Twelve
Tintin woke slowly, with a fuzzy head and a mouth as dry as cotton. His main memory of the night before was one of sleepy contentment. He'd simply eaten almost a full pizza to himself and watched a film on television. Time wasted, he thought to himself. A small ember of anger blossomed. Hash lollipops? Who on earth gave unsuspecting people hash lollipops? Those things were lethal: a couple of licks over the space of a night was enough to get anyone stoned. One lollipop in one go, eaten by someone who didn't take drugs was too much. He was surprised he wasn't feeling even worse. As it was, it was like a mild hangover.
He really, really wanted a can of Coke.
He got up with a groan and wandered out into the main room of the suite. Snowy was stretched out asleep on the sofa. He put his head up when he saw his master and yawned happily, his tail starting to wag. For a second, Tintin wondered why the dog was sleeping here. Usually he slept on Tintin's bed, or wherever Tintin was sleeping. Then, as Tintin's feet came in contact with the cold carpet he understood. He looked up. The roof was open for some reason, and the room was a lot cooler than the bedrooms were. Snowy, drawn by the cooler air, had slept there in peace.
The carpet was wet with dew. Tintin spent a few futile minutes searching for a way to close the ceiling, but gave up after a while. He opened the door to the balcony and watched while Snowy relieved himself on a potted plant. When the dog was finished the teenager set about his own morning business, helped along by a cold can of Coke liberated from the mini-bar.
By 9am he was slipping out of the suite, careful not to wake the Captain. The man's snores rose steadily from his own room. This morning was not a morning for the Captain. There was already time lost due to last night's mishaps, and Tintin didn't have any more time to waste. Not when someone else's life hung in the balance. The stakes were just too high.
He bought a coffee and the morning newspaper from a kiosk and wandered slowly towards the nightclub called Valkyrie. It was far too early for Doctor Müller to be there – the club would be shut up until the afternoon, most likely – but Tintin had more to do than just interrogating Müller. He found a bench opposite the nightclub and sat down. Snowy plonked himself at the teenager's feet and lay down to continue his sleep. The road was busy enough – morning traffic in a city was always busy, and it would get busier as the day went on – but there was a clear view of the club from where he sat. More importantly, anyone inside the club had a clear view of the bench and its occupant.
He took a sip of his coffee and opened the paper, and began searching through it for a tips hotline. There was always a hotline for tips.
The police were doing what they did best: they were assuming it was a case of a young girl running away and soothing the parents as best they could. Too much time had been wasted, and not just by Tintin and hash lollipops. It was time to start putting pressure on people. He found the number and dialled it quickly on his mobile phone. It answered after a few rings.
"Yes?" a bored-sounding man answered. Tintin switched to Dutch and started talking.
"Hey," he said. "Did you know a girl went missing almost a week ago?"
"So?" the man replied.
"Her name is Georgia Haddock. Her friends and family call her 'Georgie'."
"And?"
"Her uncle is Captain Archibald Haddock. He and Tintin have just arrived in Amsterdam."
"What?" The man sounded interested. Tintin could imagine him sitting up a little straighter as the story of a life-time dropped into his lap. It was almost a wrench to give it away to another reporter. "How do you know this?"
"Trust me," Tintin said. He'd feed a few details to the newspapers over the next day or so, making sure a media storm was whipped up, igniting people's attention and righteous indignation. "Can you print a description of her? She's tall, blonde and very beautiful. She's a first year law student in Cambridge." They'd find her photo now, probably from her Facebook page or on one of her college's social networks. It would be printed in the evening news, and after that it would be beamed all over the world.
"Anything else?" the man asked excitedly. "What's your name? Do you have a number I can call you on?"
"There is something else," Tintin said. "Let them know that the police are in charge of the investigation. For now. Tell them that if she's released alive, nothing bad will happen. But if she isn't, then Tintin will tear them apart. He'll make it his life's work to ruin theirs. Got it?"
"Got it. Listen, can I call you back with some more questions? My editor will" –
Tintin hung up and put his phone away. He took another sip of his coffee and started to read his newspaper.
x
At 11am the cleaning staff arrived and went inside Valkyrie. Tintin put his newspaper down and stretched his legs out, giving them a full view of him. The tall man wearing a black suit that accompanied the handful of cleaning women stared at him for a few minutes. The women scurried inside the nightclub while the man idled outside, taking in the view of the busy road and the young man sitting on the bench, apparently without a care in the world. Tintin let him see the distinctive quiff of red-blond hair and the tell-tale white dog at his feet. When the man finally went inside, Tintin picked up the newspaper again and started on the crossword.
It wouldn't be long now.
x
An hour later a sleek red Jaguar pulled in to the alley beside Valkyrie. It disappeared as its owner parked around the back of the nightclub. Tintin folded his newspaper and put it neatly on the bench. His coffee, long empty, was tossed into a nearby rubbish bin. Sitting back on the bench, his arms stretched out along the length of its back, his legs stretched out in front, he waited. It was important for Müller to come to him: Tintin needed the upper-hand from the beginning. It was a power-play with Müller; it was always about power. Men loved power, and Müller in particular needed to be in control.
It was time to chip a bit of that control away.
The man himself stepped out of the alley a few minutes later. He was tall and, even from that distance, Tintin could see the distinctive thick, black beard. He wore a grey suit, impeccable as always, that was opened at the neck. He glanced around before crossing the road, approaching warily. He stopped near the bench, and looked down on Tintin.
"What do you want?" That same German accent. The same casual, debonair attitude. Tintin's fists itched.
This time, however, it was important that their meeting didn't descend into violence. This time, Tintin had to keep his power without taking it by force.
Tintin shrugged. "A tan?" he offered. He tilted his face to the sun, relaxing completely.
Müller gritted his teeth. "Why are you here?"
"I'm looking for someone," Tintin replied, his eyes closed and his face still turned to the heavens. He looked like someone that didn't have a care in the world.
"Whoever you're looking for, you won't find them here," Müller snapped. "Now go away."
Tintin shrugged and finally turned his gaze on Müller. His eyes were green and warm compared to Müller's icy blue ones. "Maybe not," he replied. "But I think you know more than you're letting on."
Müller snorted. "If you're talking about that girl who went missing, that Hancock girl" –
"Haddock," Tintin corrected. Interesting, he thought. He doesn't know her name, but he was dating her.
Müller froze. Tintin could see that the name had hit him like a ton of bricks. She didn't tell him her real name, he realised. She hid that from him. He's just realised the significance of that now. His work was done. He'd managed to spook Müller more effectively than he'd ever imagined he could. The man looked positively rattled. He stood up and nodded to him before sparing a look at his newspaper. "It's a shame her disappearance didn't make the papers," he said with a sad sigh. "I'll see you around." He walked away, Snowy trotting along at his feet. He quickly turned a corner and peeked back carefully. As he'd expected, Müller had taken up the newspaper and was quickly flicking through it. And, as expected, he found the page that had the hotline phone number printed on it. Ringed very deliberately, to show that Tintin had also seen it and had probably used it. Müller swore loudly and Tintin grinned and walked quickly out of sight.
He hoped Müller saw the phone number he'd scrawled under the hotline. He hoped Müller saw it and called it. It wasn't Tintin's phone number though: it was the international RickRoll'd phone number.
Power, after all, was mainly about mind-games.
Author's Note: it is actually possible for a dog to 'yawn happily'. Mine manages it every morning.
In the Hergé books, Tintin and Müller met face to face twice (The Black Island and Land of Black Gold), and on both occasions they ended up in a fist fight. That's what Tintin is referencing when he says he didn't want this meeting to descend into violence.