Haddock squinted. “That? Just a builder’s mark. UN-7. Probably the toymaker’s batch number.”
Tintin lifted it. The hull slid open.
“Everything,” Tintin murmured. He gently lifted the mainmast. A tiny, almost invisible engraving caught the lamplight. “Look here, Captain.” The Adventures Of Tintin Secret Of The Unicorn Serial Number
That night, Tintin couldn’t sleep. He stared at the photographs of the three parchments. Sir Francis Haddock’s log entries were clear: Latitude. Longitude. Three keys. But the number UN-7 scratched at his brain.
“During Sir Francis’s time,” Calculus said, tapping a page, “the crown allowed private shipyards to use a code. ‘U’ stood for ‘Unicorn-class’—a fast frigate with a shallow draught. And the number…” He pushed his spectacles up. “The number was not the hull number. It was the chart number .” Haddock squinted
Inside was a sliver of silk. On it, in Sir Francis’s own hand: The seventh Unicorn sleeps where the tide writes its name twice a day. UN-7: follow the old pilgrim’s path from the drowned church at low tide. The rock that weeps iron is the door.
Calculus adjusted his hearing aid, which promptly whistled. “UN? That’s not a standard prefix for any navy, Tintin. But… wait.” He shuffled to a shelf and pulled out a crumbling registry: Royal Shipwrights’ Ledgers, 1670-1695 . “Everything,” Tintin murmured
The dusty air of Moulinsart Library smelled of old vellum and forgotten centuries. Tintin, his magnifying glass in hand, was not examining the grand tapestry or the carved oak beams. He was hunched over the model ship—the Unicorn —which sat on a felt cloth, its masts now splintered from the scuffle with the Bird Brothers.
