A case literally up in smokes… Private Detective Nat Craig has been working with The Globe for quite some time. In return for telling him about cases, he sneaks about the crime scene and tells them the kind of information that only a policeman would know. It’s win-win for everyone. Recently, a fire occurred at a derelict factory in Shoreditch. Though Scotland Yard has been hush-hush, Craig’s sure there’s a whiff of arson about them. But just as he’s about to investigate, the Globe has a new and urgent case for him. A girl, Lucy Evans, has been found murdered at a flat on Maida Vale. Strangled in her own room. According to neighbours, they’d heard someone come over – a boyfriend perhaps. There was an argument and he left. Clearly, whoever this man was, he must have been the murderer. As expected, Inspector Marraby is being silent on the matter – even if he does tolerate Craig’s presence at the crime scene. However, they find a note written by Lucy, in which it suggests that she was blackmailing the man into marrying her. But who was the man – the likely murderer? The only other clue is a coat button. To Craig, it seems strangely familiar. Then he remembers that one Jeffery Brooks had a missing button on his coat. He and his secretary Simone had met Mr. Brooks at Café Rouge, the night before his marriage to Helen March and the murder of Lucy Evans. They seemed a doting couple – although when Mr. Brooks had to leave early, Helen had seemed very worried… Even if he hadn’t murdered Lucy Evans, what had he been doing at her flat? Or was the button just coincidence? Meanwhile, the spate of factories been burnt down hasn’t stopped. And Craig figures it’s nothing but an insurance scam. After all, they seem to all have the same insurance company. And who should work for that same company but Jeff Brooks… It seems both cases run deeper than Craig has ever imagined. The Crooked Straight is thrilling mystery novel, full of twist and unexpected turns. ‘Thrilling, perplexing, and immensely enjoyable’ Thomas Waugh Ernest Dudley ran away from home at seventeen to become an actor in a Shakespearean troop, where he would later meet his future wife on the set of Peter Pan. Dudley then turned his attention to writing, first as a journalist, then as a writer for radio, television and film, before embarking on historical and detective novel writing. He was a founding member of the Crime Writers Association, and a marathon runner well into old age.
Author
Born Vivian Ernest Coltman-Allen was born in Dudley near Wolverhampton, England but he grew up in Cookham, Berkshire where his father owned a public house and he was educated at Taplow School, which was run by nuns. The artist Stanley Spencer lived next door to Ernest and his friends included writers and actors such as Ivor Novello and Jack Buchanan and it was the latter who steered young Ernest toward acting (in later life Ernest was to write a stage show for him.) At 17 Ernest ran away to become an actor, joining a company performing Shakespeare in various Irish towns. Ernest was later to say he only went into the theatre to meet girls and in 1930 he married Jane Grahame, who for several years played one of the Lost Boys in 'Peter Pan'. Jane's connections propelled Ernest to the West End, where his good looks secured him juvenile roles: he shared stages with Charles Laughton, Madeleine Carroll and Fay Compton. And Jane and Ernest took the leads in the first British touring production of Noel Coward's 'Private Lives' by which time their only child, a daughter named Susan, had been born. Considering himself only a mediocre actor he moved into journalism and as "Charles Ton", a 'Daily Mail' showbusiness gossip columnist, he frequented the Embassy and the Café de Paris, where he got to know many Soho people and even met Fred Astaire when he was starring in 'The Gay Divorcee' at the Palace Theatre. He later covered boxing for 'The People' and then his first novel 'Mr Walker Wants to Know' (1939) came along; it was a spin-off from a radio series he scripted. He also wrote scripts for Twentieth Century Fox and British International Pictures, but by the outbreak of war he and Jane were working fulltime on live weekly shows for BBC Light Entertainment.. He was not considered fit enough for active service so he continued to work for the BBC before, in 1942 his famous creation, the sinister and sarcastic Dr Morelle, debuted on the magazine-cum-anthology show Monday Night at Eight. His first Dr Morelle novel, 'Meet Dr Morelle' followed in 1943', the first of 15 novels starring the doctor, who it was said was based on film actor and director Erich von Stroheim, whom Ernest had met briefly in Paris in the 1930s. With his secretary Miss Frayle - a part written specially for Jane - Dr Morelle featured in novels, short stories, a film - 'The Case of the Missing Heiress' (1949), a play and three radio serials. In 1942 Ernest also got his own hugely popular 'Armchair Detective' series, and in 1952 came a film of the Armchair Detective, featuring Ernest. Ernest crossed easily to television and in the late 1950s came Judge for Yourself - trials where the audience was the jury. Historical and detective novels were followed by works such as 'Confessions of a Special Agent' (1957), featuring the exploits of Jack Evans; 'The Gilded Lillie' (1958), a biography of Lillie Langtry; and 'Monsters of the Purple Twilight', (1960) a history of the Zeppelin. Then he started on true stories of various animals. Amazingly, in his late 60s Ernest took up marathon running, which, he claimed, helped with his depression. He ran four in London, two in New York and his book 'Run for Your Life' (1985) described these experiences and his training methods. It is said that he was still jogging in Regents Park as late as 2005! He was a lifetime member of Equity, and he was a founder member of the Crime Writers Association in the 1950s. In his mid-90s his career was revitalised by a new agent, and American and Canadian publishers were reprinting his work of the 1950s and 60s. He was also working on a new book - 'Dr Morelle and the LapDancer' - which subsequently did not materialise. Apparently he was a shy man and he was happy alone (his wife Jane died in 1981) in his tiny, book-littered Marylebone flat. He had not a single comfortable armchair but had two desks, 70 years' worth of diaries and lots of pictures (several his own work), many
