The second Simenon I've read, after The Man Who Watches Trains Go By, and probably the last.

I've begun to formulate a theory that Simenon himself is actually a fake author created to parody European sensibilities. In both of the novels I've read, he starts with a killer setup, then meanders around, delving into subplots that tie into the main thread only tangentially. Like Dostoevsky, Simenon seems to enjoy plumbing the depths of his characters' psyches, but unlike Dostoevsky, the characters he creates are cardboard cutouts. "But it's noir!" William Vollman (who wrote the afterword to this novel) exclaims. Yes, it's noir, but noir is more than tone and recurring motif. It excels in shades of grey, and Simenon's work has none.

The most interesting thing about this novel is its setting - a very authentic portrayal of a country under occupation, inspired by the occupation of France during WWII. Beyond that? The juice ain't worth the squeeze.