My intro to the French Sherlock Holmes and I will definitely read more. The Paris of the book feels messy and grey and the inspector is refreshingly human.

Instead of being a super-genius, Maigret is just some guy slowly figuring out the case with plenty of reassessment, mistakes, and double checking of details. Plus the constant references to the Parisian streets and the french lifestyle (you better believe he's going home for lunch) builds this visceral feeling you don't get with Sherlock.

Don't know if it's because of the original author or the translator but the writing itself isn't anything special. To be fair as a Le Carré fanboi I might have impossibly high standards.

It's also a short read, which adds to the pulpy feeling of the experience.