Of Crab Tins and Diamonds

Chapter 13: Of Business Calls and Unwelcome Brawls

Allan, lowering the cigarette from his lips, stopped to lean against the steel wall of the Karaboudjan.

The salty sea captain still felt strained, pulled to his limit, like butter spread over too much toast.

The bazar trip had been a success and setting sail from the post of Bagghar was smooth, of course.

That had not been enough, however, to calm his throbbing nerves.

He let the smoke seep from his open mouth and absently, he tugged at his ear.

He could still hear him. The Boss' gravely voice, still ringing and hissing long after the end of the radio call.

He had ordered the man on night shift to step out of the booth. Plenty away. He couldn't have any witnesses or eavesdroppers with this call.

But, by God, he wished he could.

He glanced at his watch, tapping the surface angrily.

It's not that late, is it?

Indeed, the hands were well past the three o'clock mark and, in turn with the news, he took a drag.

He sounded serious this time... He continued to muse, closing his weary eyes, Surely he wouldn't... he couldn't...

He shook his head, shaking every rabbit hole of endless possibility out of his throbbing skull.

Enough. Talk to Boss later. It's time to go to bed.

With a groan, Allan pushed himself off of the wall and down the swaying hallway, past the hissing pipes and quarters full of his sleeping crew. He winced at the sound of deafening snores through the open doorway.

That door never shuts right. Allan brooded, hissing heavily through his nostrils, I have to remember to get someone to look at it. Again.

Wrapping his free hand around the handle, he began to push it shut, stopping to leave it just wide enough to steal a glance inside.

Holding his breath, he peered through the semi-darkness, eyes filtering over the rising breath of his men. He felt the air leave him as he spotted the forms he was looking for. Three men and a little dog, curled in a snoring line of hanging beds.

They all looked peaceful and happy enough. Surely his unsteadiness was for-.

He saw a flash of white from the middle as the dog raised his head and growled low towards the intruder. Cursing, Allan hurried out of the opening, the cigarette he held falling from his mouth. He pressed his back against the door to shut it. He heard the boy stir, muttering a soft command to the now fully alert and awake terrier.

"Good boy, Sn'wy," he heard Tintin whisper from behind the closed door and, quietly, Allan picked up his fallen smoke and continued his trek down the hall.

They're all fine. They're all there, Allan reassured himself. Most are. Maybe I should check in there too.

He twisted the burning cig in his fingers.

Maybe I shouldn't. Serve the stubborn jerk right.

Ultimately, Allan Thompson knew avoiding him was inevitable.

Turning a corner, he saw it. Rusting and old and ugly as a sore thumb.

The door to Tom's suite, just as he remembered, next to his own.

More like a remodeled broom closet.

Allan had the entire ship memorized from top to bottom. All passageways, closets, and rooms. Tom's room, however, was still a mystery to him.