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The satisfactions of most crime novels are principally atmospheric: the procedure is, most of the time, a?detail. Maigret hardly does any detecting, really; he just has his hunches, perhaps because even rudimentary research into police procedure would have slowed Simenon?down. The atmosphere of prewar Paris, though, was something he had soaked up thoroughly. Here we have a?wonderfully seedy city, with sordid bars, hired killers who kill?other hired killers, drugs (opium and heroin, mainly), and enormous amounts of rotgut alcohol. Everything occurs in a?blue fug of tobacco smoke, except when the weather's too bad even for Maigret to light his pipe.