The Adventures of Tintin (5 page)

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 working 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.

“Are you going to take charge of this evidence?” Tintin asked.

“Positively,” Thomson said. “Never fear, Tintin. The evidence is safe with us!”

He snatched the newspaper back from Thompson, rushed out the door with it, and promptly fell down the stairs. Thompson hurried out at the sound and called into the stairwell, “Thomson! Where are you?”

“Well, I’m already downstairs!” came the reply. “Do try to keep up.”

Thompson stomped down the stairs after his partner. Tintin came out into the hall to see them off, and he noticed that Thomson had left the newspaper at the bottom of the stairs. He scooped it up and caught the two detectives at the front door. “Wait,” he said before they could close the door behind them. “You dropped this.”

“Good heavens, Thomson,” Thompson said. “Look after the evidence, man.”

“Sorry, Thompson,” Thomson said. “My mind is on other things.”

Thomson’s hand went to his pocket, and Thompson said, “Ah, yes. Our light-fingered larcenist.”

“What?” Tintin said. He couldn’t imagine what might be more important than investigating the shooting of a fellow Interpol detective.

“The pickpocket,” Thompson said. “He has no idea what’s coming.”

“Go on, Tintin. Take my wallet,” Thomson said.

To humor his friends, Tintin reached into Thomson’s pocket and pulled his wallet out of the inside pocket. It was attached to a piece of elastic that was, in turn, sewn into the pocket lining.

“Industrial-strength elastic!” proclaimed Thompson.

Tintin wondered if he should remind them they should be focused on the shooting of Barnaby Dawes. “Very, uh, resourceful,” he said.

“Oh, on the contrary,” Thompson said. “It was childishly simple.”

Thomson nodded. “Simply childish. I agree.”

The two detectives tipped their hats to Tintin and set off down the street. “Gentlemen,” Tintin said by way of farewell.

Standing on his stoop, Tintin listened to their conversation as they strolled away and vanished into the fog. A gray morning mist hung in the air after the storm. “Mind you, I expect he’s miles away by now,” Thomson said.

“The pickpocket?” Thompson clarified.

“Yes,” Thomson said. “I mean, knowing we’re just a few steps behind him.”

A gray-haired man passed between Tintin and the two detectives. Snowy growled, and Tintin knelt to hold on to him before he could follow the man and cause trouble.

“Snowy, what is it, boy?” he asked. “What do you see?”

The two detectives were now deep in a conversation about whether they should have a cup of tea. “I’d love one,” Thompson was saying—just as the gray-haired man slid by and lifted the wallet out of Thomson’s pocket!

The elastic stretched out as the pickpocket tried to drop the wallet into his own jacket, and at the tug, Thomson looked up, shocked. Quickly, his surprise turned to glee. “I’ve got you now!”

But it was not going to be that easy. The pickpocket stretched the elastic all the way, pulling Thomson off balance, and then he let the wallet go. It snapped back into Thomson’s face, and the pickpocket ran for it.

Thompson gave chase, but he tripped over the loose elastic, sprawling onto the ground and in the process stretching the wallet out to snap Thomson again! Thomson fell to the ground as his partner ran after the pickpocket, calling out, “Stop in the name of the law!”

He caught up to the pickpocket and grabbed his shoulder, but the pickpocket shrugged out of Thompson’s grasp, leaving his coat behind. The coat flipped up over Thompson’s face, and the detective went careening into a lamppost, knocking himself flat, just as Thomson got up and joined the chase. Thomson stumbled over Thompson, and both of them landed in a tangle at the base of the lamppost. The pair of them were hopeless!

“What’s going on down there?” Tintin wondered aloud. He heard some of the ruckus, but the thick fog was blocking his view. “Come on, Snowy!” he said, and ran down the street toward the Interpol detectives. Along the way he brushed past an old man hurrying away from the scene, looking panicked at the intrusion of chaos into the quiet street. He wore round wire-rimmed spectacles and an orange tie knotted tightly around an old-fashioned, starched collar.

“I beg your pardon,” the old man said, touching his hat.

“Sorry, sir!” Tintin called over his shoulder as he arrived at Thompson and Thomson, who were just getting to their feet.

“The pickpocket, Tintin!” Thomson said. “He’s getting away!”

With a flash of dread, Tintin realized whom he had bumped into on the way to help the detectives. He reached into his own pocket and found it empty. “My wallet! It’s gone!”

He turned back in the direction the old man had fled. “Come on, Snowy! After him!”

Running through the fog, Tintin cried out, “Stop!” He ran across the street and narrowly dodged a car that had not seen him. Brakes squealed and the sudden glare of headlights disoriented him. Another car bore down on him as he scrambled out of the way of the first. With a yelp, Snowy jumped safely to the curb, but Tintin slipped on the slick street stones.

Suddenly, his arms were caught, and he was dragged onto the sidewalk as another car roared by, its horn blaring. Thompson and Thomson broke Tintin’s fall, and he realized they had pulled him out of the car’s way with their canes.

“Steady on,” Thompson said, but Tintin was already looking around to see which way the pickpocket might have gone. He had to get his wallet back—the vital parchment was inside!