Once again Chief Inspector Charles Dreyfus met in his spacious office with his team of top investigators, as they—and he—shared their findings. On an easel was a giant blow-up of a surveillance photo, depicting a distinguished-looking Asian individual.
“Gentlemen,” Dreyfus said, standing beside the photo and nodding to it, “meet Dr. Li How Pang—director of China’s Ministry of Sport. This was taken just before Coach Gluant was murdered—Dr. Pang was seated in the nearby VIP box. Now…coincidentally…when Gluant was last in Beijing, he took several meetings with the good Dr. Pang…”
Dreyfus moved along to the next of half a dozen other such displayed surveillance-photo enlargements. In one, Coach Gluant and Pang were exchanging smiles and shaking hands.
“This was taken on that very same Beijing trip,” Dreyfus said, and gestured decisively toward the image with his collapsible pointer. Unfortunately, the instrument had not recovered from its meeting with Inspector Clouseau and the thing fell apart with the motion, clattering in pieces to the floor, leaving Dreyfus holding two small fragments. He tossed these away casually and pointed with his finger.
He did not notice—although his deputy Renard did—that several of the top detectives present exchanged wary glances. They had noticed, of late, that Dreyfus seemed off his game; for all of the confidence the chief inspector displayed, something ragged remained out at the edges—take that ever-growing tic at his left eye, for example.
Dreyfus was saying, “In fact, an examination of Dr. Pang’s subsequent budget requisitions and Gluant’s bank statements would indicate that they entered into an arrangement whereby Pang would deposit in an account of Gluant’s large sums of money…money diverted from the Sports Ministry.”
Dreyfus, as he spoke, moved along to other blow-up displays of the evidence—Chinese government documents complete with yen amounts underlined and dates highlighted, juxtaposed with Coach Yves Gluant’s bank deposit records, similarly underlined and highlighted, showing yen turning into Euros.
“Presumably,” Dreyfus continued, “the coach was to invest these sums on Pang’s behalf. Other records, however, indicate that Gluant was less than good at his word…”
The chief inspector moved to the next blow-up display: casino account records.
“Our esteemed coach had a very bad habit for a person in his profession,” Dreyfus said with grim confidence. “From the inquiries you have made, gentlemen, we now know that Yves Gluant was a compulsive gambler.”
Renard, from the sidelines, was relieved to see the investigators again regarding Dreyfus with obvious respect and admiration.
“It becomes painfully apparent,” Dreyfus said, “that Gluant took Pang’s money and gambled it away…knowing full well that Pang had no recourse, that one cannot step forward to press charges against a thief who has squandered away funds first stolen away by the accuser himself!”
Satisfied nods all around the room.
“Think of the danger Pang was in, from his own government!” Dreyfus shrugged. “Execution would only be the end game—the torture that would precede it, well…you are men of the international community, you understand.”
Knowing smiles blossomed, now.
“So we have a man with not just one motive, but two—Pang could take revenge upon the creature who had swindled and betrayed him; and at the same time, from the very finger of this same unsavory victim, Pang could pluck a single ring with a single stone, that could solve all of his financial miseries!”
Now nods and smiles…
Dreyfus, even if deprived of his pointer, became emphatic and dramatic. “Pang had the motive! The means! The opportunity!”
The chief inspector let that sink in.
Then he made one last forceful point: “But now, gentlemen, the opportunity is ours—and I should say we have the motive and means, as well, from a law enforcement standpoint. Because Dr. Pang is in France for the Presidential Ball this very night! And it is there that we will arrest him…for the murder of Yves Gluant, and the theft of the Pink Panther!”
He dropped his head in a curt bow, and the investigators began to applaud, the sound ringing through the high-ceilinged office like a twenty-one-gun salute. Soon the experts were on their feet, and the chief inspector stood with his chin high, basking in the adulation of his peers.
Renard, however, had just received word of a late-breaking development in the case, and he rushed to Dreyfus’s side.
Cupping a hand to whisper in his superior’s ear, Renard said, “Chief Inspector—Clouseau has returned to France…”
Dreyfus scowled. “But we thought he would be kept busy in America for days!”
“He kept busy, all right. He was arrested by our own men upon his arrival back in the country!”
Dreyfus’s eyes popped. “Arrested?” He suppressed a giggle, and asked, “On what charge?”
“Terrorism! The details are sketchy, but apparently there was a fuss on the plane coming over, and talk of an explosion.”
His eye was not twitching, but his lips were, with barely contained glee, as he said, “Oh my dear, what a terrible tragedy. Whatever could have happened?”
It had begun with a small incident, at JFK Airport, at the security checkpoint.
While the lovely Xania had been treated like royalty—the guards beaming at her fawningly as they sent her fancy deco purse and other carryons through the X-ray apparatus—Clouseau had been singled out for a “routine search.”
Standing in his shorts and t-shirt and socks and shoes, Clouseau said, “I see nothing ‘routine’ about the rubber glove!…What is your name, sir! I, Inspector Jacques Clouseau, will report you to the highest French authorities!”
The smug security guard said, “My name’s Terry, sir.”
“ ‘Terry.’ Is this your only name? Surely you have more than one.”
“Sure. Ahki.”
“I will make the formal complaint, Monsieur Terry Ahki! Ponton!”
Clouseau’s partner, in line nearby, stepped up to them. “Yes, Inspector?”
“Use my little digital camera there, and take a picture of me with this insubordinate Ahki fellow…Uh, no. Not from that position, from…yes, from right there! That is the best angle…”
In fact the angle from which Ponton took the picture also caught Xania in the background, as she and her things went through security.
On the way over, they had flown Air France, and because of Clouseau’s celebrity as the “Pink Panther Detective” and the captor of the Gas-Mask Bandits, he and Ponton had been upgraded to first-class tickets. In rearranging his flight home, to take the same one as Xania, Clouseau had had to put up with yet another American insult, with Ponton deposited in the second cabin and the inspector dragged to the rear of the plane, where apparently children, animals and lepers were consigned.
The menu, however, in a cabin that seemed to be third class (or perhaps thirteenth), Clouseau was pleased to find included a number of appetizing selections. He chose the sushi.
“Sauce?” the attractive female flight attendant asked.
“Yes, I would not object to some liquid of the alcoholic persuasion.”
“No, the drink cart comes later…I mean, on your sushi. Do you want teriyaki?”
Clouseau’s eyes narrowed. “Then you saw the indignities to which I was subjected!”
“Pardon?”
“I do indeed ‘want’ Terry Ahki—and I will have Terry Ahki!”
The stewardess made a face. “Whatever you say…”
When the sushi came out of the galley up front, it was perfectly fine. But along the interminable journey to the back of the plane, the food seemed to deteriorate, even to change color, the rice suddenly appearing rather moldy. It did not help that several people with colds and flu sneezed on Clouseau’s order.
The inspector, who had skipped breakfast, did not notice the less-than-fresh appearance of the sushi. He merely popped one after another into his mouth, enjoying the succulent fishy flavor. The sauce was excellent, too—he wondered what it was called.
The trip to the “Apple Beeg” had been whirlwind, and Clouseau being only human, it began to catch up with him. He slept in his uncomfortable seat, his stomach full and warm as the amoebas swam and multiplied, and as the minutes passed, his belly moved and pulsed and throbbed, as if an alien were about to burst out.
The rumbling in his belly finally woke him, his eyes so wide that the white showed all around. He glanced down at his churning stomach.
The trouble down below! he thought.
Stuck at the rear of the plane, however, he was at least close to the restrooms in his cabin. Unfortunately, both bore OUT OF ORDER signs.
Thankfully the aisle was clear.
He ran to the next restroom, encountering a line of seven, and the next, where a maintenance man was making a repair, and the next—OCCUPADO!
Finally he was all the way forward in the first-class cabin, and the bathroom was free…and available! With a sigh of relief, he began to open the door, but the hand of a flight attendant landed lightly on his arm.
With a glazed smile and eyes colder than Hitler, the female flight attendant said, “Sir, this restroom is for first-class passengers only. You’ll have to go back to your own cabin.”
“But I suffer the stomach poisoning, from your vile airline food! It is the emergency extreme!”
“Sir, I am sorry. It’s impossible. Go back to your cabin, and use—”
His expression hysterical, Clouseau gripped the startled woman by the arms. “You do not understand, mademoiselle! I will go off like the buemb if you do not allow me passage!”
“Buemb?” the flight attendant asked. “You mean…bomb?”
“Yes, the buemb! I will explode! Do you hear me—explode!”
That was when the five air marshals—flying in first class, in plainclothes, one in woman’s attire, yanking off “her” wig—jumped the inspector.
On the plus side, Clouseau shortly no longer had the stomach problem, and soon was given a nice fresh orange jumpsuit to take the place of his own, slightly soiled suit.
From his office balcony, the chief inspector—his faithful deputy at his side—watched the startling procession below as a police van arrived at the Palais de la Justice parking lot to transfer the prisoner, Jacques Clouseau, to the phalanx of waiting officers.
“So much,” Dreyfus said with a nasty little smile, his eye tic a memory now, “for the heroic ‘Pink Panther Detective’…”
Clouseau, in bright orange prisoner garb, was dragged unceremoniously along, his hands cuffed behind him, and—with his partner, Ponton, walking freely behind—brought around to the front of the building.
Renard said, “Why not the prisoner’s entrance at the rear, Chief Inspector?”
“For a public figure like Clouseau? No, no, my dear, Renard—he deserves public display.”
Public disgrace, you mean, Renard thought, but said nothing.
“Take me to him,” Dreyfus said. “This is one interrogation I will conduct…personally.”
In the same interrogation booth, where not long ago Clouseau had grilled suspects himself, sat Clouseau—himself a suspect.
While Ponton and Renard looked on, Dreyfus—hands clasped behind him—circled the confused prisoner.
“So,” the chief inspector said. “I entrust to you the greatest case of the new century, I allow you to traipse across the ocean to seek a suspect, and you repay my trust, my confidence, with terrorist activity? Explain yourself.”
Clouseau shrugged. “It began, I suppose, with my father reading to me the Sherlock Holmes—”
“No, you nincompoop! What was going to explode?”
“Nothing—I had no buemb.”
“Buemb?”
“Buemb! Buemb! I had no buemb!”
“Then what was going to explode?”
Clouseau blanched. He had his dignity. How could he tell the chief inspector of the Police Nationale that he had had the revenge of Montezuma, the trots explosive?
Head held high, Clouseau said, “I do not choose to tell you.”
“Is that right?”
“If a man does not have his dignity, he has nothing.”
“And who said that?”
Clouseau glanced behind him, then returned his gaze to the chief inspector. “Well, I have said that. Just now. You were here. Weren’t you listening?”
Dreyfus, teeth bared, leaned in. “Listen to this, and listen carefully—on our force we have a complete idiot by the name of Clouseau, an inspector. He will be stripped of his rank, while I…the chief inspector of the Police Nationale…will personally take over his case!”
Clouseau’s eyes narrowed. “It is odd that you would have a second Clouseau who is also an inspector. This is a coincidence strange…”
“You…you…” Even in this moment of triumph, Dreyfus was sputtering, and his tic had returned. “…you are a major incompetent!”
Sitting forward with a smile, Clouseau said, “Well, I hardly expected a promotion. This is a rank of which I am unfamiliar…the Major Incomp-et-an’. Will I report directly to you, Chief Inspector?”
Dreyfus’s face was a mask of rage as he shouted, “Everyone—-out!”
Clouseau began to rise.
“Not you!” Dreyfus said, and shoved him back into the chair. “Everyone get out while I have a…private moment with my ‘star’ detective…”
As directed, Ponton and Renard slipped out; but what Dreyfus did not realize was that they then stepped into the adjacent observation booth behind two-way glass, and heard all of what followed.
Dreyfus again circled the prisoner. Then he planted himself before Clouseau and his lip drew back over his teeth in an expression of extreme contempt. “Understand something, you simpering fool—when I made you an inspector, when I put you in charge of so important an investigation, it was not because I thought you had merit…that your ‘good’ work in Fromage, and every other small town that got rid of you as soon as possible, had convinced me of your value. No. I chose you to be the front behind which I could conduct a real investigation, while the press followed you on one stupid wild goose chase after another. I wanted someone who would quietly get nowhere until I was ready to take over the case, personally and publicly!”
Clouseau, trying to follow this, said nothing.
“I picked you, because you were the most stupid policeman in France—the biggest, most complete idiot this, or any country, has ever seen.”
Chin up, Clouseau said, “I am a detective. An investigator…”
“You are a fool. A clown. A joke.”
Clouseau’s eyes tensed, but his mouth was slack. “Fool? Clown? Joke?”
“Yes, a poor hopeless deluded idiot.”
“And I was not promoted for my merits?”
“Name one single merit! Were you listening to me, you boob? Even your partner was working for me, watching your every moronic move and reporting back.”
“My partner…? Ponton…?”
Behind the glass, Ponton’s head fell. Renard looked at him with sympathy and placed a supportive hand on the big man’s shoulder.
“Clouseau, the only problem in my thinking was that I did not anticipate that you would bring to France a reign of terror that would make the French Revolution look like a house party at a nunnery.”
“…My charm?”
Dreyfus blinked. “What?”
Clouseau smiled weakly. “You asked me to name one of my merits. I put forward my charm as a—”
“You can’t even conduct a normal conversation!”
Clouseau swallowed, straightened. “I do have my merits, and my methods. I have been pursuing a killer, and a thief. And I beg you to allow me to complete my inquiries so that I may—”
“You spent all of your time trying to make yourself look like a hero, you ridiculous cretin! Well, now you will be stripped of your rank, ridiculed in the media, and I? I will be done with you!”
Clouseau stared with puppy-dog eyes at the inspector. “I thought we were friends…colleagues. With the respect mutual…”
“Well you were, as usual, dead wrong, weren’t you, Clouseau?…Now if you will excuse me, I have to prepare to make an arrest that will clinch for me the Medal of Honor, and possibly catapult me to the National Assembly. Let me not say aurevoir, Clouseau, rather—good riddance.”
In the hallway, as Dreyfus exited the interrogation booth, Renard asked, “Shall we lock him up?”
“No. He is finished. I don’t know what happened on that plane, but Clouseau is only a ‘terrorist’ by accident. Start the papers for his early retirement, and let him go home to his obscurity.”
Ponton took the wheel of the Renault and drove the devastated Clouseau—who had said nothing since the interrogation had ended—to his apartment building.
Ponton parked, and as Clouseau got out so did the bigger man, coming around and offering his hand.
“I apologize to you,” Ponton said, “and hope you will still consider me your partner.”
Clouseau smiled a little and shook the man’s hand, but said, “I am afraid there will be no more partners for Clouseau, my large associate.”
“Please believe that I did not know to what extent the chief inspector was using you—I knew only that he wanted reports on your activities…and I came to understand that he had a certain…”
“Contempt for Clouseau?”
Ponton sighed and nodded.
“You are a fine man, Ponton,” Clouseau said, with surprising dignity. “I am the fool. You were the teacher, and I the pupil. If ever I made you to look the fool, my friend…I am sorry.”
“Don’t be silly. I feel we were making progress. I think we would have cracked this case—soon.”
Clouseau said, “I felt this way myself…before learning that I was the idiot deluded.”
Ponton waved that off. “Don’t listen to that megalomaniac Dreyfus! He is all ambition and no heart—that way lies madness. The day will come when he will pay.”
“That day, my friend, is not this day.”
“Perhaps not.” Ponton rose to his full height and saluted Clouseau. “But it was nonetheless an honor serving under you, sir.”
Clouseau returned the salute, then lowered it in a bladed karate chop…which landed, soft as a feather, gentle as a kiss, on Ponton’s chest.
And Clouseau turned and—perhaps the most dejected man on the planet, but certainly in France—walked into his apartment building.
When the late afternoon news came on, Clouseau was in his flat sitting on the sofa before his television. Having adjusted the rabbit-ear antenna, he watched fatalistically as footage of himself being dragged into the Palais de la Justice consumed the screen.
Then the man who Clouseau had thought was his superior, but was in fact his nemesis, was interviewed in a press conference.
Confident, smiling, Chief Inspector Charles Dreyfus fielded all questions, after a brief statement announcing that he was personally taking over the Pink Panther investigation…and that an arrest was “imminent.”
A television reporter called out, “Sir, the coroner has announced that Bizu was killed by a perfect shot in the occipital lobe. Any comment?”
“While no detail is unimportant, this one does not seem to have any particular significance.”
But Clouseau was sitting up, thinking that over. Aloud he muttered, “The lobe occipital…the lobe occipital…He is wrong. That is important. That is most important…”
When the interview was over, Clouseau clicked off the TV and, still thinking, went to his little digital camera, which lay on the desk nearby. A relatively new purchase, the camera came with a small instruction booklet which Clouseau had carefully filed in a drawer, where he found it now.
With surprising ease Clouseau followed the instructions. When unconcerned with his public dignity, he could accomplish any number of tasks. Soon the digital camera’s little screen was showing him the various pictures he’d taken in New York. Some of them featured himself and/or Ponton, having a great time there; but then came shots of Clouseau being frisked and abused by that “swine security guard” at the airport.
“I will still report this outrage,” he said out loud. “This Terrance Ahki will receive the reprimand severe…”
As he studied the photo, he noticed—in the background of the picture—Xania was moving through security, specifically undergoing the X-ray of her carry-on items.
Sorrowfully he thought, Ah, but will you still love me, my curvaceous little songbird, after Clouseau has suffered the indignity publique?
Then he recalled why he had been so specific about where Ponton should stand while taking the picture; his detective’s instincts had told him that having a record of what that X-ray machine had seen might prove worthwhile…
He looked closer at the photo. In the little screen, the image was too small to truly reveal what Clouseau thought he saw, so he returned to the camera’s instruction booklet.
Reading aloud, Clouseau said, “‘How to Enlarge a Photo…’”
And within minutes he was on the phone, catching Ponton just as the detective was getting home.
“My conspicuous confrere, I must ask you to come over here, immediately! Redemption, she wriggles her seductive nose at Clouseau!”
“I am on my way.”
His next call was to Nicole, at the chief inspector’s office.
“My little spectacled confection, are you going to the Presidential Ball tonight?”
“Why, yes…alone.”
“I beg to differ. You will attend with Clouseau, the former inspector.”
“That’s lovely…But are you sure you’re up to it?”
“Yes, I have had my prescription refilled…Oh, I mean, I will meet you there…but first go to my office and bring me my vinyl bag with the marking, ‘Presidential Palace.’ It is in the bottom drawer, filed under ‘P.’ You will see it quickly because it is the only vinyl bag filed there.”
“Of course, but…why?”
“Because it is time that the case, she be solved.”
“But, Jacques…aren’t you off the force?”
“Not yet. Not quite yet. The tape that is red has yet to be snipped. And while I may be no longer officially the inspector…I am still the officer of the leau.”
“Of the what?”
“Hurry! I will see you there…”