If you love the 'hard boiled dick' dimestore pulp genre (like Dashiell Hammet, Allan Pinkerton, etc), you'd probably consider reading Raymond Chandler.

Except Chandler isn't a dimestore pulp writer. He's a pretentious former oil executive who considers himself 'slumming'. It shows in the terrible writing.

Pinkerton was an actual detective. He wrote what he knew. Hammet was a Pinkerton man.

Chandler's contrived and ridiculous stories are based on reading other people's stories. His narratives are rambling, pointlessly misogynistic and racist, and completely shorn of any actual work on the main character's part.

In the Big Sleep his protagonist Marlowe does little more than drunk driving, drunk loitering, drunk tailing of people, acting like a tough guy, being a jerk to cops who are super super nice to him for no obvious reason, and falls into lucky outcomes. At one point, he gives a guy the 1930s equivalent of $3,500 (2/5th of his ~$9,000 bonus check for a week's work) for information totally unrelated to his case... just because?
Good thing, too, because without that highly overpaid tip, the completely absurd plot wouldn't tie up so nicely.

Honestly, if you like the genre, Chandler is one of the larger names. Just be aware that you're in for a ride-along with someone who is basically just writing fanfic of better, more interesting stories.