Ponton, moved himself, lifted his partner to his feet and provided a handkerchief for Clouseau to dry his eyes.
Xania was offhandedly explaining, “The purse was falling apart—each of these diamonds is precious, and must be firmly in place before tomorrow night.”
Clouseau, his poise nearly regained, asked, “And what is ‘tomorrow’?”
“The Presidential Ball. In Paris.”
His brow tensed. “But you are in New York…”
“And tomorrow I’ll fly back to Paris. You did say I needed to stay available in Paris…”
Clouseau beamed at her. He took one of her hands in both of his. “And I knew I could count on you, my darling suspect.”
Ponton, less charmed, asked, “Why did you arrange to see a black market diamond cutter for such a job?”
She flashed an irritated look at Ponton, snapping, “I told you—Sykorian is the best!” Then she returned her features to an innocent cast as she said to Clouseau, “I had no idea he had this other, underground reputation.”
The jeweler said, “It’s slander. My record is flawless…like my work.”
“But not like the Pink Panther, eh? Which has its distinctive flaw.”
“Yes, I know—a ‘lipping bist.’ ”
Clouseau took Xania aside. “My dear, why did you not tell Clouseau you were leaving…and the innocent reason behind it?”
She batted long eyelashes at him. “Well, just look at the fuss you’ve made! With the Pink Panther stolen, how could I go to a diamond dealer without arousing suspicion?”
“I must admit,” Clouseau said, “you did arouse me…”
The phone on the diamond cutter’s desk rang.
Clouseau held up a hand, and went to the ringing phone. “I will answer it. It may be one of your unscrupulous clients, Monsieur Skyroian, who will want some of the black market work done…and we will see how long your reputation, it remains spotless!”
Answering, Clouseau said, “Yes?”
Ponton watched in rapt anticipation…
“Yes,” Clouseau said, “you raise the point interesting, monsieur…No, no, no…I did not know these things!”
Clouseau and Ponton traded significant, sly smiles.
“Yes…yes. That does sound like a steal…Yes, let us go through with this scheme. As it happens…I am not happy with my phone service! I will take the plan five-year.”
Ponton sighed and watched the floor while Clouseau gave the operator his credit card information, then hung up.
“No one can say Clouseau did not accomplish anything here this afternoon!” the inspector said. “I believe I just made the deal very shrewd…”
Again the phone rang, but this time Ponton held up his hand, saying, “Let the machine take it.”
“Ah, yes,” Clouseau said. “Let the mysterious client leave the massage.”
The jeweler frowned. “The what?”
“Quiet, you fool!”
The voice on the machine had a European accent that Ponton could not quite place. “The ‘animal’ is out of its cage. And since you are the world’s greatest ‘trainer,’ it will find its way to you…in good time. Call me.”
The machine clicked off.
“Well,” Ponton said with satisfaction. “It is obvious that whoever that was has the Pink Panther!”
The jeweler looked at the nearest wall, his face an expressionless mask.
Clouseau chuckled patiently, and took Ponton’s face in his hands like that of an adorable child. “My silly, silly goose of a pupil. Sometimes the hot dog, she is merely the hot dog, the train tunnel, only the train tunnel, the two large balloon, only the two large balloon. Clearly this massage was in regard of an animal that had escaped from her cage. Nonetheless…”
The inspector thrust a pointing forefinger at the jeweler. “This answer-massage machine, she must not leave town! Is this understood?”
The jeweler’s eyes did not in fact register understanding, but he said just the same, “Uh…sure. Why not.”
Clouseau accompanied Xania as they left the warehouse, Ponton trailing, feeling somewhat shellshocked. As they reached the street, an ambulance was loading in gurneys bearing the trio of men in sunglasses and the two Asians from the earlier encounters.
“This is a rough neighborhood,” Xania said, and clutched Clouseau’s arm.
“Yes, my dear, in this savage American city,” Clouseau said, “the senseless violence, she is around every corner…Would you excuse me for a small moment?”
“Of course…”
Clouseau took Ponton aside and whispered, “I see that you were correct, my cunning friend—she knows much that she does not tell us. For example, what time is her plane leaving tomorrow?”
Ponton blinked. “Why not just ask her?”
“Too obvious. I need her to be inside of my confidence, and I to be inside of…her.”
Ponton frowned. “What…?”
Clouseau leaned even closer. “I believe the seduction ploy, she is called for.”
“Why don’t you just ask her?”
“But then she may be deceptive, whereas if I pump her for the information…”
Xania approached. “Uh, Inspector? Is there any chance you’d like to join me tonight, for dinner at the Waldorf?”
“Of course, mademoiselle! But my friend Ponton, he is busy this evening. He has the many museum to visit.”
Ponton frowned. “I do?…I mean, I do.”
Clouseau, stepping away from his partner, taking Xania by the arm, asked, “And what time, my dear?”
“Say…eight o’clock?”
He shrugged. “Eight o’clock.”
“Say…in my room, on the second floor?”
“In my room, on the second floor.”
“No…my room.”
“Oh. Yes, of course, your room.”
She smiled at him, with a wattage even the Pink Panther might well envy. “I’ll see you there, then.”
Clouseau, trembling, swallowed and managed, “Yes. Yes. There you will see me. You will see me there. There I will be seen…”
The devil was in her smile as she walked down the street, chocolate legs swishing under the white ice-cream dress, to hail a taxi.
Ponton was at Clouseau’s side, as the inspector said, “You see, my sizeable subordinate? She plays into my hands like the putty.”
“It could be a trap,” Ponton cautioned.
“It is a trap! It is Clouseau’s trap…She is the rat, and I am the cheese!”
Ponton nodded. “That sounds about right.”
ELEVEN
Cause for Alarm
Inspector Jacques Clouseau, after a brief fifteen-minute sojourn in the “swine revolving door,” entered the lavish lobby of the Waldorf Hotel. He wore his trademark trenchcoat and a small, anticipatory smile. Tonight, he thought, his eyes taking in the glitter of the impressive chandelier that seemed to sparkle with possibilities, is the night…
Xania met him at the door to her suite on the second floor, a suite only slightly smaller—and possibly more lavish—than the lobby itself; with its white walls and golden-upholstered plush furnishings, all that was missing was that enormous chandelier.
The singer still wore the same lovely white dress as this afternoon, and apologized: “I’ve had a busy day…I hope you don’t mind. We’ll just be informal and—”
He held up a traffic-cop palm and raised a “shush” finger to his lips.
Raising his voice a notch, he said, “Such very pleasant weather we are having…I hope this blissful weather, she continues…”
Soon Xania got the drift, as her guest prowled the large living room of the exquisite suite, checking behind chairs, curtains, even in the fireplace.
Then he curled a finger in “come” fashion and she stepped close to him. He whispered: “We are indeed alone, my dear…but I must still check for the boogs.”
“Boogs?”
“Boogs. The little tiny listening devices with eyes that spy upon
what we say.”
“Oh. Sure.”
And now the inspector brought his expert touch to sweeping the room for surveillance equipment, his fingers skimming the tops of doors, tripping nimbly along floorboards, looking in lamps, inspecting telephones, all in all a process that took a good five minutes while Xania, arms folded across her full bosom, watched with interest and, perhaps, amusement.
The floor was parquet, covered by various expensive throw rugs. Beneath an Oriental carpet Clouseau made a shocking discovery: a large metal plate screwed tight into the wood.
Xania began, “Did you find—”
Clouseau frowned and motioned her over, to share his unnerving find. He slipped an arm around her, drew him to her and, her Chanel in his nostrils, his eyes plunging to her plunging neckline, he whispered into her ear: “It is a large boog indeed. Say nothing. You are in the best of hands.”
She gave him a teasing look. “I hope to be.”
He waggled a finger. “Naughty girl, naughty, naughty…”
He knelt over the blatant listening device—what sort of fool did they take him for?—and examined the screws and wires, some of which held the devil in place, others of which no doubt served to enable electronic eavesdropping. He got out his Swiss Army knife, opened it, did not hurt himself, and deftly cut the wires, and began to carefully, gingerly unscrew the plate, listening and watching, just in case the trap for the boob had been laid…
He gestured for her to stand away as he leaned in and ever so slowly unscrewed the final screw…
He stood. “There—that should do it.”
“What’s that…grinding sound?”
Shrugging, Clouseau put the carpet back in place. “I hear nothing.”
“Metal against wood—don’t you hear it?”
The sound that followed was enormous—a shattering, earth-shaking crash, after which several shrill screams, muffled by the floor, could nonetheless be clearly heard.
“I heard that,” Clouseau admitted, having no idea that he had just caused the enormous chandelier to plunge into the middle of the lobby and shatter into shards on the floor.
She went to his arms and clung to him. “What could it have been?”
“Mice perhaps? The mouse, he scurries across the floor, and the woman, she screams. So silly, to be frightened of the mouse.”
Xania’s eyes were large. “Well, that sounded like some mouse…”
He shrugged. “This is after all New York. They have the pestilence problem, even at the fine hotel…Shall we call for the service of the room?”
Soon, having enjoyed a delicious lobster dinner, they sat by candlelight at a small room-service cart/table, Xania sipping a glass of wine, Clouseau boldly drinking his flaming glass of mojito.
“An unusual drink,” Xania observed.
“It was introduced to me,” Clouseau said with a suave wave, “by a close friend and colleague…in the Secret Service of England.”
“Do you ever get burned?”
“Only in love, my dear…Only in love…”
She sipped her wine, smiling just a little. “Sometimes I don’t know what to make of you, Inspector.”
“Make of me what you will.”
She shrugged a trifle. “I mean, you’re…a man of mystery.”
“Well, I am a man who solves the mysteries, this is true. But one mystery I cannot solve.”
“Yes?”
He leaned nearer her. “Why were you so elusive today?”
“What do you mean?”
“You walked many blocks from this hotel to that shabby district of the warehouse. My partner Ponton and I, we followed you.”
“I know. Behind those newspapers.”
She rose from the little table and sat on a nearby sofa, patting the cushion beside her—right beside her.
Clouseau rose and sat where she had indicated, saying, “You did not mind that your tail we followed?”
“No. I’m not afraid of you.” Her smile was mischievous; then it disappeared. “But I am afraid of Raymond Larocque.”
Clouseau frowned. “Has he threatened you, this swine Larocque?”
“Not directly, but he has sent out word on the street, threatening to kill anyone in possession of the Pink Panther. He believes it is rightfully his.”
“Yes. Your late friend Gluant owed him much money. But why, of the many suspects of this theft, would he follow you, my sweet?”
Her eyelashes fluttered. “Well, after all, I was in New York to see a diamond cutter. He might have jumped to the wrong conclusion.”
He bestowed his most debonair smile. “You know, a man sitting next to you, in your private suite…he might jump to the wrong conclusion, also.”
“Or…” She reached a slender hand across the table and touched his. “…the right one. I have heard things about you.”
“That, for example, I am French?” He leaned in sideways to sip his mojito from the nearby room-service table, the back of his hair catching fire, just a little, providing a low blue flame that neither he nor his lady friend noticed.
“That you know how to treat a woman.” She touched her breasts, a hand on either. “Would you like to touch them…?”
“Oh yes. Very much.”
She blinked. “Why don’t you then?”
“Oh. Oh! Yes…I will touch them.”
And he did. He murmured into her ear, “The heat of your love…it burns me. I am aflame with desire…”
“And now,” she said, with a wicked smile, a hand sliding down his midsection, “I will touch you…”
He sprang to his feet. “And so the games of love, they begin. If you will let me slip away, my darling…to prepare…for the making of the love.”
Clouseau backed away from her, blowing kisses that she returned; that the back of his hair was aflame had not yet registered on either of them.
His back to the bathroom door, he gazed at her with his sexiest French one-eyebrow-cocked come-hither look, then sniffed the air, and asked, “Do you smell burning rubber, my pet?…No matter.”
Her lips pursed sensuously; her eyes were half-lidded; and her voice was a purr as she said, “I will slip into something special for you, Jacques, and meet you back here…on the couch…”
“This is a rendezvous I will kept, my sweet Xania…”
Within the bathroom, Clouseau reached desperately into his pockets. He had a small problem. The stresses of being a great detective had taken a big toll. And so finally he found the tiny vial, which was marked VIAGRA—EXTRA STRENGTH.
He opened the bottle and saw the single precious pill within. I must renew that prescription, he thought. Perhaps I should make the note…
He shook the little blue pill into his left palm. Then he put down the vial, picked the pill up in thumb and middle finger, and lifted it to gaze upon as if it were as precious a jewel as the Pink Panther itself; and in the mirror, he saw that his hair was on fire.
He yelped, jumping with surprise and pain, and the little pill took a trip—it made a high journey into the air, just missing the ceiling, did a somersault, and performed a perfect dive into the sink, rolling down the drain.
Clouseau could not react to this with the proper horror until he had put his hair out; patting the flames away with a towel, he sighed—he felt fine, no burning—and he lifted the vial, realizing finally that his only pill had gone down a pipe as straight and stiff as he was not.
Frantically, he read the label: REFILLS: ONE.
He peeked out the bathroom door and saw Xania returning from her bedroom in a sheer blue nightie. He stared at her lush, curvaceous beauty; then down at himself.
Nothing.
And if that sight didn’t do it, then only a refill would…
On the room service cart, pushed away from where Xania reclined in all her glory on the couch, that mojito was flaming high now. Best get rid of that.
He tiptoed into the room, unseen as he snatched the out-of-control drink from the table, and—as Xania lay in a light
slumber, awaiting her lover, moving sensually with the thought of delights to come—Clouseau crept from the hotel suite, grabbing his trenchcoat as he went.
By the time he got to the lobby, he had the trenchcoat on, and the mojito’s flames were leaping higher. Casually he dumped the drink into a potted tree, and moved quickly through the lobby, in and around maintenance men who were clearing out a formidable pile of broken glass from the lobby floor. Whatever could that have been?
Out on the street, his empty pill bottle tight in his hand, he ran to the nearest pharmacy; but just as he went to enter, the druggist turned a CLOSED sign toward him. Frantically, Clouseau held up the vial, pounding on the glass with his fist, his eyes pleading. The druggist shrugged and disappeared into the store, shutting off lights as he went.
By the time Clouseau had reached the third pharmacy—slowed up just a little by the need to cross the crosswalks in the proper posture—he realized that time was running out. Sweet Xania would notice his absence, and when he finally returned, he would have explaining to do, with only the flimsiest of excuses.
Like all detectives, Clouseau knew that even the best of men, when pushed to the wall, could turn to crime; and he was no exception.
From his trenchcoat pocket he took Secret Agent Boswell’s glass-cutting device with its attached suction cup. Looking all around, finding this side street empty of anything but parked cars and damp pavement, he went to work on the glass with the cutter, the cup securely attached.
Soon his work was complete.
And the glass around the square he had cut fell to the pavement, shattering all around him, leaving him standing there with a square of glass attached to his suction cup.
Nonetheless, five minutes later, now wearing a Waldorf robe, Clouseau slipped out of the bathroom, having taken two little blue pills, just to be sure…
In her provocative pose, Xania lay back on the couch like a pin-up come magically to life. Her lovely lipsticked lips parted to say, “You do like to keep a girl waiting…oh! What is it you have there!”
“It is all part of the game of love,” he said, and dropped the robe. It caught on something, then he flicked it to the floor and stood there naked as the day he was born, except for the t-shirt, boxer shorts and black socks.
The Pink Panther Page 13