The Pink Panther

by Max Allan Collins

  “I will tell him, sir.”

  As the Peugeot drew up in front of the Palais de la Justice, the vehicle was swarmed by reporters.

  “Roll the window down, Renard,” Dreyfus said.

  “But, Chief Inspector—”

  “We must treat the media with respect. They undoubtedly want to hear that my nomination for the Medal of Honor was formally made this morning.”

  Renard swallowed. “Yes, sir…”

  The window went down, and the press swarmed up.

  “Chief Inspector—how did Clouseau know to set his trap at the casino for the Gas-Mask Bandits?”

  “Chief Inspector! Does Clouseau suspect the Gas-Mask Bandits may have engineered the Pink Panther theft?”

  “Monsieur Dreyfus! Is Clouseau going to—”

  With the tightest smile ever known to man, Dreyfus said, “Gentlemen…ladies! I cannot comment on an ongoing investigation…”

  Below the sight line of the media, the chief inspector gestured frantically for the window to be rolled back up, which Renard did.

  As the vehicle entered the Palais compound, Dreyfus muttered, “Must I do everything myself…?”

  Renard said nothing.

  At the same time, after only a few hours’ sleep, Inspector Clouseau was already at work, striding down a corridor toward his office. Just outside the door labeled INSPECTOR JACQUES CLOUSEAU, Ponton waited, like a patient palm tree.

  Brightly, Ponton said, “Inspector, you will be pleased to know that I have rounded up everyone in Paris with the name ’You.’ ”

  Clouseau frowned. “And you have done this why, my towering underling?”

  “Because…you asked me to. Remember? Cherie Dubois reported the last words of Bizu: ‘Oh, it’s you?’ ”

  The inspector straightened, beamed. “Yes, yes, I was merely testing you! Excellent work. Now we are getting somewhere. How many suspects have you rounded up?”

  “One. A Mademoiselle Yu.”

  Seated in the same interrogation booth as had been the late Bizu, under a similarly harsh light, was an attractive Chinese woman in a red dress. She appeared utterly bewildered by why she was here.

  Clouseau circled her, as a lion circles its prey, or a dog a tree.

  Then, suddenly, he jabbed a forefinger in her startled face. “Where were you, Madam Yu, when Coach Gluant was murdered?”

  Ponton, who had entered the booth with Clouseau, stepped out of the shadows to listen closely.

  But all he heard was a long string of Chinese words flying from the woman’s lips, a rush of apparent invective that to his ears was gibberish. Clouseau’s eyes were wide and seemingly un-comprehending as the sing-song chatter continued for what felt an eternity.

  Finally, silence.

  Clouseau rocked on his heels. His eyes narrowed, then widened again, then narrowed, then…

  The inspector thrust his arm toward the door. “You…Yu…may go.”

  Ponton stuck his head into the hall, called for a gendarme, who escorted the woman out.

  Then Ponton approached the inspector, asking gently, “Did you get any of that?”

  “Of course!” Clouseau said, somewhat too indignantly.

  “You speak…Chinese?”

  “Of course I speak the Chinese!” Clouseau’s eyes and nostrils flared. “Have I not told you I speak the dozen tongues? Are not two of them Cantonese and Mandarin?”

  “Which was she speaking?”

  “One of them! You are implying that I do not speak Chinese? Ah so, now Inspector Clouseau does not speak Chinese! Then what are we doing here? How could I not speak Chinese?”

  As they walked to Clouseau’s office, this continued for some time, Ponton saying nothing, Clouseau ranting, the assistant thinking that the inspector protested a bit too much…

  Chief Inspector Charles Dreyfus’s office was only one door down from Clouseau’s, across the hall. So it was that Dreyfus—stung by the attention of the press, and the Medal of Honor committee, to this fool inspector—succumbed to temptation.

  If this nincompoop Ponton would not report in regularly, Dreyfus himself would check up on the bumbler, Clouseau!

  He knocked lightly at Clouseau’s door.

  No response.

  He cracked the door open, peeked in.

  No one within.

  Soon he was prowling the office, snooping as only a great detective can snoop. He began with a filing cabinet of Clouseau’s past cases, which had been shipped here from Fromage; but when the chief inspector pulled out the first drawer, it proved only half as long as usual, and—on welloiled skids—flew out, and dropped, heavily, on Dreyfus’s foot.

  After performing a short, not terribly graceful dance, doing an effective mime of the pain that he actually felt, Dreyfus sat at Clouseau’s desk, to get the weight off his crushed toes. Then he began to snoop some more, taking microfilm pictures of this and that, including all the pages in Clouseau’s address book. He did not, however, take a picture of the contents of one drawer, which was devoted exclusively to mustache wax and dye.

  Like an inviting meal, Clouseau’s briefcase was set out on the desk just waiting for Dreyfus. He snapped it open and began to thumb through its contents, taking more microfilm pictures, the only sound the small clicks of the tiny camera.

  But then came another sound, a loud obnoxious one: Clouseau’s voice, across the hall, leaning in to speak to Dreyfus’s secretary.

  “Bon jour, Nicole!” Clouseau was saying. “Can you meet me in my office in a few minutes? I wish you to take the notes of my thoughts on the Gluant case.”

  Quickly, Dreyfus closed the curtains on the window nearest Clouseau’s desk, and slipped behind them.

  When Clouseau entered, he did not at first sense anything wrong. But when he sat at his desk, he knew at once that his briefcase was at the wrong angle and—most tellingly—the hair he had wedged within the closed right-hand drawer was gone.

  His eyes lowered and he quickly spotted the strand of hair, plucked it from the floor and studied it between thumb and middle finger.

  Thinking it through, Clouseau narrowed his eyes. Finally his mind reported its findings: someone had opened that drawer!

  Something was…amiss.

  He swivelled in the chair and saw the tips of brown shoes below the curtains, curtains he had not shut, shoes he did not own…someone was behind there!

  Standing, Clouseau crossed to the door and opened it, calling, “Nicole! Could I see you now?”

  He selected from several possibilities a fancy French chair (this was, after all, France) and he hefted it. Nicely solid.

  Nicole slipped into the office, pad in hand, and saw Clouseau creeping toward the curtains, wielding the chair like a big bat. She squinted at him in confusion. “Yes, Inspector?”

  “Ah, Nicole, my pet…” His eyebrows rose and so did the volume of his voice. “Such very pleasant weather we are having. I was wondering if you think the weather, she is going to stay this mild…”

  Nicole’s brow tensed further, as she said, “I, uh, certainly hope so, Inspector…”

  Clouseau crept closer to the curtains. “But do you think the weather, she is going to change?”

  “Let’s keep our fingers crossed that it doesn’t.”

  “Yes…yes, we will keep our fingers…”

  And Clouseau swung the heavy chair into the curtains, smashing it into pieces on the person behind them.

  “…crossed!” Clouseau shouted triumphantly.

  And Chief Inspector Dreyfus, his eyes open but not seeing anything, tumbled out from behind the curtains, flinging himself across Clouseau’s desk draped like a dead moose on a proud hunter’s fender.

  Interestingly, the chief inspector wore a smile almost as surprised—and stupid—-as the one Clouseau himself displayed.

  Later that afternoon, Clouseau risked paying the chief inspector a visit.

  He entered the office tentatively, saying, “Are you feeling better, Chief Inspector? I am so sorry, Chief
Inspector. I did not imagine you would be springing the surprise inspector, Chief Inspection.”

  Dreyfus had been sitting on the edge of his desk, an ice bag to a swollen cheek, and sporting an elaborately blackened eye, which twitched now and then.

  Now, seeing Clouseau, he got quickly behind the desk, to put something between him and the walking disaster that had just entered.

  “The less said about it,” Dreyfus said, “the better.”

  Clouseau beamed and approached the desk, stood with his hands locked behind him, rocking every so gently. “Good, good. I just thought I would drop by to give you the update on the case.”

  “Kind of you,” Dreyfus said dryly.

  Misinterpreting this, Clouseau became more casual; he sat on the edge of Dreyfus’s desk, now that they were “buddies,” not noticing the executive game of steel marbles, which when initiated would sway in “cause and effect” fashion. Right now they were at rest.

  Like Clouseau.

  Angled to look at his friendly colleague, Clouseau did notice something else on the desk: a collapsible pointer.

  “Ah! I see you have the pointer that collapses, yes? Very useful, very handy! It is so much preferable to the pointing finger or the long wooden stick. With this…” And Clouseau lifted the pointer from the desk, regarding the thing expertly. “…one just snaps it open…”

  Which he did, slapping Dreyfus in the face, though not noticing he had done so.

  “…and you are ready to go!”

  Dreyfus, who had dropped his ice bag, recovered quickly, saying, “Well, then, Inspector. If you are ready to go—why don’t you?”

  “Ah, but the case, Chief Inspector!” Clouseau, closed the pointer, managing to hit no one, and tossed it on the desk, retaining his casual perch. “I must give you the report.”

  “Please.”

  “The case, she is going quite well, I am pleased to report.”

  “Splendid. If that’s all—”

  “Ah, but we just begin! You see, the crime, she has three components. One—the soccer stadium. Two—the people immediately surrounding the Coach Gluant. Three—the coach, his small circle of friends. And from this I have culled a list of the suspects key.”

  “Excellent,” Dreyfus said, mildly surprised. “And how many suspects have you culled it down to?”

  “Twenty-seven-thousand six-hundred and eighty-three.”

  Dreyfus drew in a deep breath; released it. Repeated: “Twenty-seven-thousand six-hundred and eighty-three. Suspects.”

  “That is right. From a city of millions, this culling I have done.”

  Dreyfus smiled. “Well, then—it sounds like only a matter of time. Tell me—have you eliminated any suspects?”

  “Ha! Have I eliminated any suspects? You ask Clouseau if he has eliminated any suspects?”

  “That’s right. I believe I did ask you that.”

  “Well of course I have!”

  “How many?”

  “One.”

  Dreyfus swallowed thickly. “I see. And which suspect is that?”

  Clouseau shrugged. “Gluant.”

  Dreyfus blinked, one eye blinking a bit more. “But Gluant…is the victim.”

  “Yes, of course. Excellent, Inspector. We think alike. We have ruled out the suicide.” Finally Clouseau noticed the row-of-steel-marbles game, and said, “Oh, I like these, very much—the cause and the effect…”

  He lifted the end ball bearing, and allowed it to swing back a good distance, released it, and sent the marbles flying and crashing and rolling around the desktop.

  “Swine marbles…”

  “That’s all right,” Dreyfus said, gesturing dismissively. “Just leave it.”

  “No, but such incompetence must be punished!”

  “Really?”

  “Yes! Yes! We must demand the refund from the manufacturer of this stupid game. Such shoddy workmanship! I will write a letter of the indignation!”

  “Do that. Is there anything else?”

  “No. I think we have covered, as the Americans say, the basis.”

  “Fine.” Dreyfus flipped a little wave, returned to his paperwork. “Goodbye.”

  Clouseau nodded smartly, and went toward the door. Halfway there, he spun and asked, “Chief Inspector, you were at the game where the murder, she took place—were you not?”

  Irritably, Dreyfus looked up. “Of course I was.”

  Walking back slowly, Clouseau spoke with deliberation. “I would request that you think back, Chief Inspector, and try to remember if you saw anything suspicious that you may have overlooked reporting at the time…”

  “Such as?”

  “Seeing someone running around with a poison-dart gun, perhaps?”

  Dreyfus’s smile was actually a grimace. “I will think back and let you know.”

  Clouseau thrust a finger in the air, pointing at the sky, or anyway, the ceiling. “I want to assure you, Chief Inspector, that I will soon have your killer…not your killer, you are quite alive, what I mean to say is the killer that you seek…cornered like the kangaroo in, in…the car…the very small car!”

  “Very well put,” Dreyfus said dryly.

  “Ah.” Clouseau smiled in a conspiratorial manner. “I see that you, too, take delight in the play on the words. We have this in common, you and I. The little…verbal joust. Charles…may I call you ‘Charles’?”

  “No.”

  “Ah. Then I will call you ‘Chief Inspector.’ ”

  “Why don’t you?” Dreyfus, suddenly feeling he’d been too openly harsh, said, “I do appreciate these comments. You have a…unique way with words, a nice raconteur.”

  Clouseau frowned, not sure he understood, but covered by saying, “I do know the nice ‘rack’ when I see her, Chief Inspector, and may I take this opportunity to thank you for sharing Nicole with me.”

  “Why don’t you get back on the job, Clouseau?”

  “It has not progressed that far with Nicole, Chief Inspector, but I do appreciate that you do not have the priggish prejudice where the romance in the orifice, the office, she is concerned.”

  “Yes. Go. Just go.”

  Afraid he had been too familiar with his superior, Clouseau paused at the door and once again admired the elaborate filigree molding around its edges.

  “Ah! I see you have decided to return this finely crafted molding to its original placement…a wise choice! I am of the perhaps controversial opinion that today’s French craftspersons, they are every bit as skilled as those of the eighteenth century…”

  As he spoke, Clouseau nervously fiddled with the filigree, and—again—it fell away in his hands.

  Leaning the molding against the wall, Clouseau said, “I’ll just leave it here…Looks very nice anywhere, really.”

  Dreyfus, alone at his desk now, did not know what to think. In a way, perhaps it was good that this man was such an utter idiot. Clouseau, with his tens of thousands of suspects, had no possibility of actually solving the Pink Panther case. But was the destruction the clown left in his wake really worth it?

  As if his very desk were answering his question, the corner where Clouseau had perched collapsed, sending various items on the desk sliding toward the chief inspector, dumping themselves into his lap.

  Reflexively, he rose, and cried out, “Maintenance!”

  And, taking a step away from this latest Clouseau catastrophe, Chief Inspector Charles Dreyfus slipped on several of the ball bearings, causing the effect of him flying from his feet into the air—briefly—only to be deposited, rudely, on the floor behind his desk.

  Clouseau, hearing the clatter from the hall, rushed back and stuck his head in. But there was no sign of the chief inspector at his desk, which was a terrible untidy mess.

  As Dreyfus had apparently slipped out, Clouseau headed back to his office.

  So many things to do. Unlike the chief inspector, Jacques Clouseau could hardly afford to just sit around at his desk, playing with his silly balls.

  By
late afternoon, the hours they had been keeping had taken a toll on both the inspector and his partner. They strolled together across a pedestrian bridge over the Seine, as the sun began to dip from sight, a cool lovely dusk settling over the City of Love.

  In his now-famous trenchcoat, the man credited with capturing the Gas-Mask Bandits said to his burly associate, “To let the subconscious mind attack the case, while we sleep, let us once again go over the facts.”

  Ponton nodded. “Yves Gluant was killed at the International Championship Semi-Final.”

  “The murder!”

  “In his neck was found a poison dart.”

  “The weapon!”

  “His valuable ring, bearing the Pink Panther stone, was stolen in the melee.”

  “The robbery!”

  “Near the victim at the time of his murder were his teammates, coaching staff and an estranged lover.”

  “The opportunity!”

  “The star player Bizu had wished his coach dead, but has now been murdered himself.”

  “The complication!”

  “Gluant was siphoning off money from his partner in their restaurant chain, casino owner Raymond Larocque.”

  “The motive!”

  “But the person with the best motive, who was closest to the victim at the point of murder, was the estranged lover, Xania.”

  “The orgasm!”

  Ponton stopped in his tracks. “What?”

  “Ah, nothing, nothing, my strapping confederate.” Clouseau paused and leaned against the stone bridge. “An excellent assembly of the facts. And from these we draw what inescapable conclusion?”

  With a shrug, Ponton said, “That the singer Xania likely killed her lover, Yves Gluant.”

  Clouseau laughed and waved that off. “You poor callow creature—she is the obvious perpetrator, hence she is innocent.”

  The big man shook his head. “I tell you, Inspector, she is the killer! Please, I am only trying to help you…You are my partner, and now…my friend.”

  Clouseau, genuinely touched, said, “I do appreciate these words maudlin. But I do not believe that this gentle feminine flower, she has done this terrible thing.”

  Ponton’s upper lip drew to reveal his teeth, but he wasn’t smiling. “You do not want to see the truth, because you are emotionally involved! I could see it when the two of you were together at the recording studio—I could see a fool falling in love!”