Inspector Maigret

When a socially isolated vagrant is found dead in the condemned building where he had been sleeping in Les Halles, Paris, Maigret must delve into the victim's mysterious past to discover who could have killed him.

The most exasperating of all was the head clerk at reception, in his elegant morning coat and stiff collar, which was not wilting with a drop of perspiration. He was treating Maigret in a cordial way, or possibly feeling sorry for him, as from time to time he flashed him a smile, intended to be both complicit and encouraging.

'She came forward, the outlines of her figure blurred in the half-light. She came forward like a film star, or rather like the ideal woman in an adolescent's dream. 'I gather you wish to talk to me, Inspector . . . but first of all please sit down . . .' Her accent was more pronounced than Carl's. Her voice sang, dropping on the last syllable of the longer words.'

Maigret has been interrogating Carl Andersen for seventeen hours without a confession. He's either innocent or a very good liar. So why was the body of a diamond merchant found at his isolated mansion? Why is his sister always shut away in her room? And why does everyone at Three Widows Crossroads have something to hide?

'What he sought, what he waited and watched out for was the crack in the wall. In other words, the instant when the human being comes out from behind the opponent . . .'

Who is Pietr the Latvian? Is he a gentleman thief? A Russian drinking absinthe in a grimy bar? A married Norwegian sea captain? A twisted corpse in a train toilet? Or is he all of these men? In Simenon's first novel featuring Maigret, the laconic detective is taken from grimy dive bars to luxury hotels as he solves this strange enigma.

The Countess of Saint-Fiacre dies from heart failure during mass on All Soul's day, exactly when the police had been forewarned that a crime would occur.

'There was an exaggerated humility about her. And yet he sensed, beneath that image, glints of pride held firmly in check. She was anaemic. Her flat chest was not formed to rouse desire. Nevertheless, she was strangely appealing, perhaps because she seemed troubled, despondent, sickly.'

In the coastal town of Concarneau, a local wine merchant is shot. Maigret soon realizes that Emma, a downtrodden waitress, is hiding something and that the mysterious yellow dog lurking around town may be the key to solving this crime.

It was indeed a photo, a picture of a woman. But the face was completely hidden, scribbled all over in red ink. Someone had tried to obliterate the head, someone very angry. The pen had bitten into the paper. There were so many criss-crossed lines that not a single square millimetre had been left visible.

On the other hand, below the head, the torso had not been touched. A pair of large breasts. A light-coloured silk dress, very tight and very low cut.

Sailors don't talk much to other men, especially not to policemen. But after Captain Fallut's body is found floating near his trawler, they all mention the Evil Eye when they speak of the Ocean's voyage.

A short, sprightly man appeared in the doorway, looked left and right, and went back into the passage. A moment later, the improbable happened. The little man reappeared, bent over, clinging to a long mass that he now started dragging through the mud.

It must have been heavy. After four metres, he stopped to catch his breath. The front door of the house had been left open. The sea was still twenty or thirty metres away.

Maigret shrugged his shoulders, buried his hands in his pockets and went off without answering. He had just spent one of the most wretched days in his life. For hours, in his corner he had felt old and feeble, without idea or incentive. But now a tiny flame flickered. 'You bet we'll see' he growled.

Maigret's peaceful retirement in the countryside is disrupted when a relative unwittingly embroils himself in a crime he did not commit and the retired inspector returns to Police Headquarters in Paris once again.

'His artistry is supreme' John Banville

'Once alone in his office, he went over and opened the window as if being in charge of this case made him gasp for a breath of fresh air... It made him feel almost fond of the petty thieves, maniacs, swindlers and offenders of all kinds that he usually had to deal with.'

Maigret has no taste for politics, or politicians, but when he is summoned to a clandestine meeting by a desperate government minister one evening, he finds himself drawn into an unsavoury world of corruption, scandal and cover ups.

'One of the greatest writers of the twentieth century . . . Simenon was unequalled at making us look inside, though the ability was masked by his brilliance at absorbing us obsessively in his stories' Guardian

'A supreme writer . . . unforgettable vividness' Independent

Inspector Maigret is followed home one evening by a man who reveals his intention to kill his wife and her lover. Maigret intervenes and speaks to the man daily but when the calls suddenly stop Maigret finds a murder on his hands.

When Maigret's holiday plans go awry he and his wife spend their vacation in Paris, on the condition that he has nothing to do with work. However a case involving the death of a doctor's wife intrigues Maigret and he assiduously follows its development in the papers. He cannot resist playing a few tricks on his colleague Janvier who is running the case and along the way Maigret uncovers something that is crucial to the murderer's discovery...