Joining her outside the isolation booth, the detective resumed his conversation with the diva. Xania regarded him with interest and mild amusement, while Clouseau attempted his most suave manner.
She said, “You say you are…intimately familiar with my work?”
Shyly he responded, “Well—let us just say that I have memorized your finest artistic achievement.”
“Really? Which CD do you mean?”
“I love them all. But I was referring to your swimsuit calendar.”
She laughed lightly. “I find that touching.”
“As do I. Almost every night.”
She lay her cool palm against his warm cheek. “You are so very kind, Inspector. If only all of my fans were as sensitive and considerate as you.”
“Thank you…This booth, it is the booth soundproof?”
“Yes.”
“Would you wait here a moment? My mind is ever seeking new information, thirsting, hungering for knowledge. I would like to examine this…this soundproof booth, for the future reference.”
She shrugged a little. “Why, certainly, Inspector…”
Clouseau stepped into the booth, his keen eyes taking in the many microphones, and the soundproof tile of the walls and ceiling. Then he paused and passed gas.
The rippling sound reverberated throughout the studio with no more force than Mount St. Helens erupting.
Stepping suavely from the booth, Clouseau discovered his assistant had taken the initiative to begin the questioning of the lovely suspect, who for some strange reason now regarded the inspector with a peculiar expression.
Ponton was asking, “You were nearby when Gluant was killed, Ms. Xania?”
“Just ‘Xania’…yes, I ran out to be with him, to celebrate his team’s victory. A tragedy most—”
“Tragique,” Clouseau said.
“Yes,” she said, with a grave little nod.
Clouseau picked up Ponton’s interrogation—gently. “Now a few hours prior to the unfortunate event…”
“The murder,” Ponton said.
Clouseau shot his assistant a look. “To the murder…six witnesses saw you and Coach Gluant together.”
“That may be possible, Inspector.”
“Apparently you and the deceased were having the conversation most animated…What was it exactly, Ponton?”
The assistant, referring to his notebook, said, “She was striking him repeatedly and screaming, ‘You bastard! I’m going to kill you! I’m going to kill your cheating ass!’ ”
“I hope you will understand,” Clouseau said, “that to some this might seem…somewhat suspicious.”
She gestured with open hands—and open eyes. Lovely, deep brown, open eyes. “You’re a man, Inspector. You know the ways of love…”
Clouseau’s smile twitched under his mustache, which also twitched. “Well…”
“I was angry! I’d caught Gluant with another woman. And this was after he’d said he loved me—that he wanted me to marry him!”
“Swine murder victim,” Clouseau said.
“And I believed him. I even gave him…the ultimate gift.”
“Your swimsuit calendar?”
“My…” The sophisticated diva lowered her head shyly. “…my virginity.”
Several members of the orchestra nearby dropped their instruments, and a few others coughed loudly. Even Ponton regarded her with arched eyebrows of skepticism, and the producer stifled a laugh.
But Clouseau took her small sweet hand in his (which was larger and less sweet) and said, “You are a poor dear little angel waif.”
“Thank you, Inspector.” She batted long lashes at him. “I just knew you’d understand.”
“This, this, this is just an expression! How often have I heard people say to me, ‘I’m going to kill you! I should kill you, you stupid fool!’ This expression—is any expression so commonplace as this?”
A tear trickled down a perfect cheek. “When he cheated on me, I hated him.”
“Of course you did, my child.”
“But I didn’t kill him.”
“Of course you did not.”
Ponton frowned and scratched his head. “Mademoiselle, did you recently perform in China? In a concert at—”
Clouseau’s eyes and nostrils flared as he turned to his assistant. “Ponton, stop this incessant browbeating of this poor child! Can you not see she is distraught? That she needs the sexual healing?”
Xania said to Ponton, “I did perform a concert in Shanghai—three months ago. But what of that? I perform all over the world.”
“Ponton!” Clouseau said, glaring. “Do you not recognize big talents when you see them!…My pet, do you know of anyone else who expressed hatred for the Coach Gluant?”
Her perfect face grew thoughtful. “He did have an abrasive side. He climbed to the top of his profession, after all. But if I were to single out one person, it would be his former star player—Bizu.”
“God bless you,” Clouseau said.
Ponton said, “She didn’t sneeze, Inspector—she means the star forward, Bizu.”
“I know what she means! Do not tell me what she means!…Xania, my sweet unsuspected one, can you tell me what is the basis for this Bizu’s hostility toward Gluant?”
“I’m afraid I was the basis—I’d been dating Bizu when I became interested in Gluant, and he in me. Bizu is such a child! And so possessive. He hated Gluant for ‘stealing me away’—Bizu could not accept that I left him of my own free will. He needed someone to blame—and that was Gluant.”
A voice from behind Clouseau said, “If you ask me, both Bizu and Gluant were no-good bastards.”
Clouseau spun to face a slender dark-haired individual in sweater and slacks. “I do not ask you!…Who are you, the intruder who has sneaked into this studio to pry into my case?”
“I’m Xania’s producer.”
“And do you have a name?”
“Yes.”
Clouseau thought about that, then thrust a finger at the producer and said, “You! You will not leave town!”
“But I’m flying to Montserrat tonight,” he said, “to record Rene Duchanel—it’s been booked for months!”
“Nonetheless, you will not leave town. This is a serious murder. And I may wish to ask you a few more questions.”
The producer’s features clenched in exasperation. “But I don’t know anything!”
“About life? Perhaps not. About love? Surely nothing. But about this crime? You may hold the key!”
“Inspector, I barely even knew—”
“Do not leave Paris!” He spun to Ponton. “None of the key suspect are to leave the city! Clouseau has spoken.”
Xania sidled seductively up next to the inspector. “But, Inspector—does that include me? Next week I have…something or other to do in New York.”
He took her hand, gazed into the depths of her eyes. “My sweet, how could I stand in the way of something as important as that? Of course, you should feel free to go where you wish, as long as you let us know.”
The producer said, “Well, in that case, Inspector—”
He rotated to the producer. “You will not leave town!” Then he returned to the beautiful diva and said, “You must place your trust in Clouseau, my dear Xania.”
“How can I ever repay you, Inspector?”
He leaned close. “Perhaps, my sweet—one day, one Parisian night? You may lose your virginity to Jacques Clouseau, as well.”
Her smile was so innocent and yet so wicked.
“Perhaps,” she said.
SIX
Practice for Murder
The training facility of Team France required a drive to the suburbs, where Inspector Clouseau deposited his Renault in a parking lot in the shadow of the towering ultra-modern building. Looming was the team’s famous logo, mounted next to an International Championship insignia.
“Most impressive,” Ponton said, leaning out the car window.
Clouseau shut off the en
gine. “Thank you. But parking has been a specialty of mine for many years—you needn’t comment on that again. It would only embarrass me.”
Ponton said, “I will restrain myself.”
The large man took the lead, heading up the steps. Clouseau, smiling devilishly, mustache atwitch, came up quickly behind his pupil. Barely turning, Ponton parried the karate chop and caught Clouseau by the tie before he fell down the short flight.
“Are you all right, Inspector?”
“Of course I am all right!” His arms windmilled as he regained his footing. “I am merely…moved by the progress you are making, my large friend.” They were at the landing now. “Allow me…”
Clouseau opened the door and slammed it into Ponton, who tumbled backward down the steps.
The big man seemed only mildly dazed as Clouseau helped him to his feet. “Ah, but my enormous colleague, you must maintain the vigilance. The vigilance!”
Shortly, within the facility, the receptionist directed the detectives to Cherie Dubois, the team’s publicity person. An attractive, athletic-looking blonde in her twenties, wearing a Team France t-shirt and short skirt, she accompanied the men down the corridor.
“I’m afraid, Inspector,” she said, “I cannot take you to see Bizu.”
“Ah, but mademoiselle—there is no need to be afraid. Jacques Clouseau will protect you from this beast.”
“No, you…you don’t understand. Monsieur Bizu is unavailable at the moment. But I can take you to see Monsieur Vainqueur—he was the assistant coach…he is the new head coach, now.”
Clouseau seemed confused. “He…coaches the head? Is this really necessary? Most Frenchmen need no coaching in such—”
Ponton cleared his throat.
Clouseau gave his partner a look that seemed to say, What?
Cherie studied the inspector for a moment, and after spending several moments searching his eyes for intelligence, she gave up and said, “What I meant was, with Coach Gluant gone, Monsieur Vainqueur is the main coach.”
“Oh! Oh, I see.”
She stopped at a door and began to open it for them, but the inspector insisted that he be allowed to do her the honor.
With a gracious smile and nod, she stepped inside, while the gentlemanly Clouseau made a sweeping after-you gesture for Ponton, as well. The big man followed Clouseau, while Clouseau backed up to get a running start at him, and—karate-blade hands extended—he charged Ponton, who moved neatly aside, sending Clouseau flying into a practice net, which held him momentarily—a fly in its web—and sprang back to deposit him at Cherie’s feet.
The inspector stood, brushing himself off, laughing in a forced manner, “My oversized companion and I, we have the…what is the expression? The joke that runs. I hope you do not mind.”
Cherie said, “Not at all, Inspector.”
To Clouseau she seemed vaguely amused; he wondered what secret knowledge lay behind this strange attitude.
She was saying, “You know, Inspector Clouseau, I’ve never met a policeman like you before.”
“You are too generous, my child.”
Clouseau allowed Ponton and Cherie to take the lead as they made their way along the side of the gym, cluttered as it was with workout equipment, soccer balls and practice nets, a few players practicing or exercising here and there.
Ponton said to Cherie, “Have you worked here long, Mademoiselle Dubois?”
“Yes, for almost two years.”
“How did one so young come to be the team’s public relations representative?”
“Monsieur Gluant hired me,” she said, as if this answered Ponton’s question.
“Were you and he close?”
“Well…we worked closely, you would say.”
“Very closely?”
“Yes. Coach Gluant and I, we scouted players all over the world—our current trainer we hired away from the Russian military team, for example.”
Clouseau, his timing as precise as any athlete in the vast room, made his move.
He ran toward Ponton’s back, his deadly karate-chop hand poised; he would normally have pulled back on the blow, but Ponton could handle the full force, hulking brute that he was. With all of his considerable strength, Clouseau brought down the blade of his hand…
…against a chin-up bar.
The whang resounded, and Ponton and Cherie glanced back.
Clouseau patted the bar—with his other hand—and in an ear-to-ear smile that went well with his eyes…which seemed to be so happy that tears welled…the inspector said, “Ponton, make a note!”
“Yes, Inspector,” the big man said, and got out his little pad.
“We must write those in charge and commend them for the strength of the steel in this equipment! Too often you come upon shoddy workmanship, but not here, at the Team France training facility. I salute you, makers of this steel.”
And the inspector actually did salute, putting his other hand in contact with the chin-up bar, making only a clang this time.
Ponton asked the young woman, “If you worked this closely with the coach, did this inspire jealousy in other women? Xania, perhaps?”
“What other women?”
Ponton’s eyebrows raised. “You mean…Xania was the only one…?”
She let out a wicked laugh. “Xania! Don’t believe everything you read in the papers, Detective Ponton. I can tell you with utter certainty that Coach Gluant was finished with her—through!”
Clouseau caught up with them, asking, “Did Coach Gluant himself tell you this?”
“He did.”
“When did he tell you?”
“When we were making love, Inspector.”
Clouseau flashed a suave smile. “Ah, but you toy with me, my dear. You and I, we have not made the love…yet.”
“Not you! I mean him and me.”
“You…and Ponton?” Clouseau turned indignantly to his partner. “Ponton, how could you keep this from me? How long have you known this young woman!”
Cherie wedged herself between them. “Not him, you fool!”
Clouseau raised his brow. “I must respectfully request that you do not call my associate a fool. He may not be the sharpest stick in the crayon box, but—”
Cherie leaned in until her nose was almost touching Clouseau’s. “Read my lips, Inspector—I was sleeping with Yves.”
“Who is this woman, this mysterious…Eve?”
“Yves Gluant! Yves Gluant!”
Clouseau eyed her shrewdly. “I must ask you not to leave town, mademoiselle. You display a temper most formidable. You will make a charming addition to Clouseau’s list of the suspect.”
Her eyes flashed, her nostrils flared. “You boob!”
Clouseau touched Ponton’s sleeve. “Please. He is new.”
With an exasperated sigh, the young woman pointed to a man in dark sweats who had just entered the gymnasium.
“That’s who you want to talk to!” she said, and folded her arms.
Rugged, with curly hair and a rather pointed chin, the new arrival seemed less than friendly as he approached.
“I understand you wish to see me,” he said.
“This depends,” Clouseau said.
“On what?”
“On who you are.”
“My name is Vainqueur—and I’m in charge around here. Who the hell are you?”
Clouseau exchanged pointed glances with Ponton, then said, “I am Inspector Jacques Clouseau. You have perhaps heard of me?”
“No.”
Ponton began to write that down, and Clouseau stopped him.
“What do you want?” Vainqueur snapped. “We’re busy here. Training is a year-round affair for Team France.”
Raising an eyebrow, Clouseau said, “I understand there are many…’affairs’ in these circles.”
Vainqueur gave Cherie a suspicious look. Then the new head coach said, “I told you I am a busy man.”
“As am I,” Clouseau said. “As am I.”
“Then g
et busy!”
Clouseau arched another eyebrow, his lips pursing. “I am told that around here…many people ‘get busy’…”
“Listen, you pompous little ass.” Vainqueur got in Clouseau’s face. “If you have any questions, spit them out! I am in no mood for innuendo.”
“Then we will chase to the cut—how did you feel about Coach Gluant? Do you in fact…hate him? Or perhaps…despise him? Or might I say…abhor him?”
Vainqueur backed off. “And what if I did?”
“I would have to point out that he has been killed.”
A short snort and a shrug came from the new coach. “Not every death is a tragedy.”
“No, monsieur…but every murder is a crime! Why did you hate this man?”
The reply was almost a snarl. “Wouldn’t you hate someone who kept you under his thumb, and verbally abused you every day?”
Ponton was nodding.
The new coach continued: “Six years I spent at the whim of this egomaniac—I was no fan of Yves Gluant.”
Eyes tight, Clouseau said, “And yet now you have this murdered man’s job…ironic, is it not?”
“I do not see the irony, Inspector. Are we finished here?”
Ponton whispered to Clouseau, “I don’t see the irony, either, Inspector.”
Clouseau said, “Listen! Learn! Take your notes and do not—”
Through a nearby doorway came distant footsteps. Echoing. Echoing…
“This is your opportunity, my simple colleague! You will observe firsthand the skills of Jacques Clouseau…”
“Inspector,” Vainqueur said, “I have—”
“Shush!”
Clouseau listened to the sounds carefully, and then, in a soft yet sharp voice translated them: “High heels, these footsteps. Rather formal ones for this time of day, I would say…five feet two. Brunette. I would say…thirty to thirty-five years old, n’es-ce pas?”
A rather unprepossessing man in sweats entered, hauling soccer balls and a training bag.
Clouseau reared back. “Is anyone with you?”
“What?” the man said.
Clouseau leaned into the hallway. No one was around.
“Where is she?” he demanded of the stubby man.
“Where is who?”
“You were with no one?”
The Pink Panther Page 6