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A noisy armada of emergency vehicles invaded the serene forests of the Périgord Vert region. Lights flashing and sirens howling, the police cars and ambulances crisscrossed rutted ground, spewing exhaust fumes into the spreading branches of walnut, oak, and chestnut trees.
Tromping through a once-tranquil grove, a veritable army of blue-coated policemen shared the damp grass beside a host of white-coated forensics specialists flown in by helicopter from the Sûreté's crime lab in Paris.
The circle of human chaos extended beyond this remote farmer's field to a rural road a half-kilometer away. There the national press gathered, awaiting a statement from the authorities on the bizarre and mysterious death of Claude Bellafonte, France's greatest trufficulteur and one of the most celebrated pastry chefs in the world—his lobster in puffed pastry with truffle hollandaise literally made gourmands swoon.
In the eye of the storm, among the forensic investigators, Chief Inspector Dreyfus surveyed the corpse of the victim. At his side stood Monsieur Pierre Marmiche, trade minister for the French government.
Marmiche had the look of many similarly polished EU politicians. In his middle years, he sported a thick head of dark hair, graying at the temples, regular features, and a beautifully tailored wardrobe. Today's suit was blue silk pinstripes. Unfortunately, like all politicians, the man didn't know when to stop talking. His headache-inducing tirade had begun an hour before, over the screaming sirens of the police cars, and hadn't stopped since.
"The nation is in crisis! National prestige is at stake!" Marmiche now cried. "This is the third murder in six months and still the police have no suspect. Not even a solid lead!"
Chief Inspector Dreyfus did not reply. Instead he wondered how Marmiche dared to speak—or even take a breath—with the air so foul. The man's corpse had been disemboweled, and the remains had not been well served by lying exposed to the elements for the past twenty-four hours.
Dreyfus withdrew the Egyptian cotton handkerchief he'd kept clutched tightly to his nose and mouth.
"We don't know if this is murder, Minister Marmiche. Surely no human being did this. Bellafonte's death might well be accidental—"
"Preposterous!" Marmiche interrupted. "This was no accident, Chief Inspector. Like the others, Chef Bellafonte was to represent France next week in a world-class culinary competition. And like the others, Bellafonte is dead—assassinated."
"True, there have been other murders, but in this case—"
Minister Marmiche cut him off. "I've heard claims of accidental death before, Chief Inspector Dreyfus. The Sûreté was wrong then, too."
Dreyfus was forced to concede that Trade Minister Marmiche had a valid point. The murder of the culinary team leader five weeks ago had been investigated by an inexperienced member of the Police Nationale's detective division in Bourg-en-Bresse, the poultry capital of France—a country bumpkin, in the chief inspector's estimation.
The facts were well known. Chef Marcel Dubois, owner and master chef of the restaurant Zanadu on Paris's Left Bank, had apparently drowned in a barrel of lard in the basement of his familial villa in the Rhône Valley. The culinary master was putting up cooked duck parts in vats of goose fat, a medieval French delicacy and the chef's specialty.
Police investigating the death noted that the area where Chef Dubois worked was very cluttered, the ladder the man was using slippery with fat. Since there were no apparent signs of foul play, the police concluded that the chef had fallen into his own vat and could not get out. An accident, pure and simple.
Except that it had not been so pure, or so simple. "The man who investigated that first death was a novice. Totally out of his league," Dreyfus replied. "I'm told he's been reassigned, that he is reading parking meters in Algeria even as we speak."
"I'll have you reading parking meters if I do not see results soon, Chief Inspector."
Dreyfus purpled. He'd had enough of this insufferable little man, and more than enough of the foul odor of rotting flesh! Even more infuriating, this case did not technically belong to the chief inspector. Dreyfus had been ordered to stand aside by the prime minister of France himself, turn over the running of the investigation to a man "more capable."
"These are high-profile crimes," the prime minister had told the chief inspector. "Therefore, we need a Frenchman of recognized genius to solve them. The people of France require the services of a Star of Valor winner, the man the press calls Europe's greatest living detective . . ."
Scowling at the memory, Dreyfus whirled to face his lieutenant. "Lamothe! Have you made radio contact with Inspector Clouseau? Where is that fool? Why is he not here?"
"He's coming now, sir," said the uniformed officer, pointing across the clearing.
"So he is."
Dreyfus instantly recognized the imbecile. Who else would be wearing that Scotland Yard-aspirational trench coat; that ridiculous, wrinkled Trilby; that stupid moustache under that prominent nose? Who else would have that arrogant, self-important stride? Those pompous, insufferable mannerisms—
Dreyfus clutched his chest and closed his eyes. Sweat blossomed on his brow, trickled down his back as he tried to steady his pounding heart.
Long a student of modern psychology, he had searched for a reason for his violent reaction to Inspector Jacques Clouseau. He had settled on the simplest answer: an instinctive primeval loathing that emerged from the reptilian antecedents of his human brain. Why else would mere proximity with Clouseau drive Dreyfus nearly mad with rage and frustration? Even now, he felt his sanity slipping as the man approached him with a silly smile plastered across his moronic face.
"Ah, Chief Inspector," Clouseau began, "what brings you to this region? The scenery is pleasant enough, but I smell something rotten in the air."
Of course, you do! There's a dead body ten feet away! Dreyfus winced at the very idea of conversing with the half-wit. But he knew the trade minister was watching. So, steeling himself, Dreyfus forced a civil reply. "Clouseau. You've arrived, I see. And with your partner. Yes, very good."
The Pink Panther's Just Desserts. Copyright © by Marc Cerasini. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.
Excerpted from The Pink Panther's Just Desserts by Marc Cerasini, Alice Alfonsi
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
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