The basket could have been clamped. That would have cost you £80 to get it undone.”
“And you would have to hang about half the day before they got around to doing it,” agreed another.
Paddington’s face grew longer and longer as he listened to all the words of wisdom. “Eighty pounds!” he exclaimed. “But I only went in for Mrs Bird’s bottled water!”
“You can buy a new basket on wheels in the market for £10,” chimed in another stallholder.
“I dare say if you haggle a bit you could get one for a lot less,” said another.
“But I’ve only got ten pence,” said Paddington sadly. “Besides, I wouldn’t want a new one. Mr Brown gave mine to me soon after I arrived. I’ve had it ever since.”
“Quite right!” agreed an onlooker. “You stick to your guns. They don’t come like that these days. Them new ones is all plastic. Don’t last five minutes.”
“If you ask me,” said a lady who ran a knickknacks stall, “it’s a pity it didn’t get clamped. My Sid would have lent you his hacksaw like a shot. He doesn’t hold with that kind of thing.”
“Pity you weren’t here in person when they did it,” said another stallholder. “You would have been able to lie down in the road in front of their truck as a protest. Then we could have phoned the local press to send over one of their photographers and it would have been in all the papers.”
“That would have stopped the lorry in its tracks,” agreed someone else from the back of the crowd.
Paddington eyed the man doubtfully. “Supposing it didn’t?” he said.
“In that case you would have been on the evening news,” said the man. “Television would have had a field day interviewing all the witnesses.”
“You’d have become what they call a martyr,” agreed the first man. “I dare say in years to come they would have erected a statue in your honour. Then nobody would have been able to park.”
“What you need,” said the fruit and vegetable man, summing up the whole situation, “is a good lawyer. Someone like Sir Bernard Crumble. He lives just up the road. This kind of thing is just up his street. He’s a great one for sticking up for the underdog…” he broke off as he caught Paddington’s eye. “Well, I dare say he does underbears as well. He’d have their guts for garters. Never been known to lose a case yet.”
“Which street does he live in?” asked Paddington hopefully.
“I shouldn’t get ideas above your station,” warned another trader. “If you’ll pardon the pun. They do say ’e charges an arm and a leg just to open ’is front door to the postman.”
“If I were you,” said a passer-by, “before you do anything else, I suggest you go along to the police station and report the matter to them. I dare say they’ll be able to arrange counselling for you.”
“Whatever you do,” advised one of the stallholders, “don’t tell them you’ve been towed away. Be what they call non committal. Just say your vehicle has gone missing.”
He gazed at the large pack of bottled water Paddington had bought in the grocers. “You can leave those with me. I’ll make sure they don’t come to any harm.”
Paddington thanked the man for his kind offer and after waving goodbye to the crowd he set off at a brisk pace towards the nearest police station.
But as he turned a corner and a familiar blue lamp came into view, he began to slow down. Over the years he had met a number of policemen and he had always found them only too ready to help in times of trouble. There was the occasion when he’d mistaken a television repairman for a burglar, and another time when he had bought some oil shares from a man in the market and they had turned out to be dud.
But he had never actually gone into a police station all by himself before, and not knowing what to expect he began to wish he had consulted his friend, Mr Gruber, before taking the plunge. Mr Gruber was always ready to help, and he most certainly would have done so had he heard their buns were missing. He might even have closed his shop for the morning.
And if he couldn’t do that for any reason, there was always Mrs Bird. Mrs Bird looked after the Browns, and she didn’t stand for any nonsense, especially if she thought Paddington was being hard done by.
However, as things turned out, he was pleasantly surprised when he mounted the steps and pushed the door slightly ajar. Apart from a man in uniform behind a counter, the room was completely empty.
The man was much younger than he had expected. In fact, he didn’t seem much older than Mr and Mrs Brown’s son, Jonathan, who was still at school. He looked slightly apprehensive when he caught sight of Paddington, rather as though he didn’t know quite what to make of him.
“Er… Sprechen Sie Deutsch?” he ventured nervously.
“Bless you,” said Paddington, politely raising his hat. “You can borrow my handkerchief if you like.”
The policeman gave him a funny look before trying again.
“Parlez-vous français?”
“Not today, thank you,” said Paddington.
“Pardon me for asking,” said the officer. “But it’s ‘Be Polite to Foreigners Week’. Strictly unofficial, of course. It’s the Sergeant’s idea because we get a lot of overseas visitors at this time of the year, especially round the Portobello Road area, and I thought perhaps…”
“I’m not a foreigner,” exclaimed Paddington hotly. “I’m from Darkest Peru.”
The policeman looked put out. “Well, if that doesn’t make you a foreigner, I don’t know what does,” he said. “Mind you, it takes all sorts. I must say you speak very good English, wherever you’re from.”
“My Aunt Lucy taught me before she went into the Home for Retired Bears in Lima,” said Paddington.
“Well, she did a good job, I’ll say that for her,” said the policeman. “What can we do for you?”
“I’ve come to see you about my vehicle,” said Paddington, choosing his words with care. “It isn’t where I left it.”
“And where was that?” asked the policeman.
“Outside the cut-price grocers in the market,” said Paddington. “I always leave it there when I’m out shopping.”
“Oh, dear,” said the officer. “Not another one gone missing. There’s a lot of it about at the moment, especially round these parts…” He reached for a computer keyboard. “I’d better take down some details.”
“It had my buns in it,” said Paddington.
“That’s
