The killing of an Algerian singer in 1988 kicks off Saïd Khatibi's intricate novel "The End of the Sahara" (Bitter Lemon, 330 pages, $17.95). Zakia Zaghouani, 24, had been employed at the Sahara Hotel, a tourist destination in an unnamed Algerian city. Her battered body is found outside town by a shepherd named Achour Hadeeri, one of several characters who alternately narrate this dense tale translated from the Arabic by Alexander E. Elinson.
Another is Inspector Hamid, a much-feared police chief nicknamed the Scorpion. Hamid had benefited from confidential information Zakia fed him about the wealthy patrons who flocked to see her at the Sahara. Was she murdered by one of the Scorpion's enemies as a warning to him? Suspicion also falls on the married owner of the Sahara, who was secretly in love with Zakia, and the dead woman's boyfriend, who is arrested on evidence of a threatening letter supposedly written by him.
The book's characters relate their stories in discrete sections that peel back time, revealing shocking secrets and meriting re-evaluation. The collective melodrama plays out against a background of deteriorating social conditions and political unrest. Food, water and medicine grow scarce, and everyone seems constrained by fate and history. "My existence," concludes a minor figure who proves to be anything but insignificant, "was nothing more than a drawing in the sand obliterated by the wind." Mr. Khatibi's book is cinematic, kaleidoscopic and tragic -- a splendid achievement.
Georges Simenon (1903-89), the creator of Inspector Jules Maigret of the Parisian police, also wrote several stand-alone works that are among the best psychological novels of the 20th century. One such is 1948's "The Snow Was Dirty" (Picador, 304 pages, $17), a newly reissued tale (translated from the French by Howard Curtis) that presents an ultranoir narrative with existential themes worthy of Camus, Sartre or Kafka.
The book's protagonist is Frank Friedmaier, a 19-year-old resident of an unidentified country ruled by foreign occupiers. Frank is a lowlife antihero for the ages. The son of a prostitute-turned-madam, he lives in his mother's shabby bordello and takes carnal turns with her employees. At night, Frank haunts a louche cafe that caters to petty crooks. Coming of age in this seamy milieu has given him a cynical worldview and a preternatural calm. "Everyone has something on everyone else," he concludes. "The only reason you don't betray other people is for fear of being betrayed by them."
When a chum loans him a switchblade, Frank reasons that "he would have to kill someone sooner or later." He stabs a drunken military officer and steals his revolver, which he also puts to criminal use. Later he fastens his attentions on an unthreatening neighbor and his daughter, who has a crush on Frank. He entertains fantasies of becoming a member of this family yet executes a wicked prank that humiliates and traumatizes his admirer.
Never fear: This sociopath receives his karmic comeuppance. Frank is seized, interrogated and beaten by military functionaries who seem to already know everything he has to tell. Caught in a web of bureaucratic intrigue, he wrestles with matters of maturity, morality, conscience and redemption he has long evaded. In the book's transformative final section, Frank, with the help of those he harmed, achieves an extraordinary reconciliation with his past.
Graham Sanderson, the retired Washington, D.C., homicide detective who narrates David Swinson's "From the Dust" (Mulholland, 320 pages, $30), is certain his days as a cop are over. After the recent deaths of his wife and father, he moves back to the family home in rural New York state to keep his younger brother, Tommy, company. But two stabbing deaths in quick succession prompt the local police chief to ask the newcomer for help. Graham is troubled to learn that Tommy was acquainted with both victims. Is that the way things are in a small town? Or does the taciturn Tommy know more than he's telling?
Mr. Swinson, himself a former police detective, isn't a flashy writer. He keeps readers engrossed by methodically recounting the specifics of police work, including obtaining warrants and interrogating witnesses. Graham does his best to remain objective, but his brother's distanced attitude—and a third victim of an apparent serial killer—make it hard for him to do so. "I felt like a jinx," he admits. "Three bodies in a row. . . . What a way to be welcomed to a new town."
In counterpoint to the expanding mystery, much of which revolves around a seedy bar named the Birdhouse, is Graham's cautious courting of the proprietress of a popular bakery. Graham meanwhile tries to process his lingering grief with the help of a local pastor. A surprise-filled interrogation scene brings this absorbing and accessible book to its affecting conclusion.