Recently I finished The Madman of Bergerac, an Inspector Maigret murder mystery novel by the legendary Georges Simenon.
A few posts back, I praised the Maigret novels on the basis of two that I had read: Maigret at the Coroner's (which I have reviewed) and Maigret and the Loner (which I haven't.) Both of these books date from later in Simenon's career, the former from 1952 and the latter from 1972. Both are highly realistic in their details about police work and investigative techniques and yet at the same time, are impressive in their social and psychological observation.
However, this cannot be said of the Madman of Bergerac, a much earlier Maigret mystery dating from 1933. Presumably in his later years, Simenon was likely influenced by the murder mysteries of Raymond Chandler and the police procedurals of Hilary Waugh and Ed McBain, which are meticulously accurate and authentic. Also, between 1945 and 1955, Simenon lived in the US and Canada and would presumably have come into contact with noir pulp novels and stories and would have learned something of hardboiled suspense writing which would have informed his later work.
None of that is evident in the Madman of Bergerac. The novel begins with Maigret taking a train trip to the provincial town of Bergerac to visit an old friend from the Paris police department and to do a little salmon fishing. He shares his train compartment with an eccentric man who lies in the upper bunk. He mutters to himself and fidgets and seems to be upset about something. Abruptly, as the train slows in its approach to the Bergerac station, the man leaps from the bunk and flees the compartment. Alarmed by the man's odd behavior, Maigret gives chase. The man jumps from the train and Maigret impulsively jumps with him. The man sees Maigret pursuing him and he shoots Maigret in the shoulder.
Maigret later regains consciousness in the hospital. Leduc, his old friend from the Paris police, is called to the hospital to confirm Maigret's identity. Leduc explains to Maigret that the hospital authorities are suspicious of Maigret because of his jump from the train. They think that he is the Madman of Bergerac, a sociopath who has so far killed two local women by stabbing them through the heart with a needle. The townspeople are in a panic and wary of any strangers in their midst.
In spite of his injuries, and in spite of being completely outside of his Paris police jurisdiction, Maigret starts an investigation of the case first from his hospital bed and then later from a room in a local hotel where he has himself billeted once his condition improves. He is aided and abetted by Madame Maigret, who comes from Paris to join him. Much to his wife's dismay, Maigret makes a nuisance of himself with his constant invasive questioning of everyone around him from his doctor to hotel staff to the local prosecutor and police chief. He even puts up a reward to call in people to speak with him at the hotel about any information they have about the killings.
He learns that the man who jumped from the train was a human smuggler who supplied local brothels with women. He is a suspect until his dead body is found by police near the train tracks and soon after, a woman reports being accosted by a man who tried to strangle her. Obviously, the Madman of Bergerac is still on the loose.
He then looks into the history of a local man of business with a fondness for pornographic art books - "books for conoissieurs" who may also be a suspect.
Of course, Maigret ultimately cracks the case and along the way unravels a tangle of small town bourgeois intrigue and duplicity. I suppose the book is entertaining in its way, but the implausibility of its story - Maigret jumping from the train with the man when he could've flashed his police badge at the train operators and had them stop the train so he could go look for the man; an out of town and out of jurisdiction police detective running an investigation from a hospital room and then a hotel - really put me off.
I doubt that I will read another early (1930s) Maigret novel. However, I am still curious about the later novels from the 1950s on. These seem to be better constructed, more plausible and ultimately, more entertaining.
Monday, October 24, 2011
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Henning Mankell's The Fifth Woman
Recently, I finished The Fifth Woman, a Kurt Wallander thriller by Swedish mystery writer Henning Mankell.
I have the book in its mass market paperback edition, which was just released this past summer. Even in this portable format, it still runs to 654 pages - about twice the length of the other Wallander books I've read. It's far and away the longest - and the most ambitious - of the Wallander books I've read so far.
In the book, Wallander must investigate the mysterious and grotesquely violent deaths of some men in the environs of Ystad, his home town. A retired car dealer with a fondness for writing poems about birds is found impaled on wooden stakes in a pit that he has fallen into. Another man who runs a flower shop is found strangled in a forest.
Wallander and his team of investigators are baffled and horrified by the crimes. As the story twists and turns, it becomes evident to them that the killer may be a woman bent on revenge for violence she has suffered at the hands of men. The men who were killed - in spite of the placid appearance they presented to the world - all had a history of violent relationships with women.
The story is a bleak one, with grim depictions of the grisly crimes. Wallander must also confront the more troubling aspects of his own past relationship with Mona, his ex-wife.
In style, the novel departs from previous Wallander tales in that the story isn't entirely seen from Wallander's viewpoint. Chapters with Wallander are intercut with chapters seen from the woman murderer's viewpoint, so we sometimes find out things that Wallander hasn't yet learned. In these chapters, we learn that the killer's mother was murdered on a trip to Africa while staying with a group of four nuns. She was the unidentified fifth woman of the group.
The killer learns of her mother's death from a remorseful woman police investigator in the African country who had sent her a letter explaining that her death had been covered up by local authorities. Knowledge of her mother's death breaks the woman and she embarks on her murders, methodically killing one by one local men she knows to have had been in brutally violent relationships with women.
The novel is complex and harrowing. My only real objection to it is that perhaps Mankell lays on the adversity a bit too heavily. Wallander's father dies during the novel, adding a somber note to an already serious theme. There is also a pointless subplot about a vigilante militia being formed in Ystad to fight back against the murders that could just as easily have been left out. In spite of that, the novel is still effective, chilling and provocative. Well worth a read.
I have the book in its mass market paperback edition, which was just released this past summer. Even in this portable format, it still runs to 654 pages - about twice the length of the other Wallander books I've read. It's far and away the longest - and the most ambitious - of the Wallander books I've read so far.
In the book, Wallander must investigate the mysterious and grotesquely violent deaths of some men in the environs of Ystad, his home town. A retired car dealer with a fondness for writing poems about birds is found impaled on wooden stakes in a pit that he has fallen into. Another man who runs a flower shop is found strangled in a forest.
Wallander and his team of investigators are baffled and horrified by the crimes. As the story twists and turns, it becomes evident to them that the killer may be a woman bent on revenge for violence she has suffered at the hands of men. The men who were killed - in spite of the placid appearance they presented to the world - all had a history of violent relationships with women.
The story is a bleak one, with grim depictions of the grisly crimes. Wallander must also confront the more troubling aspects of his own past relationship with Mona, his ex-wife.
In style, the novel departs from previous Wallander tales in that the story isn't entirely seen from Wallander's viewpoint. Chapters with Wallander are intercut with chapters seen from the woman murderer's viewpoint, so we sometimes find out things that Wallander hasn't yet learned. In these chapters, we learn that the killer's mother was murdered on a trip to Africa while staying with a group of four nuns. She was the unidentified fifth woman of the group.
The killer learns of her mother's death from a remorseful woman police investigator in the African country who had sent her a letter explaining that her death had been covered up by local authorities. Knowledge of her mother's death breaks the woman and she embarks on her murders, methodically killing one by one local men she knows to have had been in brutally violent relationships with women.
The novel is complex and harrowing. My only real objection to it is that perhaps Mankell lays on the adversity a bit too heavily. Wallander's father dies during the novel, adding a somber note to an already serious theme. There is also a pointless subplot about a vigilante militia being formed in Ystad to fight back against the murders that could just as easily have been left out. In spite of that, the novel is still effective, chilling and provocative. Well worth a read.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Excerpt From Watching and Listening
Here is a selection from Watching and Listening, a noir short story I recently completed about a lonely, socially awkward man who becomes obsessed with a coffee shop waitress.
WATCHING AND LISTENING
The night embraced Johnny, gathering him into its unseen arms, not letting him go.
He was a willing captive. He wanted to lose himself in the night and never return to his lonely house that stood by itself at the end of the street, right at the edge of the woods and not far from the ravine, its nearest neighbor many blocks away.
The night entranced him, comforted him. In the night, his solitude melted into the anonymous glow of street lights, into the vacant gloom of shadowy laneways and back alleys.
He slowed in his flight, drawing to a halt beside a utility pole. He flattened his palm against it, catching his breath, regaining his balance. That wine he had bought for tonight, which was to be the night of nights but which had been an empty disappointment – what else could it have been, really? - had unbalanced him. His mind reeled with images and ideas that surged through him like electricity.
He looked about the deserted street. He was only a few blocks from that yawning pit of loneliness that was his house, lonely and desolate at the best of times – he had known no other home; he had inherited it from Mother when she had passed away four years ago – but even more so now thanks to Mina’s absence. He had wanted to invite her over to visit him, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it somehow. He was so shy with her, so shy with women, all he could ever do was watch her and watch them. He could never get more personal with them than a passing glance on the street or from across a coffee shop.
So, tonight, he’d pretended that he had had the guts to ask Mina to come over, had decided to throw a little party for himself with Mina as the imaginary guest of honor. He had sat at the dining room table that had been laid with Mother’s best china and cutlery, methodically drinking one glass after another of the expensive wine he had bought at the liquor store just for this wonderful occasion.
His throat tightened and he blinked to hold the tears back. He was turning thirty next week, far too old to be choked up like this.
He hadn’t even wept like this when Mother died.
At the end of the street stood a set of traffic lights; Smile’s coffee shop was right there. A sprint of a minute or two and he would be walking in the door. There was hope; she might still be there. He checked his watch. It was only ten-thirty. Her shift didn’t end for another hour at least. He would go there and see her and talk to her, convince her that she should date him.
But, he had to steady himself first. He braced himself against the utility pole. His breath came in short gasps. His heart raced. His white dress shirt, hours ago so crisp and tidily pressed - he’d actually laid out a few bucks to get it dry cleaned for tonight - now dripped with sweat and clung to him in the clammy, humid air of the August night like a sodden rag. He caught his breath and held it. He had no choice. He had to get to Smile’s and see Mina. He had to.
He lunged forward and made himself run the final blocks. Soon, he was across from the strip mall which housed the coffee shop. He stood behind a tree, away from the glow of the street lights.
He could see Mina in the window, mopping the floor by the entrance. She was in her tight-fitting orange and white uniform that clung to her curvy figure so enticingly, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was a year younger than he, she’d mentioned her age in passing one night, but the pony tail and her warm smile dissolved the years and made her seem like a fresh-faced college girl, identical to the ones he admired from afar when he was a janitor at Dorchester College, before Mother had died and he didn’t need to work anymore, because he had her inheritance…
Don’t let the memories run away with you, he thought. Look at what’s in front of you. Look at how beautiful she is and how she could be yours, if only you spoke to her the right way and stopped being such a nervous ass.
He took courage from the night that surrounded him, and crossed the street, looking directly at Mina through the window. She couldn’t see him, not yet, but that was all the better.
He pushed open the door and he was inside.
Mina saw him and smiled. “Good evening, Johnny. You look kind of warm.”
Tom smiled back as he sidled up to the counter, hoping he wasn’t staggering. Mina set aside her mop and followed him. “Yeah, been walking too fast. It’s real muggy out. You been busy tonight, Mina?”
“We had a bit of a crowd in here about an hour ago, bunch of kids heading out to the clubs, I guess. No one since, though. Pretty quiet.”
Johnny was glad his voice sounded clear. He didn’t seem to be slurring his words. “Gives you time to yourself to look after the place”
“Yeah,” she said shyly, her voice trailing off as she walked behind the counter.
He looked at the faded lit-up picture on the wall behind the counter of a china mug almost spilling over with steaming coffee. He remembered coming in here as a child with Mother years ago when the picture was bright and new. Now Mother was gone and the picture was fading away. He cursed himself. Don’t get all morbid. What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he just ask Mina out? She’d been here a year, she knew who he was. He wasn’t a stranger to her.
He watched Mina slide gracefully behind the counter, her bare, well-toned legs exposed from just above the knee by her orange skirt that fit just right, not too sexy, but not too plain either.
Johnny licked his lips appreciatively. He coughed and raised his hand to cover his mouth, hoping she hadn’t seen him. “Got a bit of a cold?” she asked.
“Think so.”
“That sucks. Not surprising though, with so much rain lately. Oh well, what can you do? You want your usual?”
“Large coffee with two creams.”
“You got it.”
He paid for his coffee and while he took it in his hand that trembled maybe a little too much, he glimpsed at Mina’s dark brown, almond-shaped eyes. She smiled warmly and for a moment, his eyes lingered over the glimpse of cleavage her blouse revealed.
Had she noticed him looking? Maybe that was why she was still smiling as he sat down at his usual table. He glanced back one more time at her. She was still looking, but her forehead creased with what looked like a frown. Was she angry with him? Best not to look her way again for a while.
He sipped his coffee. He looked at the cup in his hand. Rock steady. His tremor wasn’t so bad. Maybe he wasn’t as visibly drunk as he had feared.
Someone had left a newspaper on the table and he looked through it, occasionally sneaking peeks at Mina. She was no longer at the counter; she had returned to mopping the floor.
The front door opened and a young woman with long blonde hair swept in, a duffel bag in her hand.
“Hey, Erica! How you doing!” Mina shouted as the blonde woman smiled and waved a greeting as she hurried to the back of the store.
Erica worked the counter overnight. Johnny cursed to himself. Her arrival meant Mina’s shift was ending. Soon she would be going home. He would not talk with her again that night.
He would have no choice but to go out for one of his walks. He never used to take late night walks, but in the last month or so, they had become a real habit for him. He found they relaxed him and helped him sleep. They also helped him keep an eye on Mina. Now, that wasn’t the only reason he did them. He needed the exercise and the time to think, but it never hurt to make sure Mina got home okay and no one had disturbed her. He didn’t want to see any harm come to her and none had.
So far.
WATCHING AND LISTENING
The night embraced Johnny, gathering him into its unseen arms, not letting him go.
He was a willing captive. He wanted to lose himself in the night and never return to his lonely house that stood by itself at the end of the street, right at the edge of the woods and not far from the ravine, its nearest neighbor many blocks away.
The night entranced him, comforted him. In the night, his solitude melted into the anonymous glow of street lights, into the vacant gloom of shadowy laneways and back alleys.
He slowed in his flight, drawing to a halt beside a utility pole. He flattened his palm against it, catching his breath, regaining his balance. That wine he had bought for tonight, which was to be the night of nights but which had been an empty disappointment – what else could it have been, really? - had unbalanced him. His mind reeled with images and ideas that surged through him like electricity.
He looked about the deserted street. He was only a few blocks from that yawning pit of loneliness that was his house, lonely and desolate at the best of times – he had known no other home; he had inherited it from Mother when she had passed away four years ago – but even more so now thanks to Mina’s absence. He had wanted to invite her over to visit him, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it somehow. He was so shy with her, so shy with women, all he could ever do was watch her and watch them. He could never get more personal with them than a passing glance on the street or from across a coffee shop.
So, tonight, he’d pretended that he had had the guts to ask Mina to come over, had decided to throw a little party for himself with Mina as the imaginary guest of honor. He had sat at the dining room table that had been laid with Mother’s best china and cutlery, methodically drinking one glass after another of the expensive wine he had bought at the liquor store just for this wonderful occasion.
His throat tightened and he blinked to hold the tears back. He was turning thirty next week, far too old to be choked up like this.
He hadn’t even wept like this when Mother died.
At the end of the street stood a set of traffic lights; Smile’s coffee shop was right there. A sprint of a minute or two and he would be walking in the door. There was hope; she might still be there. He checked his watch. It was only ten-thirty. Her shift didn’t end for another hour at least. He would go there and see her and talk to her, convince her that she should date him.
But, he had to steady himself first. He braced himself against the utility pole. His breath came in short gasps. His heart raced. His white dress shirt, hours ago so crisp and tidily pressed - he’d actually laid out a few bucks to get it dry cleaned for tonight - now dripped with sweat and clung to him in the clammy, humid air of the August night like a sodden rag. He caught his breath and held it. He had no choice. He had to get to Smile’s and see Mina. He had to.
He lunged forward and made himself run the final blocks. Soon, he was across from the strip mall which housed the coffee shop. He stood behind a tree, away from the glow of the street lights.
He could see Mina in the window, mopping the floor by the entrance. She was in her tight-fitting orange and white uniform that clung to her curvy figure so enticingly, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was a year younger than he, she’d mentioned her age in passing one night, but the pony tail and her warm smile dissolved the years and made her seem like a fresh-faced college girl, identical to the ones he admired from afar when he was a janitor at Dorchester College, before Mother had died and he didn’t need to work anymore, because he had her inheritance…
Don’t let the memories run away with you, he thought. Look at what’s in front of you. Look at how beautiful she is and how she could be yours, if only you spoke to her the right way and stopped being such a nervous ass.
He took courage from the night that surrounded him, and crossed the street, looking directly at Mina through the window. She couldn’t see him, not yet, but that was all the better.
He pushed open the door and he was inside.
Mina saw him and smiled. “Good evening, Johnny. You look kind of warm.”
Tom smiled back as he sidled up to the counter, hoping he wasn’t staggering. Mina set aside her mop and followed him. “Yeah, been walking too fast. It’s real muggy out. You been busy tonight, Mina?”
“We had a bit of a crowd in here about an hour ago, bunch of kids heading out to the clubs, I guess. No one since, though. Pretty quiet.”
Johnny was glad his voice sounded clear. He didn’t seem to be slurring his words. “Gives you time to yourself to look after the place”
“Yeah,” she said shyly, her voice trailing off as she walked behind the counter.
He looked at the faded lit-up picture on the wall behind the counter of a china mug almost spilling over with steaming coffee. He remembered coming in here as a child with Mother years ago when the picture was bright and new. Now Mother was gone and the picture was fading away. He cursed himself. Don’t get all morbid. What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he just ask Mina out? She’d been here a year, she knew who he was. He wasn’t a stranger to her.
He watched Mina slide gracefully behind the counter, her bare, well-toned legs exposed from just above the knee by her orange skirt that fit just right, not too sexy, but not too plain either.
Johnny licked his lips appreciatively. He coughed and raised his hand to cover his mouth, hoping she hadn’t seen him. “Got a bit of a cold?” she asked.
“Think so.”
“That sucks. Not surprising though, with so much rain lately. Oh well, what can you do? You want your usual?”
“Large coffee with two creams.”
“You got it.”
He paid for his coffee and while he took it in his hand that trembled maybe a little too much, he glimpsed at Mina’s dark brown, almond-shaped eyes. She smiled warmly and for a moment, his eyes lingered over the glimpse of cleavage her blouse revealed.
Had she noticed him looking? Maybe that was why she was still smiling as he sat down at his usual table. He glanced back one more time at her. She was still looking, but her forehead creased with what looked like a frown. Was she angry with him? Best not to look her way again for a while.
He sipped his coffee. He looked at the cup in his hand. Rock steady. His tremor wasn’t so bad. Maybe he wasn’t as visibly drunk as he had feared.
Someone had left a newspaper on the table and he looked through it, occasionally sneaking peeks at Mina. She was no longer at the counter; she had returned to mopping the floor.
The front door opened and a young woman with long blonde hair swept in, a duffel bag in her hand.
“Hey, Erica! How you doing!” Mina shouted as the blonde woman smiled and waved a greeting as she hurried to the back of the store.
Erica worked the counter overnight. Johnny cursed to himself. Her arrival meant Mina’s shift was ending. Soon she would be going home. He would not talk with her again that night.
He would have no choice but to go out for one of his walks. He never used to take late night walks, but in the last month or so, they had become a real habit for him. He found they relaxed him and helped him sleep. They also helped him keep an eye on Mina. Now, that wasn’t the only reason he did them. He needed the exercise and the time to think, but it never hurt to make sure Mina got home okay and no one had disturbed her. He didn’t want to see any harm come to her and none had.
So far.
Upcoming Reviews on Hard Boiled Reads
Just a quick update to let you know that more reviews will be soon posted here. Future titles I'll be talking about include two new Hard Case Crime titles, Quarry's Ex, by Max Allan Collins and The Comsummta, an unfinished Mickey Spillane novel from the late 1960s completed by Collins, who was a close friend of Spillane. Also under consideration will be The Madman of Bergerac, a disappointing Maigret novel by Simenon and The Fifth Woman, a Kurt Wallander mystery by Henning Mankell.
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