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Zusatztext Praise for Georges Simenon: “One of the greatest writers of the twentieth century . . . Simenon was unequaled at making us look inside! though the ability was masked by his brilliance at absorbing us obsessively in his stories.” — The Guardian “These Maigret books are as timeless as Paris itself.” — The Washington Post “Maigret ranks with Holmes and Poirot in the pantheon of fictional detective immortals.” — People “I love reading Simenon. He makes me think of Chekhov.” —William Faulkner “The greatest of all! the most genuine novelist we have had in literature.” —André Gide “A supreme writer . . . Unforgettable vividness.” — The Independent (London) “Superb . . . The most addictive of writers . . . A unique teller of tales.” — The Observer (London) “Compelling! remorseless! brilliant.” —John Gray “A truly wonderful writer . . . Marvelously readable—lucid! simple! absolutely in tune with the world he creates.” —Muriel Spark “A novelist who entered his fictional world as if he were a part of it.”lle —Peter Ackroyd “Extraordinary masterpieces of the twentieth century.” —John Banville Informationen zum Autor Georges Simenon was born in Liège, Belgium in 1903. An intrepid traveller with a profound interest in people, Simenon strove on and off the page to understand, rather than to judge, the human condition in all its shades. His novels include the Inspector Maigret series and a richly varied body of wider work united by its evocative power, its economy of means, and its penetrating psychological insight. He is among the most widely read writers in the global canon. He died in 1989 in Lausanne, Switzerland, where he had lived for the latter part of his life. Klappentext A new edition, part of the ongoing new "Maigret" series which will see all 75 novels in authentic and gritty new translations. 1. The Black Monocle Detective Chief Inspector Maigret was sitting with his elbows on the desk, and when he pushed his chair back with a tired sigh, the interrogation of Carl Andersen had been going on for exactly seventeen hours. Through the bare windows he had observed at first the throng of salesgirls and office workers storming the little restaurants of Place Saint-Michel at noon, then the afternoon lull, the mad six o’clock rush to the Métro and train stations, the relaxed pace of the aperitif hour … The Seine was now shrouded in mist. One last tug had gone past with red and green lights, towing three barges. Last bus. Last Métro. At the cinema they’d taken in the film-poster sandwich boards and were closing the metal gates. And the stove in Maigret’s office seemed to growl all the louder. On the table, empty beer bottles and the remains of some sandwiches. A fire must have broken out somewhere: they heard the racket of fire engines speeding by. And there was a raid, too. The Black Maria emerged from the Préfecture at around two o’clock, returning later to drop off its catch at the central lock-up. The interrogation was still going on. Every hour – or every two hours, depending on how tired he was – Maigretwould push a button. Sergeant Lucas would awaken from his nap in a nearby office and arrive to take over, glancing briefly at his boss’s notes. Maigret would then go and stretch out on a cot to recharge his batteries for a fresh attack. The Préfecture was deserted. A few comings and goings at the Vice Squad. Towards four in the morning, an inspector hauled in a drug pusher and immediately began grilling him. The Seine wreathed itself in a pale fog that turned white with the breaking day, lighting up the empty quays. Footsteps pattered in the corridors. Telephones rang. Voices called. Doors slammed. Charwomen’s brooms swished by. And Maigret, setting his overheated pipe on the table, rose and looked...
