On a glorious sunny morning, flags flapping in a gentle breeze, the President and the members of his Medal of Honor committee, as well as various other dignitaries and honored guests, assembled on a tri-colored-bunting-bedecked reviewing stand in the Presidential Gardens, gathered before an audience of press and public.
They were here to honor a great French—indeed, renowned international—detective.
Appropriately, the official band had struck up La Marseillaise.
On the stage, one of the committee members was among the nation’s most celebrated crime-fighters—Chief Inspector Charles Dreyfus. It was not he who was being honored, however; actually, he had been selected to have the honor of bestowing the honors. Right now he stood somewhat uncomfortably beside Justice Minister Clochard, who bore a red velvet pillow on which were arrayed two ribboned medals.
Two other detectives stood onstage, in full formal gendarme uniform: Clouseau and Ponton.
At the microphone, the President himself presided. He nodded to Dreyfus that—the band having completed the national anthem—the presentation would begin. Dreyfus nodded and smiled, his left eye twitching just a little, both eyes rather noticeably bloodshot.
“For service to the Republic of France,” the President said, his voice amplified and sonorous as it floated out across the crowd, seated on folding chairs on the greenest of green lawns, “we award the Star of Valor to Gendarme Detective Gilbert Ponton of the Fourth Arrondissement.”
Ponton stepped forward.
Rather stiffly, Dreyfus removed the smaller of the two medals from the velvet cushion, and joined Ponton toward the front of the stage, placing the ribbon around the big man’s neck and pulling him forward with the hug and kiss-on-either-cheek that was a part of the honor.
“For exceptional bravery,” the President went on, “and outstanding service to the people of France, we award this year’s Medal of Honor to a man whose name will forever be synonymous with this celebrated case—dubbed by the world the Pink Panther Detective…Inspector Jacques Clouseau.”
With precise military bearing, Clouseau came forward, and by the time he had reached Ponton’s side, the applause and the cheers had built into thunder.
Chief Inspector Dreyfus took the Medal of Honor from Clochard’s velvet pillow and, moving in a somewhat robotic manner, managed to place the ribbon around Clouseau’s neck. For a long moment Dreyfus studied the Medal of Honor against the dark blue of Clouseau’s uniform.
Clouseau whispered, “The emotion, she is great, is she not, Chief Inspector?”
Dreyfus drew in a deep breath and subjected himself to the ceremonial hug and kisses, and retreated, giving the heroes of the morning their moment. Perhaps, one day, his would come, as well.
In the first row, a proud Nicole applauded and beamed, and Clouseau felt his heart swell—the schoolboy crush on Xania could not compare to the depth of warmth he felt for this simple girl, who he felt sure…with his guidance…could some day rise to his level of accomplishment and intellect.
And warmth swelled within him for his partner, as well—his friend, Ponton, beside him. What a team they had made. What a team they would make…
A lesser man would have taken the day off, but Clouseau was if nothing else devoted to his work. He and Ponton shared an office now, though Nicole remained assigned to Chief Inspector Dreyfus.
Since the arrest of the Gluant killer, and the solving of the Pink Panther theft, the chief inspector had been quiet, even withdrawn. Clouseau had proven Dreyfus wrong, and in public—not a pill this proud man could easily swallow. Clouseau feared his superior officer had fallen into depression. He knew the man had emotions swirling within him, and he hoped to make Dreyfus, like Ponton, a friend and a colleague.
So Clouseau decided always to keep the chief inspector informed, when a particularly important case reared its head. Perhaps, then, Clouseau might one day be able to place a ribbon around the neck of Dreyfus.
The first opportunity came that very afternoon.
Clouseau grabbed his trenchcoat, called for Ponton to join him, and stopped at the chief inspector’s office. Nicole, at her desk in the reception area, did not announce Clouseau.
“Excuse me, Chief Inspector,” Clouseau said, leaning in the office, “but I have just been notified that the Gas-Mask Bandits have made the escape in Italy this morning…and they have just been seen committing the crime in progress near the Pont de la Tournelle. I have summoned a car, and will keep you informed!”
Dreyfus was already on his feet and out from behind his new desk. “Thank you, Clouseau—but I’ll take charge of this one, personally!”
“It would be my honor to assist you, Chief Inspector.”
Soon the three men—Dreyfus working to keep up with Clouseau and Ponton—were racing down the imposing front stairs of the Palais de la Justice. A police van was waiting, and Ponton took the wheel, Clouseau the passenger’s seat, while an eager Dreyfus climbed in back.
Through the streets of Paris the van raced, taking corners on two wheels, its siren screaming—the Gas-Mask Bandits might be back, but the greatest detectives in France were on the case!
Ponton pulled up at a curb, but it was too close to the wall for Clouseau to get out.
“Pull up!” he cried. “The time, she is wasting!”
Ponton did as he was told, but before Clouseau could climb out, Dreyfus was opening the back door and saying, “No, Clouseau, this time I’m in charge. This time the credit will be mine…”
And Dreyfus tumbled over the half-wall of the bridge they were parked on, his long drawn-out cry interrupted by a very big splash.
The two looked down sympathetically at the chief inspector floundering in the Seine, his eye twitching, his mouth open in a scream gone silent, a kind of madness building in his expression.
Leaning against the short wall beside his partner, Clouseau gave Ponton a look touched by pity, sighing, “A great detective, the chief inspector…but clumsy.”
And while gendarmes below fished Dreyfus from the river, Inspector Clouseau and his partner returned to the chase.