One by one the lighted windows went dark. The silhouette of the dead man could still be seen through the frosted glass like a Chinese shadow puppet. A taxi pulled up. It wasn't the public prosecutor yet. A young woman crossed the courtyard with hurried steps, leaving a whiff of perfume in her wake.

Praise for Georges Simenon:“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.” —The Guardian “These Maigret books are as timeless as Paris itself.” —The Washington Post “The matchless French crime novelist.” —Adam Gopnik, The New Yorker “Maigret ranks with Holmes and Poirot in the pantheon of fictional detective immortals.” —People “I love reading Simenon. He makes me think of Chekhov.” —William Faulkner “An astute observer of human nature, writing in a spare and vivid style.” —Amor Towles“I never read contemporary fiction–with one exception: the works of Simenon.” —T.S. Eliot “A writer as comfortable with reality as with fiction, with passion as with reason.” —John Le Carré “One of the most important writers of our century.” —Gabriel García Márquez “A favorite writer of mine.” —Sigrid Nunez“A great writer of detail, of atmosphere.” —Leïla Slimani“Feels incredibly modern…A great writer.” —Ian Rankin “The greatest of all, the most genuine novelist we have had in literature.” —André Gide “A supreme writer . . . Unforgettable vividness.” —The Independent (London) “Superb . . . The most addictive of writers . . . A unique teller of tales.” —The Observer (London) “Compelling, remorseless, brilliant.” —John Gray “A truly wonderful writer . . . Marvelously readable—lucid, simple, absolutely in tune with the world he creates.” —Muriel Spark “A novelist who entered his fictional world as if he were a part of it.” —Peter Ackroyd “Extraordinary masterpieces of the twentieth century.” —John Banville"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" ―Times (London)"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"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." ―Financial Times"Gripping . . . richly rewarding . . . You'll quickly find yourself obsessing about his life as you tackle each mystery in turn." ―Stig Abell, The Sunday Times (London)

One by one the lighted windows went dark. The silhouette of the dead man could still be seen through the frosted glass like a Chinese shadow puppet . . . A young woman crossed the courtyard with hurried steps, leaving a whiff of perfume in her wake.

Georges Simenon   THE SHADOW PUPPET Translated by Ros Schwartz PENGUIN BOOKS Published by the Penguin Group Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) Penguin Group (Australia), 707 Collins Street, Melbourne, Victoria 3008, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, Block D, Rosebank Office Park, 181 Jan Smuts Avenue, Parktown North, Gauteng 2193, South Africa Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England www.penguin.com First published in French as L’ombre chinoise by Fayard 1932This translation first published 2014 Copyright 1932 by Georges Simenon LimitedTranslation copyright © Ros Schwartz, 2014GEORGES SIMENON ® Simenon.tmMAIGRET ® Georges Simenon LimitedAll rights reserved © Harry Gruyaert /Magnum PhotosFront cover design by Alceu Chiesorin Nunes The moral rights of the author and translator have been asserted Typeset by Palimpsest Book Production Ltd, Falkirk, Stirlingshire ISBN: 978-0-698-18388-9 Title Page Copyright About the Author 1. The Shadow Puppet 2. A Good Man 3. The Couple at Hôtel Pigalle 4. The Second-Floor Window 5. The Madwoman 6. A Raging Fever 7. The Three Women 8. The Home Nurse 9. The Man with the Pension 10. Identity Cards 11. The Drawing on the Wall EXTRA: Chapter 1 from The Saint-Fiacre Affair PENGUIN CLASSICS THE SHADOW PUPPET ‘I love reading Simenon. He makes me think of Chekhov’ – William Faulkner ‘A truly wonderful writer … marvellously readable – lucid, simple, absolutely in tune with the world he creates’ – Muriel Spark ‘Few writers have ever conveyed with such a sure touch, the bleakness of human life’ – A. N. Wilson ‘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’ – Guardian ‘A novelist who entered his fictional world as if he were part of it’ – Peter Ackroyd ‘The greatest of all, the most genuine novelist we have had in literature’ – André Gide ‘Superb … The most addictive of writers … A unique teller of tales’ – Observer ‘The mysteries of the human personality are revealed in all their disconcerting complexity’ – Anita Brookner ‘A writer who, more than any other crime novelist, combined a high literary reputation with popular appeal’ – P. D. James ‘A supreme writer … Unforgettable vividness’ – Independent ‘Compelling, remorseless, brilliant’ – John Gray ‘Extraordinary masterpieces of the twentieth century’ – John Banville ABOUT THE AUTHOR Georges 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. Simenon always resisted identifying himself with his famous literary character, but acknowledged that they shared an important characteristic: My 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’. Penguin is publishing the entire series of Maigret novels. 1. The Shadow Puppet It was ten p.m. The iron gates of the public garden were locked and Place des Vosges was empty. Glistening tyre tracks on the asphalt, the continuous play of the fountains, leafless trees and the regular shapes of identical rooftops silhouetted against the sky. There were few lights under the splendid arcades encircling the square. Only three or four shops. Inspector Maigret could see a family eating inside one of them, cluttered with beaded funeral wreaths. He was trying to read the numbers above the doors, but he had barely passed the wreath shop when a diminutive form stepped out of the shadows. ‘Is it you I just telephoned?’ She must have been watching out for a long time. Despite the November cold, she had not slipped on a coat over her apron. Her nose was red, her eyes anxious. Less than 400 metres away, on the corner of Rue de Béarn, a uniformed police officer stood guard. ‘Didn’t you inform him?’ grumbled Maigret. ‘No! Because of Madame de Saint-Marc, who’s about to give birth … Oh look! There’s the doctor’s car, he was asked to come straight away.’ There were three cars drawn up alongside the pavement, headlamps on, red rear lights. The sky, with its drifting clouds against a moonlit backdrop, had an ambiguous paleness. It felt as if the first snows were in the air. The concierge turned under the archway at the building’s entrance, from which hung a twenty-five-candlepower bulb covered in a film of dust. ‘Let me explain. This is the courtyard – you have to cross it to get to all parts of the building, except for the two shops. This is my lodge on the left. Take no notice, I didn’t have time to put the children to bed.’ There were two of them, a boy and a girl, in the untidy kitchen. But the concierge didn’t go inside. She pointed to a long building, at the far end of the vast and beautifully proportioned courtyard. ‘It’s there. You’ll see.’ Maigret was intrigued by this curious little woman, whose restless hands betrayed her febrility. ‘There’s someone on the phone asking for a detective chief inspector!’ he had been told earlier at Quai des Orfèvres. The voice on the other end was muffled. Several times he had repeated, ‘Please speak up, I can’t hear you.’ ‘I can’t. I’m calling you from the tobacconist’s. So—’ And a garbled message followed. ‘You must come to 61, Place des Vosges right away … Yes … I think it’s a murder, but don’t tell anyone yet!’ And now the concierge was pointing at the tall first-floor windows. Behind the curtains, shadows could be seen coming and going. ‘It’s up there.’ ‘The murder?’ ‘No! Madame de Saint-Marc who’s giving birth … Her first … She’s not very strong. You understand?’ And the courtyard was even darker than Place des Vosges. It was illuminated by a single lamp on the wall. A staircase could just be made out on the other side of a glazed door, and there was the occasional lighted window. ‘What about the murder?’ ‘I’m coming to that! Couchet’s workers left at six o’clock—’ ‘Wait a moment. What is Couchet?’ ‘The building at the far end. A laboratory where they make serums. You must have heard of Doctor Rivière’s Serums.’ ‘And that lighted window?’ ‘Wait. Today’s the 30th, so Monsieur Couchet was there. He’s in the habit of staying behind on his own after the offices have closed. I saw him through the window, sitting in his armchair. Look—’ A window with frosted-glass panes. A strange shadow, like that of a man slumped forward on his desk. ‘Is that him?’ ‘Yes. Around eight o’clock, when I was emptying my rubbish bin, I glanced over in that direction. He was writing. You could clearly see the penholder or pencil in his hand.’ ‘What time did the murder—’ ‘Just a minute! I went upstairs to see how Madame de Saint-Marc was doing. I glanced over again when I came back down, and there he was, as he is now. Actually I thought he’d dozed off.’ Maigret was beginning to lose patience. ‘Then, fifteen minutes later—’ ‘Yes! He was still in the same position! Get to the point.’ ‘That’s all. I decided to check. I knocked on the office door. There was no answer so I went in. He’s dead. There’s blood everywhere.’ ‘Why didn’t you go to the police? The police station is round the corner, in Rue de Béarn.’