By Georges Simenon
Set within the oppressively squalid streets of Paris, A Man's Head gains Simenon's famed detective as he tracks a killer at the run, whereas the writer's sharp prose inspires the ambience of Parisian luxurious lodges, seedy bars, and darkish alleys.
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Extra info for A Man's Head (Inspector Maigret, Book 5)
Some thieving whores would have made their move at that instant, but she stood quietly, watching me for a good five minutes, letting me, as she believed, fall into a deeper, more certain sleep until she was sure my repose would be uninterrupted. She then knelt before me and began unbuttoning my coat, her fingers nimbly reaching for the fob of my watch. Kate had a great talent, I noted with hesitant admiration, for she too had been drinking wine, but the spirits affected her not at all; her fingers dexterously danced about my middle, and I knew that if I did not act with haste I would be forced to demand the return of my watch along with Sir Owen’s pocketbook.
Did he mean to boast or to offer a warning? “I do have a further question,” I proceeded. “Sir Owen, may I ask why you do not seek out Mr. ” And he would no doubt be far more likely to return the goods with all haste, I added silently, for this whore was almost certainly in his employ, along with so many of London’s thieving whores. “Wild is a thief,” he said in a measured voice, “and everyone in London knows it—at least they know it if they are not fools. A man like you—I am certain you know it.
I shall make some discreet inquiries. ” I neither spoke nor moved, but Balfour took no notice, and within an instant he was gone from my rooms. For some time I remained motionless. I thought on what had transpired and what it might mean, and then I reached for the bottle of port. TWO MY BUSINESS IN those days was new—I had not quite two years’ experience and I still struggled to learn the secrets of my trade. I had fought my last pitched battle as a pugilist some five years earlier, when I was not more than three-and-twenty.