Dreyfus groaned.
Clouseau whirled toward Yuri and thrust an accusing finger. “But you were one of the little people, eh? A five-foot-six-one, left behind when she turned to the strapping athlete, Bizu; and then to the hunk romantique who was Yves Gluant. Another reason you hated both men, no?…and the key reason why, tonight, from the high window, you attempted to kill this sweet young flower, who has tragically lost her virginity so many times.”
Xania looked at the floor.
With a grand sigh, Clouseau turned to his audience, which included his chief inspector.
“And so at last,” Clouseau said, “the case, it is solved.”
From the front of the crowd came cries from a dozen reporters: “But the diamond?” “The Pink Panther?” “What happened to the Pink Panther?”
Dreyfus shushed the crowd, and said to Clouseau, “I thank you for allowing me to play a part in our mutual charade, Inspector.”
Clouseau seemed confused, understandably so, for once. “But, Chief Inspector…”
To the audience, Dreyfus—with a sickly smile—explained, “I apologize to our honored guest, Dr. Pang, for making him a decoy in these proceedings. And I thank Inspector Clouseau for allowing me to stage the necessary farce of his ‘disgrace’ and demotion from rank.”
The guests were looking at each other, shrugging, trying to follow this.
Dreyfus pressed on: “And I thank you, Inspector Clouseau, for diligently carrying out my instructions to the letter as you have.”
Clouseau shrugged. “Certainly, Chief Inspector.”
Now Dreyfus bore in on the trainer, still in Ponton’s grasp. “And now the time has come—hand over that diamond, you swine!”
Quietly Clouseau agreed, “Yes, he is a swine. But not a thief.”
Yuri snorted a humorless laugh. “What do I care of that filthy bauble? It holds no interest for me. I acted only for revenge…for justice…not for gain!”
“Chief Inspector,” Clouseau said, tapping Dreyfus on the shoulder, prompting him to turn with a flummoxed expression. “Yuri, the trainer who trains? He does not have the diamond. Never has he had the diamond.”
Dreyfus chuckled; there was no mirth in it. “But he’s the murderer. He must have the diamond!”
“No. We have but one crime, here. Murder.”
Dreyfus’s eyes were golf balls. “Even for you, that is absurd, Clouseau! We’re talking about the most famous theft of modern times! Where is that stone?”
His stride deliberate, Clouseau moved to Xania. He looked at her with fondness, and with sadness.
“There,” he said.
And he pointed at the small clutch purse tucked under her arm.
The inspector explained: “In this purse…once owned by Josephine Baker…and Jerry Lewis…”
Clouseau waited several seconds for this largely French crowd to recover.
“…she has tucked the precious Panther away, like the prize in the box Crackerjax.”
Dreyfus strode over and snatched the small handbag away from the singer. Moving to a nearby table, he unceremoniously dumped out its contents; after sorting through make-up and other feminine trappings, Dreyfus shook his head.
“No,” he said firmly. “Sorry, Clouseau…but no diamond.”
“If I may, Chief Inspector?”
Clouseau casually walked over and took the purse. From his pocket came the trusty Swiss Army knife; he sliced open the lining of the purse, and poked in two fingers.
They returned with the Pink Panther, which Clouseau held to the light, where it glittered and sparkled and winked at every single person there.
The ooohs and aaahs from the crowd began as a panther-like purr and grew to almost a roar.
Then as Xania spoke, they hushed to pin-drop silence.
“Yes,” she said. “I had it. But I did not steal it.”
“Explain yourself!” Dreyfus demanded.
“That afternoon,” she said, and her emotions were barely in control, “when Yves came to my box, at the front row in the stadium…he told me he still loved me. He said he was sorry for the terrible things he had done, and swore he would never cheat on me again…and he said he wanted me to marry him. He proved it by pressing the ring into my hands. It was our engagement ring, he said.”
Clouseau stepped to her side and slipped a supporting arm around her shoulder. “If you examine those blow-up photos in your office, Chief Inspector, you will note that there is one that shows the coach missing the ring before the murder…”
Dreyfus said nothing.
Xania continued: “When Yves…Yves was murdered, how could I have come forward without the assumption being made that I had stolen the Panther? And yet the ring…because Yves had given it to me…meant very much to me, so much. I decided to keep it always, as a token of his love for me.”
Dreyfus sneered. “Very sweet, I’m sure; but Gluant worked for the nation of France. In that light, I must now claim that ring for—”
“Uh, Chief Inspector, do forgive me,” Clouseau said, “but according to civil statute 106, ‘If a male citizen dies prior to marriage, his female intended has the right to retain ownership of any engagement ring, regardless of any associations said citizen might have to the state.’ ”
Dreyfus gaped at Clouseau with only slightly more hatred than Yuri’s stare toward Xania.
“Xania, my lovely cleared suspect,” Clouseau said, pressing the ring into her hand, “the Pink Panther, she is yours to keep.”
Ponton, still lugging Yuri, asked, “Inspector, how did you know Xania had the ring?”
“The photo you took of me at the airport, Ponton,” Clouseau said with a gentle smile, “it captured the X-ray of the items carry-on of Xania. I merely blew the photo up on my small television screen, and, voila, there is the Pink Panther, in all her X-rayed glory! The security at the airport, they are looking for the gun, the knife, the buemb, not the missing diamond ring!…Chief Inspector, perhaps you would like a blow-up of that photo, for the collection in your office?”
Again, Dreyfus said nothing; he was staring, but at nothing in particular.
From the crowd came cries of “Bravo!” and “Bravo, Clouseau!” Even the jaded reporters shouted their adulation, and applause rang resoundingly through the great ballroom of the Presidential Palace.
Xania, with the most beautiful smile ever seen on the front page of a tabloid, hugged Clouseau and posed with him for the press, flashbulbs popping, strobing. The chant of “Bravo, Clouseau” built and echoed through the high-ceilinged chamber, as the President himself from the periphery took note of this momentous occasion.
With a smile as glazed as a doughnut, Dreyfus draped his arm around his star detective and did his best to take some of the credit that had slipped from his grasp and settled like a heavenly aura around Inspector Jacques Clouseau.
Many commented on how gracious the chief inspector had been.
Even his deputy Renard noted that Dreyfus had had tears in his eyes, one of which had begun to rather noticeably twitch.
FOURTEEN
Medal of Honor
On a glorious sunny morning, flags flapping in a gentle breeze, the President and the members of his Medal of Honor committee, as well as various other dignitaries and honored guests, assembled on a tri-colored-bunting-bedecked reviewing stand in the Presidential Gardens, gathered before an audience of press and public.
They were here to honor a great French—indeed, renowned international—detective.
Appropriately, the official band had struck up La Marseillaise.
On the stage, one of the committee members was among the nation’s most celebrated crime-fighters—Chief Inspector Charles Dreyfus. It was not he who was being honored, however; actually, he had been selected to have the honor of bestowing the honors. Right now he stood somewhat uncomfortably beside Justice Minister Clochard, who bore a red velvet pillow on which were arrayed two ribboned medals.
Two other detectives stood onstage, in full f
ormal gendarme uniform: Clouseau and Ponton.
At the microphone, the President himself presided. He nodded to Dreyfus that—the band having completed the national anthem—the presentation would begin. Dreyfus nodded and smiled, his left eye twitching just a little, both eyes rather noticeably bloodshot.
“For service to the Republic of France,” the President said, his voice amplified and sonorous as it floated out across the crowd, seated on folding chairs on the greenest of green lawns, “we award the Star of Valor to Gendarme Detective Gilbert Ponton of the Fourth Arrondissement.”
Ponton stepped forward.
Rather stiffly, Dreyfus removed the smaller of the two medals from the velvet cushion, and joined Ponton toward the front of the stage, placing the ribbon around the big man’s neck and pulling him forward with the hug and kiss-on-either-cheek that was a part of the honor.
“For exceptional bravery,” the President went on, “and outstanding service to the people of France, we award this year’s Medal of Honor to a man whose name will forever be synonymous with this celebrated case—dubbed by the world the Pink Panther Detective…Inspector Jacques Clouseau.”
With precise military bearing, Clouseau came forward, and by the time he had reached Ponton’s side, the applause and the cheers had built into thunder.
Chief Inspector Dreyfus took the Medal of Honor from Clochard’s velvet pillow and, moving in a somewhat robotic manner, managed to place the ribbon around Clouseau’s neck. For a long moment Dreyfus studied the Medal of Honor against the dark blue of Clouseau’s uniform.
Clouseau whispered, “The emotion, she is great, is she not, Chief Inspector?”
Dreyfus drew in a deep breath and subjected himself to the ceremonial hug and kisses, and retreated, giving the heroes of the morning their moment. Perhaps, one day, his would come, as well.
In the first row, a proud Nicole applauded and beamed, and Clouseau felt his heart swell—the schoolboy crush on Xania could not compare to the depth of warmth he felt for this simple girl, who he felt sure…with his guidance…could some day rise to his level of accomplishment and intellect.
And warmth swelled within him for his partner, as well—his friend, Ponton, beside him. What a team they had made. What a team they would make…
A lesser man would have taken the day off, but Clouseau was if nothing else devoted to his work. He and Ponton shared an office now, though Nicole remained assigned to Chief Inspector Dreyfus.
Since the arrest of the Gluant killer, and the solving of the Pink Panther theft, the chief inspector had been quiet, even withdrawn. Clouseau had proven Dreyfus wrong, and in public—not a pill this proud man could easily swallow. Clouseau feared his superior officer had fallen into depression. He knew the man had emotions swirling within him, and he hoped to make Dreyfus, like Ponton, a friend and a colleague.
So Clouseau decided always to keep the chief inspector informed, when a particularly important case reared its head. Perhaps, then, Clouseau might one day be able to place a ribbon around the neck of Dreyfus.
The first opportunity came that very afternoon.
Clouseau grabbed his trenchcoat, called for Ponton to join him, and stopped at the chief inspector’s office. Nicole, at her desk in the reception area, did not announce Clouseau.
“Excuse me, Chief Inspector,” Clouseau said, leaning in the office, “but I have just been notified that the Gas-Mask Bandits have made the escape in Italy this morning…and they have just been seen committing the crime in progress near the Pont de la Tournelle. I have summoned a car, and will keep you informed!”
Dreyfus was already on his feet and out from behind his new desk. “Thank you, Clouseau—but I’ll take charge of this one, personally!”
“It would be my honor to assist you, Chief Inspector.”
Soon the three men—Dreyfus working to keep up with Clouseau and Ponton—were racing down the imposing front stairs of the Palais de la Justice. A police van was waiting, and Ponton took the wheel, Clouseau the passenger’s seat, while an eager Dreyfus climbed in back.
Through the streets of Paris the van raced, taking corners on two wheels, its siren screaming—the Gas-Mask Bandits might be back, but the greatest detectives in France were on the case!
Ponton pulled up at a curb, but it was too close to the wall for Clouseau to get out.
“Pull up!” he cried. “The time, she is wasting!”
Ponton did as he was told, but before Clouseau could climb out, Dreyfus was opening the back door and saying, “No, Clouseau, this time I’m in charge. This time the credit will be mine…”
And Dreyfus tumbled over the half-wall of the bridge they were parked on, his long drawn-out cry interrupted by a very big splash.
The two looked down sympathetically at the chief inspector floundering in the Seine, his eye twitching, his mouth open in a scream gone silent, a kind of madness building in his expression.
Leaning against the short wall beside his partner, Clouseau gave Ponton a look touched by pity, sighing, “A great detective, the chief inspector…but clumsy.”
And while gendarmes below fished Dreyfus from the river, Inspector Clouseau and his partner returned to the chase.
Copyright
The text of this book is consistent with the film script available at the time of printing. Please be aware, however, that some of the film scenes may have changed in post-production.
THE PINK PANTHER © 2005 METRO-GOLDWYN-MAYER PICTURES INC. AND COLUMBIA PICTURES INDUSTRIES, INC. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
ePub edition June 2005 ISBN 9780061749346
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