The Adventures of Tintin Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Copyright

  About the Book

  Three brothers joined.

  Three Unicorns in company,

  sailing in the noonday sun will speak.

  For ’tis from the light that light will dawn,

  and then shine forth the Eagle’s Cross.

  After buying a model of the Unicorn, young reporter Tintin discovers a secret message hidden inside the mast of the ship. But what does it mean? Who are the three brothers, and why does it mention three Unicorns when there was only one vessel with that name? The clues start to pile up as Tintin and his faithful dog, Snowy, find themselves sailing, flying and riding camels around the globe on an epic adventure!

  Hot on the trail of the story, Tintin meets the hearty seadog Captain Haddock. The captain’s ancestor Sir Francis Haddock sailed the Unicorn and fought valiantly against the nasty pirate Red Peckham. Did Sir Francis leave behind these clues? Is the secret of the Unicorn the location of Haddock’s treasure?

  Tintin, Snowy and Captain Haddock aren’t the only ones seeking the truth – there are enemies and great danger at every turn. Can the adventurers solve the mystery before the secret lands in the wrong hands?

  A novel by

  ALEX IRVINE

  Based on the screenplay by

  STEVEN MOFFAT AND

  EDGAR WRIGHT & JOE CORNISH

  Based on The Adventures of Tintin series by

  HERGÉ

  TINTIN WAS GETTING his picture painted in the Old Street Market with his dog, Snowy, lying at his feet. Around them swirled the typical activity of the market on a bright sunny day. People sold everything from fruit to art to T-shirts for tourists. The cobblestones of the town square were bustling with families out enjoying the pleasant weather—unusual for Europe at this time of year.

  Members of a brass band wearing red jackets were playing some kind of oompah number on a gazebo bandstand near a small Ferris wheel full of giggling children. Tintin bobbed his head to the rhythm of the music and then stopped when he remembered that he was posing for a picture.

  “Very nearly there,” the artist said. “I have to say, your face is familiar. Have I drawn you before?”

  “Occasionally,” Tintin said. His boyish face had a smattering of freckles, and his reddish-blond hair flipped up at the front in an irrepressible quiff.

  “Of course, I’ve seen you in the newspapers. You’re a reporter?”

  Snowy whined at Tintin’s feet. The wire fox terrier’s stub of a tail twitched, and he sat up to scratch behind one of his ears. Snowy’s name came from his white wiry coat. He was very smart. Sometimes Tintin thought Snowy was as smart as most people he knew. Snowy was still a terrier, though: curious, headstrong, and easily bored. It was hard to keep him sitting down long enough for Tintin to do something like get a picture painted.

  “I’m a journalist,” Tintin corrected him. Reporters ran around yelling for quotes. Journalists hunted down stories and unraveled clues to uncover the truth. Tintin thought this was an important distinction. “Be patient, Snowy. Not much longer.”

  Snowy looked up at Tintin, wanting to see the part of the market where the food vendors gathered. There were always fine snacks to be had there. He looked around at the people, seeing mostly feet and legs and swinging bags full of market goods. Then he saw something interesting: A man was moving smoothly through the crowd, picking the pockets of the market patrons as he went. A crime! Snowy thought. He trotted after the pickpocket, watching as the man relieved another distracted pedestrian of his wallet.

  Tintin did not notice that Snowy had left. He was concentrating too hard on sitting still, posing for his picture.

  “There,” the artist said at last. “I believe I’ve captured something of your likeness.”

  He showed Tintin the picture, and Tintin admired it. The artist had done a good job, he thought. Tintin looked at himself on the paper and saw his hair with the flip at the front that no amount of combing or wetting could flatten. He was wearing his tan spring overcoat over a blue sweater and a white shirt. In the picture he was looking off to the side as if he had just seen something very interesting. He looked like he was about to go off in search of mystery and adventure.

  He liked it. “Not bad,” he said. “Snowy, what do you think?”

  Tintin looked down. Snowy was nowhere to be seen.

  “Snowy . . .?” He looked around, wondering where his adventurous little dog had run off to. The artist cleared his throat, and Tintin handed him money for the portrait. Then he strolled through the market, keeping an eye out for Snowy, the portrait rolled up and stuck in his pocket.

  He did not see that others were keeping an eye on him from a bench not far from the bandstand. Through two newspapers, each with two holes cut out of the page, two pairs of eyes tracked Tintin’s progress.

  Tintin heard Snowy bark from somewhere in the crowd. He stopped and called out, “Snowy!”

  A stall full of mirrors for sale reflected his image in a most confusing way. He saw himself from a dozen different angles, with a dozen different backgrounds. For a moment he looked around, puzzling over which reflection to look at. Then he got his bearings. “Snowy!” he called again, turning away from the mirrors and passing a stall where an array of antiques were on display.

  The salesman was one of the market’s fixtures, a pipe-smoking older gentleman by the name of Crabtree. Most of what he had spread out in the stall was cheap junk, labeled as antiques to fool tourists. But placed in the center of the display, as if Crabtree had known it was better than the rest of his wares, was a magnificent model of a sailing ship. Snowy appeared from the crowd as Tintin bent down to get a better look at the model.

  “Snowy,” he said, “look at this!”

  Snowy plopped down next to Tintin and tilted his head to consider the ship.

  “Triple-masted, double decks, fifty guns,” Tintin said. “Isn’t she a beauty?”

  Snowy thumped his stubby tail on the ground.

  “That’s a very unique specimen, that is,” Crabtree said. “From an old sea captain’s estate.”

  Tintin read the tiny lettering on its stern. “The Unicorn . . .”

  “Yes, the Unicorn,” Crabtree said. “Man-of-war sailing ship. It’s very old, that is. Sixteenth century!”

  Tintin could tell at a glance that the Unicorn was not that old. The lines were all wrong, not to mention the guns. “Seventeenth, I should think,” he argued.

  “Reign of Charles the First!” proclaimed Crabtree, whose descriptions of his wares were rarely based on facts.

  Again, Tintin felt it necessary to correct him. “Charles the Second,” he said. Charles the First had been gone long before ships of this type were built.

  “That’s what I said. Charles the Second,” the vendor went on smoothly. Tintin had to admire his persistence. “As fine a ship as ever sailed the seven seas. You won’t find another one of these, mate.”

  Mate? Tintin thought. Crabtree was turning into an old sea captain himself.

  “And it’s only two quid,” Crabtree said.

  Ah, Tintin thought. Now we get to the point. He l
ooked down at Snowy, whose tail had stopped wagging. “I’ll give you a pound,” he said.

  “Done!” Crabtree looked satisfied. Tintin wondered if he would have taken even less. Ah, well, too late.

  Tintin gave him the pound note and took the wonderful model as Crabtree lifted it out of its display case and handed it over. “Easy does it,” Crabtree said, being careful of the tiny rigging and masts.

  “Excuse me!” a voice called out from the crowd. An American, Tintin guessed by the sound of him. As Tintin glanced over in the direction of the voice, the Unicorn slipped a bit in his grasp.

  “Here you go, careful!” Crabtree cautioned, putting a hand out to steady it.

  The source of the loud American voice proved to indeed be a loud American with a black mustache, wearing a blue suit and a fedora. He shoved his way through the crowd and arrived with one hand already reaching for his pocket. “Hey, bud,” he said to Crabtree, nodding at the Unicorn. “How much for the boat?”

  “I’m sorry,” Crabtree said, “but I’ve just sold it to this young gent.”

  “Oh, yeah?” the American asked. He spun and leaned in toward Tintin, crowding him aggressively. “Tell me what you paid and I’ll give you double.”

  “Double?” Crabtree echoed, shocked. Tintin thought the vendor was pretending to be shocked at the American’s poor manners, but he was actually shocked that he had missed out on a chance to make more money.

  “Thanks,” Tintin said, “but it’s not for sale.”

  The American tried a different tack. He draped an arm over Tintin’s shoulders, and Tintin let him, knowing that Americans were very familiar sometimes. “Look, kid, I’m trying to help you out,” he said. “The name’s Barnaby. I don’t think you realize this, but you’re about to walk into a whole mess of danger.” He darted his eyes back and forth as if trying to emphasize the danger.

  “Danger?” Tintin repeated. Where there was danger, usually there were good stories as well—and as a journalist, Tintin loved nothing better than a good story.

  Well, except perhaps a good story that also involved a good adventure along the way. Tintin didn’t think stories were worthwhile unless they involved mysteries for him to solve. He had often stumbled upon crimes and secrets, and taken jaw-dropping risks as he investigated odd events in the name of journalism. He just couldn’t resist a clue.

  Before he could get anything else out of Barnaby, though, the American saw something in the crowd and a look of alarm appeared on his face. “I’m warning you—get rid of the boat and get out while you still can!” he hissed in Tintin’s ear. “These people do not play nice.”

  “What people?” Tintin asked, but he got no answer from Barnaby’s back as Barnaby melted into the market crowds.

  “Wonderful!” another voice said.

  Tintin turned to see a very tall, stooped man with a long black beard and a tiny pair of glasses perched on the narrow bridge of his nose. Everything about him was long and angular. His coat hung on him as if his shoulders were a coat hanger. His beard and swooping mustache ended in points. Even his tall bowler hat somehow lost its look of roundness when surrounded by so many sharp angles and lines.

  Despite his thinness, he looked energetic and powerful. Perhaps this was because he was dressed in shades of red, with a crimson tie setting off the darker red of his suit and vest.

  “It’s just wonderful!” the man repeated, removing his hat to bend close to the ship. His hair, swept back from a high forehead, was dramatically streaked with white. “Don’t bother wrapping it—I’ll take it as is! Does anybody object if I pay by check?”

  Crabtree cast a glance toward the skies. Tintin could tell he was wishing he’d never opened his stall that morning. “If you want to buy it,” Crabtree said wearily, “you’ll have to talk to the kid.”

  “I see,” the tall man said. He put his face close to Tintin’s. “Well, let the kid name his price.”

  That, Tintin saw, was about all Crabtree could stand. The vendor slumped in his chair. “Name his price?” he echoed in quiet despair. “Ten years I’ve been flogging bric-a-brac and I miss ‘name your price’ by one bleedin’ minute!”

  “I’m sorry,” Tintin said. “I already explained to the other gentleman—”

  The model ship’s latest suitor immediately looked angry at the idea that there was another gentleman. He scanned the crowd, his bearded face darkening with a frown that teetered on the edge of a scowl.

  “American, he was,” Crabtree added helpfully. “All hair oil and no socks!”

  Tintin had noticed his lack of socks, too. He had a hard time imagining how anyone could walk through the marketplace without socks. “It’s not for sale,” he said to the bearded man, a little more firmly this time.

  “Then let me appeal to your better nature,” came the reply. The bearded man swept his arm out in a grand gesture, though what it was intended to convey Tintin did not know. “I have recently acquired Marlinspike Hall, and this ship, as I’m sure you’re aware, was once part of the estate.”

  “Of the late sea captain?” Tintin asked, wanting more of the story. He now thought that the strange man’s gesture might have been intended to indicate the direction of Marlinspike Hall, which lay over the horizon in the hilly countryside outside of town.

  “The family fell upon hard times,” the bearded man said with the tone of someone repeating a story he has told many times. “They’ve been living in a cloud of bad luck ever since. We are talking generations of irrational behavior. It’s a very, very sad story.”

  “I’m sorry,” Tintin said. “But as I told you before, it’s not for sale.”

  The bearded man’s face contorted into an angry glare.

  “Good day to you, sir,” Tintin said. He nodded, made sure the model ship was secure in the crook of his elbow, and made his way into the market. Snowy, with a toss of his snout, followed.

  Behind him, Tintin heard the bearded man say to Crabtree, “That young man. What’s his name?”

  “Him?” Crabtree said, sounding incredulous that anyone would ask such a question. “Everybody knows him. That’s Tintin.”

  Tintin smiled to himself. Maybe not everyone yet, he thought. But someday everyone would know him. That much was certain.

  TINTIN CARRIED THE model carefully back to his apartment on Labrador Street, on a fairly quiet block of four-and five-story apartment houses with manicured trees spaced evenly along the sidewalk. He unlocked the outside door and peered inside, hoping his landlady, Mrs. Finch, wouldn’t notice him coming in. She would talk his ear off if she got the chance, and Tintin wanted to get right up to his apartment and take a closer look at the ship. He knew something about it was important because people wanted it. What he didn’t know was why.

  Mrs. Finch’s door was closed. Tintin passed it quickly and went up the stairs to his floor, letting himself into his apartment and closing the door behind him. Home sweet home, he thought.

  His apartment was not large, but it had everything he wanted. From the front door, the kitchen was on his left and the fireplace on his immediate right, with his favorite chair arranged in front of it. Past the fireplace, between two large windows looking out onto Labrador Street, stood his dining table. Tall bookshelves, framing the windows, occupied the corners. A door straight ahead led to Tintin’s bedroom and bathroom. Another opened into his office, where his desk was stacked with books and papers from research for the stories he was currently working on. The walls were nearly covered with photographs of places Tintin had been and people he knew. It was a tidy space, perfect for him . . . Well, it would have been tidy if it wasn’t cluttered with the various things he had collected on his adventures. But what was the point of having adventures if they didn’t result in some souvenirs?

  Tintin set the model ship on his sideboard and looked down at Snowy. “What is it about this ship?” he asked, not because he thought Snowy would answer but because he liked to get his thoughts straight by talking to someone who wouldn’t confus
e him with answers. “Why has it attracted so much attention?”

  Snowy looked at him without saying anything. Tintin leaned in close to study the model ship. “What secrets do you hold?” he asked quietly.

  Snowy barked.

  Of course, Tintin thought. The magnifying glass!

  He hurried into the next room, setting his coat down on the couch and going on into his office. The room was dominated by his desk, on which his old manual typewriter sat front and center, surrounded by knickknacks and various memorabilia from his many adventures. He ran his hands over some of those things, but his mind wasn’t on them; he wanted his magnifying glass.

  Digging through his possessions in search of the magnifying glass, he found dozens of exotic objects and all manner of odds and ends from his various adventures, but none of them interested him at the moment.

  Unable to find the magnifying glass, he stopped. He found it was always best to pause and think when he was on the verge of getting frustrated. “Where is that magnifying glass?” he said aloud, trying to remember where he’d put it. He went to his bookcase and rummaged through its shelves, finding travel guides, accounts of exploration from pole to pole and everywhere in between, clippings of articles he had published, several dried-out fountain pens, a letter written by the American gangster Al Capone . . . but no magnifying glass.

  “Where is it?” he said again.

  Snowy woofed quietly from near his feet . . . well, not quietly, exactly. He woofed as if something was in his mouth and he couldn’t let out a full woof without dropping it. Tintin looked down.

  Snowy had his magnifying glass.

  “Thank you,” Tintin said, taking it.

  The terrier responded by turning his head away from Tintin and growling. Tintin turned, too, and saw a large white cat in the doorway. It must have come in through the window.

  Oh no, he thought. Snowy sprang after it, ignoring Tintin, who called out, “No, Snowy!”

  The cat skidded back into the living room, Snowy in hot pursuit. Tintin, right behind them, thought for a moment that Snowy was actually going to catch it. What would he do? Snowy, like almost every other dog Tintin had ever known, loved to chase cats. But he had never caught one, and Tintin didn’t want to find out what would happen if he did.