In February 1931, in a hotel room on the Boulevard Raspail in Paris, Simenon wrote this novel in a few days, as his custom. This is the fifth Maigret and no doubt this was one of the most often worn on the screen. It starts out with a bang, like a real thriller. The first two chapters scroll at full speed, served by incredibly fluid writing dear George. Then, after this start with a bang, the plot tightens around the Coupole in Montparnasse, which becomes the nerve center of the book. Great lover of bistros, cafés and brasseries frequented Simenon himself said -neE Dome four years earlier, in 1927 and he takes obviously a great pleasure to return here cosmopolitan and bohemian atmosphere of this temple Art Deco, with its passage customers, used more or less eccentric, his loufiats, his little daily routine, cigar smoke and perfume elegant. One has the impression, reading these pages, hear buzzing conversations and snoring percolators!
This novel is not a camera and yet it is as oppressive as a camera. From start to finish, nervous tension lives every sentence, the events are linked together without respite, even the poor in January takes a baked on duty. Playing his career on a crapshoot, Maigret leads his investigation drum beating. An investigation that turns quickly into a war of nerves between him that he suspects the named Radek. Throughout the chapters, the cop and the suspect will go first measure, mistrust, then gradually get to know almost to appreciate, and ultimately resist in a dull psychological struggle, a confrontation their respective wills, so part of mental failures and near-dostoevskienne where the silences and glances speak louder than words exchanged. Duel exciting as chronic Simenon us unique and subtly impressionistic pen this way, both sober and sensual, making it the wonderful novelist he is.