Four

Tintin waved his camera vaguely at Thomson and Thompson. "I'll meet you back here in about half an hour, yes?" They were standing on the deck, just in front of the gangplank.

"Sounds fine," Thomson agreed. Tintin walked away as Allan approached. Now, the First Mate was full of smiles and welcomes as he held his hand out.

"Allan Thomson," he said genially. "First Mate of the Karaboudjan. How d'you do?"

"Thompson!" said Thompson, pleased. "Snap! And this is my colleague, Thomson without a 'p'."

"Pleased to meet you," Thomson said, shaking Allan's hand. "Is that an American accent?"

"It is," Allan agreed as he led them down to his cabin. "Iowa, born and bred."

"Just like John Wayne! You even sound a little like him."

Allan beamed at the comparison: people could say what they liked about The Duke, but he was still Allan's hero. "Watch the step," he said, as he showed them in. "We can talk in private here."

Looking down, Thompson watched the step but missed the low door, and bashed his head.

"And watch the door: it's a bit low…"

Thomson looked up in time to bash his head, too.

"Have a drink, gentlemen?" Allan asked innocently as he joined them. "Y'know, I have such respect for the police force…"

x

Up on deck, Tintin wandered around taking pictures. Cameras were a great way to distract people. Show them your press credentials and they usually became suspicious or hostile – especially if they had something to hide – but show them a camera and they became all smiles. There was something about a photographer that was less threatening than a reporter, even though a picture could capture hidden things, and describe a scene better than words could.

He took a few shots – interesting perception points of the ship and the sea, and a few of the bustling activity around the loading bay and the hold – and nobody challenged him. Most of the sailors were over by the cargo hold, working to load the ship up before it set sail again. As Tintin moved further and further away from the hold, the less people he encountered, until he seemed to be quite alone. His snooping was getting him nowhere though: he couldn't see anything out of place or out of the ordinary. His instincts told him that there was something here, but he didn't have enough knowledge or facts before him to make an accurate guess as to what was really going on.

Tom watched as Tintin strolled by, camera held loosely over one shoulder now. He was completely alone – even the dog was gone. Tom hefted the wooden baseball bat and struck, smacking Tintin hard in the back of the head. He didn't think it was hard enough to kill the lad, but if it did… Oh well! They were sailing in about an hour and the sea keeps those she takes…

x

"Simply put, gentlemen: Herbert was a terrible drunk," Allan said regretfully. "He always had a love of the bottle, but since his granddaughter's death he'd gotten worse. To be honest, I'm not all that surprised at how it happened: the number of close-calls we had with him on board the ship - while out at sea - would make your mind boggle."

Thomson and Thompson puffed their cigars and absently toasted the First Mate. "So you met him in town," Thomson said, "on the night he died?"

"Yep. He was as drunk as a lord."

"And he was drunk as a lord. He must have met his end getting back on board here, then."

"Seems the most likely scenario," Allan agreed sadly.

"Plain as a pikestaff."

"To be precise: as pike as a plainstaff," Thompson added.

The cabin door opened and Tom stuck his head in. "Sorry to interrupt," he said cheerfully, "but that's done, Mate."

"Good," said Allan, getting up. "I'll come and have a look over it now. Gentlemen?" he added, glancing back at Thompson and Thomson. They took the hint and shook his hand again.

"Thank you for your help," Thomson said.

"I'm delighted to have been some use," Allan replied, with a polite nod. "Watch your step. And your heads. Yes, that door is very low, isn't it? Nothing broken, I hope? Good. Watch now: the deck is quite slippery there… Whoops! Here, let me help you up. Now, mind that rope – Never mind. Tom, can you give him your arm? Good. Here we are. Have a safe journey home, detectives. Watch your step! Jesus," he muttered to Tom, "these guys are freaking clumsy!"

"Oh, hey!" Tom called after Thompson and Thomson, as soon as they had finished falling down the gangplank. "The photographer guy said he'll meet you down at Long John's, the pub just opposite the harbour master's office. He left here about fifteen minutes ago."

"Fine," Thomson called back as he helped Thompson up. "I'd actually forgotten about Tintin…"

"Raise the gangplank," Allan whispered to Tom. "We cast off now. Let's get the hell out of here."

x

Snowy was having a great time. He was surrounded by new, great smells and people willing to pet him. He'd sat up, begged, rolled over and played dead a few times and got rewarded with half a sandwich. He'd peed on countless things, clearly marking the big-iron-fish-smelly-thing as his own, but now he was lonely. The tall human-men were busy now, and he'd been shoo-ed twice already. It was time to find his Primary Care Giver and see if there was any Pedigree Chum to be had: Belly-Clock said it was dinner time, and Belly-Clock never lied.

Nose to the ground, he followed his old, faithful friend – Smell – until he found Tintin.

x

Dazed and in pain, and barely aware of what was going on, Tintin had allowed himself to be tied tightly to a set of horizontal pipes. Now that he was fully awake he was determined to get free. He tested the rope at his wrists, which bound his hands behind his back and secured them to one of the pipes, which ran the whole length of the room and disappeared into the wall at the other end, but there was no give in them. His ankles were also tied together and lashed to a second pipe, and his head was killing him.

"Scumbag," he muttered as he tried to struggle free. "Knocking out folk and tying them up… Anyone would think this was a sex-cruise for sadists!"

He stilled when he heard footsteps outside the door. Something clanged and creaked and the door swung open to reveal a man in a trench coat, who Tintin thought he recognised as the First Mate, Mr Whats-his-name.. He was also accompanied by the man that had attacked Tintin.

"Well, well!" Allan said with a grin. "The famous reporter, Tintin!"

"I hear stories about the things sailors get up to at sea," Tintin said, "and you're not doing anything to dispel those myths. Care to untie me?"

"Oh, I don't know," Allan said thoughtfully. "A little bit of rope can go a long way, and there's a certain charm to your helplessness."

"Are you going to keep me here long?" Tintin demanded. "This has gone beyond a joke."

Allan tutted and shook his head. "Dear me!" he said. "I don't know how long I'll keep you here. It depends."

"On what? You could at least tell me why you're doing this to me!"

"Ha! You know why, don't you. Don't come the innocent with me, my lad. Although I admit, it does suit you…" He winked at Tintin and nudged Tom, and they both laughed heartily. Tintin bit his tongue and let them leave: he'd get no useful answers from either of them.

x

Smell led Snowy to the back of the ship. Then, strangely, the familiar Tintin-scent disappeared and was replaced by a strange-man-scent. Bemused, Snowy snuffled around as he tried to make sense of the information at hand. Or rather: the information at nose.

Tintin was here, definitely here, but Smell said that Tintin hadn't gone anywhere else. Smell said that Tintin should still be here, but Eyes showed that Tintin wasn't here. It was very confusing, so he ignored that problem and concentrated on another: where Tintin-scent left off, strange-man-scent started, so Snowy followed that scent. As he snuffled along, Smell kicked in to over-drive and told the little dog he was on the right trail: every so often, he could pick up fainter traces of Tintin-scent.

Tintin had come this way. But he hadn't walked.

Tintin-scent grew stronger and stronger until Smell led Snowy into a room-thing, where the Tintin-scent and the strange-man-scent were very strong. Snowy looked up. There was Tintin! Hurray! Tail was happy now, and wagged to show its appreciation, but the two tall human-men that were with Tintin smelled wrong: like rotting meat and ashes.

Eyes saw that Tintin was sitting down, and looked angry, like the time Snowy had peed on the paper-thing, and Smell could smell fear coming from him…

Oh dear. Best to hide, then, and wait for the two tall human-men to leave. He ducked behind a crate and waited until Ears told him they were gone, and went straight to Tintin.

"Snowy blah-blah-blah!" Tintin exclaimed. Snowy pricked up his ears and jumped at his master happily, trying to lick his face. "Blah-blah-blah-blah Good Boy!"

Hmm. Something was wrong: Snowy could sense it at once: he wasn't being petted or scratched. Usually, when Tintin was happy to see him he petted Snowy, but now it wasn't happening and, by the tail of Doggy God, Snowy would know the reason why. He made his way around Tintin, snuffling and examining him carefully.

There! Right there! Look! Look at the things! There's things there!

Snowy eyed the things on Tintin's wrists. They looked like the dreaded Lead: thin and long and horrible. He'd have to chew his way through that…

x

Snowy set to work on the ropes, growling playfully as he tugged and chewed at his master's bonds. Tintin swallowed his fear, guessing it was too late for escape: he could hear a distant, repetitive chugging noise that was growing louder with every second, and as it grew vibrations accompanied it. It was, he thought, the engine. A loud bullhorn blasted loudly as the chugging grew to fever pitch, and as he finally pulled his hands free he listed slightly as the ship finally sailed out of Nieuwpoort harbour.

He had two choices: he could run, panicking, to the deck and hope that they weren't too far from the shore for him to swim to, or he could stay calm and avoid detection, and find another way off the ship later.

He quickly untied his ankles and tried the door, but it wouldn't open from the inside. "There goes that idea," he said to Snowy. Snowy cocked his head and pretended to listen, all the while wondering where his dinner was. "I suppose there's no point sitting here, waiting to rot. I'm just going to have to find another way out of here."

x

Up in the comms-room, Allan reclined in his chair, a cigar clamped between his lips like The Duke. Tom sat at the radio, waiting for a message from their boss. When it came, it came in a series of clicks and whirrs that could only be deciphered by a chosen few.

"Got it," Tom said, pulling the headphones off.

"What does it say?" Allan asked.

"Send T. to the bottom," Tom read out. "What a shame! I just sent Pedro down there with some food for him too."

"Good. It's fitting that he gets a final meal," Allan said morbidly.

"It's a shame to waste him. We know places that'll pay good money for a kid that looks like him," Tom said, his voice neutral. What they were talking about was hush-hush, even for them: the continuing slave trade that had adapted with the changing times.

Allan looked as though he was considering the idea, but eventually shook his head. "Ain't worth it," he said at last. "And it ain't worth pissing the boss off to have a little fun first, either. Just kill him and be done with it."

"Whatever you say, Mate," Tom said with a little sigh. He'd seen an e-mail from his wife a while ago: those faux-marble counters cost a bloody fortune. "I'll go get a length of rope and some lead: that'll sort him out."

"Let me know when it's done." Allan yawned widely, and the conversation was over.

Author's Notes:

1) Allan was originally Allan Thompson. However, his surname name was dropped in the English-language versions to avoid confusing readers with the English Thompson and Thomson, who were called Dupond and Dupont in the French versions.

2) Allan has the Iowa/Midwestern accent in the Elipse/Nelvana Tintin series. However, my father was a huge fan of John Wayne and when I first started reading Tintin, the year before the Elipse/Nelvana television show (Oh god! I'm old!) first aired, I always imagined him to have a John Wayne accent. I'm not sure why, but it just seemed to fit. Therefore, to me, Allan will always be a Midwestern American.

3) Writing from Snowy's perspective is fun. I'd love to know what dogs are thinking about when they do stuff.

4) Note about Allan and Tom's conversation about the slave trade: it still exists and it's just as horrible as it ever was. I urge everyone to get informed and campaign to end the on-going slave trade.