It is a spectacular literary achievement to invent a truly original type of story. Most of what is admired in detective fiction are variations on a theme conceived by Edgar Allan Poe — remarkably, in a single short story, “Murders in the Rue Morgue” — a manifestation of a certain genius never equaled since.

Several of the most brilliant writers of the 20th century, illustrated by the fact that their novels have never gone out of print and are read as eagerly today as when they were first published, are crime writers. Dashiell Hammett, James M. Cain, Raymond Chandler, and Ross Macdonald, even with the difficult plot constraints of genre fiction, have produced examinations of the often complex workings of the human psyche with clarity and insight every bit as profound and intellectually sound as their more acclaimed “literary” peers.

Today’s writers for the ages do the same. James Crumley, Michael Connelly, Robert B. Parker, Dennis Lehane, George Pelecanos, and a few others dig deep to explore both the darkest and most noble elements of the human condition, while maintaining the integrity of the mystery story.

All these giants of the past and present have elevated an existing genre. Their characters may be unlike any you have encountered before, plot twists may be original, and they may reach a stylistic level so exalted that you are compelled to reread sections and quote them aloud to others.

Having said all that, it took the underappreciated William Hjortsberg to produce the single most original private eye novel ever written. “Falling Angel” (Millipede Press, 302 pages, $14) is not necessarily the best, mind you, but it is unique, and how many authors can say that?

This little masterpiece was originally published in 1978 and has just been reissued in a handsome and generous trade paperback edition that includes an introduction by Mr. Crumley, a foreword by Ridley Scott, an afterword by Mr. Hjortsberg, and a terrific short story that will remind readers of the classic “Haircut” by Ring Lardner.

This magical tale opens in an utterly conventional manner when a nickel-and-dime private eye, Harry Angel, is asked to meet an elegant prospective client, Mr. Cyphre, who wants him to locate a man who has been missing for 15 years. Johnny Favorite (real name: Jonathan Liebling) was a young singer who enjoyed a meteoric rise to stardom only to see it cut short by being drafted into the army during World War II. Badly wounded, he was sent home an amnesiac, apparently confined to a sanitarium forever. When Mr. Cyphre tried to see him, he was given the runaround by the hospital, so he hires Angel to clarify the situation.

It comes as no surprise that when Angel arrives at the hospital, Favorite isn’t there and, moreover, hasn’t been for 15 years. Given an unlimited expense account and however much time is required, the private detective’s search for the missing crooner begins in earnest.

The novel is set entirely in the New York of 1959, with scenes in such iconic locations as the Chrysler Building, Central Park, and Coney Island.

Angel encounters a lush cast of characters as he diligently pursues every clue, no matter how minuscule. An old jazz musician, in spite of his happy, laughing demeanor, clearly is hiding something. So is the beautiful young woman who runs a shop selling herbs and potions that appear to be used in voodoo and obeah ceremonies. And there are no straight answers at all from the astrologist who had once known Favorite.

It’s difficult to say more without tipping off too much. Much like when Alfred Hitchcock’s “Psycho” was released with a heavy advertising campaign pleading with viewers not to disclose the ending, “Falling Angel” has a revelation so astonishing that if anyone tries to tell it to you, you would be acquitted for justifiable homicide if you permanently shut up the blabbermouth

If you saw the first-rate movie based on this book, “Angel Heart,” you pretty much know what to expect. The major difference between the two works of art is that the film shifted much of the activity to New Orleans, presumably for greater verisimilitude in the voodoo scene, and the inevitably richer character development of the novel.

A new little publishing company, Millipede Press, released this worthy title, and it is to be congratulated. There are some bright editorial minds at work out there in Lakewood, Colo., as they have also reissued “Here Comes a Candle” (297 pages, $14) by the too-neglected Fredric Brown, one of the writers of the 1940s, ’50s, and ’60s who helped make me a mystery addict — an opinion shared by Mickey Spillane, who wrote: “Fredric Brown is my all-time favorite writer.”

As often with Brown’s novels, there is an undertone of humor, even when violence is in the air. Here, the book begins with a brief history of Joe Bailey’s life, from the time of his conception (on which “he was not consulted”) until he was 19.

And that, in a general sort of way, is everything that had happened to Joe Bailey, up to August 26, 1948. That’s as good a starting place as any. It’s the day Joe met the girl he was going to kill.

While “Here Comes a Candle” is not the best book by Brown (that would be “Night of the Jabberwock,” though “The Screaming Mimi” and “The Deep End” are also memorable, and “The Fabulous Clipjoint” won the Edgar for Best First Novel), it is among the best, so you should treat yourself to a copy.

The title may not make much sense unless you know the nursery rhyme couplet from which it derives:

Here comes a candle to light you to bed
And here comes a chopper to chop off your head.

Pleasant dreams.

Mr. Penzler is the proprietor of the Mysterious Bookshop in Manhattan and the series editor of the annual “Best American Mystery Stories.” He can be reached at ottopenzler@mysteriousbookshop.com.