The Pink Panther

by Max Allan Collins

  “Monsieur Larocque,” Ponton said, placing his big frame between himself and his struggling associate, “why did you take out a life insurance policy on Yves Gluant?”

  “Oh, you know about that, do you?”

  “We do.”

  Larocque shrugged elaborately. “Well, if you think that makes me a good suspect, I would beg to differ. The insurance company refuses to pay until the murderer is in custody.”

  From behind Ponton, the struggling, grunting, groaning Clouseau managed, “And what if it is you that is in custody, monsieur?”

  Larocque snarled, “Then they won’t pay me at all, you idiot!…When the killer is found, I will get some insurance money…and I can try to sue the estate against the Pink Panther ring, assuming it’s recovered when the killer is captured.”

  Ponton said, “We do assume that the killer is also the thief.”

  “Then surely you can see,” Larocque said, “that I of all people want the bastard responsible caught!”

  Clouseau popped up nearby, his arms behind him (the vases still on his hands). “But, even aside from the insurance policy…you stood to gain from Gluant’s death, did you not?”

  “Gain? What in God’s name would I gain?”

  “Nothing in the name of God,” Clouseau said cunningly, his back to the moodily illuminated fish tank. “But in the name of Raymond Larocque? A chain of restaurants! Gluant’s share in this chain, she would go to you!”

  “The restaurants? Don’t be ridiculous! That chain was a disaster!”

  Pleased with himself, Clouseau leaned back against the tank, inadvertently dipping his elbow into the water. Several exotic fish swam up to greet this intruder—piranha.

  Larocque was saying, “Gluant was siphoning money out faster than it was coming in—my only consolation, really, was that he was a degenerate gambler, and would come to my casino and lose that money back to me!”

  After a brief feeding frenzy, Clouseau drew quickly away from the fish tank, the elbow of his suit shredded and a trifle bloody.

  Larocque continued: “But as time went by, Yves’s losses exceeded what he’d stolen from me…He got into debt with my casino, and, well…he promised me that ring—as collateral!”

  His hands still locked in the vases, his right elbow a ragged mess, Clouseau noted the servant, Huang, entering with the drink on a tray.

  Seemingly to Larocque, Clouseau said, “But you had the words angry with Gluant the night before his murder…” Spinning toward the servant, Clouseau added, “Did you not, Hung-wang?”

  A vase flew off Clouseau’s hand and headed right for the tray with the drink on it; but Huang deftly ducked, and Ponton caught the vase, in a play that marked him the MVP of the interrogation.

  “No I didn’t,” Huang pouted.

  Clouseau closed in for the kill. “No? You did not threaten to break his arms and his legs and crush them into the little powder?”

  “No!”

  “Well…well…well…” He shrugged. “I play the hunch.”

  The inspector turned toward his host. “I believe we have reached the end of the interview…By the way, if I may test the skill of your knowledge antique…” He hefted the hand still lodged in a vase. “…is this the copy or an original? Worthless or priceless?”

  Larocque shrugged dismissively. “That’s an inexpensive copy.”

  “Ah…thank you. That is good.” In one of his patented martial arts moves, Clouseau spun toward the ivory table and smashed the vase against it once, twice, three times, finally shattering it…and collapsing the ivory table into chunks.

  “That table, however,” Larocque said, quietly stunned, “is priceless.”

  Clouseau’s mustache twitched. “Not,” he said, “anymore…Hung-wang! My coat, if you please.”

  As the servant handed him the trenchcoat, the inspector’s cell phone rang in a pocket, playing the William Tell Overture, or as Clouseau preferred to think of it, the Lone Ranger theme.

  “It is I. Inspector Jacques Clouseau. Speak.”

  The crisply British voice of the secret agent, Boswell, replied: “It seems I do need back-up, Inspector. Can you meet me in the restaurant, at once?”

  “Yes,” Clouseau said, climbing into the trenchcoat. “Yes, at once!”

  “Don’t tarry, man. It’s urgent!”

  “Right away! I will tarry not! The urgency, I understand!”

  He clicked off, turned to Larocque, Huang and Ponton and said, “I hope you will excuse me…Some, uh, minor matter has come up. Nothing important. Nothing confidential. Nothing having to do with the British Secret Service.”

  And, leaving shattered antiquities, satisfied fish and confused humans behind him, Clouseau ran from the room.

  So diligent was he in his efforts not to tarry, Clouseau—as he passed through the casino—made a small oversight: he failed to notice that masked men in catsuits were robbing it.

  He stopped to ask one of these men, who was dressed in skintight black and about to put on a gas mask, directions to the restaurant.

  “It is up there,” the bandit casually replied in Italian, and pointed to a windowed wall overlooking the casino.

  Master of languages that he was, Clouseau automatically understood, replied, “Merci,” and headed for the restaurant.

  Despite the view onto the casino, the restaurant was dark, the mood intimate, cocktail piano music tinkling. Small private dining areas were spotted here and there, separated off by lush plants and/or half-walls. Barely had Clouseau stepped inside when Nigel Boswell emerged from the shadows of one such intimate corner to take him by the arm to the wall of windows.

  “Take a look, Inspector,” the secret agent said, “and you will see why I need your assistance…”

  Out the window Clouseau could see the men in tight black suits wearing gas masks, pulling the pins on gas canisters, plumes of smoke spreading throughout the vast room, the beautiful people turning ugly as they choked.

  Boswell pointed and said, “It’s as precise as a first-rate military operation.”

  Indeed, thieves were scooping up money from the tables into laundry bags, while other contingents of masked bandits were at the cashier’s booths, helping themselves.

  “I would say,” Clouseau said shrewdly, “that what we have here is a robbery.”

  Boswell’s eyes flared. “Not just any robbery, Inspector—these are the so-called Gas-Mask Bandits…all of Europe is after them!”

  “Perhaps…but it is we who are here to catch them!” Clouseau struck a martial arts pose. “I am ready and at your secret service.”

  Boswell held out a hand. “All I need is your coat, really.”

  “I would give you the shirt off my back!”

  “The coat will do nicely.”

  Clouseau complied. “And how will you deploy me, my friend? What is your plan?”

  “My plan is to be you, Inspector.” Boswell was already getting into the trenchcoat. “I am not supposed to be here—your presence, on the premises, however, is by now well-known.”

  Clouseau nodded. “It is true—everywhere I go, they know when I have been there.”

  “So I’ve noticed.” Eyes tight, Boswell lifted a forefinger. “Now it’s critical that I not blow my cover…but at the same time, how can we allow the Gas-Mask Bandits to escape?”

  “We cannot.”

  Buttoned up inside Clouseau’s characteristic trenchcoat, Boswell pointed to the floor nearby. “Get my briefcase, would you? There’s a good fellow. And put it on the table?”

  Clouseau did so, then watched as the agent swiftly unlocked, then snapped open, the briefcase; in holes cut from a black-cushioned bed were an array of the tools of the secret agent trade, among them a gas mask and a laser-beam glass cutter attached to a suction cup. The former Boswell fitted over his face; the latter he used to cut a large square from the window, the suction cup allowing him to merely lift the square out and set it to one side, like a large shield of glass.

  Then, using a s
mall pistol-like tool, Boswell shot a steel cord across the casino—it wavered as it went but its trajectory was true.

  The inspector watched in open-mouthed admiration as the spy—wearing Clouseau’s coat—put on special gloves that aided him in what he did next…

  …which was to slip out the hole in the window to slide across that steel cord, above the casino and the robbery going on below!

  And as Boswell made his stunning, sliding, gliding journey using a single gloved hand, he dropped from his free hand a canister that began at once to suck from the air all of the foul gas the bandits had foisted upon the casino and its helpless patrons.

  Then that same hand slipped under Clouseau’s coat and withdrew another pistol-like weapon.

  One by one, Boswell picked off the thieves.

  “The sleeping-dart ploy,” Clouseau muttered to himself. Those few thieves that Boswell missed on the way across, he snagged on the return journey, for once he got to the opposite wall, he headed back again on his sliding way for the hole in the restaurant’s glass wall, beyond which the astounded Clouseau waited.

  Landing nimbly before the inspector, Boswell quickly unbuttoned and handed Clouseau back his trenchcoat, into which the inspector slipped. Then he handed Clouseau the gas mask, and dropped the other gizmos into either pocket of the coat.

  “Souvenirs?” Clouseau asked. “Thank you, my friend! I will treasure them always—”

  “Not souvenirs, Inspector,” Boswell said, straightening his black tie, having become once again just another smoothly tuxedoed (if particularly distinguished) casino-goer. “Evidence…evidence that you, not I, are the intrepid bloke who captured the Gas-Mask Bandits.”

  “I…a bloke…?”

  Boswell’s chin jutted. “You must swallow your pride, Inspector—do me this favor, and take the credit. You will be doing Nigel Boswell and Her Majesty’s government a great service.”

  Graciously, Clouseau half-bowed. “Well, then…certainly.”

  “Inspector—it’s been an honor.”

  And Boswell crisply saluted.

  “Thank you,” Clouseau said, and returned the salute, knocking himself in the head with the gas mask.

  “I couldn’t have done it without you, old chap,” the spy said.

  Just slightly groggy from the blow he’d delivered upon himself, Clouseau nonetheless beamed. “I know.”

  Then Boswell slipped away.

  Just as Clouseau stepped from the secluded corner of the restaurant, the casino’s security force burst in.

  And as their eyes took in the brave man in the trenchcoat—with the gas mask in hand and gadgets poking from his pockets—smiles blossomed all around.

  “You are a hero!” the chief of security said, rushing forward with open arms, the same formerly officious sort who had earlier given Ponton and Clouseau a hard time. “A true hero!”

  “It was nothing,” Clouseau shrugged, with a modest smile.

  Then the paparazzi and news teams began to swarm in, to take pictures and video of the French detective who had come to Rome to nab the infamous Italian bandits. They had left their posts outside the casino to come inside and find a new celebrity, a real hero.

  And Jacques Clouseau, true to his word, selflessly took all of the credit, bravely covering for his colleague in crime fighting.

  It was the least he could do.

  NINE

  An Average Frenchman

  In his spacious and exquisitely appointed salon, the President of France—his elegantly attired Justice Minister, Clochard, seated at his right hand—brought to order a committee meeting, whose outcome just days before would have seemed predictable indeed. But unpredictable events had suddenly steered the Medal of Honor committee down a most unexpected path.

  “There is but one item on the agenda,” the President said, standing at the head of a table filled with dignitaries. “It is our responsibility to give final approval to the list of nominees for our nation’s highest award—the Medal of Honor.”

  All around the table, nods granted silent sanction to the President’s words—only one of those seated did not nod, as it might seem self-aggrandizing to do so. Accordingly, Charles Dreyfus merely flashed a modest, overly rehearsed smile.

  The President continued: “Only two names have been put forward this year, but both exemplify the highest standards of heroic service to our nation. It is, of course, a pity that of these deserving nominees, only one can receive this honor; but such is the nature of an award so esteemed.”

  More nods, and a diffident, practiced shrug from Dreyfus.

  “The two nominees are Charles Dreyfus, Chief Inspector of the Police Nationale…”

  Now it was the President’s turn to nod, in recognition of Dreyfus, who waved a small humble hand.

  “…whom, you will no doubt recall, earlier this year smashed the Marseille cocaine cartel.”

  Polite applause around the table urged Dreyfus to respond, which he did, with a half-stand, half-bow.

  “And Sister Marie-Hugette of the Ursuline Sisters, whose selfless concern for our nation’s orphans is an inspiration to us all.”

  Again, polite applause followed, including Dreyfus (though his hands actually did not touch), who nodded with a smile of curdled warmth at the woman next to him, a heavy-set nun. The chief inspector thought, If you are so selfless, why are you considering accepting this award? The hypocrisy of some people, Dreyfus felt, was simply appalling.

  Standing along the wall with other deputies, Renard gave his boss a discreet thumbs-up.

  Clochard raised a tentative hand. “Monsieur President, if you will excuse me…Might I have the floor?”

  Surprised eyes turned toward the Justice Minister, none more surprised than Dreyfus’s.

  “Certainly, Monsieur Clochard. The floor is yours.”

  The President sat; the Justice Minister stood.

  “I would like to add one more name for the committee’s consideration. I know we have reviewed many worthy candidates, and that this is a last-minute suggestion…but heroic service keeps to no timetable, certainly not a government committee’s.”

  A mild ripple of amusement followed, although Dreyfus—who viewed Clochard through slitted eyes—took no part.

  “I put forward Inspector Jacques Clouseau,” Clochard began (initiating also a twitch at the corner of Dreyfus’s left eye). “From a small village comes this simple man, previously unknown, to take on the most important investigation of our new century: the murder of our beloved Team France coach, Yves Gluant.”

  Heads lowered momentarily in respect to the late coach, even—reluctantly—Dreyfus’s.

  “Just last night, this officer so recently promoted to inspector captured the most notorious criminals in all of Europe—the so-called Gas-Mask Bandits.”

  To Dreyfus’s horror, the President seemed clearly to be giving this suggestion serious thought. But that was impossible! Dreyfus thought. Ridiculous…!

  But then the President said, “What an interesting idea—an average Frenchman, to rise overnight from obscurity to win the Medal of Honor.”

  “My thinking,” Clochard said, with an open-handed shrug, “exactly.”

  Dreyfus, his eyes burning, did his best to conceal his feelings as his gaze traveled from committee member to committee member, only to find nods all around.

  Dreyfus, forcing a smile, gestured with a dismissive hand. “No one is prouder of Clouseau than I—the man who discovered him and raised him to this elevated position.”

  “That is generous of you, Charles,” Clochard said.

  “But,” Dreyfus said, sitting forward, “such an honor…if I may be allowed to express this opinion, without seeming to be self-serving…seems premature. His principal task is to find Coach Gluant’s killer…which in point of fact he has not. One might even say…to date, at least…he has been a disappointment, even a failure at this, his most important assignment.”

  Clochard nodded, shrugged, and said, “I do agree, Charles—he w
ould only be considered if he finds the killer.”

  Along the sidelines, Renard was frowning.

  “As it happens,” Dreyfus said with an awkward smile, “I was, frankly, considering removing him from the case, and giving it to a more senior, qualified—”

  “No, Chief Inspector,” the President said, “I am sorry, but I must insist that you do not. You yourself, quite brilliantly, chose this humble hinterland investigator and presented him to a country that accepted him at once, warmly, as a national symbol. You must allow him to continue.”

  “…Yes. Certainly, Monsieur President.”

  The President’s expression took on a musing quality. “And just imagine—if he does manage to find Gluant’s killer, and the Pink Panther itself…it might restore our nation’s faith in this administration! The young voters, in particular.”

  Clochard said, “I am pleased, Monsieur President, that you see merit in my modest suggestion.”

  “It is an excellent idea, Clochard!” The President cast his eyes upon his committee. “All in favor?”

  Every hand went up…even, at least, tremblingly, Dreyfus’s, his eye twitching.

  Clochard, seeing the twitch, misread it.

  And winked back, thinking how generous the chief inspector had been.

  As Dreyfus and Clochard returned to the Palais de la Justice—riding in the backseat of the chief inspector’s chauffeured black Peugeot 607—kiosks on street corners displayed newspapers with headlines lauding Clouseau’s remarkable feat at the Rome casino above a photo of the heroic inspector, chin high.

  Inside the car, Dreyfus said, “That stupid face, looking at me, everywhere I go…How is it I was not informed of Clouseau going to that casino? What does this other idiot, Ponton, have to say for himself?”

  Renard shrugged. “Merely that Clouseau took off on this wild goose chase, in the middle of the night, and did not wish to risk disturbing you.”

  “Well, I am disturbed! And you tell this clod Ponton I will accept no excuses…I want a report on Clouseau’s whereabouts every hour, twenty-four hours a day! Tell him if he misses one call, he’ll be walking a beat on the Belgium border! He misses two calls—he’s off the force.”