{"product_id":"lock-no-1-isbn-9780141396101","title":"Lock No. 1","description":"\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\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe classic Inspector Maigret mystery set in a claustraphobic provincial town\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Cars drove past along with the trucks and trams, but by now Maigret had realized that they were not important. Whatever roared by like this along the road was not part of the landscape. . . . What really counted was the lock, the hooting of the tugs, the stone crusher, the barges and the cranes, the two pilots’ bars and especially the tall house where he could make out Ducrau’s red chair framed by a window.”\u003c\/i\u003e\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. He is best known in the English-speaking world as the author of the Inspector Maigret books. His prolific output of more than four hundred novels and short stories has made him a household name in continental Europe.\u003csection epub:type=\"cover\"\u003e                    \u003c\/section\u003e            \u003csection epub:type=\"title\"\u003e            \u003cp\u003eGeorges Simenon\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cbr\u003e------------------------------\u003cbr\u003e            \u003cp\u003eLOCK NO. 1\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cb\u003e                \u003ci\u003eTranslated by David Coward\u003c\/i\u003e            \u003c\/b\u003e            \u003cp\u003e                            \u003c\/p\u003e        \u003c\/section\u003e            \u003csection epub:type=\"copyright-page\"\u003e\u003cp\u003ePENGUIN BOOKS\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eAn imprint of Penguin Random House LLC\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e375 Hudson Street\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eNew York, New York 10014\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003epenguin.com\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eFirst published in French as \u003ci\u003eL’ecluse no. 1\u003c\/i\u003e in \u003ci\u003eParis-Soir\u003c\/i\u003e, in instalments from 23 May to 16 June 1933\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eFirst published in book form by Fayard 1933\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThis translation first published in Penguin Books 2015\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eCopyright © 1933 by Georges Simenon Limited\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eTranslation copyright © 2015 by David Coward\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eGEORGES SIMENON ® Simenon.tm\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eMAIGRET ® Georges Simenon Limited\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eAll rights reserved.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003ePenguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThe moral rights of the author and translator have been asserted.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eISBN 978-0-698-19466-3\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eCover photograph (detail) © Harry Gruyaert\/Magnum Photos\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eCover design by Alceu Chiesorin Nunes\u003c\/p\u003e        \u003c\/section\u003e            \u003csection epub:type=\"toc\"\u003e                        \u003cp\u003e                Title Page            \u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003e                Copyright            \u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003e                About the Author            \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                EXTRA: Chapter 1 from \u003ci\u003eMaigret\u003c\/i\u003e            \u003c\/p\u003e        \u003c\/section\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 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            \u003cp\u003e                        PENGUIN CLASSICS        \u003c\/p\u003e        \u003cb\u003eLOCK NO. 1\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            \u003csection epub:type=\"chapter\"\u003e                        \u003cp\u003e1.\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003eWhen you watch fish through a layer of                water which prevents all contact between them and you, you see that they remain                absolutely still for a long time, for no reason, and then, with a twitch of their                fins, they dart away so that they can do nothing again somewhere else, except more                waiting.\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003eIt was in the same state of stillness,                and as if for no reason too, that the last number 13 Bastille-Créteil tram, lit up                by its yellow lights, rumbled along the side of Carrières Wharf.\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003eIt looked as if it was going to stop at                a side-road, just by a streetlight, but the conductor yanked the bell pull, and the                vehicle clanked off towards Charenton.\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003eIn its wake, the wharf was left empty                and stagnant, like a drowned landscape. To the right, barges rocked on the canal                under the moon. A trickle of water escaped through a badly closed sluice. It was the                only sound under a sky which was more tranquil and deeper than a lake.\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003eTwo bars were still lit up. They faced                each other, each one on a street corner.\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003eIn one, five men were playing cards,                slowly, not speaking. Three were wearing sailors’ or river pilots’ caps,                and the landlord, who was sitting with them,                was in shirt-sleeves.\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003eIn the other bar, no one was playing                cards. There were just three men inside. They were sitting around a table, staring                dreamily at small glasses of cheap brandy. The light was grey and smelled of sleep.                From time to time, the black-moustached landlord, who was wearing a blue pullover,                yawned before reaching for his glass with one hand.\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003eSitting opposite him was a short man                overrun by thick, flaxen hair, like dry hay. He was either brooding or befuddled, or                perhaps drunk? His rheumy eyes looked as though they were swimming through troubled                waters and at intervals he would nod his head as if agreeing with his inner                monologue while the man next to him, also a canal man, set his gaze free to wander                outside, in the dark.\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003eTime fled soundlessly. There was not                even the tick of a clock. Next to the bar was a row of small, poky houses each with                a garden round it, but all their lights were out. Then at number 8, came a detached                house on six floors, already old and smoke-blackened, too narrow for its height. On                the first floor, a few gleams filtered through venetian blinds. On the second, where                there were no shutters, a crude blind made a rectangle of light.\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003eFinally, directly opposite, on the canal                bank, a heap of stones, sand, a crane, a number of empty carts.\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003eYet music pulsated through the air. It                was coming from somewhere. It had to be found. Its source was further along than number 8, set back from the road, a wooden shed                with a sign saying: \u003ci\u003eDance Hall\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003eNo one was dancing. In fact the only                person there was the fat woman who owned it. She was reading a newspaper and got up                at intervals to feed a five-\u003ci\u003esou\u003c\/i\u003e coin into the mechanical piano.\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003eSooner or later, somebody or something                was bound to make a stir. It turned out to be the very hairy bargee from the bar on                the right-hand side. He got to his feet unsteadily, stared at his empty glasses and                did the calculation in his head while he searched through his pockets. When he had                counted out the right money, he laid it on the smooth top of the wooden table,                touched the peak of his cap and set a wavering course for the door.\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003eThe other two men looked at each other.                The landlord winked. The fingers of the old man dithered uncertainly in thin air                before settling on the door handle, and he swayed as he turned to shut the door                behind him.\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003eHis footsteps were as audible as if the                pavement had been hollow. The sound was irregular. He took three or four paces then                stopped: he was either hesitating or concentrating on staying upright.\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003eWhen he reached the canal, he collided                with the metal railing which clanged, started down the stone steps and found himself                on the unloading wharf.\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003eThe outlines of boats were clearly                picked out by the moon. Their names were as easy to read as in broad daylight. The                nearest barge, which was separated from the quayside by a plank which served as a                gangway, was called the \u003ci\u003eGolden Fleece\u003c\/i\u003e. There were other boats behind it, both to the left and right, and they                were at least five rows deep, some with holds open near a crane, waiting to be                unloaded, others with their prows nudging the gates of the lock through which they                would pass at first light, and lastly those hulks which are always to be seen, God                knows why, loitering in and around canal ports, apparently having outlived their                usefulness.\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003eThe old man, all alone in this                motionless universe, hiccupped and stepped on to the plank, which bent under him.                When he got to the middle, it occurred to him to turn round, perhaps for a sight of                the windows of the bar. He managed the first part of the action, swayed,                straightened his back and found himself in the water, hanging on to the plank with                one hand.\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003eHe had not cried out. He hadn’t                even gasped. There had been only a faint splash, which was already fading, for the                man was barely moving. His forehead was furrowed as if something was forcing him to                think. He braced his arms to haul himself up on to the plank. He failed, tried                again, eyes staring, breathing heavily.\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003eOn the quayside, pressed close against                the stone wall, two lovers listened, motionless, holding their breath. A car horn                sounded in Charenton.\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003eAll of a sudden there was a howl, an                extraordinary wail, which tore through the all-enveloping calm.\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003eIt was the old man in the water who was                straining his throat in panic. He was no longer making any attempt to think. He was                struggling like a madman, kicking out with his legs, making the water boil.\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003eThen other sounds were heard round                about. There was a stir on board a barge.                Elsewhere the voice of a still half-sleeping woman spoke:\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003e‘Aren’t you going to see                what that is?’\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003eDoors opened higher up, on the quayside,                the doors of both bars. The couple under the wall moved apart, and the man said                under his breath:\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003e‘Quick! Go home!’\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003eHe took a few steps, hesitated and then                called out:\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003e‘Where?’\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003eHe heard the cry. It came again. Other                voices came nearer, and people leaned over the railing.\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003e‘What’s happened?’\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003eThe young man broke into a run and                answered:\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003e‘I don’t know yet.                It’s that way … In the water …’\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003eHis girlfriend remained where she was,                her hands clasped together, not daring to advance or retreat.\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003e‘I can see him! … Come                quick!’\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003eAs the shouts grew feebler, they turned                into desperate gurgles. The young man could make out hands clinging to the plank and                a head sticking out of the water, but he had no idea what to do. He waited, with his                face turned towards the steps that led down to the wharf, and kept repeating:\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003e‘Come quick!’\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003eA voice said tonelessly:\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003e‘It’s Gassin.’\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003eSeven men now arrived, the five drinkers                from one bar and two from the other.\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003e‘Come nearer … You take one arm                and I’ll get the other.’\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003e‘Go careful on                the plank.’\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003eIt sagged beneath their weight. From a                hatch on the barge a female figure all in white, with fair hair, started to                emerge.\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003e‘Have you got him?’\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003eThe old man was no longer shouting. He                hadn’t passed out. He was staring straight in front of him, uncomprehendingly,                making no attempt to help his rescuers.\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003eThey hauled him up out of the water by                stages. He was so limp that he had to be dragged on to the wharf.\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003eThe figure in white walked across the                gangplank. She was young, wearing a long nightdress, with nothing on her feet, and                the moonlight which lit her from behind picked out the lines of her naked body under                the cotton. Only she still stared down at the water, which was becoming calm again,                and then it was her turn to scream as she pointed at something as hazy and pallid as                a jellyfish.\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003eTwo of the men who were tending the                boatman turned to look, and when they too saw the milky patch on the black water                they felt the same chill run up and down their spine.\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003e‘Over there! … There’s a                …’\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003eThey all looked, forgetting the boatman,                who lay flat out on the stones of the wharf, which was criss-crossed by water                runaways.\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003e‘Bring us a boat-hook!’\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003eIt was the girl who fetched one from the                deck of the barge and handed it to them.\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003eIt was no longer the same. Neither the                atmosphere. Nor even the temperature of the                night air! It felt suddenly colder, with pulses of warm air.\u003c\/p\u003e            \u003cp\u003e‘Have you got him?’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003c\/section\u003e","brand":"Penguin Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46302102716645,"sku":"NP9780141396101","price":15.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780141396101.jpg?v=1742926204","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/lock-no-1-isbn-9780141396101","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}