The Pink Panther

by Max Allan Collins

  In the hallway, as Dreyfus exited the interrogation booth, Renard asked, “Shall we lock him up?”

  “No. He is finished. I don’t know what happened on that plane, but Clouseau is only a ‘terrorist’ by accident. Start the papers for his early retirement, and let him go home to his obscurity.”

  Ponton took the wheel of the Renault and drove the devastated Clouseau—who had said nothing since the interrogation had ended—to his apartment building.

  Ponton parked, and as Clouseau got out so did the bigger man, coming around and offering his hand.

  “I apologize to you,” Ponton said, “and hope you will still consider me your partner.”

  Clouseau smiled a little and shook the man’s hand, but said, “I am afraid there will be no more partners for Clouseau, my large associate.”

  “Please believe that I did not know to what extent the chief inspector was using you—I knew only that he wanted reports on your activities…and I came to understand that he had a certain…”

  “Contempt for Clouseau?”

  Ponton sighed and nodded.

  “You are a fine man, Ponton,” Clouseau said, with surprising dignity. “I am the fool. You were the teacher, and I the pupil. If ever I made you to look the fool, my friend…I am sorry.”

  “Don’t be silly. I feel we were making progress. I think we would have cracked this case—soon.”

  Clouseau said, “I felt this way myself…before learning that I was the idiot deluded.”

  Ponton waved that off. “Don’t listen to that megalomaniac Dreyfus! He is all ambition and no heart—that way lies madness. The day will come when he will pay.”

  “That day, my friend, is not this day.”

  “Perhaps not.” Ponton rose to his full height and saluted Clouseau. “But it was nonetheless an honor serving under you, sir.”

  Clouseau returned the salute, then lowered it in a bladed karate chop…which landed, soft as a feather, gentle as a kiss, on Ponton’s chest.

  And Clouseau turned and—perhaps the most dejected man on the planet, but certainly in France—walked into his apartment building.

  When the late afternoon news came on, Clouseau was in his flat sitting on the sofa before his television. Having adjusted the rabbit-ear antenna, he watched fatalistically as footage of himself being dragged into the Palais de la Justice consumed the screen.

  Then the man who Clouseau had thought was his superior, but was in fact his nemesis, was interviewed in a press conference.

  Confident, smiling, Chief Inspector Charles Dreyfus fielded all questions, after a brief statement announcing that he was personally taking over the Pink Panther investigation…and that an arrest was “imminent.”

  A television reporter called out, “Sir, the coroner has announced that Bizu was killed by a perfect shot in the occipital lobe. Any comment?”

  “While no detail is unimportant, this one does not seem to have any particular significance.”

  But Clouseau was sitting up, thinking that over. Aloud he muttered, “The lobe occipital…the lobe occipital…He is wrong. That is important. That is most important…”

  When the interview was over, Clouseau clicked off the TV and, still thinking, went to his little digital camera, which lay on the desk nearby. A relatively new purchase, the camera came with a small instruction booklet which Clouseau had carefully filed in a drawer, where he found it now.

  With surprising ease Clouseau followed the instructions. When unconcerned with his public dignity, he could accomplish any number of tasks. Soon the digital camera’s little screen was showing him the various pictures he’d taken in New York. Some of them featured himself and/or Ponton, having a great time there; but then came shots of Clouseau being frisked and abused by that “swine security guard” at the airport.

  “I will still report this outrage,” he said out loud. “This Terrance Ahki will receive the reprimand severe…”

  As he studied the photo, he noticed—in the background of the picture—Xania was moving through security, specifically undergoing the X-ray of her carry-on items.

  Sorrowfully he thought, Ah, but will you still love me, my curvaceous little songbird, after Clouseau has suffered the indignity publique?

  Then he recalled why he had been so specific about where Ponton should stand while taking the picture; his detective’s instincts had told him that having a record of what that X-ray machine had seen might prove worthwhile…

  He looked closer at the photo. In the little screen, the image was too small to truly reveal what Clouseau thought he saw, so he returned to the camera’s instruction booklet.

  Reading aloud, Clouseau said, “‘How to Enlarge a Photo…’”

  And within minutes he was on the phone, catching Ponton just as the detective was getting home.

  “My conspicuous confrere, I must ask you to come over here, immediately! Redemption, she wriggles her seductive nose at Clouseau!”

  “I am on my way.”

  His next call was to Nicole, at the chief inspector’s office.

  “My little spectacled confection, are you going to the Presidential Ball tonight?”

  “Why, yes…alone.”

  “I beg to differ. You will attend with Clouseau, the former inspector.”

  “That’s lovely…But are you sure you’re up to it?”

  “Yes, I have had my prescription refilled…Oh, I mean, I will meet you there…but first go to my office and bring me my vinyl bag with the marking, ‘Presidential Palace.’ It is in the bottom drawer, filed under ‘P.’ You will see it quickly because it is the only vinyl bag filed there.”

  “Of course, but…why?”

  “Because it is time that the case, she be solved.”

  “But, Jacques…aren’t you off the force?”

  “Not yet. Not quite yet. The tape that is red has yet to be snipped. And while I may be no longer officially the inspector…I am still the officer of the leau.”

  “Of the what?”

  “Hurry! I will see you there…”

  THIRTEEN

  Return of the Pink Panther

  Within the grand palace of the President, preparations for the ball were in their final, fevered minutes, security staff, delivery men and caterers hustling, bustling, each on a mission of extreme importance.

  No mission was more important, Chief Inspector Charles Dreyfus knew, than his own: to unmask a murderer and thief, at the most high-profile event of the year.

  Resplendent in his tuxedo, the chief inspector—checking over the guest list at the door, with the evening’s head of security—crossed off a key name: Inspector Jacques Clouseau.

  “This should have been removed earlier,” he said sternly. “After his public humiliation, it would be most embarrassing for all concerned for this buffoon to be allowed into an affair of state such as this.”

  “I apologize for the oversight.” The security chief leaned in confidentially. “We do have one problem, sir.”

  “Yes?”

  “We’ve had more requests from the press than anticipated. There is a rumor afloat that the Pink Panther case will be resolved tonight, at the ball itself—how this rumor began, and managed to spread, who can say?”

  “It is a mystery,” Dreyfus said with a tiny smile.

  “But we’ll have many media persons here who are not on our approved list. What shall I do?”

  Dreyfus gestured with a grand hand. “Check their credentials, and allow them in—we value a free press in France.”

  The security chief frowned doubtfully. “We can’t let them attend the party…”

  “No, but you can corral them somewhere, until I tell you that the time is right.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  Then let them pour in, Dreyfus thought, to see my moment of triumph…

  Clouseau directed Ponton to drive, the big man opening up the little convertible in a way its owner had never attempted. The acceleration threw Clouseau backward, and—for a time—he flapped in the
wind like a flag as the little car raced for the Presidential Palace; passing along the Seine, the “flag” swinging out over the riverbanks, the former inspector’s change rained from his pockets onto several sunbathing beauties, who perhaps thought he was complimenting them with a tip.

  Nonetheless, he managed to climb back into the vehicle and fill in his partner on his new theories, based upon the recent evidence he had uncovered, and pieced together…

  “Gluant and Bizu were killed by the same person, my Promethean protege…and that killer intends to strike again tonight!”

  “But, Inspector—”

  Clouseau raised a hand. “While I am no longer the inspector, I will allow you to call me such, as I intend to regain that rank this evening. You no doubt wonder why the modus operandi differs between the murders…”

  “Yes! Bizu killed by a rifle, Gluant by a poisoned Chinese dart…”

  Clouseau shrugged. “Sometimes I like the vichyssoise, other times I like the potato soup!”

  “But…Inspector…vichyssoise is potato soup.”

  “You are wrong, Ponton! One, she is hot…the other, she is very cold…The murder of Gluant was motivated by hatred, and that of Bizu in the cold blood of the practical instinct of survival by this killer.”

  “I don’t understand, Inspector.”

  “Understand this—this killer means to confuse. To make us think that perhaps these murderers were the work of two perpetrators…but there is only one.”

  “You are sure of this?”

  “As sure as I am that the question is not, ‘How were these two murders different?’ but ‘What did these dead men have in common?’ ”

  As the little car blurred through the city, Ponton took his eyes off the road to look at his partner. “We both know what they had in common—your precious pop star.”

  “The lovely Xania. Precisely.”

  “Then…she killed them?”

  “No, Ponton…” Clouseau turned his gaze upon the larger man. His words were heavy with melodramatic meaning. “…She is the next victim!”

  When they arrived at the palace, at first things went well; their little car, despite a presence among Rolls Royces and Mercedes, received the respectful attention of valets. At the top of the stairs at the front door, the attractive female ticket taker smiled pleasantly and checked for their names on her list.

  Names that weren’t there.

  What was there were burly security men blocking the way, thugs in tuxedos. Clouseau knew his burly associate might well take on these goons, and successfully; but such a conspicuous entry would only be met by an army of such brutes, whose strength in numbers would defeat even the likes of Ponton.

  As Clouseau and his assistant walked down the stairs, intending to regroup and come up with a Plan B, a birdcall trilled from nearby bushes. Clouseau glanced toward the shrubbery and saw the glint of eyeglasses.

  Nicole.

  They rushed around behind to meet her, and found a radiant vision in a formal gown. But her stunningly low-cut ensemble included an unlikely accessory: a large, rather bulky vinyl bag. She looked like a prom queen about to elope.

  She also had something rolled up under an arm: blueprints!

  “Inspector,” she said breathlessly, “is this what you wanted?”

  She hefted the bag.

  “It is,” Clouseau said, beaming at her. “It is indeed.”

  “And I thought you might need these…” She thrust forward the rolled-up prints. “…the architectural plans of the palace…”

  Clouseau opened the large, scroll-like documents and murmured appreciatively, “Good work, my dear…good work.”

  Ponton took the bag from Nicole, and asked his partner, “And what is this?”

  His old confidence back, Clouseau said, “It is camouflage fashioned for me especially by my good friend Monsieur Balls, the master of the disguise.”

  Chuckling, shaking his head, Ponton said, “You never fail to surprise me, Inspector.”

  With a wicked laugh, Clouseau said, “With me, my friend, the surprises, they are never unexpected.” He turned to the stunning young secretary. “Wish us luck, Nicole. Or as they say in the business of show, break the leg.”

  She gazed at him admiringly, touching his arm. “You don’t need luck to break the leg—you are Inspector Clouseau.”

  “Not,” he said, “anymore…but I will be again—soon! Thanks to the two of you, my charming accomplices. And as for you, my pet…”

  He moved closer to the lovely Nicole. He put his hands on either side of her sweet face, then lifted off her glasses, saying, “As in the old film, I have the feeling you would be even more beautiful without these…Ah yes! I was right.”

  In the moonlight, in the garden of the Presidential Palace, there had surely never been a more beautiful woman than Nicole. She lifted her lips to Clouseau’s, and Ponton looked away discreetly as she and the inspector shared a sweet kiss.

  Then, her glasses in one hand, Nicole slipped away, followed by the sound of her tripping and falling into the bushes.

  “My dear!” Clouseau called discreetly. “Perhaps, for just tonight…put the glasses back on?”

  The Presidential Ball was in full sway; dignitaries both French and foreign, honored guests and celebrities from all over Europe and America as well, danced and dined and chatted and laughed. Under the artificial starlight of glittering chandeliers, with a full orchestra providing a soundtrack and waiters carrying trays of champagne-filled glasses in a never-ending procession, few of the distinguished and celebrated attendees in their tuxedos, gowns, and jewelry could ever have guessed that on this sparkling night the crime of the new century would be solved.

  At the top of the list of the handful in the know was Chief Inspector Charles Dreyfus, who had seen to it that every major suspect in the Pink Panther case was present. From Rome had come the casino owner Larocque, like a high-priced undertaker in his black tux, attended by his mysterious Asian bodyguard; and the singing sensation Xania had been invited to perform, a clever way to “honor” her while making sure her presence as a suspect was fulfilled.

  Team France was represented by their lovely PR person, Cherie Dubois; the new coach Vainqueur; and the handsome star, blond Jacquard.

  Interestingly, the Minister of Justice had brought his mistress tonight, a widow high in social circles, a lovely lady who wore a pink diamond ring—impressive, but no Pink Panther. There they stood, in front of God and everyone, making cocktail conversation with the President himself. Was Clochard, a divorcé, thinking of making his latest love an honest woman, with this public appearance?

  But the real focus of Dreyfus’s attention (and that of his undercover men, spread throughout the ballroom) was Dr. Li How Pang—in white evening wear, knocking back drink after drink, the Chinese Minister of Sport setting a very lax example for the athletes of the world. Was the good doctor nervous, being so close to the chief inspector who was closing in on him? Or was the man merely a lush?

  And when the moment for the great arrest came, there would be no escape for Dr. Pang. Dreyfus knew the layout of the ballroom, the palace itself, as intimately as that of his own house: at either end of the vast, elegant room were staircases with balconies; large central windows at left looked out upon lushly landscaped grounds—high enough from the floor to make egress improbable, with wide, floor-length plush floral-patterned curtains on either side, a stretch of finely veined marble wall between the plumes of curtain. Opposite the windows was the stage, where the orchestra played and, soon, Xania would entertain.

  The hard-eyed, no-nonsense head of security approached Dreyfus cautiously. “Sir,” he said quietly, “my people report having seen Inspector Clouseau and his ex-partner, Ponton, on the grounds this evening.”

  “Forget Ponton,” Dreyfus said. “As for Clouseau, he may be trying to make a last-ditch, grandstand play at nabbing the killer himself.”

  “What should we do with him?”

  “The fool is trespassing
—arrest him, of course.”

  “Certainly, Chief Inspector. Discreetly.”

  “Oh, no! Drag him in, in handcuffs right through here, parade the fool in front of the party. He is a rogue officer, and he must be taught.”

  “Yes, Chief Inspector.”

  “Clouseau’s capture is a priority second only to that of the murderer himself.”

  The security chief nodded curtly, then whispered into his lapel microphone, and soon all of the security people were on alert.

  Renard stepped up beside his superior. “All is well, I trust?”

  “Yes—Dr. Pang is here, tossing down cocktails, feeling no pain.”

  “I trust Pang will feel pain soon enough.”

  “Oh yes, Renard. Oh yes…In just about ten minutes…”

  In a dressing room as elegant and lavishly outfitted as the finest boudoir, Xania—in her form-fitting, low-cut sleeveless gown—sat at an art deco make-up mirror that dated back at least as far as her ever-present Josephine Baker clutch purse, putting the finishing touches on her flawless face.

  Uninvited, unannounced, Raymond Larocque—accompanied by Huang, his hulking Asian bodyguard, who looked like a genie in a tuxedo—stepped into the dressing room and approached the mirror.

  Looking at her in the glass, leaning in over her shoulder, Larocque smiled his snake’s smile and said, “Mirror, mirror…who’s the loveliest of all? Why, Xania, of course…”

  She glared back defiantly at his reflection. “I guess a wicked witch like you would know.”

  “Hmmmm. Trifle bitchy tonight, aren’t we? You’re just nervous with all these police here, all this security.”

  “And why would that make me nervous?”

  A smile twitched, though the eyes in the handsome face were dark hard stones, unblinking in their gaze. “Because, my sweet…I know you killed Yves.”

  She huffed, and touched a powder-puff to a perfect nose. “You know no such thing. If you’re trying to intimidate me, you are as pathetic as that overgrown chaperone of yours.”