In descriptions of the novelist Georges Simenon’s work, no one seems to want to commit to just how many books he wrote. “Over 500” or “hundreds,” for example, including “dozens” of novels and short stories featuring his detective character, Jules Maigret. I do know how many Maigret novels Simenon wrote, because I have an Excel spreadsheet of them, so that I don’t buy duplicates and so that I know how many I have to go before I’ve read them all.
Most of the Maigret novels are about two hundred pages, often less, and mostly Maigret is called upon to solve a murder and he does it by the end, after getting irritated by the earnest young men who work for him and sometimes, to my great displeasure, his domestic servant/wife.
This year, I’ve read eleven of the Maigret novels. Below is my review.
It’s early winter, and it’s night. There’s a light drizzle which creates a halo around the gas lamps along the river road in a suburb of Paris that you’ve never heard of. There’s a body floating in the water, and the coroner hasn’t showed up yet. As Maigret turns to look away from the corpse, the lights of the seedy bar across the street flicker once, then go dark.
It’s spring, Paris is beautiful and blooming, but Maigret is sweating through the overcoat that Madame Maigret insisted he wear. He’s pacing in circles around a traveler’s hotel, deciding whether to ring the concierge one more time and ask her one more question about the old men who play boule in the square. If she refuses to answer, then he knows who killed the owner of the casino.
It’s the dead of summer, but Maigret is unflappable upstairs in police headquarters on the Quai des Orfevres. Janvier has just run out for sandwiches and beer from the bistro. If Maigret selects the right pipe, then the beautiful woman in the red silk dress will confess to killing her husband.
Note: this review does not include Maigret Enjoys Himself, which was completely unique.