The Pink Panther

by Max Allan Collins

  Andre said, “I don’t understand, sir…”

  “Ah, but you will, my young friend! When we take these suspects to headquarters, and give them a strip search…one of us will have the big surprise. Perhaps even…a dozen of the big surprise!”

  “Yes, sir,” Andre said.

  But at headquarters, the biggest surprise awaited Clouseau, and it was not in the pants of any of his suspects: it was a call from Paris.

  He was wanted.

  Jacques Clouseau was wanted, to work on a case so important to France herself that it would make the Case of the Missing Hot Dogs seem utterly ridiculous.

  THREE

  Enter Inspector Clouseau

  When the townspeople of Fromage gathered to bid adieu to Jacques Clouseau, brandishing placards of fond farewell, there were few dry eyes among them. There were, however, numerous neck braces and leg casts.

  Upon bestowing assorted hugs and kisses, and after delivering a final speech of advice for Andre (his latest pupil), Clouseau—spiffily attired in his dark blue gendarme uniform and white-trimmed cap—climbed into his tiny Renault and headed for the big city, the big time, the big case…

  He was spared the sight of many of those same townspeople hurling aside their placards to rejoice in an orgy of applause and jumping up and down, including those in leg casts. And yet some genuine fondness lingered.

  Even Andre had to admit that Clouseau had, after all, cracked the Missing Hot Dogs Case. The very first suspect, the vendor’s assistant, had admitted the theft…though the twelve other suspects were highly offended by the strip search. Or anyway, eleven of them were—the transvestite seemed oddly complimented.

  As for Clouseau, like many a rural traveler, he began hunkered over a map, even as he drove. Soon he found himself lost on a country road; but he persevered and, before long, he was indeed in the city, heading for the famed Arc de Triomphe, passing by the Seine, then staring wide-eyed with wonder as he drove around the Traffic Circle, finally getting a good close look at the famous Eiffel Tower.

  What separated Clouseau from the average rural traveler, however, was that within an hour, he again found himself lost on a country road.

  But a helpful rural gas station attendant managed to point Clouseau back in the direction from whence he’d come, and at last, the great detective re-detected the city of Paris.

  In particular, he detected the Palais de la Justice.

  Despite a life spent fighting crime, Clouseau was at heart a naive schoolboy, and he drank in this magnificent sight, this monument to his proud profession; his entire life had led up to this moment. It was as if the city, and this grand building, welcomed him with open, giving arms, symbolized by the generous parking space seemingly waiting just for him, right out in front.

  Clouseau, however, was not one to spit in the face of generosity. He took his time parking, displaying a skill no city dweller might have expected from a simple country sort. True, he did tap the car ahead and behind—poorly constructed vehicles, whose bumpers fell off, requiring Clouseau to emerge from the smart little Renault to kick them from his path (“Swine bumpers!”). And he was not exactly sure how he managed, at one point, to find himself completely sideways in the wide spot. Nor had he meant to wind up backward in it, either.

  But when he was done, he had parked, and proudly.

  And he managed to smile, despite the annoying car alarms that had gone off in those faulty vehicles fore-and-aft. That was one thing he did not look forward to, being transferred to a metropolitan beat: this terrible noise pollution. He would write a memo, suggesting something be done.

  Soon, ramrod straight, a proud example of the French police officer, Clouseau entered the outer office of Chief Inspector Charles Dreyfus. The chair behind the reception desk, however, was empty. Casting his ever-observant gaze around the spacious waiting area, Clouseau quickly spied a lovely young woman…

  …standing on the desk.

  Perched at a somewhat precarious angle, she was attempting to hang a large gilt-framed portrait of her distinguished superior on the side wall.

  Clouseau took the liberty of approaching the desk and the young woman, planting himself beside a well-turned calf, his cap respectfully figleafed before him. Purely as a matter of maintaining his trained detective’s skills, he catalogued the woman’s attributes.

  Her blue blouse with jacket and short skirt were both stylish and business-like, and managed to do justice to her slenderly curvaceous frame. Brunette with a short ‘do, delicately pretty in a gamine-like way, she wore glasses that gave her a studious cast, emphasized by the concentration she lent her task.

  Speaking directly to her lovely legs, Clouseau said, “Good morning, mademoiselle. I see you are engaged in a project of the interior decoration.”

  “I’ll be right with you,” she said without looking at him. “Sorry…The Minister of Justice sent around a new picture of himself, the other day…”

  Indeed an elaborately framed portrait of the dignitary—whose image Clouseau had seen frequently in the press—rode the wall nearby.

  “But it was larger than the chief inspector’s,” she continued, her application of the framed portrait to the wall exhibiting excellent muscular control in Clouseau’s opinion, “so Chief Inspector Dreyfus has generously provided me with a larger one of himself…”

  Now she had the picture on the hook, and was able to stand back—still on the desk—and take a long appraising look. Much like the look Clouseau continued to take of her…

  “You will find, monsieur,” she said, straightening the portrait one last time, “that Paris can be a very political place.”

  “Ah yes,” he said, with a sad shake of the head, “politics—where greed dons the mask of morality.”

  “That’s good. Very good.” Finally she turned her eyes on him. “Did you say that?”

  Looking behind him, Clouseau said, “Why, yes…yes I did. I have not worked in the big city for some time, but I have lived…you know, the life.”

  “I’m sure you have.”

  “You are?”

  “Oh yes, Monsieur Clouseau.”

  “Ah.” Pride swelled in his chest. “So you have heard of me.”

  “I’ve seen your file.” Lovely mouth twitching with amusement, she moved to the edge of the desk, as if it were a diving board, and held out a delicate palm. “Your hand?”

  Heady with the scent of her Chanel, Clouseau swallowed. “You are confused, you poor young thing. That is your hand…”

  “Indeed. But if you take it…with yours…you could help me down.”

  “Of course—but in your precarious position, mademoiselle…I think more than a simple hand is in order.”

  And he extended both arms.

  The warmth of her brown eyes was matched by that of her smile. “You are a charming man, Monsieur Clouseau.”

  “You a discerning young woman, mademoiselle.”

  “My name is Nicole.”

  She lowered herself into his arms, but as he attempted to position himself in a gentlemanly way, Clouseau wound up with his head between her legs. Holding onto her, he staggered around with Nicole, doing an awkward—and yet, to Clouseau at least—-strangely satisfying dance.

  Already, Clouseau thought, her nyloned thighs hugging his face, it is good to be in the City of Love…

  As Clouseau and the chief inspector’s private secretary got to know each other in the outer office, an equally important meeting was under way in Charles Dreyfus’s inner sanctum.

  Very much in his element, Dreyfus had been for half an hour holding court before an assembly of twelve ace detectives, the cream of the Sûreté crop. He had moved with a dancer’s grace and a surgeon’s precision from one massive crimescene photo to another, making points and raising questions.

  Right now, his audience of experts in rapt attention, he stood poised beside the blow-up of the victim’s neck, from which extended the deadly dart.

  “Coach Gluant was killed by a poisonous dart of
Chinese origin,” Dreyfus said. “This much we know. Though sophisticated in design, gentlemen, delivering as it did a poison so deadly death was immediate…this weapon was child’s play to use—and could have been applied by hand from anyone within arm’s reach…and that includes such notable suspects as Bizu the spurned player, Xania the estranged lover, as well as various players and staff members, not to mention fans and photographers…”

  Dreyfus walked to his desk; eyes followed. He plucked a prop from a soda can he had left there to make a significant point.

  “This is a simple drinking straw, gentlemen,” he said, holding up the slender paper tube. “Available throughout the stadium, at concession stands all around—and yet such a simple straw could be our murder weapon.”

  A detective near the front of the several rows lifted a hand and asked, “But surely not with much distance or accuracy, Chief Inspector.”

  “I beg to differ. Our forensics lab has already run a test confirming accuracy up to thirty feet…This expands our suspect list to everyone—from angry Chinese fans to any enemy from Gluant’s past who might have a grudge, and a homicidal urge to act upon. And you don’t reach a position like Gluant’s without making enemies…”

  Dreyfus whirled to Renard, who as always stood patiently on the periphery. “My deputy chief, Renard, here, will head a team analyzing all available television footage…identifying every person in the kill zone, targeting each for investigation.” Then to Renard he said, “And you will swiftly carry out those investigations!”

  Renard almost clicked his heels. “Yes, Chief Inspector!”

  “You will also locate every firm in China making darts. And every firm both there and in the UK—export and import—dealing with those darts. We’ll want their order books going back five years.”

  “It will be done.”

  Dreyfus turned to a sharp-eyed figure in the first row. “Corbeille? You are to put together Gluant’s schedule going back as far as last year. Day by day. Everything he did.”

  “Yes, Chief Inspector. And if we find nothing of significance?”

  “Go back another year! And another!” Dreyfus spun to a new position. “Savard!”

  Another ace detective sat erect. “Yes, sir?”

  “Your team will investigate anyone Gluant had dealings with—anyone he owed money to, anyone who had a grudge against him.”

  “Going back how far, Chief Inspector?”

  Dreyfus’s eyes flamed. “If he bullied a child in kindergarten, I want to know about it! And I want to know the whereabouts of that ‘child’ at the time of the murder! Is that clear?”

  “As crystal, Chief Inspector.”

  “Good. Good.” Dreyfus smiled. He rubbed his hands together like a hungry man about to sit before a feast. “I have confidence in you. You are the very best. Now…if you gentlemen will gather your things, and depart via the back way, I will meet with…the very worst.”

  The detectives—who had not been entrusted with the chief inspector’s unconventional strategy—exchanged a few puzzled glances, but did as they were told, assembling their files and their notes, and departing quickly.

  “Renard,” Dreyfus said, “bring in this…this…what was his name again?”

  “Clouseau?”

  “Yes. Yes. Bring him to me.”

  Renard stepped into the outer office, where Clouseau and Nicole had wound up against a wall, the officer’s head deep beneath her skirt, the young woman’s lovely legs wrapped around his head.

  “Clouseau?” Renard asked.

  From beneath the dress came a muffled: “Ready for active duty, sir!”

  Nicole offered the deputy a chagrined grin and a small shrug.

  “I’m sure you are…the chief inspector will see you now.”

  By the time Renard returned to the office, only Dreyfus remained.

  “Well…is he coming?” the chief inspector demanded.

  Renard’s mouth opened but nothing came out.

  The chief inspector moved closer and asked, confidentially, “You needn’t be circumspect with me, my dear Renard. Any first impressions about the man?”

  “Well, sir…” Renard thought about it. “He would seem to have a way with the ladies.”

  And within moments, Dreyfus found himself looking at a striking military figure, perfection personified in a gendarme uniform, as if a picture on a Police Nationale recruiting poster had walked down off the wall to offer a crisp salute.

  “Officer Jacques Clouseau, reporting! Gendarme Third Class!”

  Dreyfus was just wondering if he’d made the right decision—surely, this was no boob!

  And then Clouseau, with lightning speed, removed his wallet, flipped it open to display his badge…

  …which flew across the room and impaled itself in Dreyfus’s chest.

  “Swine badge,” Clouseau said, crossing to his superior officer. “We must write whoever it is who manufactures these defective items, putting our valiant force at risk…Sorry. That must have hurt.”

  “No,” Dreyfus said, with a grimace, and withdrew the badge from his suitcoat—and his flesh—and handed it back to Clouseau, who deftly waved away the droplets of blood and returned the badge to his wallet. “The reason you’ve been called here—”

  But Clouseau, his eyes large and suddenly darting, raised a hand in the manner of a traffic cop.

  Dreyfus froze.

  Clouseau began to wander around the office, looking here and there, ducking, weaving, bobbing, all the while saying, in a loud voice indeed, “Such very pleasant weather we are having. I hope this blissful weather, she continues…”

  Dreyfus watched in amazement as Clouseau gestured frantically for him to join in on the inane conversation.

  “Yes, yes,” the chief inspector found himself saying, “the weather, she is…is blissful…”

  Hugely pleased, Clouseau gestured thumbs up, and then quickly checked under a lamp, its shade flying and breaking the glass on a small framed picture of the President; then the gendarme lurched for a look behind a sofa, continuing his weather report as he moved on.

  “If the clouds were any more white,” Clouseau said, drawing back a curtain quickly, “we might mistake them for snow…Is not that right, Chief Inspector?”

  “Yes, yes—snow…”

  Clouseau snapped open the other curtain, and it fell to the floor in a pile.

  Then the gendarme approached the chief inspector and whispered, “I believe we are secure.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes…but as a final precaution, I suggest we speak the English.”

  “The…English?”

  “Yes. You do speak the English, Chief Inspector?”

  “I do. Yes.”

  “I am sure you know, from my file, that I am a master linguist. I speak eight or nine tongues. Sometimes I can’t keep track myself, so many tongues do I have. So English?”

  The chief inspector shrugged. “English. But Clouseau, all this fuss—you know, we are a sophisticated operation, here. We regularly sweep for bugs.”

  “And a wise precaution, too—these old buildings, the termite, she is a stern warden, no?”

  Unable to summon a response, Dreyfus headed behind his desk and sat, while Clouseau looked in puzzlement at the many chairs, and rather than select one, planted himself before his superior, at parade rest.

  Clouseau said, “And why do you honor me with this meeting, Chief Inspector?”

  Business-like, Dreyfus said, “Clouseau, I’ve reviewed your record, and it is in my considered opinion that you are…unique.”

  “Thank you, sir. I must humbly agree.”

  “I thought you might. Would you also agree that your talents merit greater responsibility than you’ve previously been given?”

  “Wholeheartedly.” A modest little smile twitched beneath the mustache. “I have often wondered how long it would take for the stories of my expertise to reach your desk.”

  “Well, reach my desk they have, Clouseau—and
I am hereby promoting you to the high and honored rank of inspector.”

  “Inspector?” Clouseau swallowed; his eyes seemed about to tear up. “Of the Police Nationale? Of the Republic of France?”

  Not sure what other option there might have been, Dreyfus said, “Yes. And perhaps you can guess what your first case will be…” The chief inspector half-smiled and gestured broadly to the huge crime scene blow-ups on easels all around.

  Frowning in thought, Clouseau took in the looming photos with their grisly subject matter.

  He began to stalk about the room, looking at each one in shock and horror.

  “Who has done this terrible thing?” he demanded.

  “That,” the chief inspector said, “it is your job to find out.”

  “To…to clutter up the office of a great pubic servant such as yourself with such vile photos! We will find him, this madman! We will start with the photo labs, for it is within such labs that crimes of this magnitude are shaped!”

  Frozen again, Dreyfus sat with his mouth open. Finally words came out, “No, no, Clouseau…I had these made. These are from the crime scene of the Gluant case.”

  Clouseau’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. “The great soccer coach who was killed?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have heard of this crime.”

  “Really.”

  Again Clouseau stood ramrod straight. “I would humbly volunteer to be assigned to that case!”

  Dreyfus chuckled. “It is yours…Inspector Clouseau.”

  The very words seemed to rock him back. “Inspector…Clouseau…And yet…it has a ring to it, does it not?”

  Dreyfus raised a finger. “But this is more than just a simple murder. This is two cases within one, and both are of key interest to France and her people. Finding Gluant’s murderer is only the beginning—you must also solve the theft of the Pink Panther.”