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you, I expect he’s miles away by now,” Thomson said.
    “The pickpocket?” Thompson clarified.
    “Yes,” Thomson said. “I mean, knowing we’re just a few steps behind him.”
    A gray-haired man passed between Tintin and the two detectives. Snowy growled, and Tintin knelt to hold on to him before he could follow the man and cause trouble.
    “Snowy, what is it, boy?” he asked. “What do you see?”
    The two detectives were now deep in a conversation about whether they should have a cup of tea. “I’d love one,” Thompson was saying—just as the gray-haired man slid by and lifted the wallet out of Thomson’s pocket!
    The elastic stretched out as the pickpocket tried to drop the wallet into his own jacket, and at the tug, Thomson looked up, shocked. Quickly, his surprise turned to glee. “I’ve got you now!”
    But it was not going to be that easy. The pickpocket stretched the elastic all the way, pulling Thomson off balance, and then he let the wallet go. It snapped back into Thomson’s face, and the pickpocket ran for it.
    Thompson gave chase, but he tripped over the loose elastic, sprawling onto the ground and in the process stretching the wallet out to snap Thomson again! Thomson fell to the ground as his partner ran after the pickpocket, calling out, “Stop in the name of the law!”
    He caught up to the pickpocket and grabbed his shoulder, but the pickpocket shrugged out of Thompson’s grasp, leaving his coat behind. The coat flipped up over Thompson’s face, and the detective went careening into a lamppost, knocking himself flat, just as Thomson got up and joined the chase. Thomson stumbled over Thompson, and both of them landed in a tangle at the base of the lamppost. The pair of them were hopeless!
    “What’s going on down there?” Tintin wondered aloud. He heard some of the ruckus, but the thick fog was blocking his view. “Come on, Snowy!” he said, and ran down the street toward the Interpol detectives. Along the way he brushed past an old man hurrying away from the scene, looking panicked at the intrusion of chaos into the quiet street. He wore round wire-rimmed spectacles and an orange tie knotted tightly around an old-fashioned, starched collar.
    “I beg your pardon,” the old man said, touching his hat.
    “Sorry, sir!” Tintin called over his shoulder as he arrived at Thompson and Thomson, who were just getting to their feet.
    “The pickpocket, Tintin!” Thomson said. “He’s getting away!”
    With a flash of dread, Tintin realized whom he had bumped into on the way to help the detectives. He reached into his own pocket and found it empty. “My wallet! It’s gone!”
    He turned back in the direction the old man had fled. “Come on, Snowy! After him!”
    Running through the fog, Tintin cried out, “Stop!” He ran across the street and narrowly dodged a car that had not seen him. Brakes squealed and the sudden glare of headlights disoriented him. Another car bore down on him as he scrambled out of the way of the first. With a yelp, Snowy jumped safely to the curb, but Tintin slipped on the slick street stones.
    Suddenly, his arms were caught, and he was dragged onto the sidewalk as another car roared by, its horn blaring. Thompson and Thomson broke Tintin’s fall, and he realized they had pulled him out of the car’s way with their canes.
    “Steady on,” Thompson said, but Tintin was already looking around to see which way the pickpocket might have gone. He had to get his wallet back—the vital parchment was inside!
    “I’ve lost him!” He turned to the detectives. “You must find my wallet! It’s very important. I have to get it back.”
    “And you will,” Thompson said soothingly. “Leave it to the professionals.”
    “Stay here, Tintin,” Thomson put in. “Or better yet, go home. We’ll contact you when we’ve gotten him.”
    Tintin knew that would be best, but part of him wanted to give chase. He couldn’t go on without that parchment. It was a