The Pink Panther

by Max Allan Collins

  Clouseau gave Ponton a sharp look. “You must not call Xania a fool! It is insulting and unkind—she cannot help her feelings, poor thing.”

  Shaking his head, sighing, Ponton said, “She is a suspect. You must regard her as such until such time as she has been cleared.”

  The inspector thought about that for several long moments, then said, “You are right! She may not be the killer, but I am convinced that she knows more than she is telling us, eh? And where is she now?”

  Ponton smirked. “She left Paris suddenly—for America.”

  Eyes narrowing, Clouseau said, “It is a big place, my friend, but she cannot hide from us there.”

  “She isn’t hiding—she’s gone to New York, after she was told not to leave the city!”

  “I see—she has gone the Apple Beeg to record? To make the video musique? To shoot the film?”

  With heavy sarcasm, Ponton said, “No—on ‘unspecified business.’ ”

  Shrugging, Clouseau said, “Well, at least she had a good reason.”

  Ponton pressed. “Perhaps we should follow her to New York, Inspector…and see exactly what this ‘business’ is.”

  Clouseau shook his head. “No, Ponton, I will tell you what we will do—we will follow her to New York. And we will see exactly what this business is!”

  Ponton just looked at him. Then he said, “Excellent idea, Inspector. Any other orders?”

  “Just one—find me the greatest dialect coach in France! It is not enough to speak the English flaw-less—I must have the American accent, so as not to arouse suspicion.”

  Ponton frowned. “Do you really think that is necessary, Inspector…?”

  “I do. Do you have any idea how they feel about the French over there right now?”

  Ponton’s eyes widened. “Good point, Inspector. But do you think the answer is in America? And as French police officers, can we even make an arrest in New York?”

  The inspector put a hand on his charge’s shoulder. “Ponton, if we can make it there,” Clouseau said, “we can make it anywhere…”

  Ponton was thinking about that when Clouseau charged him from his blind side, the large man stepping to one side to send the inspector over, catching him by the collar before the water could take him.

  Dangling, Clouseau said, “Nice catch, Ponton! And now, let us do the same with the killer!”

  TEN

  Manhattan Malady

  To Detective Second Class Gilbert Ponton, Inspector Jacques Clouseau remained something of an enigma—a clumsy, bumbling enigma, to be sure; but an enigma nonetheless.

  It seemed that only two assumptions were made by those around Clouseau—that he was an unparalleled hero, an investigative genius, which his capture of the Gas-Mask Bandits seemed to support; or an absolute boob, a fool of the first order, as Chief Inspector Dreyfus assumed (and as much of what Ponton himself had observed would seem to indicate).

  And yet.

  There were times when Ponton wondered if this idiot might not be an idiot savant—he had a detective’s instincts, and certain abilities, a flair for foreign languages among them, though Ponton doubted the ever-increasing list of “tongues” the inspector claimed to have mastered.

  And Clouseau truly was brave, if stupidly so at times. His frequent attacks upon Ponton, a much larger man, were indications of the foolhardy inspector’s enormous, possibly misguided, selfconfidence.

  Now they were in New York, on the streets of Manhattan, and at a sidewalk stand Clouseau was ordering a hamburger—in an over-exaggerated, but admittedly thoroughly American, accent…which had only taken the inspector a full day to master (“hamburger” for many hours having been something along the lines of “hum-bearg-air”).

  They had arrived yesterday, and Clouseau’s accent had been so convincing when they had checked into their hotel—La Sofitel—that the French desk clerk had muttered to himself in their native tongue, “stupid American,” not knowing Clouseau (and Ponton) understood.

  What had followed was one of those moments that made Ponton wonder: Clouseau had had trouble with the pen provided at check-in, and requested a loan of the personal pen of that clerk (later privately referred to by the inspector as the “swine clerk”).

  When the patronizing, sneering clerk had complied, Clouseau continued to fill in the registration forms, and then handed back the pen…which the clerk put in his breast pocket, unaware that an ink blot had begun immediately to blossom there. Clouseau called back, grinning, in his most exaggerated American accent, “Have a good one!”

  Stupidity on Clouseau’s part?

  Or cunning?

  Ponton could never quite be sure. All he knew was that he felt guilty over reporting to Renard and Dreyfus behind his partner’s back. Last night, sharing the double bed the “swine clerk” had provided them, the two men had talked in the dark, like the old friends they were beginning to be.

  Clouseau had admitted an attraction to Xania, but had said, “True love, my friend? It has not yet come Clouseau’s way. I, uh…never see you with the women?”

  Ponton, realizing that he was one of two men sharing a single bed, had said reassuringly—and truthfully: “I am married, Inspector.”

  “But I see no ring.”

  “If the criminals of the underworld knew I was married, my wife, my Marie, she might be in danger.”

  “Ah! So wise. You are not the fool you at times seem, Ponton. You must love her very much.”

  “I do. To me, she is the most desirable woman in the world. And you?”

  “I have never met your wife, but I am sure she is—”

  “No, I mean…is there a woman besides Xania in your life? Nicole, perhaps?”

  “Ah, Nicole…such a sweet, innocent child.”

  Ponton, remembering the positions he’d seen Clouseau and the secretary share, had said gently, “But you seem so…intimate.”

  “She is my pupil, like you, my friend. A naif in the ways of the world. Could a simple soul such as her keep up with the career, the life, the passions of Clouseau? This I doubt, very much.”

  “Well, it is hard.”

  In the darkness a few seconds passed before Clouseau had responded: “…uh, what is hard?”

  “To meet the woman, in the life we lead. The life of danger. The hours so long.”

  “Ah, Ponton, you are learning. You are learning.”

  Indeed Ponton was learning: within moments he had deflected Clouseau’s shot in the dark and punched him in the stomach.

  “Oooh!…Good night, Ponton, my vigilant friend.”

  “Good night.”

  “That hurt, you know.”

  “If you attack me in my sleep, Inspector, the next one will hurt more.”

  Clouseau had chuckled, or was that a whimper? “No, I think we have enough of the lesson tonight, my big little star pupil, star pupil…”

  Now that they’d eaten a quick lunch as they walked the busy sidewalks of Manhattan, Ponton strode happily along with Inspector Clouseau. They were on their way to Xania’s hotel, the Waldorf. Ponton had used his laptop computer in their room at the Sofitel to make a computer check of the singer’s phone records—from New York to France and back to New York, the cyber trace went…revealing two phone calls she had made to a certain jeweler—a Simon Sykorian.

  As they strolled along on this sunny day, Ponton reported these new findings; Clouseau, after taking it all in (Ponton hoped), asked, “This Sykorian, if he is a jeweler, why is this suspicious? Certainly a lovely woman like Xania has a right to adorn herself with the jewel.”

  Though he used the American accent only when called for, the inspector insisted upon English while in New York, with Clouseau’s unique French accent and word-mangling patois making the trip.

  “Ah, but Sykorian is a notorious scoundrel, Clouseau.”

  Nodding sagely, Clouseau asked, “Have you noticed this, Ponton? How many of these scoundrels, they are also notorious?”

  “Uh, yes. Anyway, he’s a black market d
iamond cutter.”

  Clouseau stopped dead. “Do not tell me…”

  “Yes. The Pink Panther, our nation’s most revered symbol of wealth and power, could be carved up in smaller pieces, for fencing purposes.”

  “I asked you not to tell me!”

  “There’s the Waldorf. Let us cross here, Inspector, and—”

  Clouseau’s arm gripped Ponton’s. “No. You must not walk as the jay! They are very strict about their laws traffique…We will go to the corner and remain inconspicuous.”

  They waited with other pedestrians for the red hand, indicating STOP, to turn to green; only it was not green, rather white, a bent-over crooked figure indicating WALK. To indicate to Ponton his strict compliance with the American traffic regulations, Clouseau crossed in that same distorted posture.

  Ponton thought, Fool…clown…eccentric? Who can know?

  When they reached the Waldorf, Xania—as if on cue—emerged, looking stunning in a white dress that complemented her creamy chocolate complexion and showed off her full bosom nicely. The only nod toward keeping a low profile was her floppy creamy brown hat with a white band, a blue purse slung over one arm.

  Clouseau took Ponton’s elbow and whispered: “Perhaps she will take us to this notorious scoundrel. We will shadow her…”

  “But she knows us, Inspector!”

  Keeping the singer in his sight, Clouseau stopped at a newsstand and purchased two tabloids. He handed one to Ponton, keeping the other for himself.

  “The newspaper ploy,” Clouseau explained, with a wicked little smile.

  As they followed the beautiful woman, they covered their faces with newspapers. To Ponton’s consternation, Clouseau insisted upon reverting to the distorted “walking man” posture when they crossed at pedestrian lights; hardly Ponton’s idea of staying inconspicuous…

  Nonetheless, Xania apparently did not make them, and within half an hour she had led them onto a side street where warehouses faced each other glaringly. The sophisticated Manhattan ambience had shifted suddenly into a film noir nightmare of suspicious vans, shoddy storefronts and seedy characters.

  “And so,” Clouseau said, lowering his newspaper, “we are in that most famous of criminal districts, an area notorious for crime…”

  Ponton lowered his tabloid, as well. “And what is that, Inspector?”

  Clouseau flashed him a darkly meaningful glance. “The…Warehouse District!…Newspapers!”

  The detectives snapped their newspapers protectively in place, Xania having paused to look back over her shoulder. They continued to follow her thusly, until Clouseau inadvertently fell down the stairs into a subway entry.

  But he emerged none the worse for wear on the opposite stairs, just as Xania was rounding the next corner.

  When Clouseau and Ponton came around that same corner, however, she had disappeared; but the clip-clop of her high heels alerted them to where she had gone: the nearest warehouse. They slipped inside, via a loading dock, and found themselves standing before a bank of freight elevators, one of them already rising—most likely, with the beautiful object of their surveillance in it.

  Clouseau pointed to the elevator floor indicator: 12.

  “That is our destination,” the inspector said to his assistant. Then he frowned. “As the American argot has it, I smell something…fishy.”

  “We did pass two fish markets,” Ponton said helpfully, jerking a thumb behind him.

  “No, I make the play on the words. Here—perhaps we should take the stairs, not the elevator.”

  But before they could make that decision, another of the elevators came to rest, a slatted wooden door swung up, and out stepped three tall, muscular men wearing dark, tight suits, sunglasses and sneers.

  The nearest one, a craggy-faced character, snarled, “What’s your business here?”

  Clouseau and Ponton exchanged glances as the trio approached. That their eyes were shielded by the opaque lenses made them all the more menacing.

  Summoning his best American accent, Clouseau asked, “We’re looking for a diamond cutter.”

  “There’s no diamond cutter in this building.”

  “Not even of the…black market variety?”

  The craggy-faced man’s sneer grew and his hand slipped inside his suitjacket.

  Clouseau threw a karate chop that dropped the man, and the fight was on, Ponton taking out one with a flip over his shoulder, sending the brute sprawling to the cement, Clouseau mostly chopping the air with bladed hands but making occasional contact, ducking all blows, Ponton taking the remaining two out at the same time, with a punch and a kick.

  The trio lay unconscious on the floor; it was so quick they still wore their sunglasses, though one lens was spider-webbed.

  “This is what they call in America,” Clouseau said, “the Welcome Wagon.”

  “They seem to have fallen off it,” Ponton observed.

  “You did very well! Very well! You see, my substantial sidekick! These lessons, these surprise attacks…they pay off!”

  They rode up the freight elevator, which stopped at the sixth floor.

  Clouseau frowned at Ponton. “We make the unscheduled stop…Vigilance, my friend. Vigilance.”

  Two Asian men, burly, sinister of face, in tasteless sportshirts and tight trousers, stepped aboard. One took Clouseau’s side, the other Ponton’s. The Asians stared at the two detectives with openly threatening expressions.

  The tension mounted as the elevator rose, seventh floor, eighth floor, ninth…

  “Now, Ponton!” Clouseau said, as he executed a karate chop to the belly of the Asian nearest him.

  Ponton grabbed the man at his side and thrust him into the wall of the elevator, its wood and steel clattering.

  But these two were not pushovers, and the fight on the elevator was a brutal thing, its participants bouncing off the walls and each other, an exchange of savage blows, some missing, some connecting…

  When the elevator reached the twelfth floor, however, the two Asian “swine” were in a pile, out cold, like the sunglassed thugs who’d dared assault the French detectives below.

  Ponton sent the unconscious men down, and joined Clouseau in the open loft, where various work and storage areas were interspersed. Way across the room, opposite the elevators, a small, rather nondescript, fifty-ish man with a jeweler’s loupe over his right eye, and in white shirtsleeves and dark apron, sat at a work station while Xania, distinctive in the floppy light-brown hat and stark white dress, stood watching.

  The man, obviously the jeweler Sykorian, had a small saw in hand, and it was buzzing, as he leaned over a glittering object in a vise.

  “Like the ice you will freeze!” Clouseau demanded.

  Xania looked sharply toward them, as did the jeweler, who removed the loupe to give the attention of both his eyes to these intruders.

  The detectives strode over, Clouseau saying, “Stop what you are doing! And you need not try to flee—you are defenseless! We have already put out of the commission your thugs of the strongarm!”

  By this time they were all but on top of the jeweler—an average-looking fellow but for his slitted, hard gaze and a harsh, full-lipped mouth that right now was scowling.

  “What thugs?” he asked, with more confusion than indignation.

  “Do not bother playing the game! Your bodyguards, these men strong of back and weak of mind who you have patrolling this building!”

  “There’s no security here,” the jeweler said, with a little shrug, “until nightfall. There’s not much at all going on in this building right now—just the sunglasses shop and the Chinese carryout joint.”

  “Ah.” Clouseau turned to Ponton and whispered, “You may owe someone an apology, my impulsive friend.”

  Ponton, ignoring that, displayed his badge to the jeweler. “Sorry to interrupt you…but what exactly are you cutting there?”

  “What does it look like? A diamond—pink. Seven carats. Clear. Why?”

  Clouseau thrust hi
mself forward. “Clear? There is no flaw at the center? Of a bist that is lipping?”

  “A what that is what?”

  “A bist that she is lipping! A lipping bist! A lipping bist, you fool.”

  Xania, matter of fact, explained: “A leaping beast. He thinks this is the famous Pink Panther.”

  The jeweler laughed humorlessly. “Don’t be ridiculous. This is a clear stone—a gift from the French Minister of Justice for his new mistress. I am to provide a setting.”

  Clouseau’s eyes narrowed. “And why would the Minister of France come to you, a jeweler in New York, to provide the setting for him and his mistress in which to play?”

  “No, you imbecile—it’s a setting for the jewel! I’m to set it.”

  Ponton was leaning over, examining the diamond in the small vise. “He tells the truth. This is not the Pink Panther.”

  Clouseau, his pride ruffled, turned to Xania, chin high. “And what are you doing here, sneaking around like the naughty schoolgirl who needs the spanking? Why have you left Paris?”

  From the diamond cutter’s desk nearby, Xania lifted a small clutch purse, a dark little thing studded with diamonds and stunning in its ornate deco design.

  “Mr. Sykorian is the best at what he does,” she explained, with a smile even more dazzling than the diamonds in the fancy purse she displayed. “This is a valuable, priceless item, and only he could properly repair it.”

  Clouseau said, “I see. And what is it that makes this purse so priceless?”

  She lifted an eyebrow casually. “It once belonged to Josephine Baker.”

  Clouseau’s eyes popped open. “Mon dieu…” He crossed himself, and Ponton felt himself melt inside, at the name of the renowned entertainer, beloved by all of France.

  “It was a gift to her in nineteen fifty-seven,” Xania said, and then dropped her second bomb: “Given to Josephine Baker by…Jerry Lewis.”

  Clouseau dropped to his knees, and hung his head, and held out prayerfully clasped hands, beseeching her, “Forgive, my dear! Forgive me for doubting you…”