He vanished without a trace.

At least, that's what Thompson and Thomson said. But whether he left without a mark or not, one fact was clear—Captain Haddock was missing.

Which to him was, frankly, impossible. At least, without a trace. The Captain was larger than life, after all—it was in his composure, in his attitude, in his language. Even if he did disappear—he mused—he vaguely anticipated finding a trail of alcoholic stench in his wake.

And yet, it seemed the reports were true. Upon arrival at Marlinspike, he found everything just as they were—except for Captain Haddock.

"I'm afraid I can't help you, Mister Tintin," said Nestor, furtively. His eyes had a grave gloss over them. "Believe me, I've tried to locate Master Haddock as well. I've tried. However, it seems like my efforts were for naught."

"Everywhere, Nestor?" he replied, breathless without a reason. No, this wasn't like himself, he taught. The nerves seemed to choke his respiratory capabilities. "Did you search everywhere? Are you absolutely certain?"

"You may want to check the manor yourself, sir," he responded, opening the door. "For any clues I might have overlooked. You once lived here, after all."

The comment left him silent.

It had been months since he moved out of the manor. It was nothing personal, really. The move was one part nostalgia and two parts wanting his private space as a journalist.

And it wasn't like he didn't enjoy the Captain's company. He enjoyed it immensely. It was just in the course of living together he grew restless of the drunken tirades and the messy rooms. Sometimes, he found it difficult to write, which didn't deal quite well with his editors. In the end, he had to move out.

He could still recall the Captain's face when he explained the move. It was hauntingly vague, unlike any expression he'd seen his face in. Normally, the Captain was colorful, easily read. That day proved different.

Of course I understand, Tintin. Pack yer bags and move out, whatever makes you happy.

He found himself in the Captain's room before he knew it, albeit surprised at how he got there. Perhaps he was too lost in his thoughts to notice.

"Snowy!" he muttered, surprised. The dog ran into the room, circling his master's legs in delight. Smiling, he picked up the furry snowball. "I didn't notice you there, boy! Must've been in quite a trance, wasn't I?"

Snowy licked his face adoringly, wagging his tail once his master put his down. For a moment, he felt he didn't have a care in the world.

Then there was the matter of Captain Haddock. "He couldn't have vanished without a trace, boy," he muttered, petting the terrier. "If he left, he must've left something for us to find. He always does. There must be something in this room."

Walking to a shelf, he searched the contents thoroughly before ending with nothing. He then moved to various parts of the room, examining every nook and cranny, before a nasty headache began to form. How lovely, he thought, sardonically, before sitting on the Captain's bed.

"I just don't understand, Snowy," he said, looking at his. "He must've left something. He must have! And why would he leave in the first place? Why would he leave without telling us?"

The terrier whined sympathetically, looking at his owner with those large, brown eyes. Then, without warning, she jumped onto Tintin's lap, accidentally hitting a lighted lamp in the process.

"Snowy!" he cried, alarmed at the sight. He held the terrier in his arms and rushed to the bathroom, grabbing a cupful of water to douse the flame. "Bad dog! That was rather reckless."

She merely whined in response as he inspected the damage.

Fortunately, the furniture was still intact, but one unfortunate piece of paper had been singed a little. Oh no, thought Tintin, meagerly handling the paper. He was afraid it'd break in his hold, which would make things worse when the Captain returned.

"Now, look at what you did," he said in consternation. Analyzing the paper, he was fortunate enough it was a mere shopping list.

Except.

"Wait a minute," he mumbled, looking more closely at the tattered paper. White marks appeared in the midst of deterioration—first, faintly, then with full force. Holding a breath, he looked over the marking, letting out a large exhale upon decoding the contents. "Snowy," he muttered, heading for the doorway. "Let's go. I think we've found a lead."

On his way to the grand entrance, Nestor was busy talking with someone out the door. "Yes, he's here… on the case as usual. Oh, here he comes. Master Tintin," he said, opening the door wider. "There are some people who want to see you."

"'Ello, Tintin," said Thompson—or, it seemed like Thompson—with a wave of his cane.

"We were just passing by for a second inspection of the house," said Thomson—or, it seemed like Thomson. "To search for more clues on Haddock."

"Ah, yes, to search for clues," said Thompson. "But really, that Haddock has absolutely no taste in hats, does he?"

"Indeed! His taste is terrible," said Thomson. "No bowler hats anywhere, just a bunch of nautical nonsense. What villainry!"

"How blasphemous!"

"Yes indeed!"

"Sorry, can't talk right now," Tintin said hurriedly. In a flash, he rushed by the twins and Nestor, almost at lightning speed. "I might just know where Captain Haddock is. If ever, I'll be sure to send you a message on the way. Come along, Snowy."

"Hey, wait! Tintin!" said one of the twins—who, it was uncertain. But one thing was clear.

Captain Haddock was missing. And—he thought rather gravely—intentionally so.