Outside, where the perpetual premiere of a rotating spotlight’s beam cut through the night, the paparazzi and news crews—both local and international—kept a constant vigil for celebrities, a vigil frequently rewarded with flashbulb-worthy prey.
This was, after all, the plushiest casino in Rome, a city fabled for its la dolce vita. Within, smartly dressed men and chicly clothed women, who might well have stepped from the pages of GQ and Vogue, were attended by young cocktail waitresses with daring decolletage and lovely smiling faces, in a glitteringly appointed gambling den that made Monte Carlo seem shabbily second rate.
Winding among these jet-set patrons, the modestly garbed detectives from France moved like the conspicuous outsiders they were.
Finally, in the midst of the casino, against the familiar din of dealers’ voices, gamblers’ wagers, spinning balls and flung dice, the trenchcoated Clouseau finally took sudden root, not noticing that he caused a cocktail waitress to lurch into a nearby aisle, spilling her tray of drinks onto several stunned beautiful—and now wet—people.
“Ponton,” Clouseau said, “I will mingle. You, my lummox liege, will go to inquire about the office of this Larocque.”
“Where will I find you, Inspector?”
“I will be here. Right here. I will…blend in.”
Ponton was well aware that in their modest police-issue attire, they were brown shoes in this black tux world. But he merely said, “Then you intend to order a drink and gamble?”
“Of course not!” Clouseau shook his head in weary disappointment with his pupil. “First, I am on the duty. An officer does not drink on the duty. Second, neither does he gamble with the wagering. Third, we are servants of the public, on the modest salary—one should only wager when he can afford to lose.”
“But you said were going to blend in—”
Clouseau raised a palm. “I will observe from the lines of the side. There is only so much ‘blending in’ Clouseau can do among such fools.”
“Fools?”
“Fools! Look at them, throwing away the money. Do these fools not know that the odds, they are stacked against them? The house, she holds all the cards!”
Ponton, mildly surprised by such relative wisdom coming from the inspector, strode off to fulfill his assignment.
Clouseau watched until his partner was out of sight, then scurried to the nearest roulette table. After much tortured thought, he purchased a single chip, worth a single Euro. Then he placed his bet and his heart pounded.
His eyes followed the little ball as it traveled around and around and around, then stopped.
His jaw dropped.
He had lost.
For some time he stood in stony silence, holding back the tears as he thought of all the things that that Euro could have bought for him.
From his loser’s reverie he was shaken when the individual next to him—a suave, dark-haired, wickedly handsome man in evening dress—spoke up loudly in English: “Such very pleasant weather we’re having. I certainly hope this blissful weather continues…”
The words were not intended for Clouseau, rather for a small, somewhat overweight fellow who happened to be standing next to the commanding, dark-haired figure.
“Uh, yes,” the confused fellow said. “Isn’t it?”
The tall, dark-haired gentleman shrugged slightly to himself, and returned his attention to the roulette table.
But Clouseau leaned in and whispered in English: “I, too, am in the enforcement of the leau.”
The tall gentleman frowned in mild confusion. “What do you have to do with the loo?”
“The leau!” Then hushed, Clouseau explained, “The leau enforcement. The force of the police.”
“Ah!” Then, after a moment of thought, the tall man said, “Bloody hell…was I that obvious?”
“No, no, no, monsieur. It is just that I have the nose for words. The ear for spotting my own breed.”
A pretty waitress approached and gazed at Clouseau’s handsome companion with seemingly real admiration. “Your drink, sir.”
“Ah, my mojito. Would you flame it, dear?”
“Certainly, sir.”
And, with a flourish, she lit the drink; its flame burned bright, reflecting in Clouseau’s wide eyes.
As his new friend took the drink from the waitress and dropped a five-pound note on her tray, Clouseau said, “Impressive. I shall remember that, the flaming-drink ploy. I am Inspector Jacques Clouseau from—”
“France?”
Clouseau smiled. “You are good, monsieur. The details, they do not escape from you.” He leaned closer. “I am here to inquire into the theft of the Pink Panther and the murder of our Coach Gluant. A confidential matter that I would not share with just any stranger…”
“Commendable.”
“And you are?”
“Boswell. Nigel Boswell. With MI5—agent double oh six. I assume you understand the significance of that?”
“Yes, yes. You are one brick shy of the major load.”
Boswell blinked, shrugged that off, then said, “I too am on an important case—very important. And, like you, Inspector—it’s confidential.”
“You may depend on Inspector Jacques Clouseau, Agent Nigel Boswell!”
Boswell patted the air. “Shhh…please, Inspector…I am not here.”
Clouseau frowned. “Well, of course you are here. Where else would you be?”
“Switzerland.”
“Well then, if I were you, I would, how do you British say? Shake the leg. Catch the soonest plane, and—”
“No, no. Officially I am there…unofficially, I am here.”
“Aaahh! Your mission is under the covers.”
Boswell twitched a smile. “Frequently, yes…Right now I am shadowing a very important Colombian drug lord. No one must know that I am here.”
Clouseau narrowed his eyes. “But if you are under the cover—why do you wear the dress of the evening? This tuxedo is exactly what I would expect of the agent who kills with the license!”
Patiently, Boswell said, “Inspector—most men here are wearing tuxedos. In that trenchcoat? You are the exception, not the rule.”
Clouseau beamed. “Thank you.” Discreetly, seen by no more than a dozen people, Clouseau wrote his cell phone number on a slip of paper. Then he bumped against Boswell, as if accidently.
“Yes,” Clouseau said loudly, “the weather she is blissful…” Then, sotto voce, he said into the agent’s ear, “I have just slipped my cell phone number into your pocket…If the clouds, they were any more white…Call me if you need the help of the back.”
Spotting Ponton approaching, Clouseau gave the agent a small salute, Boswell nodded almost imperceptibly, and the inspector joined up with his assistant.
“Ponton,” Clouseau said, “is our suspect, Larocque, on the premises?”
“He is. We need to check in with security, and—”
As they walked through the crowded casino aisle, Clouseau waved a hand. “Excuse me, I change the subject. Ponton, I must suggest that we suspend our practicing of the attack while we are in the public of the foreign land. We must not attract the attention.”
“I agree,” Ponton said.
“Splendid. We will resume our training when the circumstances, they are more appropriate.”
“That’s a good idea, Inspector,” Ponton said, and Clouseau tripped him.
The big man was flung down an adjacent aisle. Waitresses and patrons alike tumbled like bowling pins, chips and drinks and ice flying.
“Oh, my friend, you are so clumsy!” Clouseau said, and helped Ponton to his feet. Smiling, Clouseau explained to the spectators, “My friend has the two left foot. He does apologize.”
As Clouseau walked him along, Ponton looked at his partner with amazed dismay. “But, Inspector, you said—”
“Vigilance, Ponton! Vigilance…and Ponton—trust no one!”
At the casino security desk, Ponton took the lead, saying, “Please inform Monsieur Larocque that Inspector Clouseau of the Police Nationale wishes to have a word with him.”
“You are Inspector Clouseau?”
“I am his assistant—Detective Ponton. This is Inspector Clouseau…”
The security supervisor, an officious but competent-looking individual, gave Clouseau a condescending smirk, and said to Ponton, “You do know that the two of you have no official standing in this country?”
Clouseau stepped forward. “You do not question my authority, in this or any country! We are here with the full knowledge and cooperation of the Interpol!”
The supervisor sighed, nodded and picked up his phone.
Soon, in the elevator, Ponton said, “I was not aware we had coordinated our visit through official channels, Inspector. Did Chief Inspector Dreyfus make the arrangements?”
“Of course not! No such arrangements were made.”
Confused, Ponton said, “But you told that security fellow that—”
“He apparently did not know the rule.”
“What rule?”
“Have you forgotten so quickly? Trust no one!”
The elevator opened on Larocque’s floor, and Ponton tripped Clouseau, who went sprawling onto the carpet.
Jumping to his feet, Clouseau said, “You are the quick learner! I am proud of my pupil. After you, Ponton…”
“No, Inspector. I think we will go two abreast, if you don’t mind.”
Clouseau considered that, and said, “That is an excellent choice, for the breast. Two.”
The door to the penthouse suite was answered by a towering, brawny Asian in a Nehru jacket; bald, menacing, frowning, he opened the door without a word.
The two detectives entered to find themselves in a spacious, luxurious penthouse whose modernity was contrasted with an array of elaborately framed impressionist paintings, and Chinese antique furnishings and art pieces. Prominent along one wall was a large, eerily lit fish tank filled with exotic specimen, flashing their fins in seeming greeting.
In the midst of the living room stood a thin, elegant, harshly handsome man in his fifties, vaguely sinister in manner and appearance; his dark suit was cut in the latest European mode, and he leaned on an ornate walking stick of Chinese styling.
Ponton remained in place, at the edge of the living room, while Clouseau—who handed the Asian servant his trenchcoat—confidently wandered the periphery, studying one framed painting after another.
“Monet!” he said. Then looking at another, he declared it, “Renoir!…And this…Gwen-gwan!”
Their host, with a mild sneer of amusement, said, “Most impressive, Inspector Clouseau. How is it you come to have such knowledge?”
Clouseau said, “I am full of the surprises, my friend. Do not be fooled by my simple country ways. The adversary, he must be kept off the guard, at all times.”
With a knowing smile, Clouseau tripped over a coffee table, but leapt to his feet, popping up right before his host. “I am Inspector Jacques Clouseau.”
“I know.”
“So you have heard of me.”
“You called ahead.”
“Ah. And you are Raymond Larocque?”
“Yes, I am. And since you feel comfortable revealing your art expertise to me, Inspector, I must say I am highly complimented. You obviously do not regard me as an adversary.”
“Perhaps, yes. Perhaps, no.” Clouseau raised his chin, attempting to look down on the taller man. “I am investigating the murder of Yves Gluant.”
Nodding somberly, Larocque said, “Poor Yves—a fascinating, talented man. A genuine loss…Would you and your associate like a drink, Inspector?”
From the background, Ponton spoke up. “Thank you, Monsieur Larocque—but we do not drink on duty.”
Clouseau said, “Grenadine with a little Pernod.”
Larocque’s towering Asian servant stepped forward. “This is my majordomo,” their host explained. “He’s Huang.”
To the servant, Clouseau said, “Congratulations. With what organization military did you serve, Major? And what is your name, by the way?”
“That is my name, Sweetcheeks,” Huang said. He smiled, winked, then scurried off to fill the inspector’s drink order.
Clouseau, not knowing what to make of this Sweetcheeks character, switched gears, and again faced his sinister host. “Tell me, Monsieur Larocque—this famous ring the Coach Gluant wore…this Pink Panther…Do you happen to know how he came to acquire it? Did he buy the ring?”
“Oh, no. Certainly not.”
The inspector’s eyes tensed. “Then he stole it?”
A sophisticated smirk appeared on the craggy face. “Well, perhaps that would be the opinion of the maharajahs from the Middle Eastern country where the Panther was first known. Yves inherited it from his grandfather. It cost him nothing.”
“Nothing? Nothing but his life, monsieur!” Clouseau took a step closer, his eyes locked on those of his host. “May I have a closer look at your bawls?”
Larocque blinked. “Pardon?”
“Your big brass bawls…On that table over there? Isn’t that large one eighteenth century? Han Dynasty?”
Clouseau thrust a finger toward an ivory table on which rested beautiful Chinese bowls and vases of varying sizes.
“Be my guest, Inspector. But please—don’t touch them.”
Clouseau arched an eyebrow. “Really? And why is that?”
“Because some of them are precious.”
“Some?”
Larocque shrugged. “Well, you obviously have an eye for antiques. Some are real, some are false.”
Clouseau chuckled wisely. “The same can be said of the human being, nes c’est pas?”
The inspector approached the ivory table.
His host called, “Inspector—those vases are particularly tricky…it’s easy to get one’s hand caught inside.”
Clouseau twirled toward Larocque. “Oh? You do not wish me to look inside the vases? Could it be that some worthless copy has something real, something precious within? The Pink Panther, say?”
Larocque scowled. “Don’t be ridiculous. Just, please—be careful…”
Clouseau picked up a ceramic vase bearing an elaborate Chinese dragon design. “The problem, my friend, is that one must always handle a ceramic vase from the inside—surely you know this! The oil from the hands could change the patina, and effect both the beauty and the value…”
The inspector, his hand inside the vase now, held it up to the light.
“Ah…pure alabaster,” he said.
“And nothing else,” his host snapped.
“Nothing else…yet.”
Clouseau set his hand-in-vase down on the table, and slipped his hand out—that is, tried to slip his hand out…
To brace himself, he put a hand on the table—that is, tried to put a hand on the table…
Instead, he wound up with his left hand in one vase and the right in another.
“That is odd,” Clouseau mused. “All I did was follow the acknowledged procedure…”
Larocque’s teeth were bared. “I told you not to put your hand in there, you fool!”
“Is this the way you speak to a guest, sir?!”
Bracing it under his opposite arm, Clouseau attempted to get the first vase off.
As Clouseau did his best to free himself, without damaging the vases, Ponton stepped forward to pick up the interview…and cover for his partner.
“Monsieur Larocque,” Ponton said, placing his big frame between himself and his struggling associate, “why did you take out a life insurance policy on Yves Gluant?”
“Oh, you know about that, do you?”
“We do.”
Larocque shrugged elaborately. “Well, if you think that makes me a good suspect, I would beg to differ. The insurance company refuses to pay until the murderer is in custody.”
From behind Ponton, the struggling, grunting, groaning Clouseau managed, “And what if it is you that is in custody, monsieur?”
Larocque snarled, “Then they won’t pay me at all, you idiot!…When the killer is found, I will get some insurance money…and I can try to sue the estate against the Pink Panther ring, assuming it’s recovered when the killer is captured.”
Ponton said, “We do assume that the killer is also the thief.”
“Then surely you can see,” Larocque said, “that I of all people want the bastard responsible caught!”
Clouseau popped up nearby, his arms behind him (the vases still on his hands). “But, even aside from the insurance policy…you stood to gain from Gluant’s death, did you not?”
“Gain? What in God’s name would I gain?”
“Nothing in the name of God,” Clouseau said cunningly, his back to the moodily illuminated fish tank. “But in the name of Raymond Larocque? A chain of restaurants! Gluant’s share in this chain, she would go to you!”
“The restaurants? Don’t be ridiculous! That chain was a disaster!”
Pleased with himself, Clouseau leaned back against the tank, inadvertently dipping his elbow into the water. Several exotic fish swam up to greet this intruder—piranha.
Larocque was saying, “Gluant was siphoning money out faster than it was coming in—my only consolation, really, was that he was a degenerate gambler, and would come to my casino and lose that money back to me!”
After a brief feeding frenzy, Clouseau drew quickly away from the fish tank, the elbow of his suit shredded and a trifle bloody.
Larocque continued: “But as time went by, Yves’s losses exceeded what he’d stolen from me…He got into debt with my casino, and, well…he promised me that ring—as collateral!”
His hands still locked in the vases, his right elbow a ragged mess, Clouseau noted the servant, Huang, entering with the drink on a tray.
Seemingly to Larocque, Clouseau said, “But you had the words angry with Gluant the night before his murder…” Spinning toward the servant, Clouseau added, “Did you not, Hung-wang?”
A vase flew off Clouseau’s hand and headed right for the tray with the drink on it; but Huang deftly ducked, and Ponton caught the vase, in a play that marked him the MVP of the interrogation.
“No I didn’t,” Huang pouted.
Clouseau closed in for the kill. “No? You did not threaten to break his arms and his legs and crush them into the little powder?”
“No!”
“Well…well…well…” He shrugged. “I play the hunch.”
The inspector turned toward his host. “I believe we have reached the end of the interview…By the way, if I may test the skill of your knowledge antique…” He hefted the hand still lodged in a vase. “…is this the copy or an original? Worthless or priceless?”
Larocque shrugged dismissively. “That’s an inexpensive copy.”
“Ah…thank you. That is good.” In one of his patented martial arts moves, Clouseau spun toward the ivory table and smashed the vase against it once, twice, three times, finally shattering it…and collapsing the ivory table into chunks.
“That table, however,” Larocque said, quietly stunned, “is priceless.”
Clouseau’s mustache twitched. “Not,” he said, “anymore…Hung-wang! My coat, if you please.”
As the servant handed him the trenchcoat, the inspector’s cell phone rang in a pocket, playing the William Tell Overture, or as Clouseau preferred to think of it, the Lone Ranger theme.
“It is I. Inspector Jacques Clouseau. Speak.”
The crisply British voice of the secret agent, Boswell, replied: “It seems I do need back-up, Inspector. Can you meet me in the restaurant, at once?”
“Yes,” Clouseau said, climbing into the trenchcoat. “Yes, at once!”
“Don’t tarry, man. It’s urgent!”
“Right away! I will tarry not! The urgency, I understand!”
He clicked off, turned to Larocque, Huang and Ponton and said, “I hope you will excuse me…Some, uh, minor matter has come up. Nothing important. Nothing confidential. Nothing having to do with the British Secret Service.”
And, leaving shattered antiquities, satisfied fish and confused humans behind him, Clouseau ran from the room.
So diligent was he in his efforts not to tarry, Clouseau—as he passed through the casino—made a small oversight: he failed to notice that masked men in catsuits were robbing it.
He stopped to ask one of these men, who was dressed in skintight black and about to put on a gas mask, directions to the restaurant.
“It is up there,” the bandit casually replied in Italian, and pointed to a windowed wall overlooking the casino.
Master of languages that he was, Clouseau automatically understood, replied, “Merci,” and headed for the restaurant.
Despite the view onto the casino, the restaurant was dark, the mood intimate, cocktail piano music tinkling. Small private dining areas were spotted here and there, separated off by lush plants and/or half-walls. Barely had Clouseau stepped inside when Nigel Boswell emerged from the shadows of one such intimate corner to take him by the arm to the wall of windows.
“Take a look, Inspector,” the secret agent said, “and you will see why I need your assistance…”
Out the window Clouseau could see the men in tight black suits wearing gas masks, pulling the pins on gas canisters, plumes of smoke spreading throughout the vast room, the beautiful people turning ugly as they choked.
Boswell pointed and said, “It’s as precise as a first-rate military operation.”
Indeed, thieves were scooping up money from the tables into laundry bags, while other contingents of masked bandits were at the cashier’s booths, helping themselves.
“I would say,” Clouseau said shrewdly, “that what we have here is a robbery.”
Boswell’s eyes flared. “Not just any robbery, Inspector—these are the so-called Gas-Mask Bandits…all of Europe is after them!”
“Perhaps…but it is we who are here to catch them!” Clouseau struck a martial arts pose. “I am ready and at your secret service.”
Boswell held out a hand. “All I need is your coat, really.”
“I would give you the shirt off my back!”
“The coat will do nicely.”
Clouseau complied. “And how will you deploy me, my friend? What is your plan?”
“My plan is to be you, Inspector.” Boswell was already getting into the trenchcoat. “I am not supposed to be here—your presence, on the premises, however, is by now well-known.”
Clouseau nodded. “It is true—everywhere I go, they know when I have been there.”
“So I’ve noticed.” Eyes tight, Boswell lifted a forefinger. “Now it’s critical that I not blow my cover…but at the same time, how can we allow the Gas-Mask Bandits to escape?”
“We cannot.”
Buttoned up inside Clouseau’s characteristic trenchcoat, Boswell pointed to the floor nearby. “Get my briefcase, would you? There’s a good fellow. And put it on the table?”
Clouseau did so, then watched as the agent swiftly unlocked, then snapped open, the briefcase; in holes cut from a black-cushioned bed were an array of the tools of the secret agent trade, among them a gas mask and a laser-beam glass cutter attached to a suction cup. The former Boswell fitted over his face; the latter he used to cut a large square from the window, the suction cup allowing him to merely lift the square out and set it to one side, like a large shield of glass.
Then, using a small pistol-like tool, Boswell shot a steel cord across the casino—it wavered as it went but its trajectory was true.
The inspector watched in open-mouthed admiration as the spy—wearing Clouseau’s coat—put on special gloves that aided him in what he did next…
…which was to slip out the hole in the window to slide across that steel cord, above the casino and the robbery going on below!
And as Boswell made his stunning, sliding, gliding journey using a single gloved hand, he dropped from his free hand a canister that began at once to suck from the air all of the foul gas the bandits had foisted upon the casino and its helpless patrons.
Then that same hand slipped under Clouseau’s coat and withdrew another pistol-like weapon.
One by one, Boswell picked off the thieves.
“The sleeping-dart ploy,” Clouseau muttered to himself. Those few thieves that Boswell missed on the way across, he snagged on the return journey, for once he got to the opposite wall, he headed back again on his sliding way for the hole in the restaurant’s glass wall, beyond which the astounded Clouseau waited.
Landing nimbly before the inspector, Boswell quickly unbuttoned and handed Clouseau back his trenchcoat, into which the inspector slipped. Then he handed Clouseau the gas mask, and dropped the other gizmos into either pocket of the coat.
“Souvenirs?” Clouseau asked. “Thank you, my friend! I will treasure them always—”
“Not souvenirs, Inspector,” Boswell said, straightening his black tie, having become once again just another smoothly tuxedoed (if particularly distinguished) casino-goer. “Evidence…evidence that you, not I, are the intrepid bloke who captured the Gas-Mask Bandits.”
“I…a bloke…?”
Boswell’s chin jutted. “You must swallow your pride, Inspector—do me this favor, and take the credit. You will be doing Nigel Boswell and Her Majesty’s government a great service.”
Graciously, Clouseau half-bowed. “Well, then…certainly.”
“Inspector—it’s been an honor.”
And Boswell crisply saluted.
“Thank you,” Clouseau said, and returned the salute, knocking himself in the head with the gas mask.
“I couldn’t have done it without you, old chap,” the spy said.
Just slightly groggy from the blow he’d delivered upon himself, Clouseau nonetheless beamed. “I know.”
Then Boswell slipped away.
Just as Clouseau stepped from the secluded corner of the restaurant, the casino’s security force burst in.
And as their eyes took in the brave man in the trenchcoat—with the gas mask in hand and gadgets poking from his pockets—smiles blossomed all around.
“You are a hero!” the chief of security said, rushing forward with open arms, the same formerly officious sort who had earlier given Ponton and Clouseau a hard time. “A true hero!”
“It was nothing,” Clouseau shrugged, with a modest smile.
Then the paparazzi and news teams began to swarm in, to take pictures and video of the French detective who had come to Rome to nab the infamous Italian bandits. They had left their posts outside the casino to come inside and find a new celebrity, a real hero.
And Jacques Clouseau, true to his word, selflessly took all of the credit, bravely covering for his colleague in crime fighting.
It was the least he could do.