The Adventures of Tintin Read Online Free PDF

mean something else entirely
, he thought. After all, none of the models could sail. Maybe there had been three ships called the
Unicorn
? But the maritime encyclopedia in which Tintin had read the story of Captain Haddock hadn’t mentioned any other ships by that name.
    It was a puzzle, that much was clear—and where there were puzzles there were good stories. Tintin put the magnifying glass back to his eye and looked at the rest of the parchment.
    Below the writing was a series of strokes and dashes. “What are these markings, Snowy?” Tintin mused. “Some kind of secret language, or a code? It makes no sense. But it does explain why they ransacked our place.” He was sure now that the people who had stolen the
Unicorn
model had come back. They were after this parchment, and they had torn his apartment to pieces looking for it. That meant it was valuable, but Tintin didn’t know why. Who would want a strange poem? Who had gone to the trouble to hide it in the model in the first place? What did the strokes and dashes mean?
    Someone out there knew the secret. Barnaby, perhaps? He had warned Tintin about the danger of possessing the model ship. Sakharine? He had threatened Tintin, and his butler had knocked Tintin out with a candlestick. He would certainly not hesitate to break into Tintin’s apartment.
    Whoever it was, Tintin thought, the intruder knew more of the story than he did. Which made him all the more determined to catch up and solve the mystery.
    “We’ll have to keep a close eye on this parchment, Snowy,” Tintin said, reaching down to scratch his anxious dog between the ears. “Whoever is after it, we can be sure of one thing. They’ll be back.”
    As if on cue, the downstairs doorbell jangled. Tintin jumped. Who could be visiting at this late hour? He would have to be ready for anything.

TINTIN DID NOT know Mrs. Finch’s first name or anything else about her except that she loved hot chocolate more than any other person Tintin had ever met did. He heard her voice now as he tucked the parchment into his wallet and crept quietly to the top of the stairs, eager to see who had rung the doorbell so late at night. A man said something to her, but Tintin couldn’t tell who he was or what had been said.
    Should he run? Should he confront the visitor? Surely this was related to the break-in, but whoever had ransacked his apartment wouldn’t take the trouble to knock this time. That didn’t make any sense.
    So who was it, and what did he want?
    “No, I don’t know where he is, dearie,” Mrs. Finch was saying. “I think he’s gone out. And anyway it’s after dark, and Mr. Tintin is most particular about not admitting visitors after bedtime.”
    This wasn’t exactly true. Mrs. Finch was the one who didn’t like people coming in at night, especially when they interrupted her while she was enjoying her hot chocolate. “I have to go back to my cocoa,” she went on. “I’ve got a very good book and a cup of cocoa. Lovely . . .”
    Tintin had been working his way down the stairs as she spoke. He could see that she had opened the front door just a crack, leaving the chain on. “Thank you, Mrs. Finch,” he said, reaching the ground floor. “I can look after this.”
    She started and looked at him sourly. Mrs. Finch was a prim older woman who always wore cardigan sweaters and had no chin whatsoever. She excelled at sour looks. Tintin smiled at her, and she disappeared back into her apartment, from which Tintin could smell hot chocolate.
    When her door was locked behind her, Tintin approached the front door cautiously. He had picked up his heavy flashlight as he left his apartment in case he needed a weapon to defend himself. The lump on his own head from Nestor’s candlestick still hurt.
    “Hey, kid,” said a voice through the crack between the door and the jamb. “Is that you? Open the door!”
    Then a familiar face pressed itself into the crack. It was the loudmouth American, Barnaby. “What do