{"product_id":"inspector-maigretisbn-9780141393513","title":"Inspector Maigret","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e“A writer as comfortable with reality as with fiction, with passion as with reason.” —John Le Carré\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAn atmospheric Inspector Maigret mystery set in the bustling streets of Paris\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Slowly the Czech was becoming animated, but in a muted way, so typical of the man. Maigret now noticed his hands, which were long, surprisingly white and dotted with freckles. They seemed to reach out and take part in the conversation. ‘Let\u003ci\u003e’\u003c\/i\u003es be clear that it's not your professionalism which I question. If you understand nothing, and I mean absolutely nothing, it's because from the very start you've been working with facts which had been falsified.\u003ci\u003e’\u003c\/i\u003e” \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMaigret sets out to prove the innocence of a man condemned to death for a brutal murder. As his audacious plan to uncover the truth unfolds, he encounters rich American expatriates, some truly dangerous characters, and their hidden motives.\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) was born in Liège, Belgium. Best known in Britain as the author of the Maigret books, his prolific output of more than four hundred novels and short stories have made him a household name in continental Europe.\u003cp\u003eGeorges Simenon\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA MAN’S HEAD\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cb\u003eTranslated by David Coward\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003ePENGUIN BOOKS\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cp\u003ePublished by the Penguin Group \u003cbr\u003ePenguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England \u003cbr\u003ePenguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA \u003cbr\u003ePenguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700,Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) \u003cbr\u003ePenguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) \u003cbr\u003ePenguin Group (Australia), 707 Collins Street, Melbourne, Victoria 3008, Australia (a divisionof Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) \u003cbr\u003ePenguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India \u003cbr\u003ePenguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) \u003cbr\u003ePenguin Books (South Africa) (Pty)Ltd, Block D, Rosebank Office Park, 181 Jan Smuts Avenue, Parktown North, Gauteng 2193, South Africa\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePenguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003epenguin.com\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFirst published in French as \u003ci\u003eLa tête d’un homme\u003c\/i\u003e by Fayard 1931 \u003cbr\u003eThis translation first published in Penguin Books 2014\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCopyright 1931 by Georges Simenon Limited \u003cbr\u003eTranslation copyright © David Coward, 2014 \u003cbr\u003eGEORGES SIMENON ® Simenon.tm \u003cbr\u003eMAIGRET ® Georges Simenon Limited\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCover photograph (detail) © Harry Gruyaert \/Magnum Photos. \u003cbr\u003eFront cover design by Alceu Chiesorin Nunes\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAll rights reserved\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe moral rights of the author and translator have been asserted\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eISBN: 978-0-698-18301-8\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTitle Page\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCopyright\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAbout the Author\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e1. Cell 11, High Surveillance\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e2. The Sleeping Man\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e3. The Torn Newspaper\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e4. General Headquarters\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e5. The Man Who Liked Caviar\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e6. The Inn at Nandy\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e7. Little Man\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e8. A Man in the House\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e9. The Next Day\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e10. A Cupboard with a Surprise\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e11. Four Aces\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e12. The Fall\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eEXTRA: Chapter 1 from \u003ci\u003eThe Dancer at the Gai-Moulin\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cb\u003eABOUT 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 storiesfeaturing 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 judgenot’.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePenguin is publishing the entire series of Maigret novels.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePENGUIN CLASSICS\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cb\u003eA MAN’S HEAD\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\u003cp\u003e1. Cell 11, High Surveillance\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhen a bell somewhere rang twice, the prisoner was sitting on his bunk with his two large hands clasped about his folded knees.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFor the space of perhaps a minute he did not move, as if suspended in time; then with a sudden release of breath, he stretched his arms and legs and stood up in his cell, a huge man, ungainly, his head too big, his arms too long and his chesthollow.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHis face was unreadable, expressing only numbness or perhaps a kind of inhuman indifference. Yet before he moved across to the door with the spyhole, now closed, he brandished a fist towards one of the walls.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOn the other side of that wall was an identical cell, one of the cells on the Santé prison’s High Surveillance wing.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIn it, as in four other cells, was a convicted criminal waiting for either a stay of execution or the arrival of the solemn party of men who would come one night and wake him without saying a word.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eEvery day for five days, every hour, every minute, the other prisoner had groaned, at times in a low monotonous whimper, at others accompanied by screams, tears, howls of defiance.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNumber 11 had never set eyes on him, knew nothing of him. At most, judging by his voice, he could make a guess that his neighbour was young.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAt this moment, the groaning was weary, mechanical, while in the eyes of the man who had just got to his feet there was a flash of hatred, and he clenched his large-knuckled fists.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFrom the corridor and passageways, from the exercise yards, from every part of the fortress that is the Santé prison, from the streets surrounding it, from Paris, no sound reached him.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eExcept for the moaning of the man in cell 10.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNumber 11 pulled jerkily on his fingers, then froze twice before reaching out to put one hand on the door.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe cell light was on, as laid down in regulations for High Surveillance watch.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNormally, a guard was required to be on duty in the corridor, to open the doors of all five prisoners every hour.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNumber 11’s hands played around the lock with a gesture made solemn by a tremor of fear.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe door swung open. The guard’s chair was there. No one was sitting on it.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe man began walking, very fast, bent double, his senses reeling. His face was dead white, and only the red-tinged lids of his greenish eyes had any colour.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThree times he stopped and went back the way he had come because he had taken a wrong turning and had come up against locked doors.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAt the end of one corridor he heard voices. Guards were smoking and chatting in a duty room.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFinally he found himself in a yard, where the darkness was punctured at intervals by the round discs of lamps. A hundred metres ahead, in front of the outer gate, a sentry was walking to and fro.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTo one side was a lighted window through which a man could be seen, pipe in mouth, bent over a desk littered with papers.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNumber 11 wished he could have taken another look at the note he had found three days earlier stuck to the bottom of his dinner pail, but he had chewed and swallowed it following the instructions of whoever had sent it. For while, only an hourbefore, he had known what it said by heart, there were now parts of it which he could not remember exactly.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eAt 2 a.m., 15 October, your cell door will be left open and the guard will be busy elsewhere. If you follow the directions as marked below …\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe man passed a burning hand over his forehead, stared in terror at the discs of light and almost cried out loud when he heard footsteps. But they came from the other side of the wall, from the street. Free people were talking out there, and theirheels clacked on the pavement.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e‘When I think they charge fifty francs a seat …’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt was a woman’s voice.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e‘Yes, but they have expenses …’ came a man’s voice.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe prisoner felt his way along the wall, stopped because his foot had encountered a stone, listened, so whey-faced, cutting such an odd figure with those interminable arms which dangled loosely, that if this had been happening anywhere else peoplewould just have assumed he was a drunk.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe small knot of men was waiting less than fifty metres from the invisible prisoner, in a recess of the wall, near a door on which was written: \u003ci\u003eBursar’s Office\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDetective Chief Inspector Maigret had chosen not to lean against the blackened brick wall. With his hands thrust into the pockets of his overcoat, he was standing so squarely on his strong legs, so absolutely still, that he gave the impression oflifeless bulk.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut at regular intervals there came the dragging sizzle of his pipe. His eyes were watchful, but he couldn’t quite eradicate the apprehension in them.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA dozen times at least, he must have nudged the shoulder of Coméliau, the examining magistrate, who would not stay where he had been put.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eComéliau had come directly from a social engagement in evening dress, his thin moustache neatly trimmed and with more colour in his cheeks than usual.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eClose to them, with a scowl on his face and the collar of his coat turned up, stood Monsieur Gassier, governor of the Santé, who was trying to distance himself from what was happening.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThere was a slight chill in the air. The sentry by the gate stamped his feet, and his breath rose in the air like thin columns of steam.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe prisoner, who avoided areas that were lit, could not be seen. But however careful he was to make no noise, he could still be heard moving around, and the onlookers were able, after a fashion, to follow his every movement.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAfter ten minutes, the examining magistrate shuffled nearer to Maigret and opened his mouth to say something. But the inspector gripped his shoulder with such strength that the magistrate desisted, sighed and from a pocket mechanically took acigarette, which was snatched from his hands.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAll three had understood. Number 11 did not know the way and at any moment might stumble into a patrol.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnd they could do nothing about it! They could hardly lead him by the hand to the place at the foot of the wall where the parcel of clothes had been left for him and where a knotted rope dangled.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAt intervals a vehicle drove past in the street outside. Sometimes there were also people talking, and their voices echoed in a particular way in the prison yard.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAll the three men could do was to exchange glances. The look in the governor’s eyes was bad-tempered, sarcastic, fierce. Coméliau, the examining magistrate, was aware of his own growing anxiety, and the apprehension too.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMaigret alone did not flinch, his strength of will ensuring that he remained confident. But if he had been standing in a strong light, his brow would have been observed to glisten with sweat.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhen the half-hour struck, the man was still dithering, all at sea. But one second later, the three watching men were all startled and felt the same shock.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThey had not heard the release of breath, they had rather sensed it, they could feel the feverish haste of their man who had just stumbled over the parcel of clothes and seen the rope.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe footsteps of the sentry continued to mark the rhythm of passing time. The magistrate took his opportunity and hissed:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e‘You’re sure he …?’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMaigret turned such a look on him that he fell silent. The rope twitched. They made out a lighter stain against the dark wall: the face of number 11, who was using his powerful wrists to haul himself up.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt took an age. It took ten, twenty times longer than they had anticipated. And when he reached the top, it looked as if he had given up, because he had completely stopped moving.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThey could make him out now, or at least his silhouette, lying flat on the top of the wall.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWas he paralysed by vertigo? Was he hesitating about dropping down into the road? Were there passers-by or a courting couple crouching in some recess who were stopping him?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eComéliau snapped his fingers impatiently. The governor muttered:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e‘I don’t suppose you need me any more …’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe rope was hauled up so that it could be dropped down the other side. The man disappeared.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e‘If I didn’t have such confidence in you, detective chief inspector, I swear I’d never have let myself be mixed up in anything like this. All the same, I still think Heurtin is guilty. And what if he manages to get away from you?What then?’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e‘Will I see you tomorrow?’ was all that Maigret asked.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e‘I’ll be in my office any time after ten.’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThey shook hands without saying anything more. The governor held out a hand grudgingly and, as he left, muttered a few indistinct words.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMaigret remained close to the wall for a few moments longer and did not move off towards the gate until he had heard someone running off as fast as he could. He gave a wave to the guard on duty, looked up and down the empty street and walked alongit and then into Rue Jean-Dolent.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e‘Did he get away?’ he asked a dark figure which hugged the wall.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e‘Headed towards Boulevard Arago. Dufour and Janvier are on his tail.’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e‘You can go home now.’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMaigret, his mind elsewhere, shook the officer’s hand, moved off with his stolid tread, head down, lighting his pipe as he went.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt was four in the morning when he pushed open the door of his office on Quai des Orfèvres. With a sigh he took off his overcoat, swallowed half the contents of a glass of warm beer which had been left among his papers and sat heavily into hischair.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIn front of him was a fat manila file on which a police clerk had written in a flowery hand: \u003ci\u003eHeurtin Case\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe waited for three hours. The bare electric bulb was surrounded by a cloud of smoke, which stirred at the slightest movement of air. From time to time, Maigret got up to poke the stove then returned to his seat but not before removing first hisjacket, then his collar and finally his waistcoat.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe phone was within easy reach, and at around seven o’clock he lifted the receiver just to make sure that they had not forgotten to give him an outside line.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe buff-coloured file was open. Reports, newspaper cuttings, witness-statements and photographs had spilled out on to the desk, and Maigret stared at them distantly, sometimes reaching for a document not so much to read it as to confirm a train ofthought.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe whole collection was topped by a newspaper cutting with a forceful headline spread over two newspaper columns:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJoseph Heurtin, killer of Madame Henderson and her maid, sentenced to death this morning.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMaigret was smoking continuously, keeping an anxious eye on the telephone, which remained obstinately silent.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAt ten past six, it rang, but it was a wrong number.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFrom where he sat, the inspector could read parts of various documents, though he now knew them by heart.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJoseph Jean-Marie Heurtin, 27, born Melun, a delivery man for Monsieur Gérardier, a florist in Rue de Sèvres …\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe man’s photograph was visible. It had been taken a year before in a fairground booth at Neuilly. A big man with unusually long arms, triangular-shaped head, washed-out complexion and clothes which denoted a vulgar dress sense.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBrutal Killing at Saint-Cloud\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eRich American stabbed to death along with her maid\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt had happened in July.\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Penguin Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303087427813,"sku":"NP9780141393513","price":15.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780141393513_9775d88e-dcf9-4a40-8e90-7d2539bc69f5.jpg?v=1730753014","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/inspector-maigretisbn-9780141393513","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}