause. It’s the same hospital Paddington collected for last year, and if it wasn’t for him we shouldn’t be invited anyway.”
“We’ll take him along to Heather and Sons and have him fitted out for the evening,” said Mrs Bird decidedly, as she bustled around clearing up the breakfast things. “They hire out evening clothes and it says in their advertisements they fit anyone while they wait.”
Mr Brown eyed Paddington’s figure doubtfully. “We need it tomorrow night,” he said. “Not next year.”
Paddington looked most upset at this last remark. It was bad enough writing things in initials, let alone French ones, but having to wear special clothes simply in order to dance seemed most complicated.
However, he brightened considerably at the thought of going up to London to be fitted out. And when Mr Brown, recognising defeat at last, announced that he would meet them afterwards and take them all out to lunch as a special treat, he joined in the general excitement.
Paddington liked visiting London and he couldn’t wait to get started, especially when Mr Brown brought out his copy of a guide to good restaurants and began searching for a likely eating place.
“They have a restaurant at Heather’s now,” said Mrs Brown. “We could combine the two things. It’ll save a lot of trouble.”
Mr Brown made a quick check. “It isn’t a Duncan Hyde recommended,” he said disappointedly. “He doesn’t even mention it.”
“It only opened last week,” replied Mrs Brown, “so it wouldn’t be. But not many people know about it yet so at least it won’t be crowded.”
“All right,” said Mr Brown. “You win!” He snapped the book shut and handed it to Paddington. “Perhaps you can test a few of the dishes at lunchtime,” he continued, as the others hurried upstairs. “If they’re any good we’ll send a recommendation to Mr Hyde.”