The Pink Panther

by Max Allan Collins

  “You do not like my clothes?”

  “It’s not that. You have charming taste, Inspector. But in your high-ranking office, several new suits come with the job.”

  The eyes narrowed further. “Suppose I am of a different size than the previous inspector?”

  She moved around behind the desk with him. “No, these will be tailored specifically for your needs. That’s why I can…if you like…take your measurements. Then you’ll have a perfect fit.”

  “Nicole, my temper, I never lose it. I am in full control of my—”

  “I mean, for the tailor. To make your new clothes.” She reached out a hand. “Your coat?”

  “Yes, this is my coat.”

  “Take it off so I can measure you.”

  “Ah—should I stand?”

  “Not necessary.”

  He got out of his coat and handed it to her, and she lay it on the desk; then she withdrew a tape measure from her sweater pocket and began with his extended arms. Their proximity unnerved them both. Nicole found herself strangely attracted to this odd character; or perhaps she was oddly attracted to this strange character—she could not be sure.

  She was measuring his left arm when she heard herself say, “Do you…live by yourself, Inspector?”

  “Yes, yes. It is a lonely life, the servant of the public, the solver of the crimes.”

  Their eyes locked. “You do get lonely, then?”

  “Not so much. I am the reader voracious.”

  “Ah! Novels? Nonfiction?”

  “Internet.”

  Kneeling before him, she found herself facing his belt buckle. She began to gently slide the tape measure up his thigh and beyond.

  “My,” she said. “You do have a long in-seam.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Perhaps you could loosen your belt…so I can measure your waist?”

  “Of course…”

  And he unbuckled his belt.

  “That doesn’t quite do it.” She gave him an apologetic smile. “Would you mind, Inspector…?”

  “Not at all,” he said, and unzipped his fly.

  Following orders, which was something at which he was most adept, Detective Second Class Gilbert Ponton approached the office of the newest inspector of the Police Nationale. He glanced at the freshly painted INSPECTOR JACQUES CLOUSEAU on the glass of a door that stood open, and reached a huge paw in, to knock.

  At six foot four, Ponton was perhaps the tallest, and certainly one of the beefiest, plainclothes officers on the force. He was not the most imaginative policeman in Paris, nor the most brilliant, but he was loyal, and dogged. And he had been selected to do a job for the chief inspector himself, which was a compliment, however uncomfortable Ponton might feel about the ethics of the assignment.

  Oval-faced, with a small mustache, half-lidded eyes and the simple manner of a peasant, Ponton knew only that he was expected to report back to the deputy chief on the progress of Inspector Clouseau’s investigation into the Gluant murder and the Pink Panther theft.

  That he, Gilbert Ponton, would be included as any small part of so important a case pleased the humble detective; but he felt awkward about pairing up with a partner—who after all had been handpicked to head up this important investigation—only to secretly “keep an eye on the fool,” as Chief Deputy Renard had put it.

  How strange for Renard to speak so disrespectfully of the detective selected from all detectives to handle the investigation of all investigations…

  But his was not to reason why. His was to knock on Inspector Clouseau’s door.

  Which he did.

  And a firm, confident voice called, “Come!”

  Ponton stuck his head in. “I may be a little early. My appointment is—”

  “You will find that Jacques Clouseau does not stand on ceremony!” In fact Clouseau wasn’t standing at all—he was seated behind an impressive desk, somewhat sideways, his back somewhat to his unexpected guest.

  Ponton shuffled in, moving toward the visitor’s chair opposite Clouseau, when he noticed the lovely female legs sticking out from behind…from under…the side of the desk where Clouseau sat.

  Hovering awkwardly, Ponton said, “I…I can come back in a few minutes if—”

  “Nonsense! We’ll be done in a shake of the lamb’s tail.”

  Shrugging to himself as much as to his host, Ponton took his seat. A moment later, he heard a clearing of the throat, and a beautiful young woman stood, and straightened her skirt and her eyeglasses.

  “There,” she said. “That takes care of that—and welcome to Paris, Inspector Clouseau.”

  Clouseau nodded to her. “Thank you, Nicole. You are most kind.”

  The lovely young woman nodded to Ponton as she exited. Ponton watched her go, in amazed appreciation.

  “Is…is that your secretary, Inspector?”

  “No, no—she is the chief inspector’s. She stopped by to service my needs, as a matter of courtesy. You know, I have transferred in from the country, and I must say I am, as the Americans say, ‘blown away’ by the warm welcome provided to a newcomer like myself.”

  Ponton nodded, glancing in the direction in which the woman had disappeared. “It is…impressive. I have worked in a precinct for some years where the secretaries are not really so friendly.”

  “I apologize for the wait, but I have just arrived at my office, and I admit to not yet checking the calendar of my appointments.” Clouseau began looking around the desk for it, moving files aside. “I am afraid I was somewhat distracted…”

  “Who could blame you?”

  “Ah, here it is!” Clouseau held up the appointment calendar, whapped the small book against a palm, and then put it away in the desk. He folded his hands and beamed at his guest. “And you are…?”

  “Ponton—Gilbert. Detective Second Class.”

  “Ah, Ponton Gilbert. And what is your assignment?”

  “It’s…Gilbert Ponton.”

  Clouseau nodded, eyes tightening. “And how long have you been assigned to watch this fellow?”

  “What fellow?”

  “Gilbert Ponton!”

  “That’s…that’s my name.”

  “An amazing coincidence. But I suspect all coincidences, and I suggest you do the same. And what bearing might this have on the Gluant case, Detective Ponton?”

  “I have been assigned to assist you.”

  “Ah.” Clouseau nodded. Then his eyes took on an appraising cast. “And what qualifications do you have for police work?”

  Ponton stiffened proudly. “My family has performed police work in Paris for nine generations!”

  “I see. And before that?”

  “Well…we were policemen in the surrounding areas for two hundred years.”

  A curt nod from Clouseau. “And before that?”

  “My ancestors were immigrants…from various countries around Europe…always involved in keeping the peace.”

  “I see. And before that?”

  “I…I honestly don’t know.”

  Clouseau chuckled, and waved off this information. “And so they send you, the novice, the innocent lamb, for Clouseau to teach. Ponton Gilbert—”

  “Gilbert Ponton.”

  The inspector stood and his pants fell, gathering at his knees. “My large friend, I vow to teach you everything I know about the police science…and the investigator’s art. I have been the mentor to many over the years. But none…not one of them…was as tall as you.”

  Ponton’s eyebrows rose. “Thank you…?”

  Pulling his trousers into place, zipping up and rebuckling his belt, he said, “You are most welcome, my large protege. And where do you think we will begin, Gilbert Ponton Ponton Gilbert?”

  “At the beginning?”

  “Yes! Yes! At the beginning…for that is where we are.” Clouseau pointed dramatically at his new partner. “The beginning of catching a killer!”

  FIVE

  The Perfect Suspect

  Within h
is expansive, well-appointed office, Chief Inspector Dreyfus—attended as always by Chief Deputy Renard—met with several of the real investigators on the case, including the coldly handsome Detective Corbeille. While Clouseau led himself—and the media—on a merry chase, Dreyfus would guide the true leading lights of French criminology on the search for the Pink Panther…and the killer of Coach Gluant; that was important, too…

  Right now Dreyfus was reviewing key video footage, on the monitor screen a close-up of Gluant and his star forward, the blond boyish Jacquard, embracing after the latter’s winning goal. Just as they were being swarmed by enthusiastic fans, staffers and teammates, Dreyfus commanded Renard to freeze the frame.

  With a pointer Dreyfus tapped the glass, the tip indicating various angry Chinese faces in the screen’s upper corner.

  “This, of course, is the Chinese VIP box,” Dreyfus said to the investigators, their eyes affixed to the glowing image. “They are positioned right at the edge of what our forensics experts have labeled the ‘kill zone.’ ”

  Wandering away from the screen, meeting the eyes of each of the detectives, Dreyfus slowly paced before them, his manner cool, professional and—as with any great detective—probing.

  “The poison was Chinese,” he said, planting himself before Corbeille. “Do we know if Gluant ever took a team to China, or was in any other way a visitor to that country?”

  Corbeille, as able as Clouseau was bumbling, nodded sagely, arms folded. “Three years ago.”

  “The occasion?”

  “He took a group of French stars there—exhibition games. Cultural goodwill.”

  “Like the ‘goodwill’ that struck him down on the sidelines of a French football victory, eh?” Dreyfus smiled with bitter satisfaction. “Gentlemen, I do not claim to know for certain—it is too early for that—but the facts conspire with my investigative instincts to send me looking in the direction of our Chinese ‘friends.’ ”

  Nods all around.

  Dreyfus thrust a finger at Corbeille. “Get on the next flight to Beijing! Find out what Gluant did there—on every day of his visit, a minute-by-minute account.”

  “Yes, sir. At once, Chief Inspector.”

  Then he whirled to Detective Pacquette, an investigator as brilliant as Clouseau was dimwitted. “Have we identified everyone in the Chinese VIP box—from dignitaries to bodyguards to minor functionaries?”

  “Actually, we have, Chief Inspector.”

  “Excellent!” His face hardened. “Now—build me a dossier on each and every one of them. Go! All of you! Time is our enemy.”

  And the detectives went—quickly, the force of Dreyfus’s personality compelling them to do their best, and right away.

  Renard, again materializing like a friendly ghost at the chief inspector’s side, said, “We have our first report in from Ponton. He has made contact with Clouseau.”

  “Excellent.”

  “He indicates Clouseau has accepted him as a protege. Taken him on as…a pupil.”

  Dreyfus frowned. “But Ponton has been on the Police Nationale at least as long as Clouseau!”

  A tiny shrug. “It would appear Clouseau’s incompetence is matched only by his inflated ego.”

  Dreyfus nodded. “Sad, is it not, Renard? When a well-meaning public servant allows his own ego to swell to such dangerous proportions?”

  Renard, whose mind immediately had gone to the enormous new portrait of Dreyfus hanging in the outer office, did not reply at once.

  Finally, he said, “Yes, Chief Inspector. It can be…dangerous indeed.”

  On a bustling street in a Parisian square, Inspector Clouseau—who after all was a plainclothes officer now—endeavored not to be overly conspicuous. Toward that end he gestured only occasionally with his riding crop.

  He looked up at this poor simple child of a man, Ponton, who had been assigned to him, as a baby is assigned to a nanny. Such simple features—Clouseau wondered if a man of such obviously average intelligence could hope to succeed in the world of criminal investigation.

  The great detective would do his best for his charge.

  Eyeing his hulking partner doubtfully as they walked along, Clouseau said, “I am concerned for your welfare, my large friend. You have risen only to the rank of detective second class, whereas I, Jacques Clouseau, have achieved the status of inspector!”

  Ponton nodded. “Yes. Since yesterday, wasn’t it?”

  “Yesterday—after a lifetime of hard work and the sharp deductive skill. If I may be frank?”

  “Please.”

  “Your senses do not appear to be as finely honed as my own. Ah, it is nothing to feel ashamed about!…But even one who is not born with such gifts may acquire them through diligence and practice, practice, practice. Ow, ow, ow.”

  “What do you have in mind, Inspector?”

  Clouseau paused, tripping a mustached man in a beret carrying a baguette. The detective said, “Watch where you are going, you fool!”

  The man in the beret, picking himself and his bread up, said in English, “I’m sorry—I don’t speak French,” and moved on.

  Clouseau watched him go, shook his head, and returned his attention to his charge. “Detective Ponton, I have in mind a plan, a plan so simple in its elegance that is…how shall I put it? Simply elegant.”

  “What is that plan, Inspector?”

  Clouseau raised a conspiratorial forefinger and smiled a sly smile as he leaned in. “Intermittently—and without warning—I will attack you! Whenever and wherever it is least expected…it may be night! It may be day! Vigilance, my large friend. Vigilance…but I must warn you: Clouseau, he holds the black belt in the arts martiale.”

  Ponton shrugged. “All right.”

  Clouseau gestured in an openhanded friendly manner. “Shall we go?”

  Ponton nodded, and walked on, Clouseau lagging half a step—and raised a hand in the deadly blade that his karate training had fashioned from flesh and bone…

  Casually, Ponton swung back a fist and caught Clouseau in the face.

  The inspector dropped to the pavement, then sprang to his feet, saying, “Excellent! I applaud you, Ponton. You are learning already.”

  Soon the pair had arrived at a nondescript brick building with a sign labeling it “Altermondial Recording Studios.” After quickly checking the address with the one in the file Nicole had provided, Clouseau led his large assistant into the building where, up an elevator, they arrived at a doorway above which flashed a red light.

  A sign said: DO NOT OPEN DOOR WHEN LIGHT IS FLASHING.

  Clouseau eyed this shrewdly. Then, poised as a child waiting for the correct moment to leap onto a moving carousel, he waited between flashes and thrust himself through the door, making no more noise than he might have falling down a flight of stairs.

  Ponton quietly followed.

  The two detectives found themselves in an enormous, high-ceilinged, state-of-the-art studio, the floor of which was largely filled, wall to wall, by an orchestra playing a ballad, the strings executing a lovely melodic line. Beyond the several dozen musicians, lost in their work, an isolation booth could be seen, where the beautiful diva Xania, in a gold-lame curve-hugging outfit, sang before a microphone, in headphones. Though her lips moved, her voice could not be heard in the studio.

  Clouseau whispered to Ponton, “They are making the music—this is their work, my inexperienced colleague; we must be unobtrusive, we must respect them in their creativity, and be silent as the mouse.”

  Ponton nodded.

  Riding crop in hand, Clouseau began to work his way through the musicians, squeezing between them, finding aisles between rows, and nearly losing his balance. Waving his hand and the crop in an attempt to regain his footing, Clouseau came into the view of the conductor, on his small platform; as the detective and his large shadow wound awkwardly through the orchestra, that riding crop waving, the conductor’s attention became glued to his visitors, and the tempo of the inspector’s arm movements began to in
fluence the conductor’s own.

  At the same time, various musicians found themselves hypnotized by the clumsy poetry of Clouseau’s movements, and his waving riding crop, and yet another tempo was achieved. And by the time Clouseau and his partner had snaked their way to the front of the studio, the lovely music had devolved into an aural train wreck.

  Clouseau again whispered to his partner, “Perhaps these players, they are not as professional as we had thought. I believe I perceived a shift in tempo, and perhaps a wrong note.”

  “Perhaps,” Ponton granted.

  Clouseau stood before the glass behind which Xania valiantly continued singing; her mouth moved but her vocals remained inaudible in the studio.

  Sotto voce, Clouseau confided in Ponton: “She speaks to me, but I cannot understand, over the caterwauling of these so-called musicians. And the lip reading, it is not, I am not proud to say, among the many talents of Clouseau.”

  “Ah,” Ponton said.

  “So when the Mohammed will not come to the molehill, the mountain, he will come to the…I will go to her. Stay here. Keep an eye on this orchestra.”

  “You suspect the orchestra?”

  “I suspect everyone! And—I suspect no one.”

  Then he slipped into the booth, and—after a studied while—realized Xania was not speaking to him, rather singing. She broke off and said, just a little irritably, “Excuse me—I’m recording, here.”

  “That is all right,” Clouseau said, and from his suitcoat pocket he revealed a small tape recorder. “So am I. I am Inspector Clouseau of the Police Nationale.”

  Her expression warmed up. “Well…hello, Inspector. I am Xania.”

  She held out her hand. He took her fingertips in his, and kissed the back of his own hand.

  Then he released his grip and moved closer. “I am familiar with you and your work—one might say, intimately.”

  Beyond the isolation booth, the glass of the control room could be seen, a particularly agitated individual—the producer—was coming out, heading toward them through the seated musicians.

  “Excuse me, Inspector,” Xania said, and she emerged from the booth, calling, “It’s all right, Roland! It’s the Gluant case—these men are police!”