Marlowe is still the hardest of the hard boiled and Chandler was the best at this sort of thing. Not as good as his earlier novels or his short stories (the private dick plays best in the short format, The Goldfish being the best), this is still pretty good stuff. Urban fantasy of the forever flawed white night who cannot be turned, ever questing, meeting damsels and demons and rarely using his sword. This is not a mystery, Chandler's plots were so convoluted and sometimes made no sense at all, but mythic narratives masquerading as crime stories. Nobody really cares who killed who but only in the journey and that (most of) the bad guys get it in the end and the white knight remains the white knight no matter how many demons and temptations have to be overcome.