Clouseau’s eyes showed white all round. “The famous stone? With its great legacy and aura of mystery?”
“Exactly.”
Clouseau clicked his heels together. “I accept, Chief Inspector! I accept with honor.”
Dreyfus stepped from behind the desk and presented Clouseau with a formal certificate bearing the state seal of France. “Jacques Clouseau—with the power vested in me, I hereby appoint you a full inspector of the Police Nationale.”
With exaggerated ceremony, Dreyfus removed his gold fountain pen, and leaned over the side of his desk to sign the certificate with a flourish.
Dreyfus said, “All that is left, Inspector, is your signature…”
Clouseau patted himself, looking for a pen.
Dreyfus said, “Here. Take mine.”
Clouseau took the gold pen and said, effusively, “Oh, Chief Inspector, you are too generous! Thank you! One does not often see the traditional French fountain pen.”
The inspector signed the certificate, then began to study the pen with wide eyes, shaking it several times, hefting it, then putting it in his breast pocket.
“Chief Inspector, I will cherish this pen forever…”
“That was given to me by the mayor,” Dreyfus said irritably.
Clouseau waved a hand. “Then I cannot accept this. But I will cherish the gesture.”
The inspector graciously transferred the pen from his own pocket back to Dreyfus’s.
The chief inspector suddenly felt woozy. He placed a hand over his face and muttered, “Where…where were we?”
“Well, I was here…I have not moved. You, I would I say, were perhaps…a few steps back. Why? What significance does this have?”
Renard materialized from the sidelines and said to the chief inspector, “Sir—the press conference?”
Dreyfus, unaware that a small ink stain on his suitcoat pocket was spreading into an ink blot reminiscent of those used by psychiatrists to test their patients, turned to Clouseau and said, “In a few minutes, we’ll be presenting a press conference in the lobby. We want to properly introduce you to the media, and explain your key role in the Gluant investigation.”
Clouseau (who had noticed the widening ink splotch) seemed anxious to leave. “Well, then, uh, I will meet you down there, Chief Inspector…”
Another man might have exited with no further ado. But Clouseau—as the chief inspector was soon to learn—could always find further ado to do. And now, as the new inspector backed out through the door, he took the time to point out the elaborate filagree woodworking that surrounded the passage.
“So lovely!” Clouseau blurted, and reached around to put his hand against the woodworking. “One does not often see authentic eighteenth-century filigree. So finely done. Such workmanship. To think—it has been here for three hundred years! Our children’s children will…”
And at this the filagree parted from the doorway and began unraveling, like a loose thread from a sweater that had been better left alone. The strips of wood clattered to the floor and Clouseau quickly gathered them up and stacked them against the wall.
“The magical thing,” Clouseau said, with a smile as sick as Dreyfus felt, “is that it looks good anywhere.”
Patting the exposed area where the filigree had been, Clouseau said, “Yes…yes, this area is secure.”
And slipped out.
Alone with Renard, Dreyfus said, “I think we have found our man.”
“Yes, sir. Indeed, sir.”
“But perhaps I have succeeded too well.”
“Sir?”
“I seem to be sweating…My chest…it’s so damp…” Then he looked down at the black blotch and said, “My God, Renard!”
“Sorry, sir…I should have said something about—”
“Does it…does it look to you a little like—a cat chasing a dog?”
Renard swallowed. “I couldn’t say, sir. Shall I get your spare suit?”
FOUR
Man of the Hour
Over the many years, in the elaborate lobby of the Palais de la Justice, countless press conferences had been held. But perhaps never had the anticipation among the press corps been so high, the murmuring of the normally blase, unflappable reporters echoing off the high-arched ceiling like gathering thunder.
Coach Gluant had been a national hero; the Pink Panther a national symbol.
How would the government deal with crimes that were, at their core, assaults upon France itself, contemptuous attacks on her national pride?
Speculation was high that Chief Inspector Dreyfus would personally come forward to lead the investigation; Dreyfus had a record second to none in a crime-fighting career that had a decade ago led him to his high office. Would he step away from his desk to take on this challenge himself?
As the reporters and TV crews surged before the platform, the gendarmes lining the walls trained alert eyes on the throng, as three men marched up onto the stage: Chief Inspector Dreyfus, his loyal Deputy Chief Renard, and a third individual, a man in a brown suit with a faintly provincial cut, and yet…many of the reporters sensed something special about this fellow, the jut of his chin, the oh-so French slash of mustache above a tightly confident smile, the eyes eternally narrowed in shrewd vigilance.
Who was this new player on the Parisian scene?
The chief inspector, stepping to the microphone, kept the media in suspense for only a few minutes, as he opened with a statement expressing the government’s position on these heinous crimes, recognizing their importance and the need for immediate, decisive action.
“My staff searched the files of the Police Nationale,” Dreyfus said, brows tensed, “and examined records of every officer assigned to investigative duties throughout all of France. We found, in the simple village of Fromage, a man whose record is so distinctive, so unusual in its accomplishments, that he could not be overlooked.”
The eyes of the press corps—normally half-lidded in business-as-usual boredom—were wide, alert and keen.
Dreyfus gestured to the jauntily mustached man beside him. “And this is that man, brought in specifically to head up our investigation into these two interrelated crimes—Inspector Jacques Clouseau!”
The reporters began to shout their questions, thrusting forward microphones; but Dreyfus silenced them, patting the air with a cool palm, saying, “Gentlemen…ladies. You know the protocol. I understand this is a situation unlike any other in the history of crime in France. But we will maintain the civilities.”
Then Dreyfus turned to Inspector Clouseau, and gestured to the microphone and, with a small bow, got out of the way of the man of the hour.
Clouseau looked out into the audience and immediately noticed a female reporter who was no more attractive than, say, the young Brigitte Bardot, and who admirably filled a tube top that rose slightly, exposing the lower swells of white flesh, when she raised a hand to seek recognition.
The inspector rewarded her with the first question.
“Parisian Match, Inspector Clouseau,” she said. “To be singled out from all of France to head this inquiry is a huge honor. Do you have your own unique method of investigation, Inspector, that has brought you to this rarefied position?”
“I do, Mademoiselle Match, I do indeed. I start with the initial premise, and from this I deduce certain other facts.” He gestured with both hands, smiled tightly, as if this answered all. “Are there any other questions?”
Clouseau’s eyes roamed the crowd, as hands raised high, in keeping with the protocol Dreyfus had invoked; the inspector, seeking another questioner, landed upon…
…the same young woman, who alone in the room had not raised her hand, having been selected already.
Clouseau smiled at her. “Did you have another question?”
“Well. Uh, yes. Certainly. Inspector, what—”
“No! No, I am sorry, my dear. As my esteemed superior has pointed out, we are a society of rules. Of law.”
In the confused crowd of r
eporters, she was the most confused of all.
“I must insist,” Clouseau said, “that you raise your hand in keeping with protocol.”
She did.
Clouseau smiled, sighed to himself, then nodded to her. “Yes?”
“This particular case—what is the initial premise?”
“Excellent question! An excellent question. We begin at the beginning…which is that Gluant, he did not wish to be killed. And from this flows all else, like mercury down the gently sloping…slopes…of the swelling…slopes. Did you have a follow-up question, Ms. Match?”
“Yes, Inspector. How—”
“But I must insist…These rules, I don’t make them, but without them, where would we be?”
She raised her hand.
Clouseau seemed lost in dreamy thought.
Dreyfus poked him.
“Yes, my dear,” Clouseau said. “Your follow-up?”
“How long do you think it will take you to find the killer?”
“Well, first we must identify the killer. Only when we have identified the killer are we able to find the killer. And when we find the killer…and here is where my unique methods come into play…we must trap the killer. Did you have another follow-up…?”
The female reporter shrugged her bare shoulders.
“Please, please…protocol.”
Sighing, she raised her hand. “How will you trap the killer?”
“Two points come to mind.”
But he was just staring at her.
Dreyfus prodded him again, and Clouseau blurted, “First—first, you must remember that we have the killer surrounded right now by a web of deduction, forensic science and the latest in technology. We have the test tube, we have the twoway radio, we have the crime scene tape…bright yellow.”
Again, dutifully raising her hand, the Match reporter asked, “And the other point?”
Clouseau’s brow knit. “The other point?”
“You said there were two points.”
“Ah yes. But right now I cannot put my finger on it.”
Behind Clouseau, Chief Inspector Charles Dreyfus was beginning to wonder what exactly he had unleashed upon his beloved Paris. He took Renard by the arm, and drew him near, whispering, “Assign a fool to this man.”
“You mean—assign a man to this fool?”
Dreyfus shook his head, half expecting his eyes to rattle. “Yes. Yes, of course.”
“To do what, Chief Inspector?”
“To be his driver…and report on his whereabouts.”
“What kind of a man, Chief Inspector?”
“The kind that follows orders, and does not ask questions…Any questions?”
“Uh, no, sir.”
Then, with a confident expression, Clouseau asked, “Are there any foreign press present? I speak the ten tongues.”
“New York Times!” a male reporter called out in English. “Do you know if the killer was a man or a woman?”
“Of course I know it is a man or a woman!” Clouseau spat back in English. “What else would it be—a kitten?” He nodded to another reporter.
“Newsweek, Inspector—do you think it is possible that the killer could be watching you right now?”
Clouseau narrowed his eyes until they were almost closed; he began to nod, slowly. “This is a very good possibility.” His gaze returned to the female reporter. “The strip search of the press, it is something unorthodox that you suggest, but—”
The American reporter said, “No, I meant, do you think the killer is watching you on the television right now?”
“Where else would he watch—the radio?” Clouseau shook his head at such foolishness, then his expression shifted, dead serious. One eye closed, another widened. “He may be watching, yes. Or he may be taping, the time-delay ploy. It is, after all, not every day one is talked about on the TV. It is, in my opinion, one of the real benefits for the mad killer. For that reason, I have a personal massage for the killer!”
“A massage?” the reporter asked.
“A massage! A massage!” Then Clouseau sought out the nearest camera and spoke directly to it, in his native tongue: “There is no place you can hide—no place you cannot be seen by the all-seeing eyes of Inspector Jacques Clouseau, which see all things in their…sight! To you killer, I say—I will find you!”
The inspector’s delivery was spellbinding; the press corps seemed in rapture—a pin could have dropped, and if Clouseau had had one, it probably would have.
“And why, do you ask, will Clouseau do this thing?” The great detective continued, straightening up, saying, “Because I am a servant of our great nation…” His voice built. “…because justice is justice…” He raised a fist. “…and because France…is France!”
The inspector beat his chest with his fist hurting himself, but just a little, and saluted the press corps. The hardboiled reporters, caught up perhaps in the importance of the Pink Panther crisis, were enthralled with this new star—the inspector appeared coolly confident, a touch eccentric perhaps, but incredibly determined…and oh so very French…
Flashbulbs popped, and those gendarmes who had been as silent as dark blue curtains against the walls exploded into cheers and applause.
Dreyfus—the flashbulbs triggering a tiny twitch at his left eye—asked, “What have I done, Renard?”
“You’ve given France a new hero, sir. Who just happens to be the biggest fool on the face of the earth.” Renard shrugged. “Not just any man could have managed that, sir…”
Inspector Jacques Clouseau stepped into the office.
While not lavish—certainly nothing to compare with the chief inspector’s—the spacious room was a far cry from a simple cubicle in the bullpen of gendarmes at the rural headquarters in Fromage.
Nicole, lovely in short-skirted blue again, stood next to a rather massive wooden desk, on which were piled file after file.
“Bon jour, Nicole,” he said, his eyes still traveling around the room.
She adjusted her glasses on her pert nose and smiled. “Your new office—how do you like it?”
“It will suffice. It will suffice.”
She gestured toward the desktop. “You should probably start by going through these files—”
Clouseau held up his palm and shook his head, shushing her.
He began to inspect the room, checking behind curtains, and inside the shade of the desk lamp; taking a closer look at the latter, he found something suspicious. Raising his voice, he said, “Such very pleasant weather we are having, bon? She is blissful, this weather…is she not?”
Nicole frowned in confusion.
He whispered, “Be natural…” Then he said, almost shouting, “If the clouds were any more white, we might mistake them for snow…no?”
“N-no,” Nicole said.
Again he whispered to her, almost inaudibly, “I check for the electronic listening device…what the Americans call ‘the boog.’ ”
“The boog?”
He shushed her, then—with a slightly maniacal expression—he pulled a length of wire from within the lamp with one hand, as with the other he removed his Swiss Army knife from a pants pocket.
“I hope,” he almost shouted, “the weather, she stays this pleasant…Do you not agree?”
With the bare blade, he began to cut the cord.
The sizzle of electricity shook him like a naughty child, the lightbulb went out, and the scent of soot wafted through the air.
Tiny trails of smoke rose from his body, and his white hair seemed to stand up a little, rather punkishly Nicole thought. His mustache had a new rakish tilt. He let out a deep breath, uncrossed his eyes, smoothed his suit, and granted her an efficient nod.
“The area,” he said, “she is secure.”
He wandered about the office, admiring the built-in bookcases with their numerous legal volumes and attractive knickknacks. In particular he was pleased with the large globe near the window—a fine touch, Clouseau thought, an indication that the e
ntire world was now his beat. He strolled over for a closer look, and idly began to spin the globe as he spoke to the chief inspector’s secretary.
“The world, Nicole…a dangerous place. It requires…supervision, do you not agree?”
“Uh, yes, Inspector.” She again gestured to the work piled on the desk. “When you’ve gone over these files, I will bring you more files.”
“And where,” Clouseau said, idly spinning the globe, faster, faster, “are these files filed?”
“I file them in the filing cabinet.”
“Ah.”
“I will refile these files, when—”
And the globe spun off its stand and rolled past Nicole, who watched with wide eyes as the world made its way out the open office door.
They could hear it clunking noisily down the stairs, one step at a time, like a child’s ball. But bigger.
And heavier.
Then Nicole joined Clouseau at the window, where he was watching as the globe rolled down the outer marble steps of the magnificent building. He opened the glass and leaned out, as did she, taking in the sight of the large globe making its way down the busy street, between lanes.
“That globe,” she said breathlessly.
“Yes. That is a globe.”
“It was a hundred years old!”
“Ah. What a relief that is to hear.” He withdrew from the window. “I admit feeling concern—to have ruined a new globe, well…This is what these fools who dress these offices get!”
She blinked at him. “It is?”
“Here I am heading up the most important investigation in all of France, and they decorate my office with a second-hand globe? I will write to those in charge.”
Nicole nodded, having no idea who that might be.
Clouseau was behind his desk now, trying out the swivel chair. When he picked himself back up off the floor (“Swine chair!”), he sat again, and he looked with narrow eyes at the desk drawers. He gave Nicole a knowing little smile, and she watched in fascination as the inspector plucked a hair from his head and wedged it in his top desk drawer.
“A precaution of the safety,” he said.
“Hmmm. Good idea. Uh, Inspector, you will need new clothes.”
The Pink Panther Page 4
