A spotlight from the main deck targeted them. Now Tintin, Captain Haddock, and Snowy were in real trouble. The crew’s bullets wouldn’t miss them for much longer.
Tintin didn’t like guns very much, but as the spotlight shone down on them from the bridge, he found a use for one. He aimed carefully with the pistol he had swiped and shot out the spotlight, plunging them back into darkness. The lifeboat swung, and he tugged vainly on the rope to free the boat, knowing it wouldn’t work but not sure what else to do.
The rope wouldn’t budge. Right at the railing, not twenty feet from Tintin, a sailor took up a firing stance. “I’ve got you now!” he shouted. The sailor took careful aim, but the Karaboudjan rolled in the sea and he had to readjust.
That bought Tintin a critical moment. One shot, Tintin thought. That’s all I’m going to get.
He, too, took careful aim . . . and shot through the last rope holding up the lifeboat!
The boat fell into the ocean with a huge splash, soaking everyone on board. Tintin spluttered and threw Tom’s gun overboard, grabbing an oar. Haddock already had the other one in hand, and they rowed for their lives as bullets smacked into the water. At the railing, the sailor was cursing. Another searchlight came on and swept the nearby waters. The glare nearly blinded Tintin, but he could just make out the figure of Sakharine emerging from the radio room onto the deck. He also spotted the other lifeboat that was bobbing in the ocean with the unlucky sailor whom Haddock had dropped overboard. He had finally untangled himself from the rope and was now adrift.
An idea came to Tintin. He pulled in his oar and flattened himself in the bottom of the boat. “Captain! Get down!” he said.
Captain Haddock got the idea. So did Snowy. All three of them hid from the searchlight. A signal flare blazed into life over the water, and Tintin heard a sailor call out, “There he is!”
But the searchlight was not on them. This just might work, Tintin thought. He dared a glimpse over the lifeboat’s gunwale as the hulk of the Karaboudjan swung slowly around and bore down on the other lifeboat. “Full speed!” someone on the ship sang out. It sounded like Tom. A moment later the lifeboat was smashed to splinters by the Karaboudjan’s bow.
The boat occupied by Tintin, Captain Haddock, and Snowy drifted farther away. The seas were starting to calm a little, but waves still slapped over the lifeboat’s gunwales. Captain Haddock bailed out water with his hat as the Karaboudjan corrected its course, aiming for Bagghar once more. They watched the spotlight from the Karaboudjan pick out the wreckage of the other lifeboat, waiting for the inevitable moment when Sakharine figured out what had happened and turned the Karaboudjan to look for them.
But a minute passed, and then another, and still the Karaboudjan steamed on. The searchlight played back and forth over the wreckage and then winked out.
“I think we can row now, Captain,” Tintin said.
“Then row we shall, Tintin,” Captain Haddock said, and they put their backs into it.
Looking over the railing of the Karaboudjan, Sakharine thought he was going to explode. “You idiots!” he raged. “What have you done?”
Next to him, Tom gazed down at the wreckage with pride. An empty whiskey bottle floated amid the pieces of the lifeboat, a sure sign that Captain Haddock had been there. “We killed them, boss,” he said with great satisfaction. “Just like you wanted.”
Sakharine grabbed Tom and forced him up against the railing, bending him over backward. Tom’s eyes popped. “No,” Sakharine said. “Not like I wanted. I needed Haddock alive!”
He was about to throw Tom overboard, just to make himself feel better, when Allan said, “Wait a minute, boss. There are two boats missing!”
“What?” Sakharine said. He looked down the railing and saw that Allan, for once, was right. There was a second boat gone.
“So that one must have been a decoy!” Tom said.
Sakharine flung Tom away from him. Tom’s shoes scraped the deck as he tried to keep his balance. He fell into a sitting position, and Sakharine noticed something near Tom’s right foot. A piece of paper.
He bent to pick it up. On it was written the word Bagghar, and below that a string of dots and dashes.
Ah, he thought, looking out over the dark water. Tintin, you are perhaps a bit more clever than I’d thought.
“They’re on to us and our destination,” Sakharine said, holding up the piece of paper so that all his imbecile henchmen could see it. “Find them! Make absolutely certain they never reach Bagghar!”
Leaving them to make preparations, he stalked to the stern of the Karaboudjan, where a seaplane, standing by on a catapult launcher, waited. Tintin and Haddock might think they had escaped him, but they were about to find out that a head start on a rowboat wasn’t worth much when your adversary could fly.
THE SUN ROSE over a seemingly endless ocean. Haddock was leaning against one gunwale, Snowy was looking out over the other, and Tintin was rowing hard by himself. “We have to get to Bagghar ahead of Sakharine,” he said.
“I know! I know!” Haddock said. Then, after a brief pause, he added, “Why?”
Tintin tried not to be annoyed. “Because Ben Salaad has got the third model ship.”
“How do you know?” Haddock asked. He sat up straighter and seemed to focus, at least for the moment. “Who’s Ben Salaad?”
Tintin shipped the oars and dug the brochure from the radio room out of his pocket. He showed Haddock the picture from its interior page. “The sheik of Bagghar. He collects old ships for display in his palace. This is the prize of his collection.”
Haddock looked at the picture showing a glossy full-page photograph of the Unicorn in an ornate case, behind thick glass. “Blistering blue barnacles! That is the Unicorn!” Haddock cried.
“Captain, do you see this distortion around the model?” Tintin pointed to the slight waviness of parts of the model ship in the picture. “It means Ben Salaad exhibits it behind bulletproof glass.”
“And Sakharine is going there to steal it!” Haddock said, finally getting the picture.
“He has a secret weapon: the Milanese Nightingale,” Tintin said, even though he didn’t know what kind of weapon the Milanese Nightingale was. He had the faintest beginning of an idea but not enough to be certain of anything. “But that won’t be enough to solve the mystery, and that is why Sakharine needs you. That’s why he took you prisoner! There is something he needs you to remember.”
“I don’t follow you,” Haddock said. Tintin could see his fingers starting to search his pockets for a bottle.
“I read it in a book. Only a true Haddock can discover the secret of the Unicorn.” Tintin looked at Haddock, and Haddock looked at Tintin. Come on, Captain, Tintin thought. Snowy whined and nudged Haddock’s knee.
“I don’t remember anything about anything,” Haddock said eventually.
“But you must know about your ancestor Sir Francis!” Tintin said. “It’s your family legacy!”
Haddock was now definitely patting his pockets. “My memory isn’t what it used to be.”
“What did it used to be?” Tintin asked.
“I’ve forgotten.”
Frustrated, Tintin was silent for a while. He was trying to work things out in his head, but he was also imagining how great the story would be when he finally got it. The secret of the Unicorn! What he needed at the moment was to motivate Captain Haddock, break him out of his self-pity—remind him what he was good at.
But what was he good at? As far as Tintin could tell, Captain Haddock was so far gone into his bottle that he had lost his ship, his family history . . . everything.
What did a man like that have left?
Tintin wasn’t sure, but he knew he’d have to figure it out or else Sakharine would get the third Unicorn and they would never solve the mystery. Tintin refused to let that happen; he had his teeth into this mystery now, and he would not let it go. He would row to Bagghar himself if he had to . . . if he only knew which way to row.
&n
bsp; Aha, he thought. Captain Haddock may be full of self-pity, and he may be a little too fond of liquor, but he is still a seaman.
“Captain,” Tintin said, “can you get us to Bagghar?”
He deliberately asked the question in a tone of voice that made it clear that he didn’t think Captain Haddock could do it. Reverse psychology!
And it worked. “What sort of a stupid question is that?” Haddock exploded. “Give me those oars. I’ll show you some real seamanship, laddie.”
He moved toward Tintin and picked up the oars, flipping them over his shoulder as he kept shouting. “I’ll not be doubted by some pipsqueak tuft of ginger and his irritating dog. I am master and commander of the seas!”
This is working perfectly, Tintin thought. Then Haddock pivoted on his heel, heading back to his end of the boat, and as he turned, the oars over his shoulder swept around and knocked both Tintin and Snowy out cold. They slumped in their seats and Haddock kept up his rant. “I know these waters better than the warts on me mother’s face! Every wave of them is like a compass needle. The secrets of the deeps are mine and mine alone!”
He planted himself on one of the rowing benches and slapped the oars into the other set of oarlocks. “Look at the pair of them, fast asleep!” Haddock said. “Typical landlubbers. No stamina these days. Never mind, I’ll get ye there, Tintin.”
It felt good to row, thought Captain Haddock as he dug the oars into the water. They would be in Bagghar in no time, and then they would see about that third model Unicorn and this Sheik Whatshisname. Tintin would see that Captain Archibald Haddock was not a man to trifle with.
Back home, Thompson and Thomson rarely had a day that they looked forward to as much as this one. Usually they had to chase criminals, but today’s agenda contained a much more pleasant task. They walked together along the streets near the Old Street Market, scanning the crowd. “He does frequent this area, does he not?” Thomson said.
Thompson nodded. “If our pickpocket does, he must as well, isn’t that right? Ah, there he is.”
As Thompson pointed, Thomson also saw the gray-haired, gloved man strolling down the street. And as they saw him, he saw them. “Oh my!” he said.
“Mr. Silk?” Thompson asked.
“Yes,” Silk said. He looked nervous.
Perfectly understandable, given the circumstances, Thompson thought. “My name is Thompson.”
“And Thomson,” Thomson said, tipping his hat.
“We’re police officers,” they said in unison.
Silk’s reaction surprised them. “Oh, crumbs!” he said, and turned away, knocking over an old woman who happened to be coming out of a nearby pet shop with a cage full of canaries. The cage broke open as Silk stumbled to the sidewalk, and the canaries fluttered around his head, chirping at their unexpected freedom.
“Mr. Silk!” Thompson said. “Are you all right?”
The owner of the pet shop ran out with a net and began catching the canaries as a passerby helped the old woman to her feet. Seeing that this situation was under control, the two Interpol detectives concentrated on Silk. “Are you all right, sir?” Thomson asked.
“No need to run away, sir.” Thompson dusted Silk off.
Thomson joined in, straightening Silk’s tie. “No, no. You see, yesterday, we very nearly caught the pickpocket who’s been terrorizing the town.”
“Pickpocket,” Silk said.
“We pulled his jacket off,” Thompson went on, “and inside we found a wallet. A wallet with your name and address.”
He held it up, and Silk said, “That’s my wallet.”
“It’s obviously stolen from you,” Thompson said.
“No, no!” Silk cried out, most unexpectedly. “That’s my wallet!”
Thompson and Thomson exchanged a glance. “Are you all right, sir?” Thomson asked.
“We didn’t mean to startle you,” Thompson said. “Let us help you to your apartment.”
Silk’s apartment was just a short distance down the street; Thompson and Thomson knew this from the address in his wallet. They led him there and stopped at the door, where Silk nodded to them. “Thank you so much. No need to come in,” he said, and coughed nervously. “I’ll be quite all right, really.”
“No, but we insist!” Thomson said. He and Thompson shared a sense of responsibility to the citizens of the city. They could not leave an obviously shaken man of Silk’s age by himself, not until they were sure he would be all right. Passing pedestrians looked at them, wondering if they were witnessing an arrest. It would be the most exciting thing most of them had seen in ages.
Thompson did not want to make a scene. The old man was clearly in distress. He waved the gawkers back. “About your business!” he said. “This is a police matter.”
“No need whatsoever,” Silk was saying. “Really, no need . . .”
“Better safe than sorry,” Thompson said. He raised his voice and called out so that everyone could hear. “It’s the least we can do!”
With great relief at being away from the eyes of the crowd, he and Thomson led Silk into his apartment and sat him down in an armchair. “There we are.”
“Oh,” Silk said. “Thank you.”
Thompson and Thomson patted Silk on the shoulder and took a look around the apartment, admiring its neatness and the way that all the wallets on the large bookshelf in the middle of the room were labeled and organized.
Wait . . . the wallets?!
The detectives looked at each other, stunned. “Good grief,” Thompson said. “What’s all this?”
Silk slumped forward in his chair. “It’s my . . . collection.”
“What a lot of wallets,” Thomson observed.
Straightening up again, Silk said, “I can’t help it. It started with coin purses . . . and sort of . . . went on from there, really.”
It is amazing what people would do, Thompson thought. “You want to be careful,” he admonished Silk. “Haven’t you heard there’s a pickpocket about?”
Nodding, Thomson chimed in, “Yes, he’d love this. Can you imagine?”
The two detectives were not very good at detecting what was right in front of them—but Silk didn’t know that.
Silk appeared to be offended, though neither of the detectives could understand why. “What do you mean, pickpocket?” he said coldly.
“A master criminal,” Thompson said. “A bag-snatching, purse-pilfering, wallet-lifting sneak thief.”
To their disbelief, Silk now seemed to be on the verge of tears. “I’m not a bad person,” he said, his voice quavering in time with the tremble of his lower lip. “I’m a . . . kleptomaniac.”
“A what?” Thompson asked.
Thomson leaned over and whispered in his ear. “It’s a fear of open spaces.”
Ah, Thompson thought. It was hard to keep track of all the medical terms these days. “Poor man,” he whispered back. “No wonder he keeps his wallets in the living room.”
During their brief consultation, Silk’s mood shifted radically yet again. “Wallets!” he said with joy. “I just can’t resist the lovely little things. It’s a . . . it’s a harmless little habit, really.”
Thompson’s interest was piqued by the rows and rows of wallets. He pulled one from the shelf with his finger as he would have drawn a book from a bookshelf.
What he saw astonished him. “Good heavens,” he said. “Thomson, look at this! His name’s Thompson, too!”
Thomson’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, what a coincidence!” He took a different wallet from the shelf, looked at it, and said, “No, Thompson, this is Thomson without a p—as in ‘psychic.’”
“No, no, no. It’s Thompson with a p,” Thompson said. “As in ‘psychologist.’”
“Look at this one,” Silk said, but neither detective paid attention. “A green one that I managed to pick from a pickpocket actually pickpocketing at the time. And this one . . .”
He went on as the detectives grew more and more annoyed with each other. “How dare
you, sir?” Thomson was saying, and Thompson answered right back. “How dare you, sir?”
“Good heavens, Thompson, you’ve got it all wrong!” They began brandishing wallets at each other as Silk looked back and forth from one of them to the next.
“No, you have it all wrong, and there is a p in ‘psychic’!” Thompson exclaimed.
“I’m not your sidekick,” Thomson said in a huff, mishearing him. “You are mine!”
“Smell it, won’t you?” Silk said, pressing a wallet to his face. “Piggy leather. Oh, I love piggy leather.” He was crumbling under the pressure and starting to get delirious.
“How dare you?” Thompson said in great high dudgeon. “I met you first.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Yes, I did.”
“No, you did not,” Thomson insisted.
“Yes, I did.”
“Didn’t!”
“Did!”
“Didn’t!”
All the while they were dimly conscious that poor Mr. Silk was talking to them, but it was vitally important to both Thompson and Thomson that this business of seniority and who was sidekick to whom be sorted out immediately. So neither of them heard Silk cry out, “Listen! I can’t stand it anymore! All right, I’ll come quietly!”
He began to shove wallets into the detectives’ hands, tears in his eyes, saying, “Take them, take them!”
Thomson recoiled. “What are you doing?”
“Take them all!” Silk shouted.
“Stop this at once, sir!” Thomson said.
Thompson caught Silk by the shoulder. “Pull yourself together, man! We can’t take your wallets. Do we look like thieves?”
“Good heavens, Thompson!” Thomson said then. Thompson looked away from Silk to see that Thomson was opening yet another wallet. “This looks familiar,” Thomson went on. “It can’t be . . .?”
Then both of them saw the name and address. “It is!” Thompson exclaimed.
“Tintin!” both of them said together.
The Adventures of Tintin Page 7