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Thomson agreed. “We’re completely clueless.”
    Very true
, Tintin thought, smiling to himself. But it would have been rude to say it, so instead he asked, “Interpol doesn’t have any other leads?”
    “Oh, steady on, Tintin,” Thomson said. “We’re still filling out the paperwork.”
    Nodding, Thompson added, “Police work’s not all glamour and guns. There’s an awful lot of filing.”
    “Well, I might have something for you,” Tintin said. He had been debating all night how much to tell them, and he had concluded that it was best to share as much information as possible. “Before he lost consciousness, the man tried to tell me something. I couldn’t understand what he was saying, but then I saw this.”
    He held out the newspaper to Thompson and Thomson and watched their eyes widen just as his had. On the newspaper—in his own blood!—Barnaby Dawes had marked certain letters. Traced from left to right and down the page, the fingerprints spelled out:
    “
Karaboudjan
,” Tintin said.
    “Karaboudjan,” Thomson repeated.
    “Yes,” Tintin said. “Does that mean anything to you?”
    Suddenly, Thomson snatched the paper from Tintin’s hand. “Great Scotland Yard!” he cried. “That’s extraordinary!”
    “What is?” Tintin demanded.
    Thomson waved an advertisement in Tintin’s face. “Worthington’s having a half-price sale on bowler hats!”
    Thompson grabbed the paper from his partner. “Really, Thomson! This is hardly the time!” Then he, too, saw something on the page, and he echoed, “Great Scotland Yard!”
    “What is it!?” Thomson and Tintin asked together.
    “Canes are half-price, too!” Thompson said.
    Tintin couldn’t believe what he was hearing. A man shot on his doorstep, his model ship stolen, a strange word spelled out in bloody fingerprints! And they were talking about a sale on hats and canes.
    “Are you going to take charge of this evidence?” Tintin asked.
    “Positively,” Thomson said. “Never fear, Tintin. The evidence is safe with us!”
    He snatched the newspaper back from Thompson, rushed out the door with it, and promptly fell down the stairs. Thompson hurried out at the sound and called into the stairwell, “Thomson! Where are you?”
    “Well, I’m already downstairs!” came the reply. “Do try to keep up.”
    Thompson stomped down the stairs after his partner. Tintin came out into the hall to see them off, and he noticed that Thomson had left the newspaper at the bottom of the stairs. He scooped it up and caught the two detectives at the front door. “Wait,” he said before they could close the door behind them. “You dropped this.”
    “Good heavens, Thomson,” Thompson said. “Look after the evidence, man.”
    “Sorry, Thompson,” Thomson said. “My mind is on other things.”
    Thomson’s hand went to his pocket, and Thompson said, “Ah, yes. Our light-fingered larcenist.”
    “What?” Tintin said. He couldn’t imagine what might be more important than investigating the shooting of a fellow Interpol detective.
    “The pickpocket,” Thompson said. “He has no idea what’s coming.”
    “Go on, Tintin. Take my wallet,” Thomson said.
    To humor his friends, Tintin reached into Thomson’s pocket and pulled his wallet out of the inside pocket. It was attached to a piece of elastic that was, in turn, sewn into the pocket lining.
    “Industrial-strength elastic!” proclaimed Thompson.
    Tintin wondered if he should remind them they should be focused on the shooting of Barnaby Dawes. “Very, uh, resourceful,” he said.
    “Oh, on the contrary,” Thompson said. “It was childishly simple.”
    Thomson nodded. “Simply childish. I agree.”
    The two detectives tipped their hats to Tintin and set off down the street. “Gentlemen,” Tintin said by way of farewell.
    Standing on his stoop, Tintin listened to their conversation as they strolled away and vanished into the fog. A gray morning mist hung in the air after the storm. “Mind