Within his expansive, well-appointed office, Chief Inspector Dreyfus—attended as always by Chief Deputy Renard—met with several of the real investigators on the case, including the coldly handsome Detective Corbeille. While Clouseau led himself—and the media—on a merry chase, Dreyfus would guide the true leading lights of French criminology on the search for the Pink Panther…and the killer of Coach Gluant; that was important, too…
Right now Dreyfus was reviewing key video footage, on the monitor screen a close-up of Gluant and his star forward, the blond boyish Jacquard, embracing after the latter’s winning goal. Just as they were being swarmed by enthusiastic fans, staffers and teammates, Dreyfus commanded Renard to freeze the frame.
With a pointer Dreyfus tapped the glass, the tip indicating various angry Chinese faces in the screen’s upper corner.
“This, of course, is the Chinese VIP box,” Dreyfus said to the investigators, their eyes affixed to the glowing image. “They are positioned right at the edge of what our forensics experts have labeled the ‘kill zone.’ ”
Wandering away from the screen, meeting the eyes of each of the detectives, Dreyfus slowly paced before them, his manner cool, professional and—as with any great detective—probing.
“The poison was Chinese,” he said, planting himself before Corbeille. “Do we know if Gluant ever took a team to China, or was in any other way a visitor to that country?”
Corbeille, as able as Clouseau was bumbling, nodded sagely, arms folded. “Three years ago.”
“The occasion?”
“He took a group of French stars there—exhibition games. Cultural goodwill.”
“Like the ‘goodwill’ that struck him down on the sidelines of a French football victory, eh?” Dreyfus smiled with bitter satisfaction. “Gentlemen, I do not claim to know for certain—it is too early for that—but the facts conspire with my investigative instincts to send me looking in the direction of our Chinese ‘friends.’ ”
Nods all around.
Dreyfus thrust a finger at Corbeille. “Get on the next flight to Beijing! Find out what Gluant did there—on every day of his visit, a minute-by-minute account.”
“Yes, sir. At once, Chief Inspector.”
Then he whirled to Detective Pacquette, an investigator as brilliant as Clouseau was dimwitted. “Have we identified everyone in the Chinese VIP box—from dignitaries to bodyguards to minor functionaries?”
“Actually, we have, Chief Inspector.”
“Excellent!” His face hardened. “Now—build me a dossier on each and every one of them. Go! All of you! Time is our enemy.”
And the detectives went—quickly, the force of Dreyfus’s personality compelling them to do their best, and right away.
Renard, again materializing like a friendly ghost at the chief inspector’s side, said, “We have our first report in from Ponton. He has made contact with Clouseau.”
“Excellent.”
“He indicates Clouseau has accepted him as a protege. Taken him on as…a pupil.”
Dreyfus frowned. “But Ponton has been on the Police Nationale at least as long as Clouseau!”
A tiny shrug. “It would appear Clouseau’s incompetence is matched only by his inflated ego.”
Dreyfus nodded. “Sad, is it not, Renard? When a well-meaning public servant allows his own ego to swell to such dangerous proportions?”
Renard, whose mind immediately had gone to the enormous new portrait of Dreyfus hanging in the outer office, did not reply at once.
Finally, he said, “Yes, Chief Inspector. It can be…dangerous indeed.”
On a bustling street in a Parisian square, Inspector Clouseau—who after all was a plainclothes officer now—endeavored not to be overly conspicuous. Toward that end he gestured only occasionally with his riding crop.
He looked up at this poor simple child of a man, Ponton, who had been assigned to him, as a baby is assigned to a nanny. Such simple features—Clouseau wondered if a man of such obviously average intelligence could hope to succeed in the world of criminal investigation.
The great detective would do his best for his charge.
Eyeing his hulking partner doubtfully as they walked along, Clouseau said, “I am concerned for your welfare, my large friend. You have risen only to the rank of detective second class, whereas I, Jacques Clouseau, have achieved the status of inspector!”
Ponton nodded. “Yes. Since yesterday, wasn’t it?”
“Yesterday—after a lifetime of hard work and the sharp deductive skill. If I may be frank?”
“Please.”
“Your senses do not appear to be as finely honed as my own. Ah, it is nothing to feel ashamed about!…But even one who is not born with such gifts may acquire them through diligence and practice, practice, practice. Ow, ow, ow.”
“What do you have in mind, Inspector?”
Clouseau paused, tripping a mustached man in a beret carrying a baguette. The detective said, “Watch where you are going, you fool!”
The man in the beret, picking himself and his bread up, said in English, “I’m sorry—I don’t speak French,” and moved on.
Clouseau watched him go, shook his head, and returned his attention to his charge. “Detective Ponton, I have in mind a plan, a plan so simple in its elegance that is…how shall I put it? Simply elegant.”
“What is that plan, Inspector?”
Clouseau raised a conspiratorial forefinger and smiled a sly smile as he leaned in. “Intermittently—and without warning—I will attack you! Whenever and wherever it is least expected…it may be night! It may be day! Vigilance, my large friend. Vigilance…but I must warn you: Clouseau, he holds the black belt in the arts martiale.”
Ponton shrugged. “All right.”
Clouseau gestured in an openhanded friendly manner. “Shall we go?”
Ponton nodded, and walked on, Clouseau lagging half a step—and raised a hand in the deadly blade that his karate training had fashioned from flesh and bone…
Casually, Ponton swung back a fist and caught Clouseau in the face.
The inspector dropped to the pavement, then sprang to his feet, saying, “Excellent! I applaud you, Ponton. You are learning already.”
Soon the pair had arrived at a nondescript brick building with a sign labeling it “Altermondial Recording Studios.” After quickly checking the address with the one in the file Nicole had provided, Clouseau led his large assistant into the building where, up an elevator, they arrived at a doorway above which flashed a red light.
A sign said: DO NOT OPEN DOOR WHEN LIGHT IS FLASHING.
Clouseau eyed this shrewdly. Then, poised as a child waiting for the correct moment to leap onto a moving carousel, he waited between flashes and thrust himself through the door, making no more noise than he might have falling down a flight of stairs.
Ponton quietly followed.
The two detectives found themselves in an enormous, high-ceilinged, state-of-the-art studio, the floor of which was largely filled, wall to wall, by an orchestra playing a ballad, the strings executing a lovely melodic line. Beyond the several dozen musicians, lost in their work, an isolation booth could be seen, where the beautiful diva Xania, in a gold-lame curve-hugging outfit, sang before a microphone, in headphones. Though her lips moved, her voice could not be heard in the studio.
Clouseau whispered to Ponton, “They are making the music—this is their work, my inexperienced colleague; we must be unobtrusive, we must respect them in their creativity, and be silent as the mouse.”
Ponton nodded.
Riding crop in hand, Clouseau began to work his way through the musicians, squeezing between them, finding aisles between rows, and nearly losing his balance. Waving his hand and the crop in an attempt to regain his footing, Clouseau came into the view of the conductor, on his small platform; as the detective and his large shadow wound awkwardly through the orchestra, that riding crop waving, the conductor’s attention became glued to his visitors, and the tempo of the inspector’s arm movements began to influence the conductor’s own.
At the same time, various musicians found themselves hypnotized by the clumsy poetry of Clouseau’s movements, and his waving riding crop, and yet another tempo was achieved. And by the time Clouseau and his partner had snaked their way to the front of the studio, the lovely music had devolved into an aural train wreck.
Clouseau again whispered to his partner, “Perhaps these players, they are not as professional as we had thought. I believe I perceived a shift in tempo, and perhaps a wrong note.”
“Perhaps,” Ponton granted.
Clouseau stood before the glass behind which Xania valiantly continued singing; her mouth moved but her vocals remained inaudible in the studio.
Sotto voce, Clouseau confided in Ponton: “She speaks to me, but I cannot understand, over the caterwauling of these so-called musicians. And the lip reading, it is not, I am not proud to say, among the many talents of Clouseau.”
“Ah,” Ponton said.
“So when the Mohammed will not come to the molehill, the mountain, he will come to the…I will go to her. Stay here. Keep an eye on this orchestra.”
“You suspect the orchestra?”
“I suspect everyone! And—I suspect no one.”
Then he slipped into the booth, and—after a studied while—realized Xania was not speaking to him, rather singing. She broke off and said, just a little irritably, “Excuse me—I’m recording, here.”
“That is all right,” Clouseau said, and from his suitcoat pocket he revealed a small tape recorder. “So am I. I am Inspector Clouseau of the Police Nationale.”
Her expression warmed up. “Well…hello, Inspector. I am Xania.”
She held out her hand. He took her fingertips in his, and kissed the back of his own hand.
Then he released his grip and moved closer. “I am familiar with you and your work—one might say, intimately.”
Beyond the isolation booth, the glass of the control room could be seen, a particularly agitated individual—the producer—was coming out, heading toward them through the seated musicians.
“Excuse me, Inspector,” Xania said, and she emerged from the booth, calling, “It’s all right, Roland! It’s the Gluant case—these men are police!”
Joining her outside the isolation booth, the detective resumed his conversation with the diva. Xania regarded him with interest and mild amusement, while Clouseau attempted his most suave manner.
She said, “You say you are…intimately familiar with my work?”
Shyly he responded, “Well—let us just say that I have memorized your finest artistic achievement.”
“Really? Which CD do you mean?”
“I love them all. But I was referring to your swimsuit calendar.”
She laughed lightly. “I find that touching.”
“As do I. Almost every night.”
She lay her cool palm against his warm cheek. “You are so very kind, Inspector. If only all of my fans were as sensitive and considerate as you.”
“Thank you…This booth, it is the booth soundproof?”
“Yes.”
“Would you wait here a moment? My mind is ever seeking new information, thirsting, hungering for knowledge. I would like to examine this…this soundproof booth, for the future reference.”
She shrugged a little. “Why, certainly, Inspector…”
Clouseau stepped into the booth, his keen eyes taking in the many microphones, and the soundproof tile of the walls and ceiling. Then he paused and passed gas.
The rippling sound reverberated throughout the studio with no more force than Mount St. Helens erupting.
Stepping suavely from the booth, Clouseau discovered his assistant had taken the initiative to begin the questioning of the lovely suspect, who for some strange reason now regarded the inspector with a peculiar expression.
Ponton was asking, “You were nearby when Gluant was killed, Ms. Xania?”
“Just ‘Xania’…yes, I ran out to be with him, to celebrate his team’s victory. A tragedy most—”
“Tragique,” Clouseau said.
“Yes,” she said, with a grave little nod.
Clouseau picked up Ponton’s interrogation—gently. “Now a few hours prior to the unfortunate event…”
“The murder,” Ponton said.
Clouseau shot his assistant a look. “To the murder…six witnesses saw you and Coach Gluant together.”
“That may be possible, Inspector.”
“Apparently you and the deceased were having the conversation most animated…What was it exactly, Ponton?”
The assistant, referring to his notebook, said, “She was striking him repeatedly and screaming, ‘You bastard! I’m going to kill you! I’m going to kill your cheating ass!’ ”
“I hope you will understand,” Clouseau said, “that to some this might seem…somewhat suspicious.”
She gestured with open hands—and open eyes. Lovely, deep brown, open eyes. “You’re a man, Inspector. You know the ways of love…”
Clouseau’s smile twitched under his mustache, which also twitched. “Well…”
“I was angry! I’d caught Gluant with another woman. And this was after he’d said he loved me—that he wanted me to marry him!”
“Swine murder victim,” Clouseau said.
“And I believed him. I even gave him…the ultimate gift.”
“Your swimsuit calendar?”
“My…” The sophisticated diva lowered her head shyly. “…my virginity.”
Several members of the orchestra nearby dropped their instruments, and a few others coughed loudly. Even Ponton regarded her with arched eyebrows of skepticism, and the producer stifled a laugh.
But Clouseau took her small sweet hand in his (which was larger and less sweet) and said, “You are a poor dear little angel waif.”
“Thank you, Inspector.” She batted long lashes at him. “I just knew you’d understand.”
“This, this, this is just an expression! How often have I heard people say to me, ‘I’m going to kill you! I should kill you, you stupid fool!’ This expression—is any expression so commonplace as this?”
A tear trickled down a perfect cheek. “When he cheated on me, I hated him.”
“Of course you did, my child.”
“But I didn’t kill him.”
“Of course you did not.”
Ponton frowned and scratched his head. “Mademoiselle, did you recently perform in China? In a concert at—”
Clouseau’s eyes and nostrils flared as he turned to his assistant. “Ponton, stop this incessant browbeating of this poor child! Can you not see she is distraught? That she needs the sexual healing?”
Xania said to Ponton, “I did perform a concert in Shanghai—three months ago. But what of that? I perform all over the world.”
“Ponton!” Clouseau said, glaring. “Do you not recognize big talents when you see them!…My pet, do you know of anyone else who expressed hatred for the Coach Gluant?”
Her perfect face grew thoughtful. “He did have an abrasive side. He climbed to the top of his profession, after all. But if I were to single out one person, it would be his former star player—Bizu.”
“God bless you,” Clouseau said.
Ponton said, “She didn’t sneeze, Inspector—she means the star forward, Bizu.”
“I know what she means! Do not tell me what she means!…Xania, my sweet unsuspected one, can you tell me what is the basis for this Bizu’s hostility toward Gluant?”
“I’m afraid I was the basis—I’d been dating Bizu when I became interested in Gluant, and he in me. Bizu is such a child! And so possessive. He hated Gluant for ‘stealing me away’—Bizu could not accept that I left him of my own free will. He needed someone to blame—and that was Gluant.”
A voice from behind Clouseau said, “If you ask me, both Bizu and Gluant were no-good bastards.”
Clouseau spun to face a slender dark-haired individual in sweater and slacks. “I do not ask you!…Who are you, the intruder who has sneaked into this studio to pry into my case?”
“I’m Xania’s producer.”
“And do you have a name?”
“Yes.”
Clouseau thought about that, then thrust a finger at the producer and said, “You! You will not leave town!”
“But I’m flying to Montserrat tonight,” he said, “to record Rene Duchanel—it’s been booked for months!”
“Nonetheless, you will not leave town. This is a serious murder. And I may wish to ask you a few more questions.”
The producer’s features clenched in exasperation. “But I don’t know anything!”
“About life? Perhaps not. About love? Surely nothing. But about this crime? You may hold the key!”
“Inspector, I barely even knew—”
“Do not leave Paris!” He spun to Ponton. “None of the key suspect are to leave the city! Clouseau has spoken.”
Xania sidled seductively up next to the inspector. “But, Inspector—does that include me? Next week I have…something or other to do in New York.”
He took her hand, gazed into the depths of her eyes. “My sweet, how could I stand in the way of something as important as that? Of course, you should feel free to go where you wish, as long as you let us know.”
The producer said, “Well, in that case, Inspector—”
He rotated to the producer. “You will not leave town!” Then he returned to the beautiful diva and said, “You must place your trust in Clouseau, my dear Xania.”
“How can I ever repay you, Inspector?”
He leaned close. “Perhaps, my sweet—one day, one Parisian night? You may lose your virginity to Jacques Clouseau, as well.”
Her smile was so innocent and yet so wicked.
“Perhaps,” she said.