Chapter Two
The day was a fine one. The sun still lingered over the rooftops, though already shadows on the pavement were starting to lengthen.
The first few smartly-suited businessmen were beginning to make their way home from work, swinging briefcases and loosening ties, looking grateful to be released from servitude so early in the evening. Well-to-do women in modest dress leisurely browsed the shop windows; school children skipped ahead, calling to each other and sharing jokes, evidently glad to be done with their lessons.
It felt strange to Martin, to be starting his own working day when so many others were just finishing theirs. But he didn't complain; truth be told, he really wasn't bothered by it. This is the life of a journalist, he reminded himself. The news never stops happening; current affairs don't only take place between nine and five.
Remi continued to lead the way through the winding thoroughfares, Martin close at his heel. Though the experienced reporter was the one who knew this neighbourhood like the back of his notebook, they could both easily pick out their destination while they were still twenty paces from it.
In an otherwise pleasant residential street, a single shop had its front window boarded up. Jagged sheets of glass clung to the edge of the frame, as if a cannon ball had burst through its centre. The plaster façade bore deep cracks from ground to ceiling, and the door was battered in to one side.
"Great snakes," Martin murmured to himself.
"Where?" Remi asked, sharply. He'd had one hand on the doorknob, about to head inside; now he hurriedly drew back a step, eying the gaping window with a wary glance. He couldn't have been successful at his vocation if he didn't had a certain amount of backbone. He did not flinch at the sight of a raucous media scrum, was not squeamish when it came to covering unsavoury details, and had often interviewed police surgeons at the sites of violent crimes. Still, he had no love of reptiles.
"Oh, no... I d-didn't mean..." Martin stuttered. His face had coloured visibly. "I just... I was only surprised by... how much damage there is..."
Remi stared at him for a moment, a perplexed expression upon his face. Then he suddenly burst out laughing.
"'Great snakes?'" he repeated, gasping for breath between guffaws. "Who on earth says that?"
"The members of my scout brigade did," the boy said, bashfully looking aside as he scuffed the sole of his shoe against the pavement. He was mortified to be explaining something so personal - and so childish - to an adult whom he had only just met. "Our troupe leader used to forbid all forms of cussing. He said that such words were the language of sin, taught by the serpent to Adam and Eve as they were being forced from Eden. So whenever we were tempted to use strong language in front of him, we would stop ourselves by saying 'great snakes' instead. I guess the habit has stuck."
Remi was still chuckling immoderately. Boy scouts? Well, that explains a lot! Aloud, he said: "Your troupe leader sounds like a very pious man. 'Great snakes', eh? A fine, inoffensive thing to exclaim - far better than some of the language I hear other young fellows use these days. Many lads would do well to take a page out of your book; though I expect that if everyone said it, it would soon come to be regarded as perverse."
"You're probably right," Martin agreed, his embarrassed flush gradually receding. As he spoke, he was examining the exterior of the shop. He tentatively poked the large crack that ran from the windowsill to the foot of the wall; as he did, a few fragments of pulverized brick crumbled away, and mortar dust poured from the broken render, making him hurriedly back away.
"What on earth could have made such a mess?" he asked, dusting off his grimy hands as best he could.
"A car, I should think," Remi replied, folding his arms and regarding the half-collapsed wall with a thoughtful gaze. "I have seen such things done before. The thieves use a sturdy vehicle to ram the shopfront, breaking down the door or smashing the windows in order to gain entrance, then fleeing with whatever cash they can lay hands on. Sometimes such tactics hide the presence of a crime, if the damage is deemed to be the result of a mere accident. However, this-" he waved a hand in the air, his gesture framing the battered building before them "-certainly looks as if it were deliberate."
He reached into his pocket, drawing out his notebook and pen. "I'll instruct you now, whilst we have time to organize ourselves," he said, in a business-like manner. He handed the writing implements to Martin, who hastily scrubbed his hands clean on his coat before taking them.
"When we go inside, I will interview the shopkeeper. I want you to stand close by and jot down key points from her answers. I have a fairly good memory, so I doubt I will have to rely too much on your notes, but it will be good practice for you. You must learn to quickly get to the central heart of a story, work out which details are most relevant to our readers' interests. You need to be able to sort through the facts, discern which matter most, which should be reported with greatest priority. You won't ever have enough column space to tell everything; so you must be economical and keep to the essentials. Once you've tried this method a few times, I'm sure you'll have the hang of it."
"Yes, sir," Martin said obediently. He flipped the book open to a blank page, the nib of his pen already hovering ready.
Seeing that he was prepared, Remi nodded approvingly, and pushed the door open. It swung grudgingly on its hinges, scraping against its own misshapen frame. A brass bell gave a forlorn tinkle above their heads.
In immediate answer, they were met with a series of ferocious barks, coming from somewhere close to their right.
With reactions quickened by experience in the field, Remi darted away from the site of the danger, backing into a large bag of birdseed in the process. Martin, acting just as swiftly thanks to the advantage of youth, flattened himself against the wall, narrowly avoiding getting his toe caught in the closing door, as he struggled to keep hold of the notebook he had nearly dropped in surprise.
A large crate stood just within the threshold, and something inside it growled hostilities at them. Exchanging worried glances, they gave it a wide berth.
The inside of the store was compact, yet densely cluttered with all manner of pet-related paraphernalia - including several pets themselves. Everywhere they looked, inquisitive eyes peered at them from within shadowy cages. Noses snuffled in their direction; a few curious chirps and squeaks greeted their arrival.
As they stood in the centre of the store, eyes adjusting to the dim light, looking for some sign of human life, a voice called from a backroom: "I'll be with you in just a moment!"
Soon after, a woman ambled through the doorway that led behind the counter, apparently to some kind of storeroom. She looked highly frazzled; her hair was falling out of the tight bun coiled at the nape of her neck, her sleeves were rolled up, and her dark-blue dress was covered with the same dust that Martin had dislodged from the wall outside. A pair of white mice rode on her shoulder, snugly nestled underneath her upturned collar.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen," she said, in a weary voice. "I'm dreadfully sorry about the mess. We had a- erm, an accident here this morning, and I haven't quite finished cleaning up yet. Was there something in particular that you...?"
"Yes, madam, as a matter of fact," Remi said, briskly. He did not raise an eyebrow at her appearance; in his line of work, he had interviewed all kinds. He addressed her with the same courtesy as he would a perfectly-coiffed socialite. "I'm with Le Petit Vingtième. We spoke on the phone earlier."
"Oh, yes-" Realization dawned on her face; she hastily reached up a hand and attempted to tidy her hair, almost dislodging the two mice in the process. "The reporter who called! Renè, was it...?"
"Remi, Mrs. Hubbard," he replied, without a hint of annoyance at her mistake. He handed her his card. "And this is our news cadet, Ma- er, Tintin." He hastily corrected himself, biting back a grin as he caught a glimpse of the name on the boy's press pass again. Martin raised an eyebrow at him, but said nothing. Remi was pleased to note that his pen was moving; he appeared to be dutifully writing down the name of their interviewee.
"Mr. Remi. Yes, of course; I read your articles every day." She tucked the card into her pocket absently, looking more than a little harried. "I beg your pardon, sir. This whole incident has been quite upsetting-"
"Yes, yes, I'm sure it has," Remi said, soothingly. "I quite understand. The robbery occurred this morning, did it?"
"That's right, sir." Mrs. Hubbard leaned her elbows on the counter, settling herself in for a good, long chat; she seemed relieved to have someone to talk to. "I almost saw who it was, too - if I had been only a moment earlier! I was just coming up the street to open the shop, when I heard a tremendous crash. Of course, I didn't think it could be anything to do with my shop; just an accident of some sort. Young fellows will be so careless with their automobiles, driving too fast down these narrow lanes."
"I quite agree," Remi interposed, encouragingly. He knew how to best keep people at ease once they had begun talking - though Mrs Hubbard didn't seem to be needing too much encouragement. Martin's pen scritched rapidly across the paper; not deeming Mrs. Hubbard's opinion of road safety worthy of inclusion, he paused, ready to record whatever she said next.
"Yes, well, in this case I suppose they drove too well. They couldn't have tried much harder to do as much damage to my poor little shop as they possibly could. The cost of the necessary repairs - it will ruin me! And all for such a doubtful prize, when there is a jewellery store just up the street, and the metropolitan bank just beyond that! To think they would victimize an honest woman like me, who has never had any real need for security, other to keep the animals contained! These little creatures are the real victims here - to think the brutes would target them, yet take nothing from the till!"
Martin's pen stopped abruptly; his head shot up, eyes widened in surprise. Even Remi did a double-take at this last comment. "I beg your pardon?" he asked, politely.
"Why, yes, there was not so much as a franc missing," Mrs Hubbard rambled on; she seemed to be preoccupied with her own grievances, speaking as if they already knew exactly what she was talking about. "And yet, those poor little dears - defenceless, fragile, already half a world away from their homeland. I doubt the miscreants know how to properly care for them - what to feed them, when to let out for exercise. And the police have the nerve to claim they are mere 'collateral', not worthy of a full investigation! Of all the cheek! Both them and the rotten men who took my little darlings, I swear I will-"
But they never found out what Mrs Hubbard swore she would; for Remi - perhaps sensing that some expression a good deal less picturesque than 'great snakes' was about to follow - deftly interposed: "But what was taken, madam?"
Mrs Hubbard stared at him. "But of course, surely you know-? Something as dreadful as this, it must be common knowledge by now; the public must be made aware of the dreadful injustice has been done to the little dears." She drew herself up, looking suddenly formidable in her indignation, and gestured fiercely towards the wall behind Remi and Martin. "See for yourself," she said.
Mystified, the two reporters turned, and found themselves facing row upon row of empty cages. The bars in the front of each one had been neatly clipped out, leaving a hand-sized hole through which some small creature could easily pass.
"They came with wire cutters," Mrs Hubbard said, a hint of grudging admiration evident in her embittered tone. "And they drove a great, sturdy car, too, likely fitted in the rear with custom-built cages - easily big enough for ten, I'm sure. I saw them pack the last bird away just before they drove off; I was still half a block away when they sped away from the curb."
"Bird?" Martin repeated, speaking for the first time since they had entered the shop.
"Yes," Mrs Hubbard said, in a stricken tone. "They took every last one of our prized South American parrots - not a single one spared! And they have such finicky natures - if they are allowed to get too cold, or fed something they shouldn't, it could easily mean the death of them. I've been beside myself with worry all day!"
"How dreadful," Martin said, quietly. He seemed to have almost forgotten that he was there on the job; he suddenly came to himself and eyed Remi nervously. The senior reporter raised both eyebrows in askance, but otherwise allowed the boy's interruption. It certainly hadn't stopped Mrs Hubbard from continuing to talk volubly.
"Isn't it just, Mr Tintin?" she said, sniffing loudly as she blinked back tears. Remi hastily swallowed another smirk; it seemed as though 'Mr Tintin' had gotten his swift comeuppance for taking over his interview. Martin, however, didn't react. He was attentively listening to what Mrs Hubbard was saying, though his pen remained motionless.
"The one I'm most worried about is Alexandre," Mrs Hubbard went on, confidingly. "He's very sensitive - can't help but be, he's so smart. He's the pride of our collection, specially trained to repeat any voice he has heard. You can imagine what a drawcard it was with customers! All you had to do was say the command words 'ten-four', and he would 'record' whatever you said; he could remember it and repeat it, too, until he heard the same phrase again. I hold out little hope of getting such a fine fellow back. They'll have sold him to some collector now - or, I fear, some amateur bird-owner who won't treat him properly. Anyone would want him for a pet, he was very handsome - a beautiful red macaw. Look, there is one of his feathers, I recognize it from all the others. Such lovely, bright-coloured plumage!"
They looked down, noticing, for the first time, that the floor was littered with feathers. Martin bent, moving carefully so as not to disturb the multi-coloured carpet of down littered about their feet, and picked up a large, crimson feather.
At that moment, there was a thundering growl, making them all jump.
The terrible beast inside the crate by the door raised another resounding din. This one had its own percussion: beneath the furious barks, there was a series of loud thuds, and a harsh scraping sound, followed by an ominous rending of wood.
The side of the crate split open, and a white shape darted out, yapping menacingly as it dashed headlong towards them.
"Oh, no!" shrieked Mrs Hubbard, clutching at her head, causing even more wisps of hair to come out of their pins. "He's gotten loose! Come here, you bad dog! Catch him, please catch him!"
But they couldn't. As if he understood her words, the dog evaded their grasp even as they made their best efforts to grab hold of him. He weaved in and out of the store's shelves, circling back around them as he snapped and snarled at their ankles.
"Naughty dog!" Mrs Hubbard scolded him. She stretched out her arms and filled the narrow aisle he had dashed down, slowly backing him into a corner. Realizing he had nowhere to go, he sidled away from her, hackles raised.
"You disobedient little pet! Just wait until I get my hands on you-!"
She lunged for him; in the split-second gap before her hands closed on him, he flashed past her. Unable to stop herself, she faltered and pitched forward; only by slumping sideways did she just barely avoid ramming her head against the wall. One of the white mice lost its perch and sailed, squeaking frantically, in Remi's direction.
Feeling proud of himself, the dog scampered around the store, keeping well out of their reach. He sprung atop a large sack of kitty litter, eying them imperiously from this vantage point; he stood there, chest puffed out and tail erect, growling at them through his fluffy snout.
It was some kind of mid-sized terrier, covered in springy white fur, with two lop ears perked up attentively atop its head. It would have been cute, if it hadn't been grumbling menacingly at them from waist-height, glaring at them all in furious disdain.
"Dreadful little thing!" Mrs Hubbard gasped, righting herself and ineffectually smoothing down her hair. "He's an absolute menace! Once he gets loose-"
"Maybe I could try something," Martin said, keeping a wary distance away from the snarling dog as he reached into his coat pocket. He drew out a small paper packet, which he unwrapped to reveal a pile of saltine-crackers. Breaking one in half, he held out a piece to the dog. "Perhaps he'll accept a peace offering," he said hopefully, slowly approaching the dog with his treat outstretched.
The dog eyed him suspiciously, sniffing at the tidbit; it stretched out its neck full-length, hastily snatched it, and began to munch. It crunched up the biscuit, snuffled about for dropped fragments, then licked its chops, an almost gleeful expression upon its furry face. To the amazement of all present, its tail started to wag. It edged closer to Martin, sniffed at his hand, then began licking it insistently, demanding more of the same.
"There now, little fellow!" Martin laughed, feeding it another piece of biscuit. "It was just a matter of finding out what you liked!"
"Of course!" Mrs Hubbard said, clapping a hand to her forehead in self-reproach. "Why didn't I think of it before? I have some dog biscuits somewhere..."
She rummaged behind the counter, returning a few moments later with a handful of bone-shaped treats. The dog turned in her direction as she held one out, gave a delicate sniff, then returned to devouring Martin's snacks.
"Well, I never!" the woman exclaimed. "That dog has never gotten along with anyone - least of all me - yet he's taken a fast liking to you!"
"I think he just prefers my crackers," Martin replied, with a grin, as the dog, finishing a biscuit, proceeded to snuff at the sleeve of his coat, as if in the hope that more were hidden up there.
"And I think this little one would prefer to be with you, madam," Remi said, extending a hand; in it sat a little white mouse, blinking dazedly up at them all. It was soon reunited with the other riding on Mrs Hubbard's shoulder.
"Pardon me, sirs. I'm dreadfully sorry," Mrs Hubbard fluttered apologetically. She now looked even more over-wrought than she had before. "Those ruffians, they have turned the entire place upside down..." She heaved a great sigh, which sounded like it may have had a sob concealed within it.
Martin gave her a sympathetic look. "It must be very trying for you all," he said softly, patting the now-affectionate dog on the head. It tilted its head, offering its left ear for a good scratch.
"Yes." Mrs Hubbard sniffed loudly, but otherwise kept her composure. "This little tyke in particular is all out of sorts." She gestured at the dog, who was now investigating Martin's pockets with its nose, searching for more biscuits. "He was in a cage right by the door. It's a wonder he wasn't seriously injured, the car struck the enclosure hard enough to put a hole in it! That is why I had to put him in the crate, but he wasn't happy in there; you can see what he has done to it."
Indeed, the crate was now nothing more than wreckage; the plucky little dog had knocked one whole side right out of it.
"The break-in must have been a terrible shock to him," Mrs Hubbard went on, gazing at the dog with a doting expression, as if she had never cursed at it during their not-so-merry chase. "He growls at everyone who comes in, and until he ate those biscuits, he's been off his food. I thought that maybe he was sick."
"That's no good," Martin said, looking down at the dog, who was butting his head against the side of his coat. "He must have- hello, what's that?"
The dog kept nudging its head against him; every so often, it chewed loudly, though he had given it no more biscuits.
"A sign of stress, I suspect," Mrs Hubbard said, watching it anxiously.
"Perhaps," Martin said, frowning down at it. "But I thought I saw-"
He reached down, carefully, and seized the dog's head in his hand. It struggled for a moment, but he gripped it firmly by the scruff of its neck; it squirmed half-heartedly, then stood stiffly, its tail between its legs. With gentle fingers, Martin prodded directly at its jaws; the dog flinched, but he persisted, until he managed to dislodge something from the side of its snout.
He held it up to the light. It was a tiny scrap of fabric, mottled yellow and brown.
"This was wrapped around the poor chap's tooth," he said, showing it to the others. "No wonder he was so cranky, it must have ached terribly every time he went to eat!"
The dog certainly looked happier now; free from discomfort, it returned to its game of trying to poke its head into every one of Martin's pockets. He gave it another biscuit, which pleased it even more.
"My, my," Mrs Hubbard said, her voice filled with admiration. "You're very good with animals, Mr Tintin!"
Martin shrugged, looking characteristically modest. "My scout troupe used to volunteer at an animal shelter sometimes," he said. "I've had a bit of experience, that's all. And I like animals," he added, ruffling the dog's ears.
Remi looked at him in wonderment, while Mrs Hubbard's manner was by now close to adulation. "It certainly shows!" she declared. Then she added, with a beseeching look and a great deal of pleading in her voice: "I don't suppose you would like to take him off my hands for me? It would help me out a great deal if you could take care of him, for a little while at least."
"Me? Look after him?" Martin was astounded; he dropped the piece of biscuit he held on the floor, where the dog began to greedily lick up the pile of crumbs it had become. "Crumbs, I don't think I could-"
"It would take such a weight off my shoulders if you would," Mrs Hubbard said, in a coaxing tone; she looked incredibly tired again. "At least until I have a proper cage. I haven't any others that are big enough for him, and until I get a new one made, I have no other way to contain him. I often walk him around the neighbourhood, and he follows along next to me, calm as you please; he only acts like this because he thinks that everyone who comes into the store is another burglar. I'd take him home with me, but I've very little room, what with all the other animals I've had to move there. Besides, I keep several cats-"
At the word 'cats', the dog's ears pricked up, and it gave a low growl. Deeming it wise to still troubled waters before they became too rough, Martin hastily crammed another bit of biscuit in its mouth.
"Gosh, I'd love to," he said, looking wistfully at it; the dog was licking his hand again, as if it too was doing its best to convince him. "But I'm not sure if the building I live in allows us to keep pets..."
"Have you forgotten, lad?" Remi interrupted. He had been watching events unfold as a silent observer, a look of wry incredulousness upon his placid features; now he took charge of proceedings once again. "You are on the clock. If this little mutt can follow you around the newsroom without making a nuisance of himself, he could stay at our offices, for a time. We've had employees do it before, with special dispensation from Wallez; I'm sure we could make a similar arrangement again."
He reached down and gingerly petted the dog's head. It allowed it, sniffing curiously at his hand; then, evidently deciding that it should forge another alliance, it wagged its tail endearingly at him. "It's been a while since we've had a news-hound around the place," Remi added, smiling despite himself. It would be rather good to have one again.
Martin looked as if all his Christmases had come at once; his eyes lit up with boyish glee. "Oh, could we?" he asked, with rapturous longing. He looked at Remi as if he were Saint Nicholas himself; he would have to have had a heart of stone to refuse after that.
"It would be very good of you if you could, sirs," Mrs Hubbard said, with relief clearly evident in her voice. "Just until his new cage is ready, mind. But then, if you like him well enough, it would be good to give him a permanent home." She gave the dog a pitying look. "He's a rare sort - a fox terrier by breed, but somehow he's come out pure white all over, with none of the usual brown patches that fox terriers have. Some folks like to buy a pet that's a bit unusual; unfortunately, most customers we've had in want their fox terrier to look like a fox terrier."
The dog eyed her mournfully, as if he understood her words. It gave a derisive-sounding snort.
Martin laughed. "I have no such qualms myself," he said, stroking the pup's thick, fleecy fur. "What's he called?"
"He hasn't got a name, sir." Mrs Hubbard gave a resigned sort of shrug. "At least, I've never found one that he'll answer to."
"Well, that's just something that we'll have to work on." Martin scratched the dog under the chin, then lifted it from its perch and set it down on the floor. It lingered close by his ankle, seemingly eager to follow its new carer. It was hard to believe that it had been set upon their attack just a few short minutes ago.
Remi and Mrs Hubbard had a few details to finalize for the former's article. Martin, finally remembering his duties, hastily jotted down these points while they spoke. Every so often, he glanced down at the dog and grinned at it; it seemed to grin back, wagging its tail gently whenever it caught his eye.
With the interview concluded, Mrs Hubbard shook Remi's hand, then Martin's. "I can't thank you enough," she said, thoroughly wringing his whole arm, her eyes bright. "It is such a great help to me; and most of all, to him." She inclined her head towards the dog, which was industriously scratching its ear; it was half-leaning against Martin as it did so, sending jolts up his leg, as if it were he himself who had the itch. "Bring him straight back tomorrow if he's any trouble-"
"I'm sure he won't be," Martin assured her. "Will you, boy?"
The dog gazed back at him, and yapped once, in what seemed a positive-sounding way.
"Good," Martin replied, with a grin.
"Ready to go, you two?" Remi asked, opening the door; the bell tinkled again, but this time, the dog didn't issue a peep.
"Yes, sir. Good-bye, Mrs Hubbard. I promise to take good care of him. Come along- er, Dog."
In the absence of a name, he didn't know what else to call it; he was relieved to see that it readily followed him nevertheless, its fleecy tuft of a tail waving eagerly in the air.
With a final wave to Mrs Hubbard, the two reporters stepped out of the shop and started back up the street. The dog trotted jauntily along between them, looking very satisfied with its present company.
Author's note: Well, so enters Snowy! Though technically, he isn't Snowy yet; just as Martin has yet to properly become Tintin, Snowy hasn't been named , and it will take a few chapters before he is formally christened. In the meantime, I would like readers to suggest names that Martin can try on Snowy before settling on the inevitable choice. Write a review with your suggestion in it, I'll include as many as I can!
Sorry, in hindsight, I realize that the whole 'bird that records voices' trope is pulled straight out of 'The Broken Ear'. I must have been thinking of it subconsciously, and didn't even realize how directly I'd lifted it. This adventure, though, is quite different; for a start, it doesn't leave Brussels, so Martin and Remi are going nowhere near South America themselves. You'll just have to wait and see what kind of local mystery they end up unraveling!
If I may, I have a bit of shameless self-promotion to do. I've started a second Tintin story, a crossover with the Studio Ghibli film 'Kiki's Delivery Service'. If you like this story, please go check that one out as well!
Secondly, I'm a graphic designer, and in light of the earthquake crisis in Nepal, I drew a picture of Tintin and Snowy there, helping survivors. I am selling prints of the artwork, with the majority of funds raised going to Red Cross. You can purchase it by going to Etsy Dot Com and typing 'Tintin in Nepal' in the search box. Please spread the word, there was a second quake in Nepal today, they need all the aid they can get!