by the Tintin house. Shuttered windows, louche sports car on the gravel and callers at strange hours. Did our reporter scale the wall with Snowy a-sniff the funny-money ink, ears a-twitch those clanking sounds from the basement? Was the gang boss necromancer consulting with his brazen head in the library, saw a vision of our sleuth in the grounds and set loose the house gorilla? In the chase, the good duo tip-toed along the bough, luring the ape forwards and with its bound the bark tore and the beast lay stunned on the pavement. Was that Calculus ghost-peering from the back window of a departing car? And where’s the captain, but rabble-rousing down The Anchor with assorted North Oxford salts and stowaways. Books endure, symbols and story remnants to pollinate these ride-by dreams.
