Tintin put a finger on the main mast, meaning to push it loose from where Sakharine had apparently glued it into place. That’s how he was going to prove that this model was his . . . but the mast did not move.
“Fell,” Tintin finished. Incredulous, he faced up to the reality of the situation. “This isn’t my ship.”
“No, indeed,” Sakharine said. Nestor took the model from Tintin and replaced it on its display stand.
Confused and embarrassed, Tintin said, “I—I’m sorry. It looks identical.”
Nestor picked up the sheet where Tintin had dropped it on the floor. He flipped it out and expertly settled it over the model Unicorn as Sakharine took Tintin by the arm and led him through the darkened house toward the front door. His cane tapped on the stone floor with every other step, but Tintin could tell Sakharine didn’t really need the cane. It was only for show. “Well, looks can be deceiving,” Sakharine said.
“Yes, indeed,” Tintin agreed. His mind was spinning and he let himself be led—but then an idea occurred to him, and he broke away from Sakharine, heading back toward the display case to take a closer look. Nestor kept careful watch but made no move to stop him.
“But I don’t understand,” Tintin said. “Why did Sir Francis make two ships exactly alike? And you have one already. Why do you want another? What is it about this model that would make someone want to steal it?”
“Goodness me,” Sakharine said as he followed Tintin back into the room. “Why so many questions?”
Tintin felt that Sakharine was humoring him. “It’s my job,” he said. “There could be a story here. It’s what I do, you see.”
“Well, it’s no great mystery. Sir Francis Haddock was a hopeless reprobate. He was doomed to fail and he bequeathed that failure to his sons.” Again, Sakharine walked toward the front door, clearly expecting Tintin to follow him.
“So it’s true!” Tintin said. “The Haddock line is cursed!”
Sakharine spun around and prodded Tintin in the shoulder with his cane, stopping him in his tracks. “What else have you found out?” he asked, his good humor suddenly gone.
Aha, Tintin thought. He was on the right track. Sakharine’s response proved it. He pushed the cane away. “What is there to find?”
The cane rose up again and poked Tintin’s other shoulder. “That depends on what you’re looking for,” Sakharine said.
“I’m looking for answers, Mr. Sakharine.”
Sakharine smiled, but it was the kind of smile that made Tintin uneasy. “You’re looking in the wrong place. Now, it is late. I think you should go home.”
Nestor appeared and handed Tintin’s flashlight back to him. “This way, sir,” he said, and led the way to Marlinspike Hall’s spacious foyer.
When they arrived at the front door, Nestor held it open and said, “It’s a pity, sir.”
Tintin, on his way out the door, stopped and turned. “I’m sorry?” he said, not understanding.
“That the mast broke on your model ship, sir. I hope you found all the pieces.” Nestor lowered his voice as he went on, and he glanced back toward the room containing the second model ship. “Things are so easily lost.”
“I beg your pardon?” Tintin said in a voice barely above a whisper. He didn’t understand.
Nestor looked as if he might say more, but at that moment Sakharine called from within the house. “Nestor!”
Nestor gave Tintin a significant look, but Tintin still didn’t know what he was getting at. He started to ask, but Nestor said, “Good night, sir,” and shut the door firmly in his face. Tintin stood there for a moment, thinking over what had happened inside Marlinspike Hall. Then Snowy and his new guard-dog friend appeared, and it was time to go.
It was very late when Tintin got back to his apartment at 26 Labrador Street. He looked up and down the street, again feeling like he was being watched. The street was still wet from the storm, and the moon was lower in the sky. Everything was dark. He thought he saw shadows flitting between parked cars—and was that a human figure skulking from doorway to doorway down by the corner? The familiar scene seemed spooky now that Tintin sensed he had uncovered the beginning of a great mystery. Someone did not want him to know what had happened to the Haddocks, and did not want him to know what the secret of the Unicorn really was.
“Snowy,” he said, “I’ve got myself spooked. I’m jumping at shadows.”
With a last look around, Tintin unlocked the building door and went inside, determined to focus on the story. Marlinspike Hall, he thought. There was a mystery there. Sakharine was hiding something, and Nestor . . . had Nestor given him a clue? If so, why?
“Some things are easily lost,” he said, thinking of Nestor’s parting words. “What did he mean by that, Snowy?”
Snowy cocked his head toward the door.
“What was he trying to tell me? Some things are easily lost . . .”
He thought it over as they went up the stairs and into Tintin’s apartment. Snowy growled as Tintin stopped to turn on the light.
“Great snakes!” he said when he saw what had happened.
His apartment had been ransacked! The furniture had been pulled away from the walls and overturned. His books had been spilled out of the shelves and lay in heaps on the floor. The table by the window had been swept clean of the books and magazines Tintin had been reading. He leaned into his office and saw more chaos. His papers lay in drifts around the drawers of his desk, which had been pulled out and emptied. His bulletin board, covered with clippings and notes, had been knocked off the wall and lay against a filing cabinet.
Who had done this? And why? They couldn’t have been after the model of the Unicorn. It was already gone, and whoever had come in would have known that right away. Tintin stepped carefully into the mess, searching for any clues as to what the intruder might have been looking for. Snowy whined as he picked his way through the debris . . . and then he made a beeline for the cabinet where he had been scratching earlier in the day.
“What is it, Snowy?” Tintin asked. Snowy started scratching under the cabinet again.
It couldn’t be an insect, Tintin thought. Insects didn’t keep Snowy’s interest for that long. If Snowy wanted Tintin to see something that urgently, Tintin probably needed to see it.
He moved Snowy aside and pulled the cabinet away from the wall. Snowy barked and pushed against his legs as he looked behind the cabinet and saw a small metal tube lying on the floor against the wall.
“What’s this?” Tintin wondered. He bent to pick it up, and as he rolled it in his fingers, he figured it out. “Aha! This was hidden in the hollow mast.”
His pulse quickened. This was what the intruder had wanted. Maybe whoever had stolen the Unicorn model had found it was missing and come back to look for it. Or maybe two different people were after it, and the one who had stolen the model wasn’t the same one who had tossed his apartment.
I’ll figure it out, Tintin thought. But the first step is to see what’s in this tube.
He went to the table and sat. Snowy bounced around the chair, trying to get a look. Carefully, Tintin unscrewed the lid of the tube and shook out a small rolled-up parchment. It fell into his palm, and he examined it before proceeding. It was tied with a piece of ribbon and also sealed with wax. There was some kind of insignia in the wax, but he couldn’t tell what it was.
Tintin untied the ribbon and set it aside. Then he gingerly broke the wax seal, taking care not to tear the parchment. He heard Snowy moving around the apartment and looked up, concerned . . . but Snowy was bringing him his magnifying glass again.
“Good boy, Snowy,” Tintin said. He was lucky to have such a smart dog.
He took the magnifying glass and unrolled the parchment, smoothing it on the tabletop. Something was written on it in an ornate script that at first he had some trouble deciphering. Then he peered through the magnifying glass and worked out the writing.
“Three brothers joined,” he read out loud so Snowy could hear. “
Three Unicorns in company, sailing in the noonday sun will speak. For ’tis from the light that light will dawn, and then shine forth the Eagle’s Cross.”
Tintin paused, thinking over what he had just read. Three Unicorns? He knew of two models, his and Sakharine’s. Was that what the passage was talking about? Was there a third?
It could mean something else entirely, he thought. After all, none of the models could sail. Maybe there had been three ships called the Unicorn? But the maritime encyclopedia in which Tintin had read the story of Captain Haddock hadn’t mentioned any other ships by that name.
It was a puzzle, that much was clear—and where there were puzzles there were good stories. Tintin put the magnifying glass back to his eye and looked at the rest of the parchment.
Below the writing was a series of strokes and dashes. “What are these markings, Snowy?” Tintin mused. “Some kind of secret language, or a code? It makes no sense. But it does explain why they ransacked our place.” He was sure now that the people who had stolen the Unicorn model had come back. They were after this parchment, and they had torn his apartment to pieces looking for it. That meant it was valuable, but Tintin didn’t know why. Who would want a strange poem? Who had gone to the trouble to hide it in the model in the first place? What did the strokes and dashes mean?
Someone out there knew the secret. Barnaby, perhaps? He had warned Tintin about the danger of possessing the model ship. Sakharine? He had threatened Tintin, and his butler had knocked Tintin out with a candlestick. He would certainly not hesitate to break into Tintin’s apartment.
Whoever it was, Tintin thought, the intruder knew more of the story than he did. Which made him all the more determined to catch up and solve the mystery.
“We’ll have to keep a close eye on this parchment, Snowy,” Tintin said, reaching down to scratch his anxious dog between the ears. “Whoever is after it, we can be sure of one thing. They’ll be back.”
As if on cue, the downstairs doorbell jangled. Tintin jumped. Who could be visiting at this late hour? He would have to be ready for anything.
TINTIN DID NOT know Mrs. Finch’s first name or anything else about her except that she loved hot chocolate more than any other person Tintin had ever met did. He heard her voice now as he tucked the parchment into his wallet and crept quietly to the top of the stairs, eager to see who had rung the doorbell so late at night. A man said something to her, but Tintin couldn’t tell who he was or what had been said.
Should he run? Should he confront the visitor? Surely this was related to the break-in, but whoever had ransacked his apartment wouldn’t take the trouble to knock this time. That didn’t make any sense.
So who was it, and what did he want?
“No, I don’t know where he is, dearie,” Mrs. Finch was saying. “I think he’s gone out. And anyway it’s after dark, and Mr. Tintin is most particular about not admitting visitors after bedtime.”
This wasn’t exactly true. Mrs. Finch was the one who didn’t like people coming in at night, especially when they interrupted her while she was enjoying her hot chocolate. “I have to go back to my cocoa,” she went on. “I’ve got a very good book and a cup of cocoa. Lovely . . .”
Tintin had been working his way down the stairs as she spoke. He could see that she had opened the front door just a crack, leaving the chain on. “Thank you, Mrs. Finch,” he said, reaching the ground floor. “I can look after this.”
She started and looked at him sourly. Mrs. Finch was a prim older woman who always wore cardigan sweaters and had no chin whatsoever. She excelled at sour looks. Tintin smiled at her, and she disappeared back into her apartment, from which Tintin could smell hot chocolate.
When her door was locked behind her, Tintin approached the front door cautiously. He had picked up his heavy flashlight as he left his apartment in case he needed a weapon to defend himself. The lump on his own head from Nestor’s candlestick still hurt.
“Hey, kid,” said a voice through the crack between the door and the jamb. “Is that you? Open the door!”
Then a familiar face pressed itself into the crack. It was the loudmouth American, Barnaby. “What do you want?” Tintin asked.
“Look, the game is up!” Barnaby said. “He’s gonna be back!”
Tintin was about to ask who “he” was, but Barnaby kept talking, his tone urgent even though he was making an effort to keep his voice down. “Now, I knew he wanted those boats, but I swear to God I never thought he’d kill anyone over it.”
“Kill? Who?” Tintin asked. “Who are you talking about?”
“I’m trying to tell you that your life is in danger!” Barnaby said. He looked back toward the street as Tintin came closer to the door.
“Answer me!” Tintin said. “Who—?”
Bang! Bang! Bang! Three gunshots sounded from the street and three holes punched through the door as Tintin threw himself to the floor and Snowy jumped halfway up the stairs in a single bound. The last bullet split the chain, and the door opened as Barnaby fell in, the front of his shirt already red with blood. His hat fell off, and Tintin picked it up.
“Mrs. Finch!” Tintin shouted. “A man’s been shot on our doorstep!”
“Not again . . .” Mrs. Finch complained. She went on, but Tintin had no time to listen. If someone had been shot on the doorstep before, it had happened before he lived there.
“Call an ambulance!” he cried. He ran into the street and saw a blue car pulling away. Snowy charged past him and ran after the car. “No, Snowy!” Tintin commanded. Snowy stopped on the sidewalk and barked furiously.
Tintin couldn’t chase the car on foot, and he had not gotten a look at its license plate. He ran back to Barnaby, who was slipping into unconsciousness. “Barnaby!” Tintin said, kneeling next to him. Barnaby clutched a newspaper. He was poking at it with one finger, but he slowly let it go as Tintin approached. “Can you hear me? Can you—”
He saw the newspaper as it fell to the stoop, and his eyes widened. A siren sounded in the distance, growing closer. Mrs. Finch had called the ambulance. The police would arrive soon as well. But at that moment, Tintin’s eyes were glued to the newspaper. He picked it up carefully and started thinking about what to do when the police arrived.
Beside him, Barnaby moaned. His eyes fluttered, and he said something that sounded like “Boo.”
“Steady on, Barnaby,” Tintin said. “You’re going to be fine.”
Snowy whined and barked. The sirens drew closer. Mrs. Finch poked her head out the door. “A man shot on the doorstep,” she said disapprovingly. “That’s not the kind of house I want to run, Mr. Tintin.”
“I understand, Mrs. Finch,” Tintin said. “I can see to things from here. You don’t want your cocoa getting cold.”
She left him alone with the babbling Barnaby, who was waving his arms trying to stop Snowy from licking his face. “I guess you’re going to be all right, Barnaby,” Tintin said, “if you’ve got enough strength to worry about Snowy here. Easy, Snowy.”
“Boo,” Barnaby said, and passed out.
Bright and early the next morning, Tintin was talking to the police. The local police had come and gone, yielding the investigation to Interpol detectives Thompson and Thomson, who knew Tintin from a number of previous adventures. At first they had been suspicious of Tintin because he always seemed to turn up when unusual crimes were being committed and strange adventures were afoot. Over time, however, they had come to trust him and now they were his staunch allies.
At the moment, Thompson and Thomson were looking around at the mess in Tintin’s apartment. He had stayed up half the night trying to put things in order, but it was a big job and he wasn’t done yet. “The victim’s name was Barnaby Dawes,” Thomson said. It was difficult to tell the two men apart, but Tintin knew he was Thomson because his mustache curled outward at the tips, unlike Thompson’s, which was straight.
“He was one of the top agents with Interpol,” Thompson added. “But we don’t have a clue what he was work
ing on.”
“Quite right,” Thomson agreed. “We’re completely clueless.”
Very true, Tintin thought, smiling to himself. But it would have been rude to say it, so instead he asked, “Interpol doesn’t have any other leads?”
“Oh, steady on, Tintin,” Thomson said. “We’re still filling out the paperwork.”
Nodding, Thompson added, “Police work’s not all glamour and guns. There’s an awful lot of filing.”
“Well, I might have something for you,” Tintin said. He had been debating all night how much to tell them, and he had concluded that it was best to share as much information as possible. “Before he lost consciousness, the man tried to tell me something. I couldn’t understand what he was saying, but then I saw this.”
He held out the newspaper to Thompson and Thomson and watched their eyes widen just as his had. On the newspaper—in his own blood!—Barnaby Dawes had marked certain letters. Traced from left to right and down the page, the fingerprints spelled out:
“Karaboudjan,” Tintin said.
“Karaboudjan,” Thomson repeated.
“Yes,” Tintin said. “Does that mean anything to you?”
Suddenly, Thomson snatched the paper from Tintin’s hand. “Great Scotland Yard!” he cried. “That’s extraordinary!”
“What is?” Tintin demanded.
Thomson waved an advertisement in Tintin’s face. “Worthington’s having a half-price sale on bowler hats!”
Thompson grabbed the paper from his partner. “Really, Thomson! This is hardly the time!” Then he, too, saw something on the page, and he echoed, “Great Scotland Yard!”
“What is it!?” Thomson and Tintin asked together.
“Canes are half-price, too!” Thompson said.
Tintin couldn’t believe what he was hearing. A man shot on his doorstep, his model ship stolen, a strange word spelled out in bloody fingerprints! And they were talking about a sale on hats and canes.
The Adventures of Tintin Page 3
