Edgar Wallace and
Merian C. Cooper
Novelization by
Delos W. Lovelace
KING KONG
Chapter One
Even in the obscuring twilight, and behind the lightly floating veil of snow, the Wanderer was clearly no more than a humble old tramp freighter. The most imaginative, the most romantic eye could have detected nowhere about her that lean grace, those sharply cleaving contours which the landsman looks for in a craft all set to embark upon a desperate adventure.
For the likes of her, the down-at-heels support of the Hoboken pier was plenty good enough. There, with others of her kind, she blended into the nondescript background of the unpretentious old town: she was camouflaged into a comfortable nonentity. There she was secure from any embarrassing comparison with the great lady-liners which lifted regal and immaculate prows into the shadows of skyscrapers on the distant, Manhattan side of the river.
Her crew knew that deep in her heart beat engines fit and able to push her blunt old nose ahead at a sweet fourteen knots, come Hell or high water. They knew too that surrounding her engines, and surrounding also that deep steel chamber which puzzled all of them and frightened not a few, was a staunch and solid hull. Landsmen, however, drawn to the waterfront by that nostalgia which ever so often stirs those whose lives are bound by little desks and brief commuter train rides, looked over her rusted, scaling flanks and sputtered ignorantly:
"Lord! They don't call that a sea-going craft, I hope!"
Weston, though he had taxied to the waterfront bent upon a business in which nostalgia had no part, said exactly that and drew back the hand which had been about to pass over the fare from Forty-second Street and Broadway. After all, if he had mistaken the pier, it would be a foolish extravagance to let this pirate on wheels knock down his flag and so gain the right to add an extra fifteen cents to the return charge.
Hanging tightly to his money, he lumbered out of the taxi with that short-winded dignity which marks the fat man of fifty-odd. In the same moment, an old watchman poked a cold red nose around the corner of a warehouse.
Weston hailed him:
"Hi, Cap! Is that the moving picture ship?"
Only after the cold red nose had bobbed assent did Weston pass over the cab fare, and even then there was a glint of suspicious doubt in his eye. Still hardly more than half satisfied that he had not mistaken the rendezvous, he scuffed through the light fall of snow to the Wanderer's gangway.
"'re you another one agoin' on this crazy voyage?" the old watchman demanded suddenly from the gloomy shadow of the warehouse.
"Crazy?" Weston swung around the more quickly because the adjective bolstered a conviction that had been growing in his own mind. "What's crazy about it?"
"Well, for one thing, the feller that's bossin' it."
"Denham?"
"That's him! A feller that if he wants a picture of a lion'll walk right up and tell it to look pleasant. If that ain't crazy, I want to know?"
Weston chuckled. That wasn't so far from his own estimate of the doughty director of the Wanderer's destinies.
"He's a tough egg, all right," he agreed. "But why the talk about this voyage being crazy?"
"Because it is, that's why."
The watchman emerged from his snug, protected niche the better to pursue the conversation.
"Everybody around the dock - and lemme tell you there're some smart men around here even if they ain't got such high and mighty jobs - everybody around the dock says it's crazy. Take the cargo this Denham's stowed away! There's stuff down there I can't believe yet, and I seen it go aboard with my own two eyes. And take the crew! It's three times too big for the ship. Why it'll take shoe horns to fit 'em all in!"
He paused but only for breath. Plainly he was prepared to bark out an interminable succession of charges against the Wanderer. Before he could re-open his critical barrage, however, a young authoritative voice put a permanent stop to it.
"Hey, on the gangway there! What do you want?"
Weston looked up toward the low deck rail amidship. Light streaming from a cabin astern and higher up outlined a figure; and in the illumination Weston felt sure, from Denham's descriptions, that he was seeing the Wanderer's personable first mate. There, unmistakably, was the long, young body Denham had praised. There were the reckless eyes, the full strong mouth. Weston, whose experiences had taught him to guard against spontaneous regard for any stranger, however personable, yielded for once to a swift liking. There, he admitted, was as pleasant a young fellow as a man could hope to meet - as any woman could hope to meet, he added, on second glance.
"What do you want?" the brisk demand came down a second time as Weston made his inspection.
"Want to come aboard, Mister Driscoll," Weston replied; and grown a little more cheerful because of his liking for the mate he began a cautious ascent of the wet and slippery gangway.
"Oh, you must be Weston."
"Broadway's one and only," Weston admitted. "Weston, the ace of theatrical agents, even if," he added as he began to puff a little from the ascent, "my wind is not what it used to be."
"Come aboard! Come aboard!" cried Driscoll. "Denham's wild to hear from you. Have you found the girl?"
In the darkness Weston's cheer evaporated. He made a wry face and said nothing, but followed Driscoll's springing stride aft and up a ladder to the lighted cabin.
This low inclosure was invitingly spick and span, but it was furnished with the spartan simplicity which characterizes womanless quarters. The sole decorations were a mirror on one wall and a well filled pipe rack on another, unless one counted an overcoat or two with attendant hats. For the rest there were only four chairs, an oblong table of the broad squat sort favored by men who like to spread out maps for studying, an open box containing black corrugated iron spheres larger than oranges but smaller than grapefruit, and a brightly polished brass cuspidor which stood close by a foot of one of the two men waiting in the cabin.
This man was lean, and of no more than middle height. Behind a heavy moustache, his hard jaw worked slowly upon a generous mouthful of plug cut. He was in vest and shirt-sleeves. Above these a captain's uniform cap lent an air of command, but this did not keep him from stepping definitely aside in order to leave the center of the stage to his companion.
His companion was just such a well tailored, well groomed man of thirty-five as you might run into at any stock broker's desk; although there you would rarely encounter such an air of solid power, of indomitable will. Bright brown eyes, shining with an unquenchable zest for the adventure of living, flashed toward Weston as he entered, and an impatient voice said without preliminary:
"Weston! I was just going ashore to ring you up."
"If I'd known that I'd have waited," Weston answered, eyeing his wet shoes.
"Shake hands with the Skipper, Captain Englehorn," Denham pushed on.
The man in the captain's cap, turning from a center shot into the bright cuspidor, held out a rough, thick hand and after it had been shaken moved the box of corrugated iron spheres to make more room at the table for Weston's chair.
"I take it you're already acquainted with Jack," Denham added, and as Weston nodded smilingly at Driscoll who smiled back, he went on, "Well! Then you've met a pair you'd never come across on Broadway, Old Man. Both of them were with me on my last two trips and I'll tell you if they weren't going on this one I'd think a long time before I started."
There fell that little restless silence which always burdens men upon whom extreme praise has been bestowed. Then Denham dropped into his chair and eyed the theatrical agent.
"Where's the girl, Weston?"
"Haven't got one."
"What!" Denham struck the table. "Look here, Wes
ton! The Actors' Equity and the Hays outfit have warned every girl I've tried to hire. And every agent but you has backed away. You're all I've got left. You know I'm square...."
"Everybody knows you're square," Weston grunted, breathing audibly. "But everybody knows, also, how reckless you are. And on top of that how can you hope to inspire confidence about this particular voyage when you're so secretive?"
"There's truth!" drawled Englehorn, and leaned down to his cuspidor.
"Absolutely!" cried Driscoll, rubbing his handsome young jaw. "Why not even the Skipper and the mate know where this old ship's going...."
"There you are!" Weston spread his palms up. "Think of my reputation, Denham. I can't send a young, pretty girl, or for that matter even a homely one if you'd have her, on a job like this without telling her what to expect."
"And what is she to expect?" Denham demanded.
"To go off for no one knows how long, to some spot you won't even hint at ... the only woman on a ship that carries the toughest mugs my wise old Broadway eyes ever looked up and down."
As the other three grinned the agent added hastily, "Of course I mean the crew."
"Weston!" Denham's fist crashed onto the table again. "I'm going out to do the biggest thing in my life and I've got to have that girl."
"You never had a woman in any of your other pictures. Why do you want one for this?"
"Hell's Bells! You don't think I'm consulting my own preference, I hope."
"Then, why ..."
"Why? The Public's why! My blessed Public must have a pretty girl's face. Romance isn't romance, adventure is as dull as dishwater ... to my Public ... unless, every so often, a face to sink a thousand ships, or is it saps? shows up. Imagine! I slave, I sweat blood to make a fine picture. And then the Public says: 'We'd have liked it twice as much if there'd been a girl in it.' And the exhibitors say: 'If he'd given us a real love interest, the picture would have grossed twice as much.'
"All right!" Denham's fist hit the table one last, decisive thump. "They want a girl. I'll give them a girl."
The dark declaration of the old watchman returned to Weston. Denham wasn't, of course, crazy. But just the same his present plan was not one a theatrical agent who cared for his reputation ought to help along.
"Sorry!" he said, and picked up his hat. "I don't believe there's anything I can do for you."
"You've got to do a lot," Denham said, "and in a hurry. We have to sail on the morning tide. We must be out of here by daylight."
"Why?"
"I guess it won't do any harm to tell you now," Denham decided irritably. "We're carrying explosives. And the insurance company has found out. If we don't get away on the jump a marshal's deputy will be on our necks. And then there'll be a legal row and we'll be tied up for months."
His mood changed suddenly, and going over to the box that Englehorn had pushed aside he picked up one of the iron spheres. He looked at it with a proud, possessive grin.
"Far be it from me," he said, "to tell you, Weston, that any girl you'd find for me would meet with no danger on this expedition. Of course there'll be a little now and then. Maybe," he conceded with a broader grin, "more than a little. But take this from me! So long as we have a couple of these handy, nothing very serious can happen."
"What have you got there?"
"Gas bombs, Old Man! My own prescription. Or perhaps I should say my own improvement upon standard models. Gas bombs powerful enough to knock a row of elephants for a loop."
"W-What?" Weston stammered. "Denham, everything I hear makes me like this business less. I'm beginning to be glad I didn't find you a girl."
"Don't be like the insurance company," Denham said scornfully. "Don't worry about a little explosive. There's no more harm in these than in so many lollypops as long as they are handled by men who understand their little ways - men like Jack there, or the Skipper, or myself. The truth is, Weston, plain rain and the monsoon season are likely to cause us a lot more trouble and danger."
"M-Monsoons!"
"Sure! They're another reason why I've got to get my girl and start instanter. I can, of course, trust the Skipper to take the Wanderer through a blow; and Jack, too!" Denham paused for an affectionate slap at Driscoll's broad back. "But the monsoons bring rain, and rain ruins an outdoor picture. It wastes months, wastes money, and leaves a man with nothing to show for all his work."
"M-Monsoons! G-Gas bombs!" Weston was still stuttering. "By George! You make me feel like a potential murderer." He clapped his hat firmly onto his round head and reached for the doorknob. "Denham, you'll get no girl through me."
"What?"
"I mean it."
"You do, eh! Well, then I'll get one without you."
For so stocky and solid a man, Denham jerked an overcoat from one hook, a hat from another, with amazing speed.
"If you think I'm going to quit, just because you won't find me a girl with backbone ..."
He thrust Weston's plump bulk aside and jerked open the door.
"... I'm going to make the greatest picture in the world. Something that's never been seen; never even dreamed of. They'll have to invent new adjectives when I come back. You wait!"
The door jerked shut.
"Where are you going?" Englehorn cried.
Denham's indomitable voice floated back as the sound of his footsteps moved steadily down the ladder and to the gangway.
"I'm going out to find a girl for my picture. I'm going to bring one back ... if I have to kidnap her."
Inside the cabin Weston buttoned up his own overcoat, staring the while at Driscoll and Englehorn. He was more glad than ever that he had kept clear of the whole crazy mess. Crazy, he decided, was exactly the right word. The old watchman had been a lot more than half right.
Driscoll began to laugh.
"Bet you," he offered Englehorn, "that Denham gets his girl."
"I don't take the bet," said Englehorn, chewing calmly.
Driscoll turned to Weston, still laughing, white teeth flashing in his tanned face.
"He'd have the nerve to tell me to marry her if he decided the scenario called for it," he said. "Can I light you down to your cab?"
Chapter Two
Denham was searching for a face. Jostling through the Broadway theater-hour crowds he waited, watched, and every once in a while swore impatiently under his breath because some especially promising countenance proved commonplace upon a second glance.
He concentrated upon faces, excluding all other details. With eyes closed to slits, like camera lenses, he caught, and poised for inspection, and discarded countless faces among the drifting hosts. Bold faces, frightened faces, sullen faces, inviting faces, pouting faces, expectant faces, painted faces, sordid faces, hard faces, indifferent faces. But nowhere did he discover a face which cried out: "Here I am. The one you are seeking."
Even Denham's resolute will was not proof against such unfailing failure. In the end, with a headshake which was close to despair and was certainly the very peak of bitter disappointment, he turned downtown. Tramping with gloomy determination he left the bright incandescence of Times Square and hunted through the canyon of the lower avenue. Faces in murky doorways. Faces on street corners. Faces on park benches. Faces in bread lines. Faces in automobiles. Faces in street cars. Neat faces. Soiled faces. Sad faces. Gay faces. But never a face which would gleam, like a candle flame, in the picture he was so sure would be the greatest picture in the world.
Denham found he had circled back. Madison Square's benches, and the faint but persisting eternal light above them, were behind him. He had combed Fifth Avenue, Park Avenue, swagger, intimate Fifty-seventh Street. Now, in the dreary upper west Forties, he was drifting down again toward the Broadway crowds beginning to boil out of a hundred theaters and motion-picture palaces.
Reluctant to face the certainty of renewed failure among these, he decided to loiter over a cigarette. He found his case empty, so he stopped at a little sidewalk shop; and in the ensuing weeks he was mov
ed every once in a while gravely to shake hands with himself over the good luck which had caused him to do this. It was a very little shop, hardly even a full grown booth. It was scarcely large enough for the swarthy unshaved proprietor and the more perishable part of his stock in trade. It was so small that a durable exhibit of apples had to be displayed on a stand alongside.
Upon the apples the swarthy proprietor kept a suspicious eye even while he sold Denham the cigarettes. The apples were within Denham's vision too. And, actually, it was he who first saw what happened.
A girl came softly up to the apple stand and reaching out a slim white hand began to close it slowly and hungrily about the red fruit.
Denham saw it first: the swarthy proprietor, however, was only the briefest glance behind, and as his customer tore open a fresh pack of cigarettes, he went through the booth's door roaring.
"Ah-ha! So I catch you. You stealer! Ho! Ho!" He seized the girl's wrist "No, no, you don't run. Hey! Where is-a da cop?"
"No!" The girl cried and pulled weakly away. "Please let me go. I didn't take anything. I wanted to but I didn't."
"Every hour somebody steal. Me! I've had enough. Hey! Mister Cop!"
"Shut up!" Denham ordered. "The girl's telling the truth. She'd got her hand off your rotten apple before ever you started out. She wasn't going to steal anything."
"I wasn't. Truly, I wasn't."
"Here, Socrates," Denham commanded with finality, "take this dollar and forget it."
The dollar completely reversed the swarthy proprietor's point of view. He seized it, dropped the girl's wrist and trotted back into his booth streaming thanks behind him.
So unexpectedly freed, the girl would have collapsed had not Denham flung an arm about her shoulders. Her head fell back. The booth's single electric bulb streamed light full upon it and for the first time a clear view of her face was possible. Denham looked. He looked again, and the eyes that had been so long half closed, opened wide. Still again he looked; then he laughed and squaring his shoulders triumphantly threw up a signalling hand.
King Kong (1932) Page 1