The Pink Panther

by Max Allan Collins

  “No. No one.”

  The inspector’s eyes narrowed with their characteristic shrewdness. “Are you perhaps wearing pumps?”

  “What? Are you mad? No!” He pointed to tennis shoe-shod feet.

  Desperate, Clouseau asked, “How tall are you?”

  “I am five foot six.”

  Clouseau whirled in triumph to his small audience. “Ah ha! Did I not say five foot six?”

  “Actually,” Cherie said, “you said five foot two. But he is rather short, I will grant you.”

  To Ponton the inspector said, “Listen. Learn.”

  The man in sweats blurted, “Who are you, anyway? What is this about?”

  Clouseau drew in a deep breath. “I?” He exhaled grandly. “I am Inspector Clouseau. And this?…This is about…murder!”

  The word echoed through the gym, and Clouseau glanced all around in self-satisfaction. No one, however, had reacted—soccer practice and workouts continued unabated; neither did Cherie, Vainqueur, the little man in sweats, or even Ponton show any response.

  These ones, they play their cards close to the vest, Clouseau thought.

  Clouseau planted himself before their latest arrival, the small man in sweats. “And you are?”

  “Yuri. I am the trainer.”

  “I see. I see. And what is it that you do here?”

  “Well…train.”

  Clouseau grunted a derisive laugh. “And what would the Team France have need for, with the locomotive engineer? It is absurd!”

  Ponton leaned forward. “He trains the athletes.”

  “I know that! What are you writing down, there?”

  “Nothing, Inspector…Nothing.”

  Clouseau resumed his inquiry. “Monsieur Yuri…the trainer who trains…did you know Coach Gluant?”

  Yuri shrugged. “Of course. We all knew him. He was the coach.”

  “Ah. And how did he come to hire you?”

  “Well, he sought me out. He and Cherie. I was with the Russian team; I had a good reputation, and he stole me away.”

  “Stole you away! And how did he manage this, this theft?”

  “He paid me more than the Russians.”

  “The higher-pay ploy. Did you like Gluant?” Clouseau thrust himself forward. “Or did you perhaps…hate him?”

  “As a matter of fact,” Yuri said, “I liked and admired him very much.”

  “And how do I know this is not the deceptive lie?…You are not to leave France!”

  Yuri looked distraught. “But our next game is not in France, Inspector.”

  “You are not to leave Europe!”

  “Our next games are in Asia…”

  “Asia? Well…Asia is all right. But you are not to leave Asia or Europe!”

  Vainqueur piped in. “We do have a game coming up in Brazil.”

  Clouseau turned to the coach and considered his words, saying, “I see. Brazil.” Then he whirled back to the trainer. “But you are not to leave Europe! Or Asia! Or…or the Americas!”

  Yuri shrugged, said, “No problem,” and went off with the tools of his trade.

  Clouseau returned his attention to the somewhat hostile head coach. “Monsieur Vainqueur—this fellow Bizu. Would you say he hated Gluant?”

  “Most definitely.”

  “Enough to…kill him?”

  “That would be your job to find out, isn’t it?”

  “Do you know where he is now?”

  “Yes.”

  Clouseau nodded. Swallowed. “Might you share that information with us?”

  “Well, he’s outside. On the practice field.”

  “And what would he be doing there?”

  “…Practicing.”

  “Yes. Yes. I know something of this, the need of practice for the skilled athlete.”

  The coach smiled a little. “Do tell.”

  “Yes.” Clouseau made a modest shrug, and displayed a small example of a karate chop in the air. “You see, I have the black belt.”

  “I’m sure it holds your trousers up nicely. Cherie will show you the way…If you’ll excuse me, Inspector? Some of us have real work to do.”

  Clouseau watched the man cross the gym floor to hook up with several of the team members at a practice net, where he began to give instructions.

  To Ponton, Clouseau said, “Do you detect a hint of attitude there, my sizeable comrade?”

  “Yes, Inspector. He is an asshole.”

  “Ah. Ah, is that what it is? Very keenly observant on your part, Ponton. You stay here and ask any follow-up questions of our suspects that might occur to you. Clouseau will take on the great Bizu, as the Italians say, ‘mano a mano’…”

  “I believe that’s the Spanish, Inspector,” Ponton said.

  “Well, it may be the Spanish as well…”

  “Or maybe the Mexicans…”

  “Ponton! You have your orders. Carry them out.”

  “Yes, Inspector.”

  Clouseau did not immediately begin his interview with Bizu. He had found in his numerous years of investigatory work that studying a suspect in advance—from a distance, before revealing himself as a detective—could reveal much about the character of said suspect. So he took a place high in the stands, by himself, and watched his prey.

  This was not a great stadium, just a practice field, and the stands were like those at the small high school in Fromage. This meant that Clouseau was above Bizu, but close enough that, eventually, eye contact could be made…

  His black hair like a nest of snakes, the darkly handsome soccer star had the field to himself, kicking balls. His strokes were expert, but anger lurked within each kick, as if every rubber orb were the head of an enemy.

  Considering this, his steel-trap mind processing his observations, Clouseau—idly fiddling with a small screw attached to the back of the bench—finally decided the time had come to call himself to the attention of the star player.

  After much thought about what he might say, what precise remark might put Bizu off his guard and let his adversary know that he was dealing with a mastermind detective with whom he dare not trifle, Clouseau called out, “Nice kick!”

  Then the inspector sat back and smiled, with just a hint of sneer, almost unconsciously playing with that little screw to combat the small touch of nervousness that even a brave officer like Clouseau—being after all human—possessed.

  Bizu turned and glared up at the lone figure at the top of the stands.

  Their eyes locked.

  The tension between them was telling, indeed—Clouseau almost could hear the gears turning; it was as if Bizu’s very thought processes had begun to creak. Clouseau saw the star weaving out there, his footing unsure, the poor fool thrown off by the deadly gaze of Clouseau.

  “What are you looking at?” Bizu called.

  Ah, Clouseau thought; the battle of the wits—the war of the nerves…

  “I am looking at you, my friend. The prime suspect in the murder of Yves Gluant!”

  “Am I really?” the star yelled. “And what are you going to do about it?”

  “I? I am going to—”

  And the bleachers gave way—it had been the stands that had been swaying, not Bizu, the structure itself that had been creaking, not the star’s thoughts—and they folded dramatically, like venetian blinds, sending the great detective sliding down…

  Fortunately, this improvised passage was as smooth and unbroken as a ski slope. And the only thing that gave Clouseau away, just a bit, was his scream as he came gliding down.

  But he regained his composure by landing, like a cat, on his feet—better than a cat, because he required only two feet—as if he had planned this dramatic entrance, all along.

  Ever so suavely he said to the soccer star, whose face was only a few inches away from the inspector’s own, “…I am going to invite you to join me.”

  Flecks of sweat flew as Bizu demanded, “For what? Where?”

  “To the headquarters.”

  Bizu shook his he
ad, more sweat flicking onto Clouseau, who blinked it away. “Do you mind I dress?”

  “In fact I would prefer it,” Clouseau said with great dignity. “The nudity publique, she is a crime, also…though not as serious as…murder!”

  “I will keep that in mind,” Bizu said with a smirk.

  But he complied.

  In an interrogation chamber in the bowels of the Palais de la Justice, a spotlight was on the star player; but not the kind of spotlight he was accustomed to: this was the bright hot light of what the Americans called the Third Degree. Shadows fell dramatically in the closet of a room, stripes of black, bars of white, as if Bizu already were in prison.

  Bizu sat on a bare wooden chair; nearby was a small table, and another chair. But the inspector stood, rocking on his heels, appraising his interviewee with harsh eyes.

  Then, suddenly, Clouseau thrust himself into the man’s face and yelled, “You are the soccer player known as Bizu?”

  Bizu seemed more confused than frightened. “Yes.”

  “And you were acquainted with Yves Gluant?”

  “Yes. Of course. He was my coach. Everyone knows that.”

  “Do not tell Clouseau what he knows! Only Clouseau knows what he knows!…How did you feel about this coach?”

  Bizu grunted. “I hope he’s burning in hell at this very moment.”

  “Ah!” Clouseau ratcheted up the volume further. “Then it is true that you disliked him?”

  A smirk crinkled the upper lip of the suspect. “Let’s just say I’m not crying over him pushing up daisies.”

  “He is not pushing up the daisies! He is dead! What do the daisies have to do—”

  “It’s an expression—idiom.”

  Clouseau reared back, fury in his eyes. “You— you sir, are the idiom!”

  Bizu rolled his eyes.

  Then the inspector was on him again, speaking quickly, voice dripping with menace, rife with threat: “Unless you wish to spend the rest of your nat ural life in prison, where much is unnatural, particularly in the showers, you will answer my next question…Did…you…kill…Gluant?”

  Bizu lurched forward on the chair, until he and Clouseau were touching noses. “I only wish that I had! How I would have loved it! Only someone…some lucky bastard…beat me to it!”

  Clouseau drew back. He looked at the suspect with contempt. “You…you disgust me.”

  Bizu hung his head.

  “One moment,” Clouseau said, his voice softer, “we will continue this.”

  Bizu said nothing, staring at the floor.

  Clouseau stepped out.

  Moments later he returned; his expression was wholly different—pleasant, as was his soft-spoken tone as he asked, “Would you like a cigarette, my friend?”

  Bizu blinked in surprise. “Uh, no. No thanks. I’m an athlete. I don’t smoke.”

  “Good! This is a very good decision. This is why we are so proud of our athletes here in France.” He moved closer, leaned down and beamed at the suspect. “Bizu, my friend, I just wanted you to know that I know you didn’t do this crime.”

  “What?…Oh. Well. Good. That’s nice.”

  Clouseau pulled up the spare chair. “Someone else did this terrible thing…and now they are doing another terrible thing: putting you in the picture frame with the gilt around it.”

  Bizu swallowed, sat forward. “You may be right…Can you help me, Inspector?”

  “It would be my pleasure. My honor.” He shifted on the chair. “Tell me, my friend—do you have any idea who might have done this thing?”

  Bizu laughed bitterly. “Where to start? This list is long. But you’ve been looking at the team, haven’t you? I would suggest Gluant’s business interests.”

  The inspector’s eyes narrowed. “Ah. And what interests are these?”

  “He had money in some stupid chain of restaurants. His partner was that fellow Larocque…the casino owner?”

  “Raymond Larocque?”

  “The very man, Inspector. You see, Gluant would steal money from the restaurants to feed his gambling habit. But Gluant was such an arrogant bastard that he would brag about it! I’m not the only one he told about Larocque, and what a sucker he considered the man to be.”

  “And you suspect Larocque?”

  “You have lots of prime candidates, Inspector. But that’s my best guess, yes—that Larocque got fed up with Yves and had him killed. The Pink Panther stone would’ve gone a long way to make up what Gluant stole, and beyond. And this casino owner has the mob connections to make it happen, too.”

  Clouseau’s eyes flashed. “Ah! The mob. The syndicate. The Mafia. It was inevitable, was it not, that they would rear their filthy heads?”

  Bizu’s upper lip again curled bitterly. “All I know is that whoever did this did the world a favor. Gluant was a selfish, conceited, stinking pig!”

  Clouseau cast a smile upon his suspect and patted him on the shoulder. “I like you, Bizu. You have the good heart…If you’ll excuse me?”

  The inspector entered the small adjacent chamber where Ponton had been watching through the two-way glass.

  “You’re doing fine, Inspector,” the big man said. “You’ve pulled a lot of good information out of Bizu. But what exactly is this technique you’re using?”

  Clouseau removed from a desk drawer a small black electrical box with a small plunger at its center top, not unlike an explosives detonator.

  “My inexperienced friend! Are you not familiar with the classic good-cop-bad-cop ploy?”

  Ponton looked momentarily stunned, like a clubbed baby seal. “But…don’t usually two different cops do that…?”

  Clouseau shrugged. “Well, that is an option, I suppose. But my approach, she is more efficient, what with budgets and so on…Watch and learn, my ample assistant…”

  Clouseau entered the interrogation booth, ominously brandishing the small electrical box. His entire manner had changed; he projected a sinister, sadistic side. Again he all but shouted at the suspect.

  “And, so, Bizu…you may have heard what we do to the suspect who does not cooperate.”

  Bizu, confused, insisted, “But, Inspector—I did cooperate!”

  “Do not contradict me!…If you do not continue to cooperate, I will have to hook you up to…the box.”

  Bizu swallowed thickly, genuinely afraid. “And what…what is ‘the box’?”

  “Simply these two electrodes,” Clouseau said, pointing them out. “Attached to the suspect’s…testicles!”

  Bizu paled.

  “One,” Clouseau said nastily, “each…”

  Apparently interested, Bizu leaned forward. “How exactly does it work, Inspector?”

  “It is child’s play, you idiom!” His voice heavy with threat, Clouseau said, “It is like this…one goes here, the other goes there…”

  Demonstrating, he dropped his pants and attached the electrodes to the desired points of potential pain.

  “And, please, my friend,” Clouseau said softly, reverting to the good cop, seeing Bizu’s hand reaching out toward the plunger, “do not touch that…”

  The scream emerging from the interrogation room rang and echoed throughout the bowels and up into the halls of the Palais de la Justice, where many a seasoned police officer shuddered, wondering what poor miscreant was getting “the box” today.

  SEVEN

  A Suspect Eliminated

  Chief Inspector Charles Dreyfus was by definition a newsmaker, but he—like so many public figures—was also a captive of the news. And as he and his deputy watched the evening news on a television in the chief inspector’s office, Dreyfus felt that emotion, of all emotions, that so distressed a powerful man: helplessness.

  The coverage of Clouseau at the press conference had, on the surface, gone exactly as Dreyfus had planned—the bumbling inspector had been put at the center of the public’s perception of the case, providing the perfect distraction while the real genius detective—Dreyfus himself—went about his investigatio
n unimpeded, supplanted by the Police Nationale’s best investigators.

  But this…this was exceeding his expectations, and not necessarily in a positive way.

  The smooth male news anchor was saying, “And then the inspector, pulled from the ranks of obscure hinterlands service into the forefront of this important investigation, boldly sent a personal message to the murderer.”

  A close-up of Clouseau—speaking directly to the camera, and hence staring with those dangerously eager eyes right at the chief inspector—consumed the monitor screen.

  “To you killer, I say—I will find you!”

  Dreyfus touched his left eye where it had begun, just a little, to twitch; he stroked the area gently, thinking, I could really use a message. Then he winced and blurted, “Massage! Massage!”

  Renard looked over with concern at his superior, seated behind the grand desk. “Are you all right, Chief Inspector?”

  “Yes…yes…”

  On the screen Clouseau was saying, “Because I am a servant of our great nation…because justice is justice…and because France…is France!”

  “Gibberish,” Dreyfus murmured. “Sheer gibberish.”

  The anchor was on screen, saying, “The media has already found a designation for this new superstar sleuth—the Pink Panther Detective.”

  Dreyfus groaned.

  “It is rare in this modern world,” the anchor continued, “for a hero to emerge, a new hero to bring hope to a nation still mourning the loss of its legendary coach, Yves Gluant.”

  “Shut it off,” Dreyfus said, shuddering. “Shut the thing off.”

  “Yes, sir,” Renard said, and did.

  “The Pink Panther Detective! Why not the Green Jackass Imbecile!”

  “Unlikely to catch on with the public, sir.”

  Dreyfus shot his second-in-command a reproving glance. “Your humor is not appreciated, Renard. We may have a problem.”

  “Aren’t things going to plan, Chief Inspector? The reports from our investigators began to come in, and—”

  Dreyfus rose from his desk and began to pace. “With no findings of note whatsoever! And in the meantime, while our people diligently work to little reward, this absurdity with a mustache has done absolutely nothing, and already he is portrayed by the press as a national hero!”