{"product_id":"cecile-is-dead-isbn-9780141397054","title":"Cécile Is Dead","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e“A writer as comfortable with reality as with fiction, with passion as with reason.” —John Le Carré\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA moving novel about the destructive power of greed starring the unrivaled Inspector Maigret\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Poor Cécile!  And yet she was still young. Maigret had seen her papers: barely twenty-eight years old. But it would be difficult to look more like an old maid, to move less gracefully, in spite of the care she took to be friendly and pleasant. Those black dresses that she must make for herself from bad paper patterns, that ridiculous green hat!”\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the dreary suburbs of Paris, the merciless greed of a seemingly respectable woman is unearthed by her long suffering niece, and Maigret discovers the far-reaching consequences of their actions.\u003cb\u003ePraise for Georges Simenon:\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“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.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Guardian\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “These Maigret books are as timeless as Paris itself.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “The matchless French crime novelist.” —Adam Gopnik, \u003ci\u003eThe New Yorker\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Maigret ranks with Holmes and Poirot in the pantheon of fictional detective immortals.” —\u003ci\u003ePeople\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I love reading Simenon. He makes me think of Chekhov.” —William Faulkner\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “An astute observer of human nature, writing in a spare and vivid style.” —Amor Towles\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I never read contemporary fiction–with one exception: the works of Simenon.” —T.S. Eliot\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A writer as comfortable with reality as with fiction, with passion as with reason.” —John Le Carré\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “One of the most important writers of our century.” —Gabriel García Márquez\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A favorite writer of mine.” —Sigrid Nunez\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A great writer of detail, of atmosphere.” —Leïla Slimani\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Feels incredibly modern…A great writer.” —Ian Rankin\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “The greatest of all, the most genuine novelist we have had in literature.” —André Gide\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A supreme writer . . . Unforgettable vividness.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Independent\u003c\/i\u003e (London)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Superb . . . The most addictive of writers . . . A unique teller of tales.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Observer\u003c\/i\u003e (London)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Compelling, remorseless, brilliant.” —John Gray\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A truly wonderful writer . . . Marvelously readable—lucid, simple, absolutely in tune with the world he creates.” —Muriel Spark\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A novelist who entered his fictional world as if he were a part of it.” —Peter Ackroyd\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Extraordinary masterpieces of the twentieth century.” —John Banville\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Gem-hard soul-probes . . . not just the world's bestselling detective series, but an imperishable literary legend . . . he exposes secrets and crimes not by forensic wizardry, but by the melded powers of therapist, philosopher and confessor\" ―\u003ci\u003eTimes\u003c\/i\u003e (London)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Strangely comforting . . . so many lovely bistros from the Paris of mid-20th C. The corpses are incidental, it's the food that counts.\" ―Margaret Atwood\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"One of the greatest writers of the 20th century . . . no other writer can set up a scene as sharply and with such economy as Simenon does . . . the conjuring of a world, a place, a time, a set of characters - above all, an atmosphere.\" ―\u003ci\u003eFinancial Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Gripping . . . richly rewarding . . . You'll quickly find yourself obsessing about his life as you tackle each mystery in turn.\" ―Stig Abell, \u003ci\u003eThe Sunday Times\u003c\/i\u003e (London)\u003cb\u003eGeorges Simenon \u003c\/b\u003e(1903–1989) began work as a reporter for a local newspaper at the age of sixteen, and at nineteen he moved to Paris to embark on a career as a novelist. He went on to write seventy-five Maigret novels and twenty-eight Maigret short stories.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eAnthea Bell\u003c\/b\u003e OBE ( 1936 – 2018) was an English translator of literary works, including children's literature, from French, German and Danish. These include \u003ci\u003eThe Castle\u003c\/i\u003e by Franz Kafka, \u003ci\u003eAusterlitz\u003c\/i\u003e by W. G. Sebald,the \u003ci\u003eInkworld\u003c\/i\u003e trilogy by Cornelia Funke and the French \u003ci\u003eAsterix\u003c\/i\u003e comics along with co-translator Derek Hockridge.\u003cp\u003eGeorges Simenon\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cbr\u003e------------------------------\u003cbr\u003e        \u003cp\u003eCÉCILE IS DEAD\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eTranslated by\u003c\/i\u003e Anthea Bell\u003c\/b\u003e        \u003cp\u003e                    \u003c\/p\u003e                                                                                                                                                                                                                       \u003cp\u003e            About the Author        \u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003e            Title Page        \u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003e            Copyright        \u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003e            Chapter 1        \u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003e            Chapter 2        \u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003e            Chapter 3        \u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003e            Chapter 4        \u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003e            Chapter 5        \u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003e            Chapter 6        \u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003e            Chapter 7        \u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003e            Chapter 8        \u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003e            Chapter 9        \u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003e            Chapter 10        \u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003e            Chapter 11        \u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003e            Chapter 12        \u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003e            EXTRA: Chapter 1 from \u003ci\u003eThe Cellars of the Majestic\u003c\/i\u003e        \u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cb\u003e                        ABOUT THE AUTHOR        \u003c\/b\u003e        \u003cp\u003eGeorges Simenon was born on 12 February            1903 in Liège, Belgium, and died in 1989 in Lausanne, Switzerland, where he had lived            for the latter part of his life. Between 1931 and 1972 he published seventy-five novels            and twenty-eight short stories featuring Inspector Maigret.\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003eSimenon always resisted identifying himself            with his famous literary character, but acknowledged that they shared an important            characteristic:\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003e            \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMy motto, to the extent that I have                one, has been noted often enough, and I’ve always conformed to it. It’s                the one I’ve given to old Maigret, who resembles me in certain points …                ‘understand and judge not’.\u003c\/p\u003e                \u003cp\u003ePenguin is publishing the entire series of            Maigret novels.\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003csection epub:type=\"introduction\"\u003e            \u003cp\u003e                                PENGUIN CLASSICS            \u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cb\u003e                \u003ci\u003eCécile is Dead\u003c\/i\u003e            \u003c\/b\u003e            \u003cp\u003e‘I love reading Simenon. He makes me                think of Chekhov’\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003e– William Faulkner\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003e‘A truly wonderful writer … marvellously                readable – lucid, simple, absolutely in tune with the world he creates’\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003e– Muriel Spark\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003e‘Few writers have ever conveyed with such                a sure touch, the bleakness of human life’\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003e– A. N. Wilson\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003e‘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’\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003e– \u003ci\u003eGuardian\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003e‘A novelist who entered his fictional                world as if he were part of it’\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003e– Peter Ackroyd\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003e‘The greatest of all, the most genuine                novelist we have had in literature’\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003e– André Gide\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003e‘Superb … The most addictive of writers …                A unique teller of tales’\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003e– \u003ci\u003eObserver\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003e‘The mysteries of the human personality                are revealed in all their disconcerting complexity’\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003e– Anita Brookner\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003e‘A writer who, more than any other crime                novelist, combined a high literary reputation with popular appeal’\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003e– P. D. James\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003e‘A supreme writer … Unforgettable                vividness’\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003e– \u003ci\u003eIndependent\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003e‘Compelling, remorseless,                brilliant’\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003e– John Gray\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003e‘Extraordinary masterpieces of the                twentieth century’\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003e– John Banville\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003c\/section\u003e                    \u003cp\u003e1.\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003eThe pipe that Detective Chief Inspector            Maigret lit on coming out of his door in Boulevard Richard-Lenoir was even more            delicious than usual. The first fog of the season was as pleasant a surprise as the            first snow for children, especially when it was not that nasty yellowish fog you see on            certain winter days, but a misty, milky vapour with halos of light in it. The air was            fresh. The ends of your fingers and your nose tingled on a day like this, and the soles            of your shoes clicked smartly on the road.\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003eHands in the pockets of his large            velvet-collared overcoat, famous at Quai des Orfèvres and still smelling slightly of            mothballs, his bowler hat well down on his head, Maigret made his way to the Police            Judiciaire on foot, at his leisure, and was amused when a girl suddenly shot out of the            fog at a run and collided with his dark, solid form.\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003e‘Oh, I’m sorry, sir.’\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003eAnd she set off just as fast to catch her            bus or Métro train.\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003eIt seemed as if all of Paris was enjoying            the fog that morning, just like Inspector Maigret, and only the tugboats on the Seine            hoarsely announced their uneasiness.\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003eA memory was to stick in his mind for no            good reason: he had just crossed Place de la Bastille on his way to Boulevard Henri-IV. He was passing a little bistro. The door            opened, because it was the first time this season that the chill in the air had made the            cafés close their doors. In passing, Maigret walked through a gust of aromatic air that            was, to him, the quintessence of the Parisian dawn: the smell of good white coffee, hot            croissants and just a touch of rum. He guessed that behind the steamed-up windows ten,            fifteen or twenty customers were sitting at the metal counter, enjoying their first meal            of the day before hurrying off to work.\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003eAt nine o’clock precisely, he reached            the vaulted entrance of the Police Judiciaire building and climbed the vast and            ever-dusty staircase at the same time as several colleagues. As he reached the first            floor he automatically glanced through the waiting-room windows and on recognizing            Cécile, sitting on one of the chairs upholstered in green velour, he scowled.\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003eOr rather, to be absolutely frank, he            adopted a deliberately curmudgeonly expression.\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003e‘Hey, Maigret, there she            is!’\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003eThe speaker was Cassieux, head of the Drug            Squad, coming upstairs just after him. And the joke would go on, just as it always did            when Cécile visited the office.\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003eMaigret tried to get past without being            seen. How long had she been there? She was capable of staying put for hours in the same            place, motionless, her hands folded on top of her bag, her ridiculous green hat always            tilted slightly sideways on her rather too carefully arranged hair.\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003eOf course she spotted the inspector and            sprang to her feet. Her mouth opened. She was            inaudible because of the glazed partition, but she must be sighing, ‘At            last!’\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003eShoulders hunched, Maigret hurried to his            office at the end of the corridor. The clerk came over to tell him …\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003e‘I know, I know,’ growled            Maigret. ‘I don’t have time at the moment.’\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003eBecause of the fog, he had to switch on the            lamp with its green shade on his desk. He took off his overcoat, his hat, looked at the            stove, thinking that if it was as chilly as this tomorrow he would ask to have it lit,            and then, after rubbing his cold hands together, sat down heavily, with a growl of            contentment, and took the telephone off the hook.\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003e‘Hello … is that the Vieux Normand            café? … Will you get me Monsieur Janvier, please? … Hello, is that you,            Janvier?’\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003eInspector Janvier would have been sitting in            that little café-restaurant in Rue Saint-Antoine since seven in the morning, keeping            watch on the Hôtel des Arcades.\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003e‘Any news?’\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003e‘They’re all back in the nest,            boss. The woman went out half an hour ago to buy bread, butter and a quarter kilo of            ground coffee. She’s just back.’\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003e‘Is Lucas in position?’\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003e‘I saw him at the window when I got            here.’\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003e‘Right, Jourdan will be along to            relieve you. Not too frozen, I hope?’\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003e‘A bit chilly. Not too bad.’\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003eMaigret smiled, thinking of the change in            Sergeant Lucas, who had transformed himself into a disabled old man four days ago. It was a case of keeping watch on the gang            of Poles, five or six of them, who were staying in a squalid room in the squalid Hôtel            des Arcades. There was no evidence against them, except that one of them, known as the            Baron, had paid at the tote on Longchamp racecourse with one of the banknotes stolen            from the Vansittart farm.\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003eThe members of the gang moved around Paris            with no obvious purpose, but they met in Rue de Birague, and the central figure there            was a young woman; the police hadn’t yet worked out whose mistress she was, or            what exactly her role was in the gang.\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003eAt the window of an apartment opposite,            muffled up in scarves, Lucas was keeping watch on them from morning to evening in his            disguise.\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003eMaigret rose to empty his pipe in the coal            scuttle. He chose another from the desk, where he kept quite a collection, caught sight            of the form that Cécile had filled in and was about to read what she had written, but at            that moment a bell rang in the corridor and went on ringing.\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003eThe briefing! He snatched up the files he            had ready and, along with all the other departmental heads, went to the office of the            commissioner of the Police Judiciaire. This little ritual took place every morning. The            commissioner had long white hair and a goatee beard like a musketeer’s. Everyone            shook hands.\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003e‘Did you see her?’\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003eMaigret looked surprised.\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003e‘Who?’\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003e‘Cécile! Now if I was Madame Maigret            …’\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003ePoor Cécile! And yet she            was still young. Maigret had seen her papers: barely twenty-eight years old. But it            would be difficult to look more like an old maid, to move less gracefully, no matter how            hard she tried to be pleasing. Those black dresses that she must make for herself from            bad paper patterns, that ridiculous green hat! It was impossible to perceive any            feminine allure under all that. Her face was too pale, and she had a slight squint into            the bargain.\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003e‘She’s cross-eyed,’            claimed Inspector Cassieux.\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003eHe was exaggerating; she wasn’t            exactly cross-eyed. It was just that her left eye didn’t look in quite the same            direction as her right eye.\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003eShe would arrive at eight in the morning,            already resigned to her fate. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Maigret,            please.’\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003e‘I don’t know if he’ll be            in this morning. You could see Inspector Berger, who …’\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003e‘No, thank you. I’ll            wait.’\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003eAnd wait she did, all day, without moving,            without any sign of impatience, suddenly leaping up, as if she were a prey to emotion,            when the inspector came upstairs.\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003e‘I tell you, old friend, she’s            in love with you.’\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003eThe officers stayed on their feet. They            chatted about this and that at first, and then, almost imperceptibly, got down to            work.\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003e‘How’s the Pélican case going,            Cassieux? Any news?’\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003e‘I’ve called in the manager for            ten o’clock. He’ll have to talk.’\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003e‘Go carefully, will you? He has a            parliamentary deputy protecting him, and I            don’t want a lot of fuss. What about your Poles, Maigret?’\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003e‘I’m still waiting. I’m            planning to investigate their hideout myself tonight. If there’s nothing new            tomorrow I’ll try to have a heart-to-heart with the woman.’\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003eA nasty bunch. Three crimes committed within            six months, all at isolated farms in the north of the country. Coarse, brutal banditry,            axe murders …\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003eThe fog was turning golden. Electric light            wasn’t necessary now. The commissioner of the Police Judiciaire drew a file            towards him. ‘If you have a moment this morning, Maigret … here’s some            research into family interests. A young man of nineteen, the son of a large            industrialist, who …’\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003e‘Let me have a look.’\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003eThe briefing went on for half an hour, while            the air in the room was filled with pipe and cigarette smoke, and was interrupted from            time to time by phone calls.\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003e‘Yes, sir … certainly,            minister.’\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003eAnd there was a constant racket of police            officers coming and going in the huge corridor, doors opening and closing, telephone            conversations in the offices.\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003eMaigret, his file under his arm, went back            to his own office. He was thinking of the gang of Poles. Automatically, he put the file            down on the form that Cécile had filled in. Almost as soon as he was sitting down, the            clerk knocked on his door.\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003e‘It’s about that girl            …’\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003e‘Yes?’\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003e‘Are you going to see her?’\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cp\u003e‘In a little            while.’\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Penguin Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300117467365,"sku":"NP9780141397054","price":12.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780141397054.jpg?v=1742918792","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/cecile-is-dead-isbn-9780141397054","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}