She sneered at Huang in the mirror, and he gave her a pouty look, and turned away.
Larocque put a hand on her bare shoulder. “Don’t misunderstand me…I couldn’t care less if you killed Yves Gluant a thousand times. I would have rather he suffered, frankly, but I will settle for dead.”
She removed that cold hand from her flesh. “This is a private dressing room. You and your date, get out of here.”
Ignoring that, Larocque cast a gaze that held hers as he said, “All I care about is that ring…the Pink Panther. It belongs to me.”
Her lips were firm as she said, “First of all, I don’t have the stupid goddamn thing. Second, why in hell would it belong to you, anyway?”
The casino owner straightened, folded his arms, but his eyes were still locked with hers in the mirror. “I think you know the reasons…the debt your late lover owed me. But that’s not important.”
“Oh? What is it?”
“That I want it. That I want to possess the Pink Panther, much as so many men look at you and want to possess your flesh and the nicely rounded package it protects. But what they don’t understand, such men, is how fleeting beauty can be. I am a collector—I desire beauty of permanence.”
Her eyes shot icicles at him, but she said nothing.
His fingers caressed her cheek—his touch had been cold before; now it was hot.
“Yes, beauty can be fleeting, don’t you think? A splash of acid, the flick of a blade…How sad it would be for ugly things to happen to such a very pretty girl…”
When Larocque and Huang had left her alone in the dressing room, Xania looked at herself in the mirror, at the features that had combined with her talent to put her at the top of the entertainment game.
Then she buried her face in her hands and wept.
When she was done, she cleansed her face and again, methodically, coolly, began to reapply her make-up.
Before long, the lights dimmed, and the audience turned toward the stage, where they could see the silhouette of a lovely woman, applying lipstick…
Then the lights came up and Xania turned and smiled at them, as if she’d been caught in a private moment, and tucked her lipstick tube in the ever-present purse, which she lay on the piano nearby, moving toward the microphone.
She began with one of her hits, an upbeat number with techno touches, at once retro and yet very twenty-first century. Even the older dignitaries among the distinguished crowd were impressed by her beauty, confidence and obvious talent, as she wove a spell both melodic and rhythmic.
Not all eyes were on the beauty onstage, however—Dreyfus’s security team did their best to visually roam the crowd and the periphery, their view especially on any possible entrance or exit.
But in lighting that had gone subdued in honor of the entertainer onstage, the guards missed a subtle movement toward the top of those floral curtains beside the wide expanse of windows. Had the lights been up full, security might have seen Clouseau—in one of his best disguises, face forward, arms spread as if Leonardo da Vinci had drawn him—camouflaged against the curtains in a unitard of the exact same floral pattern. Near him a larger lump in the curtain proved to be Ponton, similarly attired.
The two detectives, on their backs, managed to move clingingly along the curtains until that expanse of marble above the windows, at which point they flipped over and revealed the opposite side of their unitards, which perfectly matched the color and veined-marble pattern of the wall, fingertips hugging a lip along the top.
The only one in the room who noticed these flies on the wall was Nicole—her glasses on again—and she alone knew what they were up to. When she spotted Dreyfus regarding her with narrowed eyes, she returned her attention to the stage, and moved nearer to her boss, looping an arm through his and commenting on how wonderful Xania was.
Dreyfus, eyes still tight, mouth open, nodded numbly, then glanced toward the windows where he saw nothing. He next cast his gaze at Dr. Pang, who was wandering from his position in the crowd back to one of the several bars.
Dreyfus spoke into his lapel mike. “Under no circumstances lose Pang…I want him under surveillance every second!”
Then, with a sigh, the chief inspector returned his attention to the stage. This Xania was a pleasant enough performer, but he really did not enjoy seeing anyone but himself in the spotlight.
Flipping back into the floral pattern, the precarious pair made it across the second set of curtains, then became marble again and soon slipped from above and swung down in an open door, unseen by guards standing nearby, their backs to these human insects.
“This wardrobe man of yours,” Ponton whispered, “he is a genius.”
He and Clouseau were at the bottom of a dark stairwell, getting out of their unitards.
“There is only one Balls,” Clouseau admitted to Ponton, now outfitted in similarly tight-fitting black catsuits like those the Gas-Mask Bandits had worn, covering all but the eyes of the wearer.
“What is the rest of the plan?” Ponton asked, his voice still hushed.
“There will be an attempt on Xania’s life,” Clouseau said, “but it will not be from the audience—the chief inspector has his security men too well placed for that.”
“You suspect the assassin will strike from elsewhere?”
“Yes—studying the plans of the building, only the roof makes sense, and…what is that, my friend? Footsteps?”
And it was indeed footsteps, above them.
“I see him!” Ponton said, leaning out to look up. “He is all in black!”
“The bad ones, they always wear the black,” Clouseau said, and the two men—in black—took pursuit.
Coincidences do happen.
And one of them happened that night, although perhaps it was an instance of great minds thinking alike; or at least, minds thinking alike…
For just as Clouseau had thought that to mimic the apparel of the Gas-Mask Bandits would be useful, providing a distracting and confusing element to the proceedings, so too had calculated the killer stalking Xania.
He, also, wore a black skintight catsuit that revealed only his eyes. And he, as well, had made himself familiar with the plans of the Presidential Palace. There the similarities between killer and detective ended.
For under the killer’s arm was tucked a weapon, zipped away in a protective pouch—no ordinary weapon, either; it would kill quickly, and silently, and for a while, when the singer collapsed onstage, confusion would reign. Unlike a gunshot, exactly what had happened—and from whence death had emanated—would not immediately be apparent…long enough for him to slip away…
Right now, courtesy of those blueprints, the killer was taking the route that led him to just the right window, easily reached by stepping up onto a chair, which would give him access to the roof. Within moments, he was standing on the roof of the palace, under a sky flung with stars, in a breeze as soothing as the thought of life without those bastards Yves Gluant and Bizu, or (soon) that bitch Xania…
He padded across the roof toward the prominent jut of the skylight. According to the building plans, the skylight should provide a window with an overview of the ballroom, and a decent angle on the stage. He stopped and, almost prayerfully, knelt at what should be the right spot…
And was.
He had the perfect view of Xania, who was singing her heart out even as she provided an equally perfect target.
He removed from the zippered pouch his weapon—a crossbow. He loaded it. The projectile that would strike Xania in the throat, however, was no arrow—nothing so unsophisticated would do. This was a bullet of sorts, albeit notched and feathered, nothing to stick out of the dead woman’s neck to point back at him.
She should be grateful, this nasty bitch—she would be a legend, thanks to him! Her record sales would skyrocket. She would be richer than she had ever dreamed, swimming in money…
Just a little too dead to spend any of it…
Clouseau and Ponton were not doing as well.
The masks kept slipping down over their eyes, and when Clouseau wasn’t bumping into furniture, Ponton was bumping into him. They had taken the stairway to a hall, and they had lost their prey—no footsteps, no man in black, nothing but each other.
“Did you see where he went?” Ponton asked, out of breath.
“No. I must have Balls write the manufacturer of this outfit and complain about this swine mask.”
“I don’t know—looks kind of spiffy on you, Inspector.”
Beneath the mask, Clouseau beamed. “Well, thank you, Ponton, I—”
“Inspector—look! It is ajar!”
Clouseau moved the mask into place and followed Ponton’s pointing finger to the gaping window above the chair. “No, my unobservant friend, that is not a jar. It is a window…but more significantly, it is open!”
Nodding, Ponton said, “Those building plans indicate that window leads out to a half-roof, and from there—”
Clouseau’s eyes flared. “The skylight!”
As they moved toward the window, they had a view on the skylight above, and could see another window, more than ajar: open…and through it pointed downward the snout of a crossbow.
Clouseau clutched Ponton by the arm. “While it is true that there are perhaps a million of the explanation why a crossbow might be harmlessly pointing down into a room of party guests, we must not take the chance! To the roof!”
Ponton helped Clouseau through the window, and—for once—no mishaps ensued; within moments they were on the roof, and could see the kneeling figure in black, his finger wrapped around the crossbow trigger.
The two detectives ran across the rooftop, and the killer, seeing them, got to his feet, ditched his weapon, and ran.
“Goddamn you lousy cops!” the killer blurted in English.
Master of languages that he was, Clouseau called out, on the run, “The zheeg, she is urrp!”
The killer had no idea that Clouseau had just told him “the jig is up,” but did not linger for discussion. Using his knowledge of the building’s layout, the killer leapt down onto a lower level of rooftop, to slip back inside through another window.
And one man in black was pursued by two others.
Unaware that the former Inspector Clouseau and his ex-partner, Detective Second Class Gilbert Ponton, were chasing an assassin through the corridors of the Presidential Palace, Chief Inspector Charles Dreyfus was about to make his move.
He had already signaled his men to encircle Dr. Pang.
Xania’s performance had ended, and she was taking a bow to enthusiastic applause from the sophisticated audience.
Dreyfus whispered to his security chief, via lapel mike, “Time to let in the Fourth Estate.”
Patiently the chief inspector waited for several minutes until he noted the media streaming in through virtually every door, cameras and microphones at the ready.
Into his lapel mike, Dreyfus snapped, “Now!”
Suddenly China’s Minister of Sport—his latest cocktail in hand—stood with shocked eyes, swivelling as he realized men all around were bearing in, pointing handguns right at him.
The ripple of excitement and, yes, fear that moved through the crowd only pleased Dreyfus. This night, this moment, was one these self-important VIPs would never forget.
Like the Red Sea opening for the Chosen People, the crowd parted for Chief Inspector Charles Dreyfus as he walked slowly, deliberately toward the Chinese dignitary, who stood frozen, too disconcerted to be indignant.
Or perhaps…too guilty.
“Allow me to welcome you to tonight’s festivities, Dr. Pang,” Dreyfus said. “I represent the government of France, specifically the Police Nationale. I welcome you even though you have insulted us, coming here to make a mockery of our country and her officials.”
Now Dr. Pang’s eyes drew tight and he said, “How dare you! Who do you think you are, making—”
“I am Chief Inspector Charles Dreyfus…and I am here to arrest you, Dr. Pang, in the name of the great nation of France, for the murder of Yves Gluant!”
Another wave of excitement rolled across the assemblage, and flashbulbs popped and strobed as if a small fireworks display had been set off to honor the great detective who had solved France’s most important mystery.
But another commotion trumped Dreyfus’s moment.
A clatter on the landing of the stairway at left turned every eye in the room onto three men in black—one on the run, two in hot pursuit.
Ooohs and aaahs ensued as a scene of action straight out of the cinema played out before the astonished eyes of the partygoers.
The man in the lead leapt onto the endless bannister and began to slide expertly down. The nearest pursuer followed suit, and he too began a gliding ride.
Dreyfus stepped forward, thrust a finger toward the melee, and turned purple as he shouted to Renard, “One of them must be Clouseau! Arrest him at once!”
Renard, confounded by this, shrugged with open hands. “But which is Clouseau?”
The third man in black leapt onto the bannister and promptly fell off, tumbling over the ledge.
“That would be Clouseau,” Dreyfus said.
But just as Clouseau had tumbled over the ledge, the man in the lead—the killer—nimbly alighted from the bannister and began to round the corner, toward a nearby door. The killer did not count on Jacques Clouseau, however; or at least, did not count on Jacques Clouseau falling directly on him, and flattening him like a squashed boog.
Bug.
Clouseau leapt to his feet. “In the name of the statutes and laws of the great nation of France, I arrest you for the murder of Yves Gluant!”
Other than the echo of Clouseau’s voice, no sound could be heard in the great hall.
Then Clouseau ripped the mask from the killer’s catsuit and revealed his features to the world.
“You are the killer,” Clouseau declared. “Yuri…the trainer who trains!”
The newsmen whose cameras had been centered on Dreyfus and his suspect, Dr. Pang, had by now all swung around on the former inspector and his suspect.
Ponton hauled Yuri to his feet, but there were no denials from the killer.
In fact, he blurted a confession that was caught by half a dozen video cameras.
“Yves Gluant…” Yuri spat on the floor. “…he was nothing! A pretty face, a poster boy! It was I who drew up the plays, who designed Team France’s brilliant offense! He takes credit for my genius! He takes this from me, and tells me I am lucky that he ‘saved’ me from Mother Russia. He treats me like a piece of meat! Now he is the piece of meat…the piece of dead meat.”
Dreyfus stumbled forward. “But the poison was Chinese…?”
Ponton said to Clouseau, “Yes, Inspector—why did you suspect Yuri when the evidence pointed elsewhere?”
“The wrong evidence, she pointed elsewhere,” Clouseau said. “The right evidence, she pointed to this man, to this moment. Think back? You were there, Ponton—when I interrogated the Chinese woman? She say to me, ‘Why do you bother me, you fool? Just because I am Chinese, and this soccer player was killed with a Chinese poison? Why don’t you question the soccer trainers—they are required to have knowledge of Chinese herbs!’ ”
Dreyfus was scowling in stunned disbelief. “I never heard of such a thing…”
“I know,” Ponton said, dumbfounded. “He really does know Chinese…”
“The Yu woman was right,” Clouseau said. “I looked it up myself—statute 87223…every trainer of the national soccer team must have knowledge of the Chinese herbs.”
His upper lip peeled back, Dreyfus blurted, “There’s no such statute under French law!”
Clouseau waggled a gently lecturing finger. “Not under French law—in the rule and regulation of the French sporting code. This knowledge of the herb Chinese, it makes child’s play for Yuri to fashion the poison dart, and kill this coach he despised, while sending the less experienced investigator on the chase for the wild Chines
e goose.”
From the crowd a reporter asked, “But, Inspector—who killed Bizu?”
Clouseau nodded toward the suspect, who was in Ponton’s custody, hanging his head, dejection and hatred twisting his features.
“Again, the trainer who trains is also the killer who kills…Bizu had often heard of Yuri’s hatred for his coach. Perhaps he lends the ear sympathetic, no? But then Bizu…his star position at risk, his days as the hero waning…takes advantage to blackmail Yuri. It is never wise to try to extort from the murderer the money—more often, you get only more murder.”
Dreyfus stepped forward. “This is a ridiculous theory…Yuri is a trainer of athletes. But that shot was made by a master marksman!”
“Ah, Chief Inspector, you are learning,” Clouseau said condescendingly. “Yes, it was a stunningly well-placed shot, burrowing deeply into the head…into the occipital lobe.”
“Exactly.” Dreyfus threw up his hands. “And this man is no expert marksman.”
“Oh but now you are wrong, Chief Inspector—I refer you to Russian Army statute 611: all soldiers must be excellent marksmen trained to kill human targets with precision, specifically to know and understand the location of the occipital lobe.”
Xania had come down from the stage, and now moved toward the front of the crowd. Her eyes
went to the captive Yuri, and he snarled at her, “You bitch…you lucky bitch!”
Clouseau smiled, just a little. “Yes, Yuri, she was lucky that Clouseau and his able partner Ponton were there to save her life…because you hate her, do you not?”
The trainer’s eyes were mad in all sense of the word. “More…more than anything…”
“You had helped her when she was a young struggling artist, and then she cast you aside, turned her back on you.”
Dreyfus, rolling his eyes, blurted, “And how in the name of heaven could you know that, Clouseau?”
“I,” Clouseau said with a suave nod toward the singer, “am a charter member of the Xania Fan Club. There was a mention of this in an article entitled, ‘The Struggling Days,’ in issue two, volume one, page seven, paragraph three…no, four.”
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