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The Pink Panther
By Max Collins HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.
Copyright © 2005 Max Collins
All right reserved. ISBN: 0060797231
Chapter One
Fatal Flaw
On the day that would lead to the greatest mistake of his notable career, Chief Inspector Charles Dreyfus of the Police Nationale of France basked in a sunshine both literal and figurative.
He did not follow football -- soccer, like all sports, held no interest for him -- nor was his life consumed with any passion other than what he considered a selfless dedication to his chosen profession ... and what his detractors had determined was a lust for self-glorification.
In any case, his attendance at the semi-final game of the international championships had nothing to do with whether France defeated China to advance to the final game. Nor did it re-flect national pride, such as that exhibited by the normally distinguished individual beside whom Dreyfus sat -- Clochard, the Minister of Justice; or for that matter, the President himself, seated beside Clochard.
Both dignitaries were -- like all the fans in the Grand Stadium -- anticipating the start of the competition and cheering like schoolgirls at the "big game." Behind the placid mask of his coolly handsome face, Dreyfus concealed a mild contempt for such lack of self-control.
And yet these men mattered to Dreyfus, and explained his presence in the VIP box, amid darkly anonymous Secret Service agents. That the chief inspector was here, in such august company, indicated an honor in the offing, specifically his recent nomination for the national Medal of Honor.
Dreyfus had been so nominated seven times.
Circumstance and politics had conspired against him, however, and he had not yet prevailed; still, none of his countrymen could boast of such a feat -- seven nominations! That itself was an honor -- wasn't it?
Wasn't it? But for a man of dignity -- and dignity was so very important to Chief Inspector Dreyfus -- it pained him to notice the relative shabbiness of his suit compared to that of the Justice Minister.
This, however, was mildly galling. It did not compare to the spike of irritation Dreyfus experienced upon the entry into the vast arena of Yves Gluant, the coach of the French team. The narcissistic and (by Dreyfus's way of thinking) conventionally handsome boor carried himself like a movie star -- and the crowd responded with an ovation as excessive as it had become customary.
What had this man ever accomplished, Dreyfus wondered, to deserve such love and respect from his fellow citizens? Chief Inspector Dreyfus had personally put away scores of dangerous criminals, and supervised hundreds of arrests that had resulted in convictions. Dreyfus had led his men into battle against Mafiosi and Yakuza and even these new Russian criminals -- whereas Gluant would today take his soldiers onto a field against the Chinese . . . to kick around a little white ball.
As the stadium announcer introduced him, Gluant stepped from his team's box to greet the crowd, granting them a smile and a raised fist. Sunlight caught the jewel on the ring of his upthrust hand, as he conspicuously turned toward each section of the crowd, which went wild in successive waves.
Most of the crowd, that is: Chief Inspector Dreyfus remained seated, arms folded, forcing a tiny smile, in case anyone was looking. Mustn't appear bitter.
Bitterness was, after all, the mark of the small minded. And Dreyfus was big. So very big.
As the popular coach turned to face each side of the madly cheering stadium -- giving everyone present the opportunity to take in the diamond on his ring, the storied jewel seemed to wink at each attendee personally. Dreyfus could only inwardly shake his head, thinking of how sad it was that the great nation of France had descended to the worship of acquisition. Let the Americans follow such shallow pursuits if they liked! But for the French to view a stone, a diamond, as somehow the symbol of its success on the field of sport . . .
As absurd a concept as it was distasteful.
And yet even Dreyfus -- if he could be honest with himself (which he of course could not) -- would have had to admit that this jewel was indeed special. This was the most famous stone in all of Europe, perhaps the world, with a history so fabled, so bloody, as to put the Maltese Falcon to shame. From the Middle East to Asia, from America to France itself, the celebrated diamond had cut a swath of death, betrayal and destruction.
The irony was that the stone's size and perfection did not constitute its most famous aspect; in fact, the diamond was not "perfect" at all -- at its center, a tiny flaw could be perceived, which some ancient Arab potentate had said resembled a leaping panther.
A pink panther.
Dreyfus watched with detachment and yet with the eye for detail of an exemplary detective. Throughout the entire stadium, he alone noticed that the team lined up on the field included one player who flashed the tiniest tellingly negative expression as their coach joined them ...
Continues...
Excerpted from The Pink Panther by Max Collins Copyright © 2005 by Max Collins. Excerpted by permission.
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