Fourteen
Nestor watched from the window. He was nervous. He didn't know what was going on but he knew something was very badly wrong. For a start, why would his masters care about whether or not the burglar had phoned the police? Sure that was the whole point of it? If someone breaks in, you call the police and make sure they were arrested. But Master Maxwell had been angry after the boy had run away, because he didn't want the police involved. And why, if he had just broken into someone's house, would the burglar call the police? That didn't make sense either.
It must have been very complicated, Nestor figured. He simply didn't have all the facts at the moment, but one thing was clear: a butler has a job to do and he must do it. And part of that job was complete loyalty to his employers. It was a code of silence, and it existed for all butlers everywhere. They were silent creatures who watched and served, but never judged and maybe, just maybe, when they were older and facing retirement some of the things they had seen were enough to extort a very large pay-day from their employers. Nestor had put his time in with the Bird brothers, and he was owed a huge pay-day some time in the future. Blackmail was an ugly word: butlers were simply paid for their silence.
He chewed at his nails and worried silently. He could now hear the sound of Brutus barking again; faintly, but growing louder and louder. Soon is was joined by Master Gus's voice. The man was pleading with the dog to calm down. There was something wrong with his voice though: he sounded genuinely scared now.
They appeared at the edge of the park, coming from the trees like a small party of half-assed explorers. Masters Gus and Max were walking in front. Master Max had his hands in the air while Master Gus held the dog. The boy – the criminal – had a gun! He had a gun pointed at Masters Gus and Max!
That made up Nestor's mind for him: a young ruffian had broken in and had a gun. This was dire straits. This was entirely unacceptable: Nestor had spent the whole morning cleaning the first storey of the Hall from top to bottom and bloodstains would ruin the effect. He had to stop this.
He thought furiously, his quick, bird-like eyes darting from figure to figure as he decided what to do. Curiously, it didn't look like the ruffian was bringing the Masters back to the house. They were going around the side, to the expansive garages where… Ah! Of course! He was putting Brutus back in his pen. Nestor did a quick calculation: it would take a good five minutes to put Brutus away; a few minutes to reach the pen and another few minutes to force him in and settle him down. That gave Nestor time to fetch his Old Friend.
No butler should ever be without an Old Friend.
x
They were coming. His blood was singing in his ears. He couldn't hear what he was saying but he thought the young ruffian had mentioned the police again. Probably warning Masters Max and Gus not to call them. Yes, that was it: he'd been confused before. The more he thought about it the more he realised that he was wrong, and the young ruffian hadn't tried to call the police. He had tried to call an accomplice. That must be it. And if Master Max felt that the police mustn't be involved, then there must be a good reason for it.
In fact, it was fitting that the Masters duff the little ruffian up a bit and teach him a lesson. These days it was plain sailing in prison for young toughs like that, what with the bleeding-heart liberals claiming that punishment was a violation of criminals' human rights or whatever. Nestor read the Daily Mail: he knew what went on in prisons these days, with the criminals being given televisions and games consoles and mobile phones…
No, it was better this way. This would teach him to be a man and warn him off his criminal career much more firmly than putting him in a cosy jail cell and catering to his every whim.
Here they come! Keep cool, Nestor. Keep cool.
He hefted his Old Friend in his hands. He liked the weight of the cricket bat. It was wooden, not like these modern, wimpy, light-weight modern ones. It was a solid bit of sporting equipment designed for heavy use.
He pressed his body to the wall, and leaned over so he could still peer out at them. The ruffian was marching his masters this way. A few seconds later his masters passed under the window, their heads bobbing just above the window sill. He took a deep breath and waited…
Now!
A ginger-blond head appeared and Nestor sprung out from his hiding place and brought the bat down hard. It cracked the ruffian on the head and he dropped the gun at once. Master Max gave a delighted shout but the ruffian was still on his feet! He was reeling just under the window so Nestor raised the bat again. Just as it had started back down, with more force this time to make sure the blow would knock the ruffian out, Master Max lunged forward and grabbed the boy by the throat. This time, the blow landed on Master Max's head and he went down at once. Nestor dropped his Old Friend, aghast at what had happened.
x
Gasping for breath, Tintin rolled out from under the heavy weight of Max Bird. His head ached and he had no idea why. He looked around, bleary-eyed, and realised he was too late to stop one of the thugs from grabbing the dropped gun. It was the taller of the two men, and he levelled it at Tintin. "Got you this time," he said with an evil grin. He waved the gun at the window and Tintin glanced up and realised that the butler was there. It must have been he who had attacked him, probably with the cricket bat that had landed in the shrubbery. "Come out here, Nestor, and bring some strong rope with you. And if we have any duct tape, bring that too."
"Of course, Master Gus," the butler said. He shot a worried look at the other man, who was only now regaining his feet. "I hope Master Max will forgive me for" –
"Don't use my bloody name!" Max cried.
"Oh, give it up," Gus snapped. This had all gone pear-shaped and he wanted it to be over and done with. The sooner Max killed the little snot-nosed brat the better. He grabbed a hold of Tintin's arm and forced the boy in front, digging the gun painfully into the small of his back. "Get in front and start walking. And so help me God, if you make one smart move I'll shoot you where you stand. Don't you test me on that!"
Tintin started walking, his mind working furiously. He had to find a way out of here now: they were going to kill him he was sure of it, and it would be very unpleasant. His eyes took in his surroundings. They were near the corner of the house. Once they turned that corner, they would be at the front of the house. Once he was inside that house, he wouldn't come out alive again. But the ground here was too open: if he ran for it he wouldn't have any cover and he'd be relying on the man named Gus to be a bad shot at almost point-blank range. He had to figure something out. This couldn't be the end, not after everything that had happened…
A blur of white and brown shot out of a bush. Another dog? Tintin thought as he turned in slow motion, his eyes widening, to watch it.
Snowy!
He whooped in delight and dropped to his knees as tenacious little Snowy, covered in mud and grass stains, lunged at Gus Bird and wrapped his terrier jaws around the man's arm. The gun went off and the bullet whizzed over Tintin's head, but Snowy hung on, dragging Gus's arm down as he made his descent. He had a good grip of the man's sleeve, and a fair bit of flesh and bone too, and the surprise and pain made tears spring to Gus's eyes and forced him to his knees.
Tintin sprang up like a jack-in-the-box, and caught the man with a strong punch to the jaw, knocking him back. Before the other man had a chance to collect himself and pick up the gun, Tintin was on him with a quick left hook to the chin followed by a right hook to the face. He felt the man's nose burst under his fist as it broke. The man screamed and fell back, clutching his nose. Blood streamed from under his fingers.
Yeeeeeeaaaaaaaah! Tintin! Snowy leaped at Tintin and the boy quickly caught the dog in his arms and accepted the delighted licks.
You were gone and then I had to find you and there was the things that growled at me and they attacked me and then there was some stuff and my feets hurt and I want to go home to bed now please. Also: food. All this and more was communicated in the licks. Tintin was a smart kid: he would figure it out quickly and hopefully chicken and sleep would be forthcoming.
"How the hell did you get here?" Tintin asked, cuddling the dog close. Snowy was the most welcome sight he'd seen in ages.
"Hands up!" A voice shouted from behind the corner of the house and Tintin turned at once, instinctively ducking.
"Again?" he asked warily. "What now?"
"I said put your hands up!" the voice bawled.
"Is that the Thompsons?" Tintin wondered. "Snowy, who did you bring with you?"
Snowy cocked his head at the sound of his name and hoped that some of those words meant that someone would feed him. Also, he could smell another male dog and that was interesting.
A figure appeared from around the corner: tall and slightly dishevelled and, above all, familiar. Tintin put Snowy down and started forward in relief. "Captain!" he cried. "Oh, thank heavens you're here!"
"You bully!" the Captain cried. Tintin stopped short and watched, a feeling of uncertainty rising in the pit of his stomach as the increasingly familiar look of sheer rage covered the Captain's face. "You pirate! You pickled herring! You bastard!"
"Captain!" Tintin's eyes widened as the Captain ran forward. He whipped a heavy glass bottle from the pocket of his jacket and raised it over his head.
"Captain!" Tintin cried. He realised he was frozen. He'd seen the Captain angry before, but never this angry, and never had Tintin thought that the man's anger would be directed at him.
"Take that!" The Captain's hand whipped forward and the bottle went flying, sailing over Tintin's shoulder with unerring accuracy. Tintin turned and saw it smash against Gus Bird's head: the man was on his knees and the gun was in his hand, pointing at Tintin's back. "Shoot a kid when his back's turned? Not on my watch!" the Captain bawled. "You piece of crap! How very dare you!" He turned to Tintin, the anger quickly becoming concern. "Are you all right? By thunder you scared the hell out of me!" Before Tintin could respond, the Captain grabbed him in an almighty bear hug, and held him tightly for a few seconds before letting go. He held Tintin at arms length, his hands on the boy's shoulders as he searched his face. "Did they hurt you? Did they do anything to you?"
"I'm fine," Tintin said. He felt strangely happy now that he knew he wasn't about to get his head bashed in with a bottle: it was nice to have someone this concerned over his well-being. "Thanks for showing up."
"Don't mention it." The Captain's right hand rested lightly against Tintin's cheek for a second before the man regained his usual gruff composure and pulled away. "Well, it had to be done, didn't it? Can't have you going off and getting yourself killed. It would mean a lot of paperwork for me."
"Your concern is touching," Tintin said with a grin. They turned and looked at the two men. Max was sitting up, his back against the wall of the house and his hands still covering his broken nose. He was glaring at them. Gus was now stretched right out and completely out cold. He was lying in a puddle of foul-smelling liquid and shattered glass.
"He'd come round and was going to shoot you," the Captain said, nodding at Gus. "Filthy scumbag. I just saw red. Blistering barnacles, I hope I haven't killed him…"
"I don't think so, he's still breathing. Thanks, Captain."
"Don't worry about it." The Captain clapped him on the back and glanced down at Snowy. "Where did you pop out from?" he asked the dog in surprise.
Snowy wagged his tail politely and went back to sniffing Gus's leg. The strange male dog scent was stronger on this one.
"You didn't bring him with you?" Tintin asked.
"No. He ran off yesterday and I couldn't find him. T'be honest, I was too busy worrying about you to bother about him," the Captain admitted. "He must have followed that van all the way here. Fancy that! It's like a Disney story. Except with a bit more gun play and danger."
The sound of feet crunching on gravel made them turn. The Thompsons appeared from around the corner. Nestor, a pair of handcuffs on his wrists, was sandwiched between them. He was still protesting loudly.
"But I'm telling you," he was saying in a plaintive voice, "I haven't done anything wrong! It was this young scoundrel who broke in and terrorised my masters! He's the real criminal here, detectives."
"He had these on him," Thomson said, ignoring Nestor. He held out his hand and showed them the length of rope and a roll of thick, silver duct tape. "So we've arrested him on suspicion of kidnapping." The Captain's face darkened in anger again, so Tintin stepped in front of him and addressed the two Interpol detectives.
"To be fair," he said quickly, before the Captain could fly off the handle, "he did act in good faith. He's the servant, detectives. He was told that I had broken in and, for all he knew, I could have. He was just doing what he was told to do."
"Your masters are the real criminals," the Captain snapped. "Just look at what they've done to my bottle of brandy, too! It's smashed to pieces. That was Hennessy three-star an' all!"
"And we have a warrant for their arrest," Thompson said. He reached into his inside pocket and stopped, his eyes widening in shock. "My wallet!" he cried.
Tintin sighed. Well, it had been going very well so far. Of course there had to be a bump in the road right about now: nothing was ever this easy. "Stolen?" he asked in a long-suffering voice.
"No! Absolutely not!" Thompson's shock changed to utter joy. He pulled out a brown leather wallet attached to a heavy, thick chain. "I sill have it! It must be some sort of miracle!"
"By the way," Tintin asked suddenly, an idea occurring to him, "did you ever find the pickpockets?"
"No, not yet," Thomson said, "but it won't be long now. We got a name for the coat's owner from the Stellar Cleaners. He's called Aristides Silk. We were just about to pull him in for questioning when the Captain called us, and then we got the order to arrest the Bird brothers. So, here we are."
"You got a warrant very quickly," Tintin said with a frown. "Usually it takes a bit of time."
"Yes, but you know what child services are like when they get involved," Thompson said, rolling his eyes.
"Child services?" Tintin groaned and covered his face.
"Er, yeah," the Captain said guiltily. "I couldn't keep this quiet. Sorry, lad. I had to tell Emilie. She showed up this morning and you were missing and I'd already called the police… In fact, she's waiting around the front. She insisted on coming."
"Oh, Captain, I just want to go home to bed!" Tintin complained.
"I know. Sorry. But I honestly didn't know what else to do." The Captain winced at him. "And you may not be able to go home…"
Tintin shot him a look. The Captain held his hands up in defence. "We're just going to have to talk to her," he said quickly. "You never know: she might want to keep this quiet too!"
Tintin sighed. "I suppose so. No point putting it off, is there? And for heaven's sake, detectives, let the butler go, will you? He hasn't done anything wrong."
"Hmph. I suppose," Thomson conceded sulkily. "He'll still have to come down to the station, though, and make a statement."
"It's better than getting arrested," the Captain said with a shrug. "And I want that bottle of Henny replaced! Hop to it, man!"
"Er, of course, sir." Nestor held still while the handcuffs were taken off. Things were even more confusing now, but he recognised an order when he heard it, and right now he was aching to get back to following orders and leaving the difficult thinking up to others. He made a deep bow and hurried away. Tintin and the Captain followed him at a slower pace while the detectives stayed behind to formally arrest the Bird brothers.
"How did you know where I was?" Tintin asked as they walked. "It didn't seem like you understood me, when I phoned you."
"I didn't," the Captain admitted. "I was going out of my mind before you rang. I even phoned my idiot brother, Frankie, asking him for help but he didn't want to hear any of it. Huh!" he said, spitting in disgust. "He can go and swing. I hope he understand what it feels like one day, and when that happens he can whistle for all I care. I shan't be helping him!"
Tintin rolled his eyes and grinned. Nobody could hold a grudge like Captain Haddock, he was learning.
"Anyway, I was still puzzling over your call when the hospital phoned and said that the little-bird-man had woken up. You remember." The Captain waved his hand vaguely. "The bloke that got shot right outside your flat."
"He's alive?" Tintin asked hopefully.
"Oh, aye, he is. The doctors done a great job on him. He's alive and well and speaking, and he was able to name his attackers as the Bird brothers of Marlinspike Hall. It was only when I heard the name 'Marlinspike' that I realised what you were trying to say. Well, there was no time to lose, was there? I called the two idiots and Emilie and we got over here straight away."
"Well done, Captain!"
"Oh, shucks!" The Captain blushed and looked bashful. "Some of your intelligence was bound to rub off eventually, eh?"
"Just like your swearing is starting to rub off on me."
"From this point on, I shall make a concentrated effort to not swear ever again," the Captain said solemnly.
"What about the drinking?" Tintin asked.
"Choose your battles, son. That's what my old dad used to say." The Captain slung his arm around Tintin's shoulder companionably. "Ready to face the music?"
They turned the corner and there was Emilie. She was leaning against her car, her arms folded across her chest and her foot tapping against the ground. Her mouth was a tight, grim line. She looked up as they appeared and glared at them.
"Oooh, she looks a bit annoyed," the Captain said worriedly.
"Maybe we can just run for it?" Tintin offered.
"Good idea. I'll start the car while you push her over. We can hop it while she's off-balance."
They stopped short when, from behind them, there came the sounds of a fight. There were two or three heavy blows and a voice cried out in surprise and pain. Forgetting about Emilie, they turned around and ran back the way they came.
"Hey!" she cried. "Get back here!"
They ignored her and kept going. "We shouldn't have left them alone!" Tintin cried. "Those two are dangerous!"
Thompson and Thomson were on the ground. One was on his knees, fighting with what looked to be his hat, while the other was slowly getting up. His hat was also pulled down around his face, covering his eyes.
"Look!" the Captain said. "One's going around the corner."
"Max!" Tintin declared. "He's the most dangerous one!" He picked up speed and tore after the criminal. Just was he reached the corner and was about to step out, a car roared into life and came towards him at speed. As it neared, the tyres squealed and Tintin realised that Max had swerved in an attempt to run him over.
"Whoops!" the Captain shouted. He hooked his arm around Tintin's waist and yanked him backwards. The car quickly righted itself and zoomed off, missing Tintin by bare inches.
"That bastard!" Tintin cried.
"Language," the Captain said primly.
"Sorry, Captain, but ooooh! that really boils my blood!"
"Settle down," the Captain hissed. "Here's Emilie." They both turned back to her and did their best to look like responsible, respectable individuals. She reached the detectives and looked at them in despair before grabbing the brim of Thomson's hat and starting to tug at it. "Feel free to help," she said witheringly.
"Of course!" Tintin replied brightly. He caught a hold of Thompson's waist and nodded at the Captain. "Pull!"
"Right-o!" The Captain grabbed the brim of Thompson's hat and pulled hard. The hat popped off the man's head and the Captain staggered backwards a few steps. At that precise moment Nestor chose to make his reappearance, laden down with a tray filled with a wide array of glass bottles. "I brought you a selection of aaargh!"
The Captain hit the tray and both men went down in a shower of tinkling, smashing glass and expensive booze. The Captain looked around in dismay. "I don't believe it!" he squeaked. "Bloody, sodding hell! Oh, for fu" –
"Language," Tintin said quickly.
– "heaven's sake," the Captain finished weakly.
Emilie shook her head and yanked Thomson's hat off his head with one vicious tug. "I'm going back to the city," she said, trying to dampen down her annoyance. "I'm going to get something to eat and then I'm going to show up at your house, Captain. I suggest you two use the time to get your stories straight." She shook her head at them in barely concealed irritation and thrust the hat into Thomson's hands. "Your hat, sir." With that, she turned on her heel and stalked away.
"Thanks, miss," Thomson said happily. He put his hat back on his head and got off his knees.
"What's bitten her?" the Captain asked, bemused.
"Oh, it was probably the whole kidnapping thing and then that near miss with the car," Tintin replied with a shrug. "Sometimes people can be sensitive about stuff like that."
"Yeah, I suppose. Oh well, never mind that now: we've got a few hours reprieve at least."
Thompson and Thomson paused in the act of hauling a handcuffed Gus Bird to his feet. "Few hours reprieve? Well, if you're not too tired you can always come with us. As soon as we get this little lamb back to headquarters we're going to pick up Aristides Silk," Thomson said.
"Great!" Tintin brightened up at once. "Do you mind if I talk to your prisoner?" He gestured to Max Bird hopefully. After all, the Thompsons were still policemen and he was a reporter. It wasn't usual practice to allow a reporter to question the prisoner first.
The Thompsons exchanged a look that went on for a few seconds longer than necessary, as though they were silently communicating with each other. Eventually, Thomson shrugged and Thompson turned to Tintin. "We are just going to stand over there and have a cigarette. Any conversations that may or may not take place are nothing to do with us."
Tintin waited as the two men innocently removed themselves to the grass a short way away. They didn't go too far though: they wanted to hear everything that was said. "Alright then," Tintin said, eyeing Gus. "I think you owe me an explanation."
"Damn right!" said the Captain.
"I'm not saying anything until I see my solicitor," Gus replied shortly.
"You can't weasel your way out of this," Tintin said, amused by the man's brazen attitude. "You left two victims alive, and both can positively identify you."
"Two?" Gus asked, his forehead creasing in a frown.
"You didn't know? The man you shot is alive. He woke up and identified you and your brother as his shooters," Tintin said.
Gus's face went grey. "Barnaby's alive?" he asked. He looked more than shocked: for a second Tintin thought the man would get sick right there and then. "Oh God," he said faintly.
Tintin rolled his eyes and cursed the fact that he was, at heart, a nice person. "I know it's old hat, but if you tell the truth they do go easier on you."
"Fine," he said. "Right. Fine. I mean… Well, it all started a few years ago. We were doing a house clearance in Bristol, in England. It was some old dock-rat – and old man with no family other than a son that didn't give a damn. It was the son who got us in. He gave us some money and told us to clear the house. He didn't care what we did with the stuff. Most of it was junk… but there was a ship up in that attic. It was the model of the Unicorn, the ship Sir Francis Haddock lost.
"We knew the story, of course, and the legend of the treasure. But that's just children's stories. Or so we thought." He shook his head. "I don't know why, but Max loved that ship. He kept it on a shelf behind the register in the shop. Our first shop, I mean. That's how I broke it: I was at the till and I knocked it off its damn shelf. God, how I wish I hadn't. That's how we found the scroll, you see, and ever since then Max has been completely obsessed with the Unicorn.
"He was so obsessed, that when this house came up for sale he bought it and moved in. He said that being in the same place where Sir Francis had lived rejuvenated him. He said it helped him think like Sir Francis, and that once he was thinking like the man he'd be able to figure out the puzzle he'd left behind. God, it was just so… so morbid. The whole thing consumed him. He searched everywhere for the other two models. He didn't eat, he didn't sleep, he didn't stop…
"In the end, I think he realised that one man couldn't search alone, so he hired people – Barnaby was one of them – to search too. That was five years ago. Now… well, up until recently Barnaby was the only one left. The others had all realised that it was fruitless, and moved on. Only Barnaby stayed. He and Max were close, and once Barnaby knew the full reason why Max wanted the other two models, well, he was hooked too. I mean treasure. It's everyone's dream! The whole thing just sort of… sucked people in. It's more like the curse of the Unicorn…" He shook his head sadly and continued.
"Barnaby got greedy though. He should have known Max wouldn't let him get away with it… Anyway, Barnaby finally spotted the second ship at some… I don't know, some flea market in the Christmas market. He lost it to you, Tintin, but he was thorough: within an hour he knew where you lived and he'd stolen the ship."
"But the parchment was gone," Tintin said.
"Exactly. Max sent Barnaby back to find it, but he couldn't. He ransacked the place, or so he said" –
"He did," Tintin said ruefully. "It took ages to clean up afterwards."
"Yeah, well, he was good at what he did," Gus replied without a trace of apology. "But he came back without the scroll again and Max had a fit. He fired Barnaby on the spot and Barnaby started in with the blackmail. He threatened to go to you and confess, and come clean about the whole story. He said once the story of the treasure – with the added detail of Sir Francis's clues to its whereabouts – went public we'd never find it. Everyone else would start searching for it and we'd lose out to some fool with a better boat, or some idiot savant working for one of the universities who'd be able to crack the code quicker than us.
"I never really believed he'd do it – Barnaby, I mean. I know Max could kill someone. But we followed Barnaby and there he was: at your place, talking to you, just like he'd threatened us. I was driving, and before I knew it Max was shooting. It wasn't planned. Or if it was, I didn't know about it. I just thought we were going to keep an eye on him…" He rubbed his eyes with his hands and sighed. "It's all gone a bit Pete Tong, hasn't it?"
"Wrong ain't the word, shipmate," the Captain replied. "You're up a certain creek and we're fresh out of paddles for you. Blistering barnacles, what a mess!"
"What about Mr Sakharine?" Tintin asked.
"Who's that?" Gus replied, confused.
"There was another man, who collected model ships, who was attacked" –
"Oh, him. Yes, that was Barnaby again. He told us that there was another man also bidding for your model of the Unicorn, and Max figured out that he was a collector too. We thought he was looking for the treasure, but when we got his ship the scroll was intact."
"Well, that explains the three parchments," Tintin said slowly, "but why kidnap me?"
"We told you: to get our parchments back."
"But I don't have your parchments," Tintin pointed out. "I only ever had one: the one from my ship. What on earth would make you think that I had your parchments?"
"We had them, then we didn't," Gus confessed. "I have no idea what happened to them. I came home one day and Max had torn the house apart searching for them. He was in a rage about it: he swore someone must have stolen them from him. When he calmed down he swore that the only person clever enough to have taken them and figured out all the pieces of the puzzle was you. So he had you kidnapped."
It was a subtle change, but Tintin noted Gus was starting to put all the blame on his brother. Before they had been equals, but now everything was becoming Max's idea; Max's obsession. The Thompsons would have no trouble interrogating this one: by the time they even got him to an interview room Tintin was sure that the story would become all about Max being firmly in charge and Gus's role reduced to that of an innocent bystander caught up in events beyond his control. In fact, Tintin was willing to lay on a hefty bet that Gus would turn State's Evidence and help send his brother away for a very long time, in return for a much-reduced sentence in a minimum security prison.
"Where did he keep his parchments?" Tintin asked. He needled a bit, nudging Gus in the right direction. "After all, he would never have trusted you to keep them, would he?"
"No, of course not: the treasure was Max's obsession. He didn't trust anyone with the clues. Ever. I barely even saw them. He kept them in his wallet at all times, and he always kept his wallet with him."
Tintin shook his head and shot a look at the Captain, who returned it. "You pair of fools," he said at last. "Honestly? So you went to a city that is currently in the middle of a pick-pocketing frenzy; lost your wallet; and assumed some person you'd never even met before had stolen it? Seriously?"
Gus rolled his eyes. "Look, I suggested it to Max and he flipped. He didn't want to think that the scrolls were lost forever, or even destroyed by some mindless, thieving thug who didn't understand what he had. It was false hope, but it was some hope."
"You were going to torture me! And you knew I hadn't taken your wallet!"
"I would never have tortured you," Gus said quickly.
"No, you would have let your brother do it, wouldn't you? Because the reality of murder and torture is nothing compared to the promise of riches beyond your wildest imagination." Tintin shook his head. "You're pathetic."
"So that's it, then?" the Captain asked. "The treasure's gone?"
"For now, anyway," Tintin replied. "But at least we still have one piece of parchment." He held his hand out to Gus. "Where's the parchment you took from me, when you brought me here?"
"I don't have it," Gus said with a smug grin. "I already told you: Max never trusted anyone with his parchments. He has it in his pocket now."
Tintin didn't bother swearing: there was no point. Unless the Thompsons managed to catch all the pickpockets and recover all the wallets intact, they'd never find Max Bird's two parchments anyway. It was just a pipe dream, now: a distant 'what-if' memory he could use to torture himself with in the years to come: What if we found the parchments? What if we found the treasure? What if we were multi-million-billionaires? With a giant house and a private plane and a room made of strawberry ice-cream? He turned to the Captain. "I need a shower."
"I need a drink," the Captain said. "I can't keep up with all this."
Tintin turned the Captain around as the Thompsons came to claim their prisoner, and led him back to the car. "The only thing we need to know, is that we're not going to find the treasure."
"So we're still poor, then?"
"Yes, Captain. We're still poor."
"Oh, thundering typhoons. Still," he added brightly. "It could be worse."
"How?" Tintin asked. "We're both still poor, we have less than we started with, my house has been broken into twice, I've been kidnapped, you've been annoyed, and we still have to face the social worker."
"Yeah," the Captain agreed, "but it could be raining."
They looked at the clear, bright November sky. "I suppose you're right," Tintin conceded, brightening up. "Come on, let's get out of here."