“All the same,” he continued, “it must have been a nasty experience while it lasted. If I were you, I would start your elevenses before the cocoa gets cold. You must be in need of it.”
Paddington thought that was a very good idea indeed. “Perhaps,” he said, looking up at the antique clock on the wall of the shop, “just this once, Mr Gruber, we ought to call it ‘twelveses’.”
PADDINGTON’S GOOD TURN
LIKE MOST HOUSEHOLDS up and down the country, number thirty-two Windsor Gardens had its own set routine.
In the case of the Brown family, Mr Brown usually went off to his office soon after breakfast, leaving Mrs Brown and Mrs Bird to go about their daily tasks. Most days, apart from the times when Jonathan and Judy were home for the school holidays, Paddington spent the morning visiting his friend, Mr Gruber, for cocoa and buns.
There were occasional upsets, of course, but on the whole the household was like an ocean liner. It steamed happily on its way, no matter what the weather.
So when Mrs Bird returned home one day to what she fully expected to be an empty house and saw a strange face peering at her through the landing window, it took a moment or two to recover from the shock, and by then whoever it was had gone.
What made it far worse, was the fact that she was halfway up the stairs to her bedroom at the time, which meant the face belonged to someone outside the house.
She hadn’t seen any sign of a ladder on her way in; but all the same she rushed back downstairs again, grabbed the first weapon she could lay her hands on, and dashed out into the garden.
Apart from a passing cat, which gave a loud shriek and scuttled off with its tail between its legs when it caught sight of her umbrella, everything appeared to be normal, so it was a mystery and no mistake.
When they heard the news later that day, Mr and Mrs Brown couldn’t help wondering if Mrs Bird had been mistaken, but they didn’t say so to her face in case she took umbrage.
“Perhaps it was a window cleaner gone to the wrong house,” suggested Mr Brown.
“In that case he made a very quick getaway,” said Mrs Bird. “I wouldn’t fancy having him do our windows.”
“I suppose it could have been a trick of the light,” said Mrs Brown.
Mrs Bird gave one of her snorts.
“I know what I saw,” she said darkly. “And whatever it was, or whoever it was, they were up to no good.”
The Browns knew better than to argue, and Paddington, who had been given a detective outfit for his birthday, spent some time testing the windowsill for clues. Much to his disappointment he couldn’t find any marks on it other than his own. All the same, he took some measurements and carefully wrote the details down in his notebook.
In an effort to restore calm, Mr Brown rang the police, but they were unable to be of much help either.
“It sounds to me like the work of ‘Gentleman Dan, the Drainpipe Man’,” said the officer who came to visit them. “They do say he’s usually in the Bahamas at this time of the year, but he could be back earlier than usual if the weather’s bad.
“He didn’t get his name for nothing. He bides his time until he sees what he thinks are some empty premises, and then he shins up the nearest drainpipe. He can be in and out of a house like a flash of lightning. Never leaves any trace of what we in the force call ‘his dabs’, on account of the fact that being a perfect gentleman he always wears gloves.”
The Browns felt they had done all they could to allay Mrs Bird’s fears, but the officer left them with one final piece of advice.
“We shall be keeping a lookout in the area for the next few days,” he said, “in case he strikes again. But if I were you, to be on the safe side, I’d invest in a can of Miracle non-dry, anti-burglar paint and give your downpipes a coat as soon as possible.
“It’s available at all good do-it-yourself shops. Mark my words, you won’t be troubled again, and if by any chance you are, the perpetrator will be so covered in black paint, he won’t get very far before we pick him up.
“Not only that,” he said, addressing Mr Brown before driving off in his squad car, “you may find you get a reduction on your insurance policy.”
“It sounds as though he’s got shares in the company,” said Mr Brown sceptically, as he followed his wife back indoors. “Either that or he has a spare-time job as one of their salesmen.”
“Henry!” exclaimed Mrs Brown.
In truth, the next day was a Friday, and after a busy week at the office Mr Brown had been looking forward to a quiet weekend. The thought of spending it up a ladder painting drainpipes was not high on his list of priorities.
In normal circumstances he might not have taken up Paddington’s offer to help quite so readily.
“Are you sure it’s wise?” asked Mrs Brown, when he told her. “It’s all very well Paddington saying bears are good at painting, but he says that about a lot of things. Remember what happened when he decorated the spare room.”
“That was years ago,” said Mr Brown. “Anyway, the fact that he ended up wallpapering over the door and couldn’t find his way out again had nothing to do with the actual painting. Besides, it’s not as if it’s something we shall be looking at all the time. Even Paddington can’t do much harm painting a drainpipe.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” warned Mrs Bird. “Besides, it isn’t just one drainpipe. There are at least half a dozen dotted round the house. And don’t forget, it’s non-dry paint. If that bear makes any mistakes, the marks will be there for ever more.”
“There must come a time when it dries off,” said Mr Brown optimistically.
“We could get Mr Briggs in,” suggested Mrs Brown, mentioning their local decorator. “He’s always ready to oblige.”
But Mr Brown’s mind was made up, and when he arrived back from his office that evening he brought with him a large can of paint and an assortment of brushes.
Paddington was very excited when he saw them, and he couldn’t wait to get started.
That night, he took the can of paint up to bed and read the small print on the side with the aid of a torch and the magnifying glass from his detective outfit.
According to the instructions, a lot of burglars climbed drainpipes in order to break into people’s homes. In fact, the more he read, the more Paddington began to wonder why he had never seen one before; it sounded as though the streets must be full of them. There was even a picture of one on the back of the tin. He looked very pleased with himself as he slid down a pipe, a sack over his shoulder bulging with things he had taken. There was even a ‘thinks balloon’ attached to his head saying: ‘Don’t you wish you had done something about your pipes?’
Paddington opened his bedroom window and peered outside, but luckily there were no drainpipes anywhere near it, otherwise he might have tested the paint there and then, just to be on the safe side.
Before going to sleep he made out a list of all