The training facility of Team France required a drive to the suburbs, where Inspector Clouseau deposited his Renault in a parking lot in the shadow of the towering ultra-modern building. Looming was the team’s famous logo, mounted next to an International Championship insignia.
“Most impressive,” Ponton said, leaning out the car window.
Clouseau shut off the engine. “Thank you. But parking has been a specialty of mine for many years—you needn’t comment on that again. It would only embarrass me.”
Ponton said, “I will restrain myself.”
The large man took the lead, heading up the steps. Clouseau, smiling devilishly, mustache atwitch, came up quickly behind his pupil. Barely turning, Ponton parried the karate chop and caught Clouseau by the tie before he fell down the short flight.
“Are you all right, Inspector?”
“Of course I am all right!” His arms windmilled as he regained his footing. “I am merely…moved by the progress you are making, my large friend.” They were at the landing now. “Allow me…”
Clouseau opened the door and slammed it into Ponton, who tumbled backward down the steps.
The big man seemed only mildly dazed as Clouseau helped him to his feet. “Ah, but my enormous colleague, you must maintain the vigilance. The vigilance!”
Shortly, within the facility, the receptionist directed the detectives to Cherie Dubois, the team’s publicity person. An attractive, athletic-looking blonde in her twenties, wearing a Team France t-shirt and short skirt, she accompanied the men down the corridor.
“I’m afraid, Inspector,” she said, “I cannot take you to see Bizu.”
“Ah, but mademoiselle—there is no need to be afraid. Jacques Clouseau will protect you from this beast.”
“No, you…you don’t understand. Monsieur Bizu is unavailable at the moment. But I can take you to see Monsieur Vainqueur—he was the assistant coach…he is the new head coach, now.”
Clouseau seemed confused. “He…coaches the head? Is this really necessary? Most Frenchmen need no coaching in such—”
Ponton cleared his throat.
Clouseau gave his partner a look that seemed to say, What?
Cherie studied the inspector for a moment, and after spending several moments searching his eyes for intelligence, she gave up and said, “What I meant was, with Coach Gluant gone, Monsieur Vainqueur is the main coach.”
“Oh! Oh, I see.”
She stopped at a door and began to open it for them, but the inspector insisted that he be allowed to do her the honor.
With a gracious smile and nod, she stepped inside, while the gentlemanly Clouseau made a sweeping after-you gesture for Ponton, as well. The big man followed Clouseau, while Clouseau backed up to get a running start at him, and—karate-blade hands extended—he charged Ponton, who moved neatly aside, sending Clouseau flying into a practice net, which held him momentarily—a fly in its web—and sprang back to deposit him at Cherie’s feet.
The inspector stood, brushing himself off, laughing in a forced manner, “My oversized companion and I, we have the…what is the expression? The joke that runs. I hope you do not mind.”
Cherie said, “Not at all, Inspector.”
To Clouseau she seemed vaguely amused; he wondered what secret knowledge lay behind this strange attitude.
She was saying, “You know, Inspector Clouseau, I’ve never met a policeman like you before.”
“You are too generous, my child.”
Clouseau allowed Ponton and Cherie to take the lead as they made their way along the side of the gym, cluttered as it was with workout equipment, soccer balls and practice nets, a few players practicing or exercising here and there.
Ponton said to Cherie, “Have you worked here long, Mademoiselle Dubois?”
“Yes, for almost two years.”
“How did one so young come to be the team’s public relations representative?”
“Monsieur Gluant hired me,” she said, as if this answered Ponton’s question.
“Were you and he close?”
“Well…we worked closely, you would say.”
“Very closely?”
“Yes. Coach Gluant and I, we scouted players all over the world—our current trainer we hired away from the Russian military team, for example.”
Clouseau, his timing as precise as any athlete in the vast room, made his move.
He ran toward Ponton’s back, his deadly karate-chop hand poised; he would normally have pulled back on the blow, but Ponton could handle the full force, hulking brute that he was. With all of his considerable strength, Clouseau brought down the blade of his hand…
…against a chin-up bar.
The whang resounded, and Ponton and Cherie glanced back.
Clouseau patted the bar—with his other hand—and in an ear-to-ear smile that went well with his eyes…which seemed to be so happy that tears welled…the inspector said, “Ponton, make a note!”
“Yes, Inspector,” the big man said, and got out his little pad.
“We must write those in charge and commend them for the strength of the steel in this equipment! Too often you come upon shoddy workmanship, but not here, at the Team France training facility. I salute you, makers of this steel.”
And the inspector actually did salute, putting his other hand in contact with the chin-up bar, making only a clang this time.
Ponton asked the young woman, “If you worked this closely with the coach, did this inspire jealousy in other women? Xania, perhaps?”
“What other women?”
Ponton’s eyebrows raised. “You mean…Xania was the only one…?”
She let out a wicked laugh. “Xania! Don’t believe everything you read in the papers, Detective Ponton. I can tell you with utter certainty that Coach Gluant was finished with her—through!”
Clouseau caught up with them, asking, “Did Coach Gluant himself tell you this?”
“He did.”
“When did he tell you?”
“When we were making love, Inspector.”
Clouseau flashed a suave smile. “Ah, but you toy with me, my dear. You and I, we have not made the love…yet.”
“Not you! I mean him and me.”
“You…and Ponton?” Clouseau turned indignantly to his partner. “Ponton, how could you keep this from me? How long have you known this young woman!”
Cherie wedged herself between them. “Not him, you fool!”
Clouseau raised his brow. “I must respectfully request that you do not call my associate a fool. He may not be the sharpest stick in the crayon box, but—”
Cherie leaned in until her nose was almost touching Clouseau’s. “Read my lips, Inspector—I was sleeping with Yves.”
“Who is this woman, this mysterious…Eve?”
“Yves Gluant! Yves Gluant!”
Clouseau eyed her shrewdly. “I must ask you not to leave town, mademoiselle. You display a temper most formidable. You will make a charming addition to Clouseau’s list of the suspect.”
Her eyes flashed, her nostrils flared. “You boob!”
Clouseau touched Ponton’s sleeve. “Please. He is new.”
With an exasperated sigh, the young woman pointed to a man in dark sweats who had just entered the gymnasium.
“That’s who you want to talk to!” she said, and folded her arms.
Rugged, with curly hair and a rather pointed chin, the new arrival seemed less than friendly as he approached.
“I understand you wish to see me,” he said.
“This depends,” Clouseau said.
“On what?”
“On who you are.”
“My name is Vainqueur—and I’m in charge around here. Who the hell are you?”
Clouseau exchanged pointed glances with Ponton, then said, “I am Inspector Jacques Clouseau. You have perhaps heard of me?”
“No.”
Ponton began to write that down, and Clouseau stopped him.
“What do you want?” Vainqueur snapped. “We’re busy here. Training is a year-round affair for Team France.”
Raising an eyebrow, Clouseau said, “I understand there are many…’affairs’ in these circles.”
Vainqueur gave Cherie a suspicious look. Then the new head coach said, “I told you I am a busy man.”
“As am I,” Clouseau said. “As am I.”
“Then get busy!”
Clouseau arched another eyebrow, his lips pursing. “I am told that around here…many people ‘get busy’…”
“Listen, you pompous little ass.” Vainqueur got in Clouseau’s face. “If you have any questions, spit them out! I am in no mood for innuendo.”
“Then we will chase to the cut—how did you feel about Coach Gluant? Do you in fact…hate him? Or perhaps…despise him? Or might I say…abhor him?”
Vainqueur backed off. “And what if I did?”
“I would have to point out that he has been killed.”
A short snort and a shrug came from the new coach. “Not every death is a tragedy.”
“No, monsieur…but every murder is a crime! Why did you hate this man?”
The reply was almost a snarl. “Wouldn’t you hate someone who kept you under his thumb, and verbally abused you every day?”
Ponton was nodding.
The new coach continued: “Six years I spent at the whim of this egomaniac—I was no fan of Yves Gluant.”
Eyes tight, Clouseau said, “And yet now you have this murdered man’s job…ironic, is it not?”
“I do not see the irony, Inspector. Are we finished here?”
Ponton whispered to Clouseau, “I don’t see the irony, either, Inspector.”
Clouseau said, “Listen! Learn! Take your notes and do not—”
Through a nearby doorway came distant footsteps. Echoing. Echoing…
“This is your opportunity, my simple colleague! You will observe firsthand the skills of Jacques Clouseau…”
“Inspector,” Vainqueur said, “I have—”
“Shush!”
Clouseau listened to the sounds carefully, and then, in a soft yet sharp voice translated them: “High heels, these footsteps. Rather formal ones for this time of day, I would say…five feet two. Brunette. I would say…thirty to thirty-five years old, n’es-ce pas?”
A rather unprepossessing man in sweats entered, hauling soccer balls and a training bag.
Clouseau reared back. “Is anyone with you?”
“What?” the man said.
Clouseau leaned into the hallway. No one was around.
“Where is she?” he demanded of the stubby man.
“Where is who?”
“You were with no one?”
“No. No one.”
The inspector’s eyes narrowed with their characteristic shrewdness. “Are you perhaps wearing pumps?”
“What? Are you mad? No!” He pointed to tennis shoe-shod feet.
Desperate, Clouseau asked, “How tall are you?”
“I am five foot six.”
Clouseau whirled in triumph to his small audience. “Ah ha! Did I not say five foot six?”
“Actually,” Cherie said, “you said five foot two. But he is rather short, I will grant you.”
To Ponton the inspector said, “Listen. Learn.”
The man in sweats blurted, “Who are you, anyway? What is this about?”
Clouseau drew in a deep breath. “I?” He exhaled grandly. “I am Inspector Clouseau. And this?…This is about…murder!”
The word echoed through the gym, and Clouseau glanced all around in self-satisfaction. No one, however, had reacted—soccer practice and workouts continued unabated; neither did Cherie, Vainqueur, the little man in sweats, or even Ponton show any response.
These ones, they play their cards close to the vest, Clouseau thought.
Clouseau planted himself before their latest arrival, the small man in sweats. “And you are?”
“Yuri. I am the trainer.”
“I see. I see. And what is it that you do here?”
“Well…train.”
Clouseau grunted a derisive laugh. “And what would the Team France have need for, with the locomotive engineer? It is absurd!”
Ponton leaned forward. “He trains the athletes.”
“I know that! What are you writing down, there?”
“Nothing, Inspector…Nothing.”
Clouseau resumed his inquiry. “Monsieur Yuri…the trainer who trains…did you know Coach Gluant?”
Yuri shrugged. “Of course. We all knew him. He was the coach.”
“Ah. And how did he come to hire you?”
“Well, he sought me out. He and Cherie. I was with the Russian team; I had a good reputation, and he stole me away.”
“Stole you away! And how did he manage this, this theft?”
“He paid me more than the Russians.”
“The higher-pay ploy. Did you like Gluant?” Clouseau thrust himself forward. “Or did you perhaps…hate him?”
“As a matter of fact,” Yuri said, “I liked and admired him very much.”
“And how do I know this is not the deceptive lie?…You are not to leave France!”
Yuri looked distraught. “But our next game is not in France, Inspector.”
“You are not to leave Europe!”
“Our next games are in Asia…”
“Asia? Well…Asia is all right. But you are not to leave Asia or Europe!”
Vainqueur piped in. “We do have a game coming up in Brazil.”
Clouseau turned to the coach and considered his words, saying, “I see. Brazil.” Then he whirled back to the trainer. “But you are not to leave Europe! Or Asia! Or…or the Americas!”
Yuri shrugged, said, “No problem,” and went off with the tools of his trade.
Clouseau returned his attention to the somewhat hostile head coach. “Monsieur Vainqueur—this fellow Bizu. Would you say he hated Gluant?”
“Most definitely.”
“Enough to…kill him?”
“That would be your job to find out, isn’t it?”
“Do you know where he is now?”
“Yes.”
Clouseau nodded. Swallowed. “Might you share that information with us?”
“Well, he’s outside. On the practice field.”
“And what would he be doing there?”
“…Practicing.”
“Yes. Yes. I know something of this, the need of practice for the skilled athlete.”
The coach smiled a little. “Do tell.”
“Yes.” Clouseau made a modest shrug, and displayed a small example of a karate chop in the air. “You see, I have the black belt.”
“I’m sure it holds your trousers up nicely. Cherie will show you the way…If you’ll excuse me, Inspector? Some of us have real work to do.”
Clouseau watched the man cross the gym floor to hook up with several of the team members at a practice net, where he began to give instructions.
To Ponton, Clouseau said, “Do you detect a hint of attitude there, my sizeable comrade?”
“Yes, Inspector. He is an asshole.”
“Ah. Ah, is that what it is? Very keenly observant on your part, Ponton. You stay here and ask any follow-up questions of our suspects that might occur to you. Clouseau will take on the great Bizu, as the Italians say, ‘mano a mano’…”
“I believe that’s the Spanish, Inspector,” Ponton said.
“Well, it may be the Spanish as well…”
“Or maybe the Mexicans…”
“Ponton! You have your orders. Carry them out.”
“Yes, Inspector.”
Clouseau did not immediately begin his interview with Bizu. He had found in his numerous years of investigatory work that studying a suspect in advance—from a distance, before revealing himself as a detective—could reveal much about the character of said suspect. So he took a place high in the stands, by himself, and watched his prey.
This was not a great stadium, just a practice field, and the stands were like those at the small high school in Fromage. This meant that Clouseau was above Bizu, but close enough that, eventually, eye contact could be made…
His black hair like a nest of snakes, the darkly handsome soccer star had the field to himself, kicking balls. His strokes were expert, but anger lurked within each kick, as if every rubber orb were the head of an enemy.
Considering this, his steel-trap mind processing his observations, Clouseau—idly fiddling with a small screw attached to the back of the bench—finally decided the time had come to call himself to the attention of the star player.
After much thought about what he might say, what precise remark might put Bizu off his guard and let his adversary know that he was dealing with a mastermind detective with whom he dare not trifle, Clouseau called out, “Nice kick!”
Then the inspector sat back and smiled, with just a hint of sneer, almost unconsciously playing with that little screw to combat the small touch of nervousness that even a brave officer like Clouseau—being after all human—possessed.
Bizu turned and glared up at the lone figure at the top of the stands.
Their eyes locked.
The tension between them was telling, indeed—Clouseau almost could hear the gears turning; it was as if Bizu’s very thought processes had begun to creak. Clouseau saw the star weaving out there, his footing unsure, the poor fool thrown off by the deadly gaze of Clouseau.
“What are you looking at?” Bizu called.
Ah, Clouseau thought; the battle of the wits—the war of the nerves…
“I am looking at you, my friend. The prime suspect in the murder of Yves Gluant!”
“Am I really?” the star yelled. “And what are you going to do about it?”
“I? I am going to—”
And the bleachers gave way—it had been the stands that had been swaying, not Bizu, the structure itself that had been creaking, not the star’s thoughts—and they folded dramatically, like venetian blinds, sending the great detective sliding down…
Fortunately, this improvised passage was as smooth and unbroken as a ski slope. And the only thing that gave Clouseau away, just a bit, was his scream as he came gliding down.
But he regained his composure by landing, like a cat, on his feet—better than a cat, because he required only two feet—as if he had planned this dramatic entrance, all along.
Ever so suavely he said to the soccer star, whose face was only a few inches away from the inspector’s own, “…I am going to invite you to join me.”
Flecks of sweat flew as Bizu demanded, “For what? Where?”
“To the headquarters.”
Bizu shook his head, more sweat flicking onto Clouseau, who blinked it away. “Do you mind I dress?”
“In fact I would prefer it,” Clouseau said with great dignity. “The nudity publique, she is a crime, also…though not as serious as…murder!”
“I will keep that in mind,” Bizu said with a smirk.
But he complied.
In an interrogation chamber in the bowels of the Palais de la Justice, a spotlight was on the star player; but not the kind of spotlight he was accustomed to: this was the bright hot light of what the Americans called the Third Degree. Shadows fell dramatically in the closet of a room, stripes of black, bars of white, as if Bizu already were in prison.
Bizu sat on a bare wooden chair; nearby was a small table, and another chair. But the inspector stood, rocking on his heels, appraising his interviewee with harsh eyes.
Then, suddenly, Clouseau thrust himself into the man’s face and yelled, “You are the soccer player known as Bizu?”
Bizu seemed more confused than frightened. “Yes.”
“And you were acquainted with Yves Gluant?”
“Yes. Of course. He was my coach. Everyone knows that.”
“Do not tell Clouseau what he knows! Only Clouseau knows what he knows!…How did you feel about this coach?”
Bizu grunted. “I hope he’s burning in hell at this very moment.”
“Ah!” Clouseau ratcheted up the volume further. “Then it is true that you disliked him?”
A smirk crinkled the upper lip of the suspect. “Let’s just say I’m not crying over him pushing up daisies.”
“He is not pushing up the daisies! He is dead! What do the daisies have to do—”
“It’s an expression—idiom.”
Clouseau reared back, fury in his eyes. “You— you sir, are the idiom!”
Bizu rolled his eyes.
Then the inspector was on him again, speaking quickly, voice dripping with menace, rife with threat: “Unless you wish to spend the rest of your nat ural life in prison, where much is unnatural, particularly in the showers, you will answer my next question…Did…you…kill…Gluant?”
Bizu lurched forward on the chair, until he and Clouseau were touching noses. “I only wish that I had! How I would have loved it! Only someone…some lucky bastard…beat me to it!”
Clouseau drew back. He looked at the suspect with contempt. “You…you disgust me.”
Bizu hung his head.
“One moment,” Clouseau said, his voice softer, “we will continue this.”
Bizu said nothing, staring at the floor.
Clouseau stepped out.
Moments later he returned; his expression was wholly different—pleasant, as was his soft-spoken tone as he asked, “Would you like a cigarette, my friend?”
Bizu blinked in surprise. “Uh, no. No thanks. I’m an athlete. I don’t smoke.”
“Good! This is a very good decision. This is why we are so proud of our athletes here in France.” He moved closer, leaned down and beamed at the suspect. “Bizu, my friend, I just wanted you to know that I know you didn’t do this crime.”
“What?…Oh. Well. Good. That’s nice.”
Clouseau pulled up the spare chair. “Someone else did this terrible thing…and now they are doing another terrible thing: putting you in the picture frame with the gilt around it.”
Bizu swallowed, sat forward. “You may be right…Can you help me, Inspector?”
“It would be my pleasure. My honor.” He shifted on the chair. “Tell me, my friend—do you have any idea who might have done this thing?”
Bizu laughed bitterly. “Where to start? This list is long. But you’ve been looking at the team, haven’t you? I would suggest Gluant’s business interests.”
The inspector’s eyes narrowed. “Ah. And what interests are these?”
“He had money in some stupid chain of restaurants. His partner was that fellow Larocque…the casino owner?”
“Raymond Larocque?”
“The very man, Inspector. You see, Gluant would steal money from the restaurants to feed his gambling habit. But Gluant was such an arrogant bastard that he would brag about it! I’m not the only one he told about Larocque, and what a sucker he considered the man to be.”
“And you suspect Larocque?”
“You have lots of prime candidates, Inspector. But that’s my best guess, yes—that Larocque got fed up with Yves and had him killed. The Pink Panther stone would’ve gone a long way to make up what Gluant stole, and beyond. And this casino owner has the mob connections to make it happen, too.”
Clouseau’s eyes flashed. “Ah! The mob. The syndicate. The Mafia. It was inevitable, was it not, that they would rear their filthy heads?”
Bizu’s upper lip again curled bitterly. “All I know is that whoever did this did the world a favor. Gluant was a selfish, conceited, stinking pig!”
Clouseau cast a smile upon his suspect and patted him on the shoulder. “I like you, Bizu. You have the good heart…If you’ll excuse me?”
The inspector entered the small adjacent chamber where Ponton had been watching through the two-way glass.
“You’re doing fine, Inspector,” the big man said. “You’ve pulled a lot of good information out of Bizu. But what exactly is this technique you’re using?”
Clouseau removed from a desk drawer a small black electrical box with a small plunger at its center top, not unlike an explosives detonator.
“My inexperienced friend! Are you not familiar with the classic good-cop-bad-cop ploy?”
Ponton looked momentarily stunned, like a clubbed baby seal. “But…don’t usually two different cops do that…?”
Clouseau shrugged. “Well, that is an option, I suppose. But my approach, she is more efficient, what with budgets and so on…Watch and learn, my ample assistant…”
Clouseau entered the interrogation booth, ominously brandishing the small electrical box. His entire manner had changed; he projected a sinister, sadistic side. Again he all but shouted at the suspect.
“And, so, Bizu…you may have heard what we do to the suspect who does not cooperate.”
Bizu, confused, insisted, “But, Inspector—I did cooperate!”
“Do not contradict me!…If you do not continue to cooperate, I will have to hook you up to…the box.”
Bizu swallowed thickly, genuinely afraid. “And what…what is ‘the box’?”
“Simply these two electrodes,” Clouseau said, pointing them out. “Attached to the suspect’s…testicles!”
Bizu paled.
“One,” Clouseau said nastily, “each…”
Apparently interested, Bizu leaned forward. “How exactly does it work, Inspector?”
“It is child’s play, you idiom!” His voice heavy with threat, Clouseau said, “It is like this…one goes here, the other goes there…”
Demonstrating, he dropped his pants and attached the electrodes to the desired points of potential pain.
“And, please, my friend,” Clouseau said softly, reverting to the good cop, seeing Bizu’s hand reaching out toward the plunger, “do not touch that…”
The scream emerging from the interrogation room rang and echoed throughout the bowels and up into the halls of the Palais de la Justice, where many a seasoned police officer shuddered, wondering what poor miscreant was getting “the box” today.