The Pink Panther

by Max Allan Collins

  “ ‘You,’ you fool! I want to interrogate every person in Paris going by the name of ‘You.’ ”

  Ponton began to say something, thought better of it, and made a note.

  Clouseau began to pace. “My enormous associate, we must face the facts—we are up against the criminal mastermind!” He tripped over the corpse, sprang to his feet, muttering, “Swine victim!”

  Ponton leaned forward. “Are you all right, Inspector?”

  “I have never been better! For I have made a decision.”

  “What decision is that, Inspector?”

  “This murder…these murders…for we now have more than one murder, and that is a larger number, n’est pas?…these murders, they speak of sophistication. And what is more sophisticated, my friend, than a casino?”

  Ponton smiled a little. “Ah. You wish to interview the casino owner—Larocque.”

  “Raymond Larocque! Yes! He alone of our suspects fits the profile of the potential mastermind…Which of his casinos is his base of operations, Ponton?”

  “The most beautiful city in the world, Inspector.”

  Clouseau frowned. “I was not aware that gambling was legal in Cleveland.”

  “Actually, Inspector—I meant Rome.”

  “Ah.” Clouseau shrugged. “To each his own. But in Cleveland there is the Rock and Roll Museum—what is there to see in Rome but a bunch of ruins?”

  “And a murderer?” Ponton suggested.

  “And a murderer! You are learning. You are learning…”

  Clouseau returned to Cherie. “My dear—when you discovered the body, what did you do? What did you say?”

  “Well, I just sort of…stuck my head in, Inspector. It’s the men’s locker room, after all.”

  “I understand. You are the shy flower.”

  “I saw a trickle of red, opened the door wider, and saw Bizu…just…just…sprawled on the floor, that terrible wound in his head.”

  Sagely the inspector nodded. “And what did you do next. What did you say?”

  “Well…I don’t know exactly…”

  “Think! You must think, cher Cherie. Every detail, it is of vital importance to the investigation criminal!” Clouseau leaned close to the young woman. “What…did…you…say?”

  “I suppose it was…”

  And Cherie Dubois screamed in Clouseau’s face.

  Ears ringing, eyebrows standing up in little exclamation marks, the wide-eyed Clouseau turned to Ponton and said, “Write that down!”

  “Yes, Inspector,” Ponton said.

  Clouseau, after tripping over the corpse again, made his way into the hall.

  Cherie approached Ponton and said, “That inspector…is he really the perfect fool he seems to be?”

  “No one is perfect, mademoiselle,” Ponton said, and took his leave.

  EIGHT

  License to Spill

  Outside, where the perpetual premiere of a rotating spotlight’s beam cut through the night, the paparazzi and news crews—both local and international—kept a constant vigil for celebrities, a vigil frequently rewarded with flashbulb-worthy prey.

  This was, after all, the plushiest casino in Rome, a city fabled for its la dolce vita. Within, smartly dressed men and chicly clothed women, who might well have stepped from the pages of GQ and Vogue, were attended by young cocktail waitresses with daring decolletage and lovely smiling faces, in a glitteringly appointed gambling den that made Monte Carlo seem shabbily second rate.

  Winding among these jet-set patrons, the modestly garbed detectives from France moved like the conspicuous outsiders they were.

  Finally, in the midst of the casino, against the familiar din of dealers’ voices, gamblers’ wagers, spinning balls and flung dice, the trenchcoated Clouseau finally took sudden root, not noticing that he caused a cocktail waitress to lurch into a nearby aisle, spilling her tray of drinks onto several stunned beautiful—and now wet—people.

  “Ponton,” Clouseau said, “I will mingle. You, my lummox liege, will go to inquire about the office of this Larocque.”

  “Where will I find you, Inspector?”

  “I will be here. Right here. I will…blend in.”

  Ponton was well aware that in their modest police-issue attire, they were brown shoes in this black tux world. But he merely said, “Then you intend to order a drink and gamble?”

  “Of course not!” Clouseau shook his head in weary disappointment with his pupil. “First, I am on the duty. An officer does not drink on the duty. Second, neither does he gamble with the wagering. Third, we are servants of the public, on the modest salary—one should only wager when he can afford to lose.”

  “But you said were going to blend in—”

  Clouseau raised a palm. “I will observe from the lines of the side. There is only so much ‘blending in’ Clouseau can do among such fools.”

  “Fools?”

  “Fools! Look at them, throwing away the money. Do these fools not know that the odds, they are stacked against them? The house, she holds all the cards!”

  Ponton, mildly surprised by such relative wisdom coming from the inspector, strode off to fulfill his assignment.

  Clouseau watched until his partner was out of sight, then scurried to the nearest roulette table. After much tortured thought, he purchased a single chip, worth a single Euro. Then he placed his bet and his heart pounded.

  His eyes followed the little ball as it traveled around and around and around, then stopped.

  His jaw dropped.

  He had lost.

  For some time he stood in stony silence, holding back the tears as he thought of all the things that that Euro could have bought for him.

  From his loser’s reverie he was shaken when the individual next to him—a suave, dark-haired, wickedly handsome man in evening dress—spoke up loudly in English: “Such very pleasant weather we’re having. I certainly hope this blissful weather continues…”

  The words were not intended for Clouseau, rather for a small, somewhat overweight fellow who happened to be standing next to the commanding, dark-haired figure.

  “Uh, yes,” the confused fellow said. “Isn’t it?”

  The tall, dark-haired gentleman shrugged slightly to himself, and returned his attention to the roulette table.

  But Clouseau leaned in and whispered in English: “I, too, am in the enforcement of the leau.”

  The tall gentleman frowned in mild confusion. “What do you have to do with the loo?”

  “The leau!” Then hushed, Clouseau explained, “The leau enforcement. The force of the police.”

  “Ah!” Then, after a moment of thought, the tall man said, “Bloody hell…was I that obvious?”

  “No, no, no, monsieur. It is just that I have the nose for words. The ear for spotting my own breed.”

  A pretty waitress approached and gazed at Clouseau’s handsome companion with seemingly real admiration. “Your drink, sir.”

  “Ah, my mojito. Would you flame it, dear?”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  And, with a flourish, she lit the drink; its flame burned bright, reflecting in Clouseau’s wide eyes.

  As his new friend took the drink from the waitress and dropped a five-pound note on her tray, Clouseau said, “Impressive. I shall remember that, the flaming-drink ploy. I am Inspector Jacques Clouseau from—”

  “France?”

  Clouseau smiled. “You are good, monsieur. The details, they do not escape from you.” He leaned closer. “I am here to inquire into the theft of the Pink Panther and the murder of our Coach Gluant. A confidential matter that I would not share with just any stranger…”

  “Commendable.”

  “And you are?”

  “Boswell. Nigel Boswell. With MI5—agent double oh six. I assume you understand the significance of that?”

  “Yes, yes. You are one brick shy of the major load.”

  Boswell blinked, shrugged that off, then said, “I too am on an important case—very important. And, lik
e you, Inspector—it’s confidential.”

  “You may depend on Inspector Jacques Clouseau, Agent Nigel Boswell!”

  Boswell patted the air. “Shhh…please, Inspector…I am not here.”

  Clouseau frowned. “Well, of course you are here. Where else would you be?”

  “Switzerland.”

  “Well then, if I were you, I would, how do you British say? Shake the leg. Catch the soonest plane, and—”

  “No, no. Officially I am there…unofficially, I am here.”

  “Aaahh! Your mission is under the covers.”

  Boswell twitched a smile. “Frequently, yes…Right now I am shadowing a very important Colombian drug lord. No one must know that I am here.”

  Clouseau narrowed his eyes. “But if you are under the cover—why do you wear the dress of the evening? This tuxedo is exactly what I would expect of the agent who kills with the license!”

  Patiently, Boswell said, “Inspector—most men here are wearing tuxedos. In that trenchcoat? You are the exception, not the rule.”

  Clouseau beamed. “Thank you.” Discreetly, seen by no more than a dozen people, Clouseau wrote his cell phone number on a slip of paper. Then he bumped against Boswell, as if accidently.

  “Yes,” Clouseau said loudly, “the weather she is blissful…” Then, sotto voce, he said into the agent’s ear, “I have just slipped my cell phone number into your pocket…If the clouds, they were any more white…Call me if you need the help of the back.”

  Spotting Ponton approaching, Clouseau gave the agent a small salute, Boswell nodded almost imperceptibly, and the inspector joined up with his assistant.

  “Ponton,” Clouseau said, “is our suspect, Larocque, on the premises?”

  “He is. We need to check in with security, and—”

  As they walked through the crowded casino aisle, Clouseau waved a hand. “Excuse me, I change the subject. Ponton, I must suggest that we suspend our practicing of the attack while we are in the public of the foreign land. We must not attract the attention.”

  “I agree,” Ponton said.

  “Splendid. We will resume our training when the circumstances, they are more appropriate.”

  “That’s a good idea, Inspector,” Ponton said, and Clouseau tripped him.

  The big man was flung down an adjacent aisle. Waitresses and patrons alike tumbled like bowling pins, chips and drinks and ice flying.

  “Oh, my friend, you are so clumsy!” Clouseau said, and helped Ponton to his feet. Smiling, Clouseau explained to the spectators, “My friend has the two left foot. He does apologize.”

  As Clouseau walked him along, Ponton looked at his partner with amazed dismay. “But, Inspector, you said—”

  “Vigilance, Ponton! Vigilance…and Ponton—trust no one!”

  At the casino security desk, Ponton took the lead, saying, “Please inform Monsieur Larocque that Inspector Clouseau of the Police Nationale wishes to have a word with him.”

  “You are Inspector Clouseau?”

  “I am his assistant—Detective Ponton. This is Inspector Clouseau…”

  The security supervisor, an officious but competent-looking individual, gave Clouseau a condescending smirk, and said to Ponton, “You do know that the two of you have no official standing in this country?”

  Clouseau stepped forward. “You do not question my authority, in this or any country! We are here with the full knowledge and cooperation of the Interpol!”

  The supervisor sighed, nodded and picked up his phone.

  Soon, in the elevator, Ponton said, “I was not aware we had coordinated our visit through official channels, Inspector. Did Chief Inspector Dreyfus make the arrangements?”

  “Of course not! No such arrangements were made.”

  Confused, Ponton said, “But you told that security fellow that—”

  “He apparently did not know the rule.”

  “What rule?”

  “Have you forgotten so quickly? Trust no one!”

  The elevator opened on Larocque’s floor, and Ponton tripped Clouseau, who went sprawling onto the carpet.

  Jumping to his feet, Clouseau said, “You are the quick learner! I am proud of my pupil. After you, Ponton…”

  “No, Inspector. I think we will go two abreast, if you don’t mind.”

  Clouseau considered that, and said, “That is an excellent choice, for the breast. Two.”

  The door to the penthouse suite was answered by a towering, brawny Asian in a Nehru jacket; bald, menacing, frowning, he opened the door without a word.

  The two detectives entered to find themselves in a spacious, luxurious penthouse whose modernity was contrasted with an array of elaborately framed impressionist paintings, and Chinese antique furnishings and art pieces. Prominent along one wall was a large, eerily lit fish tank filled with exotic specimen, flashing their fins in seeming greeting.

  In the midst of the living room stood a thin, elegant, harshly handsome man in his fifties, vaguely sinister in manner and appearance; his dark suit was cut in the latest European mode, and he leaned on an ornate walking stick of Chinese styling.

  Ponton remained in place, at the edge of the living room, while Clouseau—who handed the Asian servant his trenchcoat—confidently wandered the periphery, studying one framed painting after another.

  “Monet!” he said. Then looking at another, he declared it, “Renoir!…And this…Gwen-gwan!”

  Their host, with a mild sneer of amusement, said, “Most impressive, Inspector Clouseau. How is it you come to have such knowledge?”

  Clouseau said, “I am full of the surprises, my friend. Do not be fooled by my simple country ways. The adversary, he must be kept off the guard, at all times.”

  With a knowing smile, Clouseau tripped over a coffee table, but leapt to his feet, popping up right before his host. “I am Inspector Jacques Clouseau.”

  “I know.”

  “So you have heard of me.”

  “You called ahead.”

  “Ah. And you are Raymond Larocque?”

  “Yes, I am. And since you feel comfortable revealing your art expertise to me, Inspector, I must say I am highly complimented. You obviously do not regard me as an adversary.”

  “Perhaps, yes. Perhaps, no.” Clouseau raised his chin, attempting to look down on the taller man. “I am investigating the murder of Yves Gluant.”

  Nodding somberly, Larocque said, “Poor Yves—a fascinating, talented man. A genuine loss…Would you and your associate like a drink, Inspector?”

  From the background, Ponton spoke up. “Thank you, Monsieur Larocque—but we do not drink on duty.”

  Clouseau said, “Grenadine with a little Pernod.”

  Larocque’s towering Asian servant stepped forward. “This is my majordomo,” their host explained. “He’s Huang.”

  To the servant, Clouseau said, “Congratulations. With what organization military did you serve, Major? And what is your name, by the way?”

  “That is my name, Sweetcheeks,” Huang said. He smiled, winked, then scurried off to fill the inspector’s drink order.

  Clouseau, not knowing what to make of this Sweetcheeks character, switched gears, and again faced his sinister host. “Tell me, Monsieur Larocque—this famous ring the Coach Gluant wore…this Pink Panther…Do you happen to know how he came to acquire it? Did he buy the ring?”

  “Oh, no. Certainly not.”

  The inspector’s eyes tensed. “Then he stole it?”

  A sophisticated smirk appeared on the craggy face. “Well, perhaps that would be the opinion of the maharajahs from the Middle Eastern country where the Panther was first known. Yves inherited it from his grandfather. It cost him nothing.”

  “Nothing? Nothing but his life, monsieur!” Clouseau took a step closer, his eyes locked on those of his host. “May I have a closer look at your bawls?”

  Larocque blinked. “Pardon?”

  “Your big brass bawls…On that table over there? Isn’t that large one eighteenth centu
ry? Han Dynasty?”

  Clouseau thrust a finger toward an ivory table on which rested beautiful Chinese bowls and vases of varying sizes.

  “Be my guest, Inspector. But please—don’t touch them.”

  Clouseau arched an eyebrow. “Really? And why is that?”

  “Because some of them are precious.”

  “Some?”

  Larocque shrugged. “Well, you obviously have an eye for antiques. Some are real, some are false.”

  Clouseau chuckled wisely. “The same can be said of the human being, nes c’est pas?”

  The inspector approached the ivory table.

  His host called, “Inspector—those vases are particularly tricky…it’s easy to get one’s hand caught inside.”

  Clouseau twirled toward Larocque. “Oh? You do not wish me to look inside the vases? Could it be that some worthless copy has something real, something precious within? The Pink Panther, say?”

  Larocque scowled. “Don’t be ridiculous. Just, please—be careful…”

  Clouseau picked up a ceramic vase bearing an elaborate Chinese dragon design. “The problem, my friend, is that one must always handle a ceramic vase from the inside—surely you know this! The oil from the hands could change the patina, and effect both the beauty and the value…”

  The inspector, his hand inside the vase now, held it up to the light.

  “Ah…pure alabaster,” he said.

  “And nothing else,” his host snapped.

  “Nothing else…yet.”

  Clouseau set his hand-in-vase down on the table, and slipped his hand out—that is, tried to slip his hand out…

  To brace himself, he put a hand on the table—that is, tried to put a hand on the table…

  Instead, he wound up with his left hand in one vase and the right in another.

  “That is odd,” Clouseau mused. “All I did was follow the acknowledged procedure…”

  Larocque’s teeth were bared. “I told you not to put your hand in there, you fool!”

  “Is this the way you speak to a guest, sir?!”

  Bracing it under his opposite arm, Clouseau attempted to get the first vase off.

  As Clouseau did his best to free himself, without damaging the vases, Ponton stepped forward to pick up the interview…and cover for his partner.