The Scarlet Impostor

When it comes to authors of espionage thrillers, Dennis Wheatley is a far worse writer than Frederick Forsyth. Far, far worse. However I keep getting drawn back to Wheatley, and doubt I'll ever pick up another Forsyth. The conclusion I've come to is that Wheatley is so bad he's good, whereas Forsyth is just bad. Wheatley's dialogue is excruciating. He wears his politics and his prejudices loudly on his sleeve, and his books are peppered with bigoted howlers. There's a lot of tell and not much show. But the plot maintains a furious pace, and it is tightly constructed with surprisingly few holes. Wheatley makes good use of his historical setting, and the detail can be very interesting. There's a cartoon quality about the book that makes you forgive the excesses and omissions. In fact, like every Wheatley I've read so far, The Scarlet Impostor doesn't in the least seem to take itself seriously, and that might just be the key to Wheatley's attraction. Have a chuckle at all the cliches - the perverted Nazis, the vicious Gestapo officers, the gallant Frenchies. Give way to your inner English snob. Cheer for Gregory! Hooray for Sir Pellinore! Sigh at the beautiful Erika. Enjoy the ride.