LITMIR.BIZ

       Chapter One PADDINGTON AT THE WHEEL

      Paddington gave the man facing him one of his hardest stares ever. “I’ve won a bookmark!” he exclaimed hotly. “But I thought it was going to be a Rolls-Royce.”

      The man fingered his collar nervously. “There must be some mistake,” he replied. “The lucky winner of the car has already been presented with it. And the second prize, a weekend for two in Paris, has gone to an old age pensioner in Edinburgh. If you’ve had a letter from us, then you must be one of the ten thousand runners-up who merely receive bookmarks. I can’t think why one wasn’t enclosed.”

      “I’m one of ten thousand runners-up?” repeated Paddington, hardly able to believe his ears.

      “I’m afraid so.” Regaining his confidence, the man began rummaging in one of his desk drawers. “The trouble is,” he said meaningly, “so many entrants to competitions don’t bother to read the small print. If you care to take another look at our entry form you’ll see what I mean.”

      Paddington took the leaflet and focused his gaze on a picture of a large, sleek, silver-grey car. A chauffeur, standing beside one of the open doors, was flicking an imaginary speck of dust from the upholstery with one of his gloves, while across the bonnet, in large red letters, were the words ALL THIS COULD BE YOURS!

      Having slept with an identical picture under his pillow at number thirty-two Windsor Gardens for several weeks, Paddington felt he knew it all by heart. He turned it over and on the back were the same instructions for entering the competition, together with an entry form.

      “Now look inside,” suggested the man. Paddington did as he was told, and as he did so his face fell. He’d been so excited by the picture of the Rolls-Royce he hadn’t bothered to look any further, but as he pulled the pages apart he found it opened out into a larger sheet. On the left-hand side there was a picture of a French gendarme pointing towards a distant view of the Eiffel Tower, and on the right, under the heading TEN THOUSAND CONSOLATION PRIZES TO BE WON, there was a picture of a bookmark, followed by a lot of writing.

      By the end of the page some of the print was so small Paddington began to wish he’d brought his opera glasses with him, but there was no escaping the fact that the bookmark had an all-too-familiar look about it. One exactly like it had arrived that very morning in the envelope containing news of his success.