Obligatory disclaimer: Tintin and Co do not belong to me. They belong to Moulinsart, and if they catch us they'll make us pay so everyone keep calm and remember to turn the lights off before reading this story.

Two

Coincidence is God's way of remaining anonymous - Albert Einstein

Three hours until his train left. That wasn't so bad, Tintin reflected. His trip to Nieuwpoort had been a bust so far, chasing leads that had stagnated during his time in Syldavia, but at least now he had some time to do a bit of shopping. He could even go down to the harbour if he wanted to, and watch the ships. He loved docks and harbours of all sorts: when he was younger he'd harboured romantic notions of running away to sea, but they'd been scuppered. Now, whenever he had the chance, he would go to harbours to watch the ships, or just to people-watch. The sailors and the dock workers were so interesting to him, especially the sailors: they had the best stories and he enjoyed listening to them.

He strolled along a wide street, enjoying the feel of a new city – he loved to travel, even if it was just to another part of Belgium – and Nieuwpoort had proven to be a beautiful city. Its cobblestones and old-world buildings gave it the look of an illustration from the lid of a box of Christmas cookies. It had performed the marvellous trick of being a large, prosperous city while retaining the charming air of a fishing village.

It was like something out of an Enid Blyton novel. If he tried hard enough, he could almost imagine the Famous Five sprinting around the corner, hot on the heels of some smuggler or other.

The buildings on either side of the road were old dock-workers' houses: small, cosy townhouses; two up, two down with a front door that opened straight onto the street. It must have been bin day, he realised, because the very edge of the pavement was cluttered with various bins. Beside most sat small, grey plastic boxes filled with recyclable waste: part of the EU's concentrated efforts to make every country in the Union ecologically aware and Belgium, for obvious reasons, was attempting to lead the way.

Caught in his own thoughts, Tintin paid little head to his companion: his small, white Wire-Fox terrier, Snowy. Lost in the unfamiliar smells of a new place, Snowy paid little heed to his owner. He was, in his own estimation, a rather independent dog. Well, as long as Tintin was nearby he was independent, anyway. Nose pressed firmly to the pavement, he snuffled along, body firmly following his olfactory senses as he wandered hither and thither, allowing a gap to open itself up between man and dog as Tintin continued on at a steadier pace.

Known fact? Cats love fish.

Lesser known fact? Dogs love fish too.

For Snowy, it had started innocently enough with tuna fish: Tintin was in the habit of being generous with his sandwiches and Snowy wasn't about to protest that (sometimes, they were chicken sandwiches. This was called a Good Thing, and pleased Snowy greatly). Tuna had become a firm favourite with both man and dog, and noting his dog's fondness for fish Tintin had made the mistake of giving Snowy a tin of salmon once, when he'd run out of dog food and the shop was already shut. Since then, Snowy had turned up his petite, black nose at the lesser tuna, and only accepted salmon or better. But now… Oooooh, now!

That tantalising smell! That fresh, oily, fishy smell! The aroma of rich meat and salt! Ambrosia! He must have it! All thoughts ceased to think and he became driven by scent alone. He sniffed the air, his fine nose attuned to the powerful whiff and deduced at once that it came from one of the grey recycling boxes set alongside the dustbins. Heedless of any danger, he plunged his head into the box and managed to find the thing that smelled so tasty. Digging in further, all light was lost from view. Spooked by the sudden dark and the strange, pinching tightness around his precious nose – favourite of all his limbs – he pulled back and found that the Dark came with him.

x

Disturbed from his reverie by an disconsolate yowling, Tintin stopped and looked around for Snowy. The dog was staggering drunkenly, attempting to follow Tintin while at the same time trying to dislodge an old can that was caught over his nose.

"How on earth did you manage that?" Tintin hurried back and grabbed the dog, pulling the can free. "Will you stop digging through crap, please! I swear, I should change your name to Oscar the Grouch, you spend so much time in bins!" He tossed the can, an old crab tin, the label half torn away, back into the recycling box and hooshed Snowy away with his foot. "No, Snowy, enough! Or I'll put you on a lead!"

Snowy settled down at once: he knew what the word 'lead' meant, just as he knew the words 'dinner', 'chicken' and 'walkies'. But unlike the other three, 'lead' was a Bad Word. Any time Tintin said 'lead', he would produce the long stringy thing, and it meant that Snowy was going to the Vet. The Vet was another Bad Word. Snowy didn't like the Vet: he was violently opposed to people that pushed things up his bottom. Eager to avoid such a thing, he stuck close to Tintin's heel like a Good Dog.

Still heading towards the harbour, Tintin passed a small pub without really seeing it.

"Tintin!" a voice hailed him. He turned to see Thompson, one half of Interpol's curious double-act the Thompsons (almost identical, but otherwise no relation to one another) leaning through the door of the Olympia Bar and waving at him. His almost-completely identical partner, Thomson, was sat at the window looking out and also waving.

Well, there were worse ways of spending a few spare hours than in a pub with them, that was for sure: they were serious men with a comical air and a surprising propensity for accidents. For some reason, they had taken a liking to Tintin and sometimes fed him information. Granted, they benefited from including him in their investigations – they got the criminals at the end – but so did he, in the form of exclusive stories and interviews. It was an arrangement that worked well for both parties.

He happily crossed the road and joined them inside the pub.

"Have a drink?" Thomson offered, already gesturing to the waiter.

"Half a pint," Tintin replied as he shook off his jacket and sat down. The waiter nodded and disappeared into the general throng, which seemed to be mainly made up of professionals tucking in to carvery lunches.

"How are you?" Thomson asked, slapping Tintin on the back so hard that it stung, even through the thick, blue hoodie Tintin wore.

"Haven't seen you since Syldavia," Thompson added. He too slapped Tintin on the back, managing to get him in precisely the same spot as Thomson.

Slightly annoyed, Tintin waited until they had both raised their pints for a sip. "Good to see you both!" he declared, slapping them into the froth. Revenge duly taken, he settled back for a chat. Snowy sat close to his master's feet: tables usually meant food and chicken was food. At any moment now a chicken could materialise, and Snowy didn't want to miss it.

"So what's up?" Tintin asked. It never hurt to dig a little with the Thompsons. "What brings you two here? It's hardly crime-central."

Thomson leaned in. "Forged bank notes," he said. Both Thompsons tapped their noses.

"Oh, yes, I heard about that." It had been on the news over the last couple of days: an explosion in forged euros all over Belgium and other parts of the Euro Zone.

"With the housing markets crashing, people are getting desperate," Thomson said. "There's less money being earned, so some smart-arse usually turns to forging."

"Not just euros, either," Thompson added. "We traced a load of Sterling bank notes to Nieuwpoort too: analysis shows that the paper used in both the pounds and the euros are the same, and are only shipped by one company to Nieuwpoort."

"Huh." Tintin was thoughtful for a moment. "How easy is it to spot the fakes?"

"Remarkably," said Thomson.

"If you have a good eye," added Thompson.

"But because of the boom, the shop keepers are in the habit of only checking larger notes, like the €50's and €100's."

"And all the notes we've found so far have been in smaller denominations: €5's, €10's and €20's. If they only ran their infrared lights over them, they'd see the difference at once."

The waiter reappeared and placed a half a pint of beer in front of Tintin. "€3.20, sir."

"I'll get this," Thompson said generously, handing over a €5 note. The waiter held it up to the light, checking the watermarks.

"Is that necessary?" Thomson asked, affronted on his partner's behalf.

"Sorry sir," the waiter said, "but it's a fake."

"What!" Thompson snatched the note back and examined it. "Bloody hell! It's a dud!"

"Just goes to show you," Tintin said as he paid for his drink, "how easy it is to make a mistake."

"Look at the silver-strip," Thomson said, peering at the note over Thompson's shoulder. "That's different from the others."

"A new batch?" Thompson mused. "Tintin, we shall have to love you and leave you, as the saying goes. We're going back to our temporary office to examine this more closely."

Tintin checked his watch: still two hours till his train left. "Mind if I come with you?"

"No, I don't see why not. Drink up and come on."

x

The Thompsons' temporary headquarters was at the back of the local municipal buildings, in a smart prefab that over-looked the winding, affluent neighbourhood near the beach. The office itself was untidy, the desk overflowing with paperwork, reports, all sorts of files, and the general disarray that usually accumulated on unsuspecting flat surfaces.

Magazines and reference books sat side by side, vying for space with interview transcripts and shipping manifestos, and the In-Tray contained very little in the line of 'in'. Instead, it held an old key, some crispy, twice-dried, faded euro notes, a half a packet of cigarettes and a vaguely familiar scrap of paper.

"Hey, where did you get this?" Tintin asked curiously. He picked up the scrap of paper, which was the torn label of a crab can. It was yellow with half a red crab on it.

Thomson and Thompson, who were adding to the mess by rummaging furiously through the debris, gave the label a cursory glance. "That?" Thomson said. "They took a body out of the water this morning. Everything there was found inside his pockets. They bumped it over to us because, if you look closely, all those notes are fake. Interesting, isn't it?"

"Yeah, really interesting," Tintin lied absently. There's no way this could come from the same can… Could it? "I'll be back in a second," he added, before sprinting out of the room.

The Thompsons looked at each other. They knew from experience that whenever something like this happened, Tintin was about to solve their case for them. They also knew that the best way to deal with it was to hang on tightly for the duration of the ride and take all the professional glory at the end.

They caught up to him on a residential street. When he heard their shouts he finally slowed down and they managed to catch him up.

"What's bitten you?" Thompson demanded.

"Just a hunch," Tintin replied. "This paper" – he opened his fist and showed them the yellow and red label – "came off a particular can. I'm almost sure of it. In fact, I'm almost sure I was holding that same can in my hands right before I met you two."

"So?" Thomson asked, confused.

"So! So I don't like coincidences. They happen to often to be coincidental. But don't worry: it won't take up much more of your time. I threw it in a bin up ahead. There: where that old man is standing."

Ahead of them, a rather flea-bitten old man carrying a burlap sack was bent over the recycling box. Whether he was an eco-warrior ensuring that everything was properly recycled, or an old tramp, was anyone's guess.

"Sorry!" Tintin said cheerily. "I think I threw something away by mistake." Ignoring the man, he dropped to his knees and started digging through the box. After about a minute and a half he sat back and looked up at the Thompsons. "Gone," he said, disappointed. "I know I tossed it back in there."

Thompson rolled his eyes and turned to the old man. "I can't believe I'm doing this, but would you mind opening your bag, sir? My friend here has lost his empty tin of crab. Or his mind. We're not sure yet."

Bewildered, the man offered his sack to Tintin, who quickly went through the old garbage it contained. "Nope," he said with a sigh, "not here either."

"I'm sure it wasn't important," Thomson said consolingly.

"To be precise, just a coincidence," Thompson agreed as they walked away from the old man. Behind them, the tramp was joined by a well-dressed Asian man who watched the three closely.

"What was that about?" Bunji asked.

"I have no idea," the old man replied. "They were looking for an empty tin of crab. Of course, you know what that means, don't you?"

"No," said Bunji thoughtfully. The younger of the three… Isn't that Tintin, the reporter? How very interesting.

"It means that our supreme over-lords, the Crab People, are coming. They are raising Leviathan, mark my words!" He took a small skull-cap made of silver foil out of his pocket, and put it on under his regular hat. "Can't be too careful," he added as he heaved his sack onto his back, "they might be listening."

"Maybe they are," Bunji agreed quietly, watching as Tintin and the Thompsons turned the corner. "Maybe they are indeed."

Author's Note: Updates should be once a week or thereabouts. I hope you enjoy it!