Inspector Jacques Clouseau, after a brief fifteen-minute sojourn in the “swine revolving door,” entered the lavish lobby of the Waldorf Hotel. He wore his trademark trenchcoat and a small, anticipatory smile. Tonight, he thought, his eyes taking in the glitter of the impressive chandelier that seemed to sparkle with possibilities, is the night…
Xania met him at the door to her suite on the second floor, a suite only slightly smaller—and possibly more lavish—than the lobby itself; with its white walls and golden-upholstered plush furnishings, all that was missing was that enormous chandelier.
The singer still wore the same lovely white dress as this afternoon, and apologized: “I’ve had a busy day…I hope you don’t mind. We’ll just be informal and—”
He held up a traffic-cop palm and raised a “shush” finger to his lips.
Raising his voice a notch, he said, “Such very pleasant weather we are having…I hope this blissful weather, she continues…”
Soon Xania got the drift, as her guest prowled the large living room of the exquisite suite, checking behind chairs, curtains, even in the fireplace.
Then he curled a finger in “come” fashion and she stepped close to him. He whispered: “We are indeed alone, my dear…but I must still check for the boogs.”
“Boogs?”
“Boogs. The little tiny listening devices with eyes that spy upon what we say.”
“Oh. Sure.”
And now the inspector brought his expert touch to sweeping the room for surveillance equipment, his fingers skimming the tops of doors, tripping nimbly along floorboards, looking in lamps, inspecting telephones, all in all a process that took a good five minutes while Xania, arms folded across her full bosom, watched with interest and, perhaps, amusement.
The floor was parquet, covered by various expensive throw rugs. Beneath an Oriental carpet Clouseau made a shocking discovery: a large metal plate screwed tight into the wood.
Xania began, “Did you find—”
Clouseau frowned and motioned her over, to share his unnerving find. He slipped an arm around her, drew him to her and, her Chanel in his nostrils, his eyes plunging to her plunging neckline, he whispered into her ear: “It is a large boog indeed. Say nothing. You are in the best of hands.”
She gave him a teasing look. “I hope to be.”
He waggled a finger. “Naughty girl, naughty, naughty…”
He knelt over the blatant listening device—what sort of fool did they take him for?—and examined the screws and wires, some of which held the devil in place, others of which no doubt served to enable electronic eavesdropping. He got out his Swiss Army knife, opened it, did not hurt himself, and deftly cut the wires, and began to carefully, gingerly unscrew the plate, listening and watching, just in case the trap for the boob had been laid…
He gestured for her to stand away as he leaned in and ever so slowly unscrewed the final screw…
He stood. “There—that should do it.”
“What’s that…grinding sound?”
Shrugging, Clouseau put the carpet back in place. “I hear nothing.”
“Metal against wood—don’t you hear it?”
The sound that followed was enormous—a shattering, earth-shaking crash, after which several shrill screams, muffled by the floor, could nonetheless be clearly heard.
“I heard that,” Clouseau admitted, having no idea that he had just caused the enormous chandelier to plunge into the middle of the lobby and shatter into shards on the floor.
She went to his arms and clung to him. “What could it have been?”
“Mice perhaps? The mouse, he scurries across the floor, and the woman, she screams. So silly, to be frightened of the mouse.”
Xania’s eyes were large. “Well, that sounded like some mouse…”
He shrugged. “This is after all New York. They have the pestilence problem, even at the fine hotel…Shall we call for the service of the room?”
Soon, having enjoyed a delicious lobster dinner, they sat by candlelight at a small room-service cart/table, Xania sipping a glass of wine, Clouseau boldly drinking his flaming glass of mojito.
“An unusual drink,” Xania observed.
“It was introduced to me,” Clouseau said with a suave wave, “by a close friend and colleague…in the Secret Service of England.”
“Do you ever get burned?”
“Only in love, my dear…Only in love…”
She sipped her wine, smiling just a little. “Sometimes I don’t know what to make of you, Inspector.”
“Make of me what you will.”
She shrugged a trifle. “I mean, you’re…a man of mystery.”
“Well, I am a man who solves the mysteries, this is true. But one mystery I cannot solve.”
“Yes?”
He leaned nearer her. “Why were you so elusive today?”
“What do you mean?”
“You walked many blocks from this hotel to that shabby district of the warehouse. My partner Ponton and I, we followed you.”
“I know. Behind those newspapers.”
She rose from the little table and sat on a nearby sofa, patting the cushion beside her—right beside her.
Clouseau rose and sat where she had indicated, saying, “You did not mind that your tail we followed?”
“No. I’m not afraid of you.” Her smile was mischievous; then it disappeared. “But I am afraid of Raymond Larocque.”
Clouseau frowned. “Has he threatened you, this swine Larocque?”
“Not directly, but he has sent out word on the street, threatening to kill anyone in possession of the Pink Panther. He believes it is rightfully his.”
“Yes. Your late friend Gluant owed him much money. But why, of the many suspects of this theft, would he follow you, my sweet?”
Her eyelashes fluttered. “Well, after all, I was in New York to see a diamond cutter. He might have jumped to the wrong conclusion.”
He bestowed his most debonair smile. “You know, a man sitting next to you, in your private suite…he might jump to the wrong conclusion, also.”
“Or…” She reached a slender hand across the table and touched his. “…the right one. I have heard things about you.”
“That, for example, I am French?” He leaned in sideways to sip his mojito from the nearby room-service table, the back of his hair catching fire, just a little, providing a low blue flame that neither he nor his lady friend noticed.
“That you know how to treat a woman.” She touched her breasts, a hand on either. “Would you like to touch them…?”
“Oh yes. Very much.”
She blinked. “Why don’t you then?”
“Oh. Oh! Yes…I will touch them.”
And he did. He murmured into her ear, “The heat of your love…it burns me. I am aflame with desire…”
“And now,” she said, with a wicked smile, a hand sliding down his midsection, “I will touch you…”
He sprang to his feet. “And so the games of love, they begin. If you will let me slip away, my darling…to prepare…for the making of the love.”
Clouseau backed away from her, blowing kisses that she returned; that the back of his hair was aflame had not yet registered on either of them.
His back to the bathroom door, he gazed at her with his sexiest French one-eyebrow-cocked come-hither look, then sniffed the air, and asked, “Do you smell burning rubber, my pet?…No matter.”
Her lips pursed sensuously; her eyes were half-lidded; and her voice was a purr as she said, “I will slip into something special for you, Jacques, and meet you back here…on the couch…”
“This is a rendezvous I will kept, my sweet Xania…”
Within the bathroom, Clouseau reached desperately into his pockets. He had a small problem. The stresses of being a great detective had taken a big toll. And so finally he found the tiny vial, which was marked VIAGRA—EXTRA STRENGTH.
He opened the bottle and saw the single precious pill within. I must renew that prescription, he thought. Perhaps I should make the note…
He shook the little blue pill into his left palm. Then he put down the vial, picked the pill up in thumb and middle finger, and lifted it to gaze upon as if it were as precious a jewel as the Pink Panther itself; and in the mirror, he saw that his hair was on fire.
He yelped, jumping with surprise and pain, and the little pill took a trip—it made a high journey into the air, just missing the ceiling, did a somersault, and performed a perfect dive into the sink, rolling down the drain.
Clouseau could not react to this with the proper horror until he had put his hair out; patting the flames away with a towel, he sighed—he felt fine, no burning—and he lifted the vial, realizing finally that his only pill had gone down a pipe as straight and stiff as he was not.
Frantically, he read the label: REFILLS: ONE.
He peeked out the bathroom door and saw Xania returning from her bedroom in a sheer blue nightie. He stared at her lush, curvaceous beauty; then down at himself.
Nothing.
And if that sight didn’t do it, then only a refill would…
On the room service cart, pushed away from where Xania reclined in all her glory on the couch, that mojito was flaming high now. Best get rid of that.
He tiptoed into the room, unseen as he snatched the out-of-control drink from the table, and—as Xania lay in a light slumber, awaiting her lover, moving sensually with the thought of delights to come—Clouseau crept from the hotel suite, grabbing his trenchcoat as he went.
By the time he got to the lobby, he had the trenchcoat on, and the mojito’s flames were leaping higher. Casually he dumped the drink into a potted tree, and moved quickly through the lobby, in and around maintenance men who were clearing out a formidable pile of broken glass from the lobby floor. Whatever could that have been?
Out on the street, his empty pill bottle tight in his hand, he ran to the nearest pharmacy; but just as he went to enter, the druggist turned a CLOSED sign toward him. Frantically, Clouseau held up the vial, pounding on the glass with his fist, his eyes pleading. The druggist shrugged and disappeared into the store, shutting off lights as he went.
By the time Clouseau had reached the third pharmacy—slowed up just a little by the need to cross the crosswalks in the proper posture—he realized that time was running out. Sweet Xania would notice his absence, and when he finally returned, he would have explaining to do, with only the flimsiest of excuses.
Like all detectives, Clouseau knew that even the best of men, when pushed to the wall, could turn to crime; and he was no exception.
From his trenchcoat pocket he took Secret Agent Boswell’s glass-cutting device with its attached suction cup. Looking all around, finding this side street empty of anything but parked cars and damp pavement, he went to work on the glass with the cutter, the cup securely attached.
Soon his work was complete.
And the glass around the square he had cut fell to the pavement, shattering all around him, leaving him standing there with a square of glass attached to his suction cup.
Nonetheless, five minutes later, now wearing a Waldorf robe, Clouseau slipped out of the bathroom, having taken two little blue pills, just to be sure…
In her provocative pose, Xania lay back on the couch like a pin-up come magically to life. Her lovely lipsticked lips parted to say, “You do like to keep a girl waiting…oh! What is it you have there!”
“It is all part of the game of love,” he said, and dropped the robe. It caught on something, then he flicked it to the floor and stood there naked as the day he was born, except for the t-shirt, boxer shorts and black socks.
He sat on the edge of the couch. Her eyes were wide on what he had brought to the game. He moved in to kiss those succulent red-rouged lips, which parted, a pink tongue flicking…
The fire alarm shocked both of them out of the moment, jostled them literally off the sofa and onto the floor.
The intercom voice was mechanical and commanding: “Fire alert. This is not a drill. Repeat, this is not a drill. Exit the building at once, using marked exits. Exit the building at once…”
He reached for his robe, but the mechanical voice scolded him: “Take no time to grab your things! This is not a drill!”
Clouseau grabbed the lovely young woman up into his arms, as if carrying a bride across the threshold and—the inspector clad only in t-shirt, boxers and socks, Xania in her sheer nightie—they quickly made their exit.
She dropped to her feet in the hall, took his hand, and they ran down the stairs into and through the lobby, where firemen were fighting the blaze that had risen from the potted plant where Clouseau had deposited his flaming mojito. Other firemen directed them toward the front of the building.
Within moments they were standing in the street, hundreds of guests from the hotel stranded out there, many in their robes, still others staring at the man in his boxers next to the incredibly beautiful young woman in the nightie.
Soon virtually everyone was staring at Clouseau, or at least at a part of Clouseau, including several envious horses at their carriages.
“By the way,” he said to Xania idly, “what time does your flight leave tomorrow?”
“Ten a.m.,” she said.
“Ah. Thank you.”
And when the firemen had cleared the lobby and informed the guests that they might return to their rooms, she led him back to her suite.
Not by the hand.