Maigret Takes a Room
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One of the world’s most successful crime writers, Georges Simenon has thrilled mystery lovers around the world since 1931 with his matchless creation Inspector Maigret.
A phenomenal author and his phenomenal character Georges Simenon was by many standards the most successful author of the 20th century, and the character he created, Inspector Jules Maigret, who made him rich and famous, ranks only after Sherlock Holmes as the world's best known fictional detective. There is nothing commonplace about the life of Georges Simenon, and he and his works have been the subject of innumerable books and articles. The Maigret stories are unlike any other detective stories — the crime and the details of unraveling it are often less central to our interest than Maigret's journey through the discovery of the cast of characters... towards an understanding of man. Simenon said he was obsessed with a search for the "naked man" — man without his cultural protective coloration, and he followed his quest as much in the Maigrets as in his "hard" novels.
Although most of Simenon's work is available in English, it was originally written in French. Simenon was born and raised in Belgium, and while Paris was "the city" for him, the home of Maigret, he was 'an international,' a world traveler who moved often and lived for many years in France, the United States, and Switzerland.
Because he wrote in French, and for the most part lived in French-speaking countries, most of the books and magazine articles about him were written in French as well. Unlike his own books however, many of these have never been available in translation. Because Simenon lived to be nearly 90, and left a legacy of hundreds of books — from which more than 50 films have been made, along with hundreds of television episodes — there is much to collect, to examine, to display and discuss. (trussel.com)
Janvier is shot in the chest while keeping watch outside Mlle. Clément's boarding house waiting for the return of Emile Paulus, a young man who lived there, suspected of having robbed a bar. M, his wife in Alsace caring for her sister, moves in the the house. He discovers Paulus hiding under Mlle. Clement's bed, but he appears to be unconnected to the shooting. A boarder, Mlle Blanche Dubut, mentions to M the occasional strange condition of the blinds in the house opposite, where Mme Francoise Boursicault, the invalid wife of a ship's purser lives, and M goes to interview her. He realizes that the person who shot Janvier was apparently someone who came to visit her from time to time, and forces the issue, eventually discovering that Julien Foucrier, her lover from long ago, who had fled France twenty years earlier to escape apprehension for a robbery-murder he had committed, had returned to France, and was her visitor. He had shot Janvier to flee the apartment before the return of her husband, wrongly assuming that the watch in the street was for him. He turns himself in after M agrees to keep the woman's connection to the affair a secret. (trussel.com)
always enjoy life, Monsieur Maigret.” This time she looked at him with all her old candour. In girls’ schools it is not unusual to find at least one little girl who outgrows the others by a head and has this same distended mass of flesh. At thirteen or fourteen they look like enormous rag dolls, with bright eyes which see nothing of real life, and smiles turned inward on their dreams. Until now Maigret had never known one of forty. The smoke from his pipe was making the air in the room bluer
twinge of remorse in some corner of his conscience. He took his key from his pocket as he went upstairs, and there was no light showing under the door, no smell of cooking to greet him. He had to switch the lamps on himself. As he passed the sideboard, he decided to pour himself a drink, something he could do today without exchanging a glance with his wife. He began to get undressed without having closed the curtains, went over to the window, and was just slipping off his braces when the
on the spot. According to them, there were about twenty people on the pavement, standing in a circle around Janvier, when they drove up. They had only taken a few random names. Monsieur Valentin had given his without being asked. They had all noticed fat Mademoiselle Clément. “You don’t remember which windows had lights on?” Nobody had any idea. “You didn’t notice whether anybody moved off towards either end of the street?” It was confusing. Some of the neighbours had approached the initial
he heard her burst out, like an enraged child: “I shan’t tell you a thing.” Her face buried in the pillow, she spoke through clenched teeth, to herself, and it was quite hard to hear what she said. “I shan’t tell you a thing and you will never find out. You are a brute. I detest you. If some other terrible thing happens, it will be your fault. Oh, how I hate you…” He could not restrain a smile, standing there, watching her, without any malice, only pity in his eyes. As he did not move, it
people’s houses without a warrant? Have you got one? Show me it! If you haven’t got one, you had better get out straight away. Do you hear? I order you to get out…” He almost burst out laughing, feeling relaxed now himself. The reaction was setting in. “You’re saying foolish things, Françoise…” “I refuse to let you call me by that name… If you don’t leave immediately, I’ll scream, I’ll rouse the neighbours, I’ll tell them how you enjoy torturing a sick woman…” “I’ll be back,” he announced,