The Pink Panther

by Max Allan Collins

  The Pink Panther™

  A Novelization By Max Allan Collinsbased On The Screenplay By Len Blum And Steve Martin And The Story By Len Blum And Michael Saltzman

  Respectfully dedicated to

  Blake Edwards—

  father of

  Peter Gunn,

  Professor Fate,

  and

  Jacques Clouseau

  CONTENTS

  EPIGRAPH

  ONE FATAL FLAW

  TWO THE CASE OF THE MISSING HOT DOGS

  THREE ENTER INSPECTOR CLOUSEAU

  FOUR MAN OF THE HOUR

  FIVE THE PERFECT SUSPECT

  SIX PRACTICE FOR MURDER

  SEVEN A SUSPECT ELIMINATED

  EIGHT LICENSE TO SPILL

  NINE AN AVERAGE FRENCHMAN

  TEN MANHATTAN MALADY

  ELEVEN CAUSE FOR ALARM

  TWELVE HERO’S HOMECOMING

  THIRTEEN RETURN OF THE PINK PANTHER

  FOURTEEN MEDAL OF HONOR

  COPYRIGHT

  ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

  Epigraph

  “Comedy is a man in trouble.”

  JOSEPH LEVITCH

  ONE

  Fatal Flaw

  On the day that would lead to the greatest mistake of his notable career, Chief Inspector Charles Dreyfus of the Police Nationale of France basked in a sunshine both literal and figurative.

  He did not follow football—soccer, like all sports, held no interest for him—nor was his life consumed with any passion other than what he considered a selfless dedication to his chosen profession…and what his detractors had determined was a lust for self-glorification.

  In any case, his attendance at the semi-final game of the international championships had nothing to do with whether France defeated China to advance to the final game. Nor did it reflect national pride, such as that exhibited by the normally distinguished individual beside whom Dreyfus sat—Clochard, the Minister of Justice; or for that matter, the President himself, seated beside Clochard.

  Both dignitaries were—like all the fans in the Grand Stadium—anticipating the start of the competition and cheering like schoolgirls at the “big game.” Behind the placid mask of his coolly handsome face, Dreyfus concealed a mild contempt for such lack of self-control.

  And yet these men mattered to Dreyfus, and explained his presence in the VIP box, amid darkly anonymous Secret Service agents. That the chief inspector was here, in such august company, indicated an honor in the offing, specifically his recent nomination for the national Medal of Honor.

  Dreyfus had been so nominated seven times.

  Circumstance and politics had conspired against him, however, and he had not yet prevailed; still, none of his countrymen could boast of such a feat—seven nominations! That itself was an honor—wasn’t it?

  Wasn’t it?

  But for a man of dignity—and dignity was so very important to Chief Inspector Dreyfus—it pained him to notice the relative shabbiness of his suit compared to that of the Justice Minister.

  This, however, was mildly galling. It did not compare to the spike of irritation Dreyfus experienced upon the entry into the vast arena of Yves Gluant, the coach of the French team. The narcissistic and (by Dreyfus’s way of thinking) conventionally handsome boor carried himself like a movie star—and the crowd responded with an ovation as excessive as it had become customary.

  What had this man ever accomplished, Dreyfus wondered, to deserve such love and respect from his fellow citizens? Chief Inspector Dreyfus had personally put away scores of dangerous criminals, and supervised hundreds of arrests that had resulted in convictions. Dreyfus had led his men into battle against Mafiosi and Yakuza and even these new Russian criminals—whereas Gluant would today take his soldiers onto a field against the Chinese…to kick around a little white ball.

  As the stadium announcer introduced him, Gluant stepped from his team’s box to greet the crowd, granting them a smile and a raised fist. Sunlight caught the jewel on the ring of his up-thrust hand, as he conspicuously turned toward each section of the crowd, which went wild in successive waves.

  Most of the crowd, that is: Chief Inspector Dreyfus remained seated, arms folded, forcing a tiny smile, in case anyone was looking. Mustn’t appear bitter.

  Bitterness was, after all, the mark of the small minded. And Dreyfus was big. So very big.

  As the popular coach turned to face each side of the madly cheering stadium—giving everyone present the opportunity to take in the diamond on his ring, the storied jewel seemed to wink at each attendee personally. Dreyfus could only inwardly shake his head, thinking of how sad it was that the great nation of France had descended to the worship of acquisition. Let the Americans follow such shallow pursuits if they liked! But for the French to view a stone, a diamond, as somehow the symbol of its success on the field of sport…

  As absurd a concept as it was distasteful.

  And yet even Dreyfus—if he could be honest with himself (which he of course could not)—would have had to admit that this jewel was indeed special. This was the most famous stone in all of Europe, perhaps the world, with a history so fabled, so bloody, as to put the Maltese Falcon to shame. From the Middle East to Asia, from America to France itself, the celebrated diamond had cut a swath of death, betrayal and destruction.

  The irony was that the stone’s size and perfection did not constitute its most famous aspect; in fact, the diamond was not “perfect” at all—at its center, a tiny flaw could be perceived, which some ancient Arab potentate had said resembled a leaping panther.

  A pink panther.

  Dreyfus watched with detachment and yet with the eye for detail of an exemplary detective. Throughout the entire stadium, he alone noticed that the team lined up on the field included one player who flashed the tiniest tellingly negative expression as their coach joined them.

  This was Bizu, perhaps the most muscular of the players on the French team—effective but reckless, a quality characteristically reflected by his trademark untamed shock of black hair. His eyes were fixed on the coach, but to the average observer, Bizu merely cast upon his leader the intensity of gaze normal in a true competitor.

  Yet Dreyfus saw—sensed—something else.

  Bitterness.

  Envy.

  These were emotions the chief inspector could easily recognize…in others.

  Dreyfus watched with well-concealed contempt as the arrogant Gluant strode toward a box seat in the front row where—surrounded by fans (and security)—sat a stunningly beautiful young woman in a glittering outfit more appropriate for a rock video than a sporting event.

  This, then, was Xania, world-famous diva of pop, the beauty of her milk-chocolate skin matched by the dark chocolate of her expressive eyes and her exquisitely coiffed mane. At this moment, many considered her the most desirable woman on the planet.

  Right now she was signing an autograph for a child, allowed in to provide a photo op, of which the press corps took full advantage. With Gluant heading toward Xania, the crowd’s attention was set upon the two members of what the tabloids of Europe and America alike had crowned the current celebrity couple of choice. Even the Chinese contingency—the most imposing figure of these dignitaries, Dr. Pang himself, the solemn and distinguished head of the Chinese sports delegation—gave their full attention to the paparazzi’s favorite lovers.

  And who could blame this crowd of sports fans? After all, sport was conflict, and the conflict on the minds of many right now involved this idyllic romance of beautiful people that had recently degenerated into what America’s National Inquisitor had termed XANIA AND GLUANT’S LOVE AFFAIR, adding ominously STORMY WEATHER AHEAD?

  Even Dreyfus found himself caught up in this moment, and when Xania st
ood in her front-row seat to turn coldly toward the superstar coach, he surprised her by taking her hand, pulling her to him, and kissing her passionately.

  The crowd erupted into cheers that had nothing to do with soccer.

  Even Chief Inspector Dreyfus smiled—he was, after all, a Frenchman…

  …but also a detective, and instinctively he switched his gaze toward team member Bizu, whose name had also been linked in the tabloid press to the pop star. Even at this distance, Dreyfus could sense, could see, the jealousy, Bizu’s eyes flashing in the sunlight like the Pink Panther itself.

  Dreyfus could not see—had no reason to seek out—the coldly staring eyes of a gaunt, narrowfaced individual who appeared to be nothing more than a well-dressed businessman: Raymond Larocque. This “businessman,” however, was attended by a large, rather ominous Asian bodyguard, whose presence was the only indication that Larocque might one day find himself on the radar of Chief Inspector Charles Dreyfus.

  But that day was not today, an afternoon consumed with a football game so exciting even the detached Dreyfus found himself watching with something approaching interest. By the end of the regulation time, Dreyfus was actually sitting forward on his seat—the score tied, the game going into those extra minutes so vividly described as “sudden death.”

  The Justice Minister leaned toward Dreyfus between plays and said, “Are you enjoying yourself, Chief Inspector?”

  Dreyfus summoned an enthusiastic smile. “For a true fan like myself? It is almost too much.”

  Then a Chinese player took a shot, which looked to be dead certain…but a goaltender for the French made a spectacular save, sending thousands of fans to their feet, the Justice Minister and the President included. Dreyfus, however, missed this moment, remaining seated, caught up in the task of brushing lint from his lapel.

  At this tense moment, from the sidelines, Gluant could be seen waving his hands, signaling a player substitution.

  His decision—to take out the great Bizu, and replace him with the unseasoned young forward, the boyish blond Jacquard—was not popular. Disappointment traveled across the crowd in murmuring ripples.

  But this was nothing compared to Bizu’s reaction.

  The wild-eyed, wild-haired star pushed past the boyish blond forward and made a bee-line for Gluant, getting in his coach’s face, screaming until his own face grew scarlet and the veins and cords in his neck stood out in sharp bas-relief.

  Gluant remained comparatively calm, and seemed cooly in control as he made a reply to his furious player that only sent Bizu into a further fit of fury, the star throwing a punch.

  The coach slipped the thrust, but returned it, and then the two were at each other, players and referees and security people swarming the pair, trying to pull them apart.

  The trainer and assistant coach managed to pry Bizu’s hands from his coach’s neck; the two team staffers were holding back the beast Bizu had become—eyes wild with rage, teeth white and flashing in a face gone purple now, hair like black snakes writhing—as the handsome, unflappable Gluant merely gestured for the game to continue.

  And when the game came to its climax, Gluant was proven right about the young forward named Jacquard.

  The ref blew his whistle, a Chinese player threw in the ball, only to have a French player intercept, kicking the ball upfield in a long, high arc as the young forward made a mad dash toward the Chinese goal, in a race seemingly against the laws of physics themselves.

  On their feet, too astonished even to cheer, the crowd gasped as Jacquard leapt high, realizing just in time that the round sphere was coming down not in front but behind him…

  …and turned a somersault in midair!

  With his face staring at the ground coming up at him in dizzying speed, he nonetheless kicked the ball into the net with the back of his heel.

  A split second of amazed silence was followed by a roar of pleasure, as the French fans screamed in ecstasy, shaking fists at the heavens, whether in pleasure or defiance, who could say?

  Around Dreyfus, the Justice Minister, the President, even the Secret Service were on their feet, cheering, a few doing distasteful American “high fives.”

  The Justice Minister glanced down at the seated chief inspector and said, “Can you believe it, Charles?”

  “No,” Dreyfus said, summoning another smile. “It is a miracle.”

  Grinning ear to ear, the Justice Minister returned his attention to the field, applauding madly.

  And Dreyfus checked his wristwatch.

  On the sidelines, chaos ruled.

  Jacquard, flush with victory, sped to where Gluant embraced him. Coaches, players, photographers and the more demented, determined fans swarmed upon the new star player and his starmaking coach, driving them back to the sidelines where in the front row a somewhat startled, even taken-aback Xania recoiled from the throng.

  The police were doing their best, but when the celebrated coach needed them most, their crowd-control duties were not enough…

  Dreyfus, eyes sharp, finally stood, even as the others in the VIP box had settled back into their seats.

  He had seen Gluant stiffen, straightening up, the coach’s face—even at this distance—taking on a chilling blankness that resonated within this skilled investigator’s being.

  And Chief Inspector Dreyfus, with a new and terrible enthusiasm, ran from the box, down flights of stairs and—gathering security as he went—led a small army onto the field where he, like those crowd-controlling police, was much too late.

  The coach of the winning team had fallen to the grass.

  All around people scrambled, and in the stands of fans the screams gathered into something resembling the earlier cheering, but not the same, not at all the same, something sad and even sinister having entered in, as if a nation were crying out in collective anguish.

  Dreyfus bent over the corpse of the handsome coach—for indeed a corpse this was, a small dart sticking from the dead man’s neck.

  The presence of this object was matched in significance by the absence of another.

  Dreyfus’s eyes made the journey down a lifeless arm that seemed to be pointing, though that hand may have singled out any one of thousands. And it was not the forefinger that mattered, was it?

  It was the finger with the white band of flesh where a ring had so recently been.

  The team’s trainer was suddenly at the chief inspector’s side. “My God, someone’s killed him! Someone has murdered Gluant!”

  “I’m afraid it’s more serious than that,” Dreyfus said, rising. “Someone has taken the Pink Panther.”

  TWO

  The Case of the Missing Hot Dogs

  Again the sun shone bright on this lovely Parisian day, the magnificent white marble of the Palais de la Justice gleaming and winking, like the Pink Panther itself.

  In the spacious, richly furnished office of the chief inspector of the Police Nationale, huge blow-ups were propped on easels, photographic representations of the body of Coach Gluant, in particular the wound with the dart, as well as various angles on the crime scene and assorted shots of the people in attendance. Other images showcased the fabulous missing stone itself, in shots of Gluant’s hand as he greeted the crowd, as well as file photos of the fabled gem that had be come, in the eyes of many, a symbol of France’s victorious football team…a symbol now gone—with its heroic coach.

  Unlike the fallen coach, however, the symbol was still out there, “alive” in a sense, and recoverable…

  Spread across the chief inspector’s desk was evidence, not of a crime, but of the feeding frenzy of both the local and the world press. Newspaper headlines screamed: FOOTBALL GENIUS MURDERED; GLUANT SLAIN FOR DIAMOND RING; and PINK PANTHER STOLEN BY KILLER. In many of these same papers, in particular the European ones, a smaller front-page headline told of another, seemingly unrelated story: GAS-MASK BANDITS WREAK HAVOC IN ITALY.

  “At least,” Chief Inspector Dreyfus said, “those thieves are staying in Italy, well out of
my jurisdiction—another problem of that magnitude, I surely don’t need.”

  Dreyfus, resplendent in formal wear, stood with arms out in crucifixion mode, giving himself over to a tailor making the last fitting of the tuxedo the chief inspector would wear to the imminently upcoming Medal of Honor ceremony.

  Nearby, patient as a priest, stood Dreyfus’s loyal deputy chief, Renard. Shorter than his leader, the bespectacled Renard attended his master, poised and ready. The deputy was highly valued by Dreyfus…not just for his efficiency, but for his lack of ambition; Renard had made quietly but eminently clear that the pressures his superior officer bore were nothing he envied.

  “I know it’s the single most important thing in your life,” Renard said gently.

  Dreyfus’s eyes rolled skyward, as if God Himself had made a hobby out of vexing him. “Three weeks away, the ceremony! Three weeks!”

  Gesturing to the surrounding blow-up photos, Renard said, “I did not mean the medal, sir—I meant the Gluant case.”

  Dreyfus, still at the tailor’s mercy, glanced sharply at his deputy. “Is there a difference? This case, tied to our nation’s fanatic interest in football, could easily drag me down!”

  Renard patted the air, lending his usual calming influence. “No. No, you will get it this time. You deserve it.”

  “Don’t patronize me! This is a first-class disaster. What are my options, Renard?”

  A tiny shrug. “You have two options, of course.”

  “Which are?”

  Renard’s eyebrows lifted; he held out his hands, open-palmed, as if literally weighing the possibilities. “Pass the case on to a subordinate, or take it on yourself. There is no greater detective in France, after all, than Charles Dreyfus.”