Inspector Maigret should stay in France, preferable in Paris. I suppose over the course of 75 novels Maigret was bound to leave the country at least once, but I much prefer him when he is at home.
Certain books are associated with certain places–that becomes part of the fun, maybe part of the comfort, of reading them. Detective fiction is essentially escapist reading which makes the Parisian setting all the more valuable. Take away the setting results in a less satisfying read.
Still a pretty decent read, though.
Maigret in New York is something of a cross between the usual, dry witted police procedural readers of Simenon expect and a more free wheeling Dashiell Hammet type of tale. Maigret meets the Continental Op if you will. The plot gets lost and then gets lost again just as it’s about to be found. In the end Maigret goes home before we’ve found out exactly what was going on. He reaches a point where he doesn’t care anymore and leaves, generally sick of America anyway.
Which are the fun parts of the book, Maigret complaining about Americans and American culture. What makes this more fun is that he is complaining about 1930’s America when he could still escape into a theatre showing a Laurel and Hardy film.
Since I escape America of the 2010’s into Inspector Maigret novels, I enjoyed this one but with is was set in Paris.