Over the many years, in the elaborate lobby of the Palais de la Justice, countless press conferences had been held. But perhaps never had the anticipation among the press corps been so high, the murmuring of the normally blase, unflappable reporters echoing off the high-arched ceiling like gathering thunder.
Coach Gluant had been a national hero; the Pink Panther a national symbol.
How would the government deal with crimes that were, at their core, assaults upon France itself, contemptuous attacks on her national pride?
Speculation was high that Chief Inspector Dreyfus would personally come forward to lead the investigation; Dreyfus had a record second to none in a crime-fighting career that had a decade ago led him to his high office. Would he step away from his desk to take on this challenge himself?
As the reporters and TV crews surged before the platform, the gendarmes lining the walls trained alert eyes on the throng, as three men marched up onto the stage: Chief Inspector Dreyfus, his loyal Deputy Chief Renard, and a third individual, a man in a brown suit with a faintly provincial cut, and yet…many of the reporters sensed something special about this fellow, the jut of his chin, the oh-so French slash of mustache above a tightly confident smile, the eyes eternally narrowed in shrewd vigilance.
Who was this new player on the Parisian scene?
The chief inspector, stepping to the microphone, kept the media in suspense for only a few minutes, as he opened with a statement expressing the government’s position on these heinous crimes, recognizing their importance and the need for immediate, decisive action.
“My staff searched the files of the Police Nationale,” Dreyfus said, brows tensed, “and examined records of every officer assigned to investigative duties throughout all of France. We found, in the simple village of Fromage, a man whose record is so distinctive, so unusual in its accomplishments, that he could not be overlooked.”
The eyes of the press corps—normally half-lidded in business-as-usual boredom—were wide, alert and keen.
Dreyfus gestured to the jauntily mustached man beside him. “And this is that man, brought in specifically to head up our investigation into these two interrelated crimes—Inspector Jacques Clouseau!”
The reporters began to shout their questions, thrusting forward microphones; but Dreyfus silenced them, patting the air with a cool palm, saying, “Gentlemen…ladies. You know the protocol. I understand this is a situation unlike any other in the history of crime in France. But we will maintain the civilities.”
Then Dreyfus turned to Inspector Clouseau, and gestured to the microphone and, with a small bow, got out of the way of the man of the hour.
Clouseau looked out into the audience and immediately noticed a female reporter who was no more attractive than, say, the young Brigitte Bardot, and who admirably filled a tube top that rose slightly, exposing the lower swells of white flesh, when she raised a hand to seek recognition.
The inspector rewarded her with the first question.
“Parisian Match, Inspector Clouseau,” she said. “To be singled out from all of France to head this inquiry is a huge honor. Do you have your own unique method of investigation, Inspector, that has brought you to this rarefied position?”
“I do, Mademoiselle Match, I do indeed. I start with the initial premise, and from this I deduce certain other facts.” He gestured with both hands, smiled tightly, as if this answered all. “Are there any other questions?”
Clouseau’s eyes roamed the crowd, as hands raised high, in keeping with the protocol Dreyfus had invoked; the inspector, seeking another questioner, landed upon…
…the same young woman, who alone in the room had not raised her hand, having been selected already.
Clouseau smiled at her. “Did you have another question?”
“Well. Uh, yes. Certainly. Inspector, what—”
“No! No, I am sorry, my dear. As my esteemed superior has pointed out, we are a society of rules. Of law.”
In the confused crowd of reporters, she was the most confused of all.
“I must insist,” Clouseau said, “that you raise your hand in keeping with protocol.”
She did.
Clouseau smiled, sighed to himself, then nodded to her. “Yes?”
“This particular case—what is the initial premise?”
“Excellent question! An excellent question. We begin at the beginning…which is that Gluant, he did not wish to be killed. And from this flows all else, like mercury down the gently sloping…slopes…of the swelling…slopes. Did you have a follow-up question, Ms. Match?”
“Yes, Inspector. How—”
“But I must insist…These rules, I don’t make them, but without them, where would we be?”
She raised her hand.
Clouseau seemed lost in dreamy thought.
Dreyfus poked him.
“Yes, my dear,” Clouseau said. “Your follow-up?”
“How long do you think it will take you to find the killer?”
“Well, first we must identify the killer. Only when we have identified the killer are we able to find the killer. And when we find the killer…and here is where my unique methods come into play…we must trap the killer. Did you have another follow-up…?”
The female reporter shrugged her bare shoulders.
“Please, please…protocol.”
Sighing, she raised her hand. “How will you trap the killer?”
“Two points come to mind.”
But he was just staring at her.
Dreyfus prodded him again, and Clouseau blurted, “First—first, you must remember that we have the killer surrounded right now by a web of deduction, forensic science and the latest in technology. We have the test tube, we have the twoway radio, we have the crime scene tape…bright yellow.”
Again, dutifully raising her hand, the Match reporter asked, “And the other point?”
Clouseau’s brow knit. “The other point?”
“You said there were two points.”
“Ah yes. But right now I cannot put my finger on it.”
Behind Clouseau, Chief Inspector Charles Dreyfus was beginning to wonder what exactly he had unleashed upon his beloved Paris. He took Renard by the arm, and drew him near, whispering, “Assign a fool to this man.”
“You mean—assign a man to this fool?”
Dreyfus shook his head, half expecting his eyes to rattle. “Yes. Yes, of course.”
“To do what, Chief Inspector?”
“To be his driver…and report on his whereabouts.”
“What kind of a man, Chief Inspector?”
“The kind that follows orders, and does not ask questions…Any questions?”
“Uh, no, sir.”
Then, with a confident expression, Clouseau asked, “Are there any foreign press present? I speak the ten tongues.”
“New York Times!” a male reporter called out in English. “Do you know if the killer was a man or a woman?”
“Of course I know it is a man or a woman!” Clouseau spat back in English. “What else would it be—a kitten?” He nodded to another reporter.
“Newsweek, Inspector—do you think it is possible that the killer could be watching you right now?”
Clouseau narrowed his eyes until they were almost closed; he began to nod, slowly. “This is a very good possibility.” His gaze returned to the female reporter. “The strip search of the press, it is something unorthodox that you suggest, but—”
The American reporter said, “No, I meant, do you think the killer is watching you on the television right now?”
“Where else would he watch—the radio?” Clouseau shook his head at such foolishness, then his expression shifted, dead serious. One eye closed, another widened. “He may be watching, yes. Or he may be taping, the time-delay ploy. It is, after all, not every day one is talked about on the TV. It is, in my opinion, one of the real benefits for the mad killer. For that reason, I have a personal massage for the killer!”
“A massage?” the reporter asked.
“A massage! A massage!” Then Clouseau sought out the nearest camera and spoke directly to it, in his native tongue: “There is no place you can hide—no place you cannot be seen by the all-seeing eyes of Inspector Jacques Clouseau, which see all things in their…sight! To you killer, I say—I will find you!”
The inspector’s delivery was spellbinding; the press corps seemed in rapture—a pin could have dropped, and if Clouseau had had one, it probably would have.
“And why, do you ask, will Clouseau do this thing?” The great detective continued, straightening up, saying, “Because I am a servant of our great nation…” His voice built. “…because justice is justice…” He raised a fist. “…and because France…is France!”
The inspector beat his chest with his fist hurting himself, but just a little, and saluted the press corps. The hardboiled reporters, caught up perhaps in the importance of the Pink Panther crisis, were enthralled with this new star—the inspector appeared coolly confident, a touch eccentric perhaps, but incredibly determined…and oh so very French…
Flashbulbs popped, and those gendarmes who had been as silent as dark blue curtains against the walls exploded into cheers and applause.
Dreyfus—the flashbulbs triggering a tiny twitch at his left eye—asked, “What have I done, Renard?”
“You’ve given France a new hero, sir. Who just happens to be the biggest fool on the face of the earth.” Renard shrugged. “Not just any man could have managed that, sir…”
Inspector Jacques Clouseau stepped into the office.
While not lavish—certainly nothing to compare with the chief inspector’s—the spacious room was a far cry from a simple cubicle in the bullpen of gendarmes at the rural headquarters in Fromage.
Nicole, lovely in short-skirted blue again, stood next to a rather massive wooden desk, on which were piled file after file.
“Bon jour, Nicole,” he said, his eyes still traveling around the room.
She adjusted her glasses on her pert nose and smiled. “Your new office—how do you like it?”
“It will suffice. It will suffice.”
She gestured toward the desktop. “You should probably start by going through these files—”
Clouseau held up his palm and shook his head, shushing her.
He began to inspect the room, checking behind curtains, and inside the shade of the desk lamp; taking a closer look at the latter, he found something suspicious. Raising his voice, he said, “Such very pleasant weather we are having, bon? She is blissful, this weather…is she not?”
Nicole frowned in confusion.
He whispered, “Be natural…” Then he said, almost shouting, “If the clouds were any more white, we might mistake them for snow…no?”
“N-no,” Nicole said.
Again he whispered to her, almost inaudibly, “I check for the electronic listening device…what the Americans call ‘the boog.’ ”
“The boog?”
He shushed her, then—with a slightly maniacal expression—he pulled a length of wire from within the lamp with one hand, as with the other he removed his Swiss Army knife from a pants pocket.
“I hope,” he almost shouted, “the weather, she stays this pleasant…Do you not agree?”
With the bare blade, he began to cut the cord.
The sizzle of electricity shook him like a naughty child, the lightbulb went out, and the scent of soot wafted through the air.
Tiny trails of smoke rose from his body, and his white hair seemed to stand up a little, rather punkishly Nicole thought. His mustache had a new rakish tilt. He let out a deep breath, uncrossed his eyes, smoothed his suit, and granted her an efficient nod.
“The area,” he said, “she is secure.”
He wandered about the office, admiring the built-in bookcases with their numerous legal volumes and attractive knickknacks. In particular he was pleased with the large globe near the window—a fine touch, Clouseau thought, an indication that the entire world was now his beat. He strolled over for a closer look, and idly began to spin the globe as he spoke to the chief inspector’s secretary.
“The world, Nicole…a dangerous place. It requires…supervision, do you not agree?”
“Uh, yes, Inspector.” She again gestured to the work piled on the desk. “When you’ve gone over these files, I will bring you more files.”
“And where,” Clouseau said, idly spinning the globe, faster, faster, “are these files filed?”
“I file them in the filing cabinet.”
“Ah.”
“I will refile these files, when—”
And the globe spun off its stand and rolled past Nicole, who watched with wide eyes as the world made its way out the open office door.
They could hear it clunking noisily down the stairs, one step at a time, like a child’s ball. But bigger.
And heavier.
Then Nicole joined Clouseau at the window, where he was watching as the globe rolled down the outer marble steps of the magnificent building. He opened the glass and leaned out, as did she, taking in the sight of the large globe making its way down the busy street, between lanes.
“That globe,” she said breathlessly.
“Yes. That is a globe.”
“It was a hundred years old!”
“Ah. What a relief that is to hear.” He withdrew from the window. “I admit feeling concern—to have ruined a new globe, well…This is what these fools who dress these offices get!”
She blinked at him. “It is?”
“Here I am heading up the most important investigation in all of France, and they decorate my office with a second-hand globe? I will write to those in charge.”
Nicole nodded, having no idea who that might be.
Clouseau was behind his desk now, trying out the swivel chair. When he picked himself back up off the floor (“Swine chair!”), he sat again, and he looked with narrow eyes at the desk drawers. He gave Nicole a knowing little smile, and she watched in fascination as the inspector plucked a hair from his head and wedged it in his top desk drawer.
“A precaution of the safety,” he said.
“Hmmm. Good idea. Uh, Inspector, you will need new clothes.”
“You do not like my clothes?”
“It’s not that. You have charming taste, Inspector. But in your high-ranking office, several new suits come with the job.”
The eyes narrowed further. “Suppose I am of a different size than the previous inspector?”
She moved around behind the desk with him. “No, these will be tailored specifically for your needs. That’s why I can…if you like…take your measurements. Then you’ll have a perfect fit.”
“Nicole, my temper, I never lose it. I am in full control of my—”
“I mean, for the tailor. To make your new clothes.” She reached out a hand. “Your coat?”
“Yes, this is my coat.”
“Take it off so I can measure you.”
“Ah—should I stand?”
“Not necessary.”
He got out of his coat and handed it to her, and she lay it on the desk; then she withdrew a tape measure from her sweater pocket and began with his extended arms. Their proximity unnerved them both. Nicole found herself strangely attracted to this odd character; or perhaps she was oddly attracted to this strange character—she could not be sure.
She was measuring his left arm when she heard herself say, “Do you…live by yourself, Inspector?”
“Yes, yes. It is a lonely life, the servant of the public, the solver of the crimes.”
Their eyes locked. “You do get lonely, then?”
“Not so much. I am the reader voracious.”
“Ah! Novels? Nonfiction?”
“Internet.”
Kneeling before him, she found herself facing his belt buckle. She began to gently slide the tape measure up his thigh and beyond.
“My,” she said. “You do have a long in-seam.”
“Thank you.”
“Perhaps you could loosen your belt…so I can measure your waist?”
“Of course…”
And he unbuckled his belt.
“That doesn’t quite do it.” She gave him an apologetic smile. “Would you mind, Inspector…?”
“Not at all,” he said, and unzipped his fly.
Following orders, which was something at which he was most adept, Detective Second Class Gilbert Ponton approached the office of the newest inspector of the Police Nationale. He glanced at the freshly painted INSPECTOR JACQUES CLOUSEAU on the glass of a door that stood open, and reached a huge paw in, to knock.
At six foot four, Ponton was perhaps the tallest, and certainly one of the beefiest, plainclothes officers on the force. He was not the most imaginative policeman in Paris, nor the most brilliant, but he was loyal, and dogged. And he had been selected to do a job for the chief inspector himself, which was a compliment, however uncomfortable Ponton might feel about the ethics of the assignment.
Oval-faced, with a small mustache, half-lidded eyes and the simple manner of a peasant, Ponton knew only that he was expected to report back to the deputy chief on the progress of Inspector Clouseau’s investigation into the Gluant murder and the Pink Panther theft.
That he, Gilbert Ponton, would be included as any small part of so important a case pleased the humble detective; but he felt awkward about pairing up with a partner—who after all had been handpicked to head up this important investigation—only to secretly “keep an eye on the fool,” as Chief Deputy Renard had put it.
How strange for Renard to speak so disrespectfully of the detective selected from all detectives to handle the investigation of all investigations…
But his was not to reason why. His was to knock on Inspector Clouseau’s door.
Which he did.
And a firm, confident voice called, “Come!”
Ponton stuck his head in. “I may be a little early. My appointment is—”
“You will find that Jacques Clouseau does not stand on ceremony!” In fact Clouseau wasn’t standing at all—he was seated behind an impressive desk, somewhat sideways, his back somewhat to his unexpected guest.
Ponton shuffled in, moving toward the visitor’s chair opposite Clouseau, when he noticed the lovely female legs sticking out from behind…from under…the side of the desk where Clouseau sat.
Hovering awkwardly, Ponton said, “I…I can come back in a few minutes if—”
“Nonsense! We’ll be done in a shake of the lamb’s tail.”
Shrugging to himself as much as to his host, Ponton took his seat. A moment later, he heard a clearing of the throat, and a beautiful young woman stood, and straightened her skirt and her eyeglasses.
“There,” she said. “That takes care of that—and welcome to Paris, Inspector Clouseau.”
Clouseau nodded to her. “Thank you, Nicole. You are most kind.”
The lovely young woman nodded to Ponton as she exited. Ponton watched her go, in amazed appreciation.
“Is…is that your secretary, Inspector?”
“No, no—she is the chief inspector’s. She stopped by to service my needs, as a matter of courtesy. You know, I have transferred in from the country, and I must say I am, as the Americans say, ‘blown away’ by the warm welcome provided to a newcomer like myself.”
Ponton nodded, glancing in the direction in which the woman had disappeared. “It is…impressive. I have worked in a precinct for some years where the secretaries are not really so friendly.”
“I apologize for the wait, but I have just arrived at my office, and I admit to not yet checking the calendar of my appointments.” Clouseau began looking around the desk for it, moving files aside. “I am afraid I was somewhat distracted…”
“Who could blame you?”
“Ah, here it is!” Clouseau held up the appointment calendar, whapped the small book against a palm, and then put it away in the desk. He folded his hands and beamed at his guest. “And you are…?”
“Ponton—Gilbert. Detective Second Class.”
“Ah, Ponton Gilbert. And what is your assignment?”
“It’s…Gilbert Ponton.”
Clouseau nodded, eyes tightening. “And how long have you been assigned to watch this fellow?”
“What fellow?”
“Gilbert Ponton!”
“That’s…that’s my name.”
“An amazing coincidence. But I suspect all coincidences, and I suggest you do the same. And what bearing might this have on the Gluant case, Detective Ponton?”
“I have been assigned to assist you.”
“Ah.” Clouseau nodded. Then his eyes took on an appraising cast. “And what qualifications do you have for police work?”
Ponton stiffened proudly. “My family has performed police work in Paris for nine generations!”
“I see. And before that?”
“Well…we were policemen in the surrounding areas for two hundred years.”
A curt nod from Clouseau. “And before that?”
“My ancestors were immigrants…from various countries around Europe…always involved in keeping the peace.”
“I see. And before that?”
“I…I honestly don’t know.”
Clouseau chuckled, and waved off this information. “And so they send you, the novice, the innocent lamb, for Clouseau to teach. Ponton Gilbert—”
“Gilbert Ponton.”
The inspector stood and his pants fell, gathering at his knees. “My large friend, I vow to teach you everything I know about the police science…and the investigator’s art. I have been the mentor to many over the years. But none…not one of them…was as tall as you.”
Ponton’s eyebrows rose. “Thank you…?”
Pulling his trousers into place, zipping up and rebuckling his belt, he said, “You are most welcome, my large protege. And where do you think we will begin, Gilbert Ponton Ponton Gilbert?”
“At the beginning?”
“Yes! Yes! At the beginning…for that is where we are.” Clouseau pointed dramatically at his new partner. “The beginning of catching a killer!”