Fourteen

The small store was filled with second-hand clothing and smelt faintly of mothballs and mold. One-armed mannequins that had seen better days stood, draped in burqas and burnouses, while clothes-hangers with faded headscarves tied around their middles hung from nails. Everything was slightly shabby and had seen better days. The back of the shop was closed off from the front by way of an old, threadbare rug that had been strung over a long piece of rope. It sagged in the middle like the elastic in a pair of ancient underpants.

The owner of the shop was an elderly, wizened man with a pointed black beard. He wore a patched, blue burnous and a black skull-cap, and looked like something out of old movie, and when he spoke he did nothing to dispel the stereotype.

"I help you, sidi?" he said in a cracked, croaky voice.

"What did you do with the tin of crab?" Thompson asked, pointing at a small end-table that stood in front of the threadbare rug-curtain.

"Uh, I put it away, sidi," the man replied. He was starting to look at them as though they were insane. It was, Tintin reflected, the standard look people used when they were dealing with the Thompsons for the first time.

"Show us," Thomson said imperiously. They had the advantage of confusion. Usually, when presented with such a request, most people would politely tell the requester to go to hell, but the Thompsons were so confusing that it was hard to muster the cognitive ability necessary to deliver such a put-down. The elderly man shuffled behind his curtain, beckoning them to follow him into the living quarters. There was a small counter and a set of cupboards, along with a rickety old table and chairs. Against the far wall, under a shuttered window, was a single bed.

The man shuffled to the cupboards and opened one. Sitting on the top shelf was a distinctive can of crab.

"That's it!" Tintin exclaimed. "That was one of the tins from the Karaboudjan. I'm sure of it."

"Open that tin," Thomspon ordered. Still completely confused – and by now wondering if he was taking part in a television show about practical jokes – the elderly man took the tin, shuffled to a drawer set into the counter, retrieved a tin opener and opened the tin. He looked inside, shrugged, and held the tin out to the three strange men.

"That's crab," Thomson said.

"Yes, sidi, finest crab."

Thompson leaned forward and sniffed the contents of the crab experimentally. "Definitely crab," he said.

"Yes, sidi. It is crab," the old man repeated. He started looking around for the hidden cameras, and wondered which of his friends had set him up.

"It is crab," Tintin agreed, "but I saw the same tins on the Karaboudjan, and they contained heroin."

"Are you sure?" Thomson asked.

"I know heroin when I see it!" Tintin said. "I've been around it enough to recognise it straight away: you know that. When have I ever given you a bad lead?"

"That's true," Thompson said thoughtfully. "You do know your drugs."

"Where did you buy this tin?" Tintin asked the old man.

The old man had realised that it wasn't a practical joke, and that he wasn't going to end up of TV. He was miffed now: he hadn't planned on having crab for dinner today, but now the tin was open it would spoil if he didn't eat it. The sooner he got the crazy people out of his store the better. "From Muhammad Ben Ali, sidi," he said as he shooed them out of his living room and hustled them to the door. He led them out onto the pavement and pointed. "You see shop on corner? I buy from there. Now go: go! You asked him your questions!"

They hurried down to the shop on the corner. It was a small grocery store. Barrels of dried and fresh fruit and vegetables stood out among the crates of herbs and spices, and behind the long counter were shelves packed with canned goods, including three shelves of the distinctive tins of crab. But other than themselves, there didn't seem to be a single other person in the shop. They stood at the counter for a few minutes before the Thompsons became impatient. "Hmm. Nobody about?" Thomson said.

"To be precise, nobody is about," Thompson agreed. There was a doorway, hung with a brightly striped curtain, at the end of the counter. He pulled it back and disappeared from sight. "Hi! Anybody there?" This was followed by an almighty crash! and a yowl of fright and pain. Thomson tore after his colleague.

"Good lord!" he cried. "Something must have happened to hi" –

He didn't finish his sentence. He was cut off by another loud bang and a second shout of pain. Tintin carefully followed them, his hair standing up on the back of his neck. He cautiously pushed the hanging curtain aside, and saw a set of stairs leading down into a cellar almost immediately in front of him. "Are you alright?" he called down.

"Watch the step," Thomson snapped. Looking down, Tintin could see them sitting side by side, rubbing their heads. They had lost their hats in the fall.

"Anything broken?" he asked as they got to their feet and climbed back up the steps.

"No," Thompson said shortly. "All's well."

"Watch your head," Tintin warned. Seconds later, Thomson cracked his head off the opening and swore loudly.

"Er," said a voice. Tintin turned and saw a man in traditional dress peering around the curtain. "Can I help you?" the man asked.

"I'm so sorry," Tintin said with a pleasant smile as he helped Thomson through the opening. "I'm looking for the owner. Or the manager."

"I own this shop," the man replied. The nervous, worried look slipped from his face and was replaced by a beaming smile. "Welcome, welcome! What can I get for you today?"

"Where do you get your tins of crab?" Tintin asked as he followed Muhammad Ben Ali back out to the counter. "Who is your supplier?"

"Ah, it is Omar Ben Salaad, sidi," Muhammad replied. He took a tin down and handed it to Tintin. "Finest crab in all of Bagghar. Freshly caught, sidi."

"Where can I find Omar Ben Salaad?" Tintin asked. From the back room, he could hear the sound of Thompson not-minding-his-head and cracking it off the opening too. He ignored it: this was far more important than making sure the Thompsons didn't hurt themselves.

"You can't miss his house, sidi," Muhammad Ben Ali said with a shrug. "It is the palace outside of town, on the hill. He is the richest man in Bagghar." Tintin listened carefully as Muhammad Ben Ali gave him the directions, jotting them down carefully in his notebook. He thanked the man and waited for the Thompsons to fix their hats before leaving.

"I need you to make enquires about Omar Ben Salaad," he said. "But you must be discrete. I don't know yet what his part in this is, and I don't want to give him a heads-up. I need you to find out, specifically, if he has ever had any business with someone called Allan Thompson; the First Mate of the Karaboudjan."

"You can count on us," Thomson said. "We are the soul of discretion. Mum's the word, that's our motto."

"To be precise," Thompson agreed, "Dumb's the word."

He left them to it, though he wasn't really all that optimistic. As long as they didn't get too close to Omar Ben Salaad, or simply walk up to him and ask him if he was a drug smuggler, they would be fine. And they'd be occupied enough to let him do some real detective work, and find the Captain. First things first, he thought, I'm going to need a disguise…

x

Thompson and Thomson made their way to the hill outside of town. It really was quite beautiful here, with the winding city spread out below them and the wide expanse of the ocean to the south. The water was blue, and so clear that the small fishing boats looked as though they were floating above it. Ben Salaad's palace wasn't the only one here: there were a handful more spread out across the dusty plain of the hillside – but his was the most handsome. It was built of white stone and shone like a jewel.

It was surrounded by a high wall, and the front gate was guarded by two men who looked like they were part of a private security firm. They were certainly armed like a private army. The Thomspons approached the guards as they did anyone: with the certainty that everyone wanted to help the police with their enquiries. "Excuse me," Thomson called, "but I wonder if this is the home of Omar Ben Salaad?"

"Yes, sidi," one of the guards said. The two men looked the Thompsons up and down curiously. "Can I help you?"

"Yes. We would like to speak with Mr Salaad."

"I'm afraid that's not possible," the guard replied. "He has gone to mosque. He goes every day at this time: my master is a devout man and lives by Allah's laws."

"Ah-ha! A religious man! Good, good."

"You must have just passed him," the other guard added. "He was on his horse. He will have reached the town by now though."

They did remember seeing a portly, moon-faced man sitting on a high-stepping horse. They only really noticed it because of the look of annoyance on the horse's expressive face and the fact that there had been a man with a big stick walking in front of the horse, clearing the way.

"I say, Thompson," Thomson said as they walked briskly back towards the town, "I thought that charity was one of the five pillars of Islam."

"Why, it is, my dear friend. It is. What makes you ask?"

"Well, it wasn't very charitable of Mr Salaad to tell his servant to beat that old fellow who stepped out in front of him, was it?"

"No, it wasn't, but you must remember: religious men are usually bastards."

x

They found the mosque soon enough, and were kicked out even sooner: Islam was against shoes, apparently.

x

In one of the narrow, winding streets on the eastern side of the city, a young blind man sat cross-legged against a wall, his white stick across his knees. The hood of his burnous was pulled up until it almost covered his face. The only thing visible was the glint of his dark glasses. Allan Thompson didn't see the blind man. He was too busy to take notice of his surroundings. He'd just received a phone call telling him that somehow that drunken idiot Haddock had managed to catch up to them and was here, in Bagghar. There was no way – no way – that Haddock was smart enough or brave enough to come after them. That meant only one thing: Tintin had followed them and was on their trail.

Allan had done a little reading since they'd arrived in Bagghar. Oh yes: he'd found an internet café and read up on Tintin, and from what he'd read Tintin was Bad News; capital 'B', capital 'N'. If they wanted to stay out of jail – and Allan really wanted to stay out of jail – they would have to find Tintin quickly and kill him. All they had to do was get the Captain to tell them where Tintin was hiding. Then they could grab the kid and bring him back to the Karabou – sorry, sorry: the Djebel Amilah – and kill him there. It would be easier to clean up, and they could just toss his dead ass overboard in international wa-argh!

His foot snagged against something and he pitched forward. He landed, stretched out on the pavement with grit stinging his cheek and his skinned hands. Oblivious, he didn't see the blind man slip away quickly, or the small white dog that ran after the mysterious figure. When he looked around, there was nothing: the alleyway was clear. Bloody paving stones, he thought to himself. This place is such a dump. Christ, I can't wait to get back to Europe, where there's actual roads and proper sidewalks. Fuck it: I'm here anyway.

He picked himself up and, ignoring the small welts of blood that pricked up from the palms of his hands, limped into the waiting house.

x

Unbeknownst to Allan, Tintin peeked around the corner and took note of the house the sailor had entered. He was torn: this was the same place that he'd lost Allan the last time, so that house probably was the headquarters for the Bagghar side of the operation. That meant that the Captain was probably in there somewhere. On the other hand, if he went in now Allan might recognise him and the game would be up. He didn't for one second think that Allan would simply shake his hand and give himself up to the police.

He took a deep breath and adjusted his burnous so that his face was hidden in the shadow of the cowl. He only had one chance to pull this off. He would make a brief foray in to spy out the lay of the land. The sooner he knew what he was facing – and how many men he was facing – the better.

Sweeping his white stick back and forth, he wandered towards the house. He looked around casually, but the street was clear. Cautiously, he opened the door and followed Allan inside.

It opened up into what appeared to be a huge kitchen. Great barrels of dates and spices stood stacked around the room. At the far end of the room, a man was leaning over a counter, preparing what appeared to be a large joint of beef. The man looked up and eyed the blind beggar irritably. "What do you want?" he snapped.

"Alms," Tintin said, his voice weak. "Alms, for the love of the Prophet. Allah will reward you."

"Piss off, you verminous little sod! Filthy beggars. Go and get a proper job!"

x

Snowy wandered into the building after Tintin. The was something in here that smelt nice. No, it smelt great. Once again, Nose had done him proud. And there it was. Sitting on the counter. A heavenly light surrounded it and flights of angels beckoned him to it. It wasn't chicken, but it would do.

Tintin was saying something. A tall man said something else. The tall man was angry, but he also had the nice thing. Tintin left. For a second, Snowy was torn between following his master or eating the nice thing, but in the end he decided to have a punt on the food. After all, Nose was on a roll: it could find Tintin later. The tall man hadn't seen him. Snowy waited some more, licking his lips as the tantalising smell teased him. The tall man turned away. He was still muttering something under his breath.

Snowy struck.

x

What a polite man, Tintin thought as he turned around and cleared out. Well, there was only one man on guard, it seemed, but as long as he was there Tintin couldn't do anything. Unless, of course, he stormed the room and took the man by surprise. But what were the chances of that working out? More likely, there were more men hidden somewhere about the building, and as soon as their fellow shouted for help they'd pour out and the game would be up. No, he had to think carefully about this. Any misstep now could be life-threatening for the Captain, and Tintin certainly didn't want –

"You little runt! Get back here!"

Tintin jumped at the shout and got ready to run in case it was directed at him, but when he turned around Snowy was hurtling along the street, his legs pumping furiously and his head held high, with the joint of beef in his mouth. Good for you, Snowy! Tintin thought. He was actually quite impressed by the dog: it was a very large joint for such a small creature to steal, but Snowy was nothing if not tenacious.

He watched as the guard tore after the dog, waving a big stick. He wasn't worried about Snowy getting caught: when it came to stealing food Snowy was never caught. Tintin recalled one memorable occasion where Snowy had stolen a full roast chicken from the dining cart of a train, and another time when he'd eaten his way into a box of Markies. He'd been crapping for days after that last one.

Well, the way was clear! It was now or never. He quickly ducked back into the building and set about searching for the Captain.

The first set of stairs led to a long room with a couple of mattresses spread along the floor. At the end of it was a small bathroom with a filthy shower and toilet that was overflowing with brown water. Wrinkling his nose, Tintin hurried back downstairs. There had to be something else: Allan didn't disappear into thin air and Tintin doubted the toilet led to the Ministry of Magic. The only other option was the stairs down to the cellar.

Suddenly, he heard a familiar voice: the man who had shooed him from the room was returning, and he was grumbling to someone else. "A whole joint," he was saying. "Vile beast. If I catch it I'll kill it."

His companion laughed. "You take things too seriously! Let the dog go: he bested you, that's all. Is sidi Allan here yet?"

Tintin looked around, but there was no hiding place and the men were almost outside the door. With no other option, he hurried down to the cellar in the nick of time.

"Yes, he's just arrived, Abd El Drachm. You will find him downstairs."

Downstairs? Tintin thought. Crap! He looked around. There were huge barrels down here, lying on their sides and already tapped, but he couldn't see any decent hiding place and God knew what they'd do to him if he was caught down here. In desperation, he stuffed himself into the small gap between the closest barrel and the wall and hoped to God that nobody saw him.