King Kong (1932)

by Delos W. Lovelace

  "That was fine," Denham said, and nodded permission to relax. "Now I'm going to try a filter."

  "Do you always take the pictures yourself?" Ann asked as he began expertly to change lenses.

  "Ever since my African picture. We were getting a grand shot of a charging rhino when the cameraman got scared and bolted. The fathead! As if I wasn't right there with a rifle. He didn't trust me to get the rhino before it got him. So I haven't fooled with cameramen since. I do the trick myself."

  Englehorn, chewing in a methodical placidity, came over to join Driscoll whose brows were knit in a faint frown.

  "What's the trouble, Jack?"

  "He's got me going," the mate replied. "All this mystery ..."

  "We've done well enough on two trips," Englehorn reminded him. "He'll bring us through this one all right."

  "But with a woman aboard, it's different."

  "That's his business," Englehorn answered indisputably.

  "Let's go, Ann!" Denham commanded. "Stand over there. When I start to crank, look up slowly. You're quite calm. Don't expect to see anything. Right? Camera!"

  A swift excitement transmitted itself to every watcher as Denham began to turn. He was, for his own part, strung to a tensity which caused his emotions to spill over. And as the scene got under way his face hardened and grew red in his effort to charge Ann with his own mood.

  "Look up! Slowly, slowly. You are calm, you see nothing yet. Look higher. Higher. There! Now you see it. You are amazed. You can't believe your own senses. Your eyes open wider. Wider. It's horrible. But you are fascinated. You can't look away. You can't move. What is it? You're helpless, Ann! Not a chance! What can you do? Where can you escape? You're helpless, helpless. But you can scream! There's your one hope. If you can scream! But you can't. Your throat is paralyzed! Try to scream, Ann. Perhaps, if you didn't see, you could do it. If your eyes were turned away. You can't turn them away, but you can cover them, Ann. Throw your arm across your eyes, Ann. And scream! Scream, Ann, for your life!"

  Arm across her eyes, and shrinking to smallness in her curiously glamorous dress, Ann screamed. Her wild, high cry swept up and up on the softly blowing wind. It was a scream of true terror. Denham had done what he had hoped to do. Ann was not simulating fear. She was afraid. So truly terror-stricken that in a sympathetic agony Ignatz flung himself around and buried his small head in Lumpy's breast.

  "Great!" cried Denham and wiped his beaded forehead. "Sister, you've got what it takes and no mistake."

  Driscoll caught Englehorn's shoulder.

  "By God!" he whispered, "I've got to know more about this. What is he taking her into? What does he think she is really going to see?"

  "Slow speed!" Englehorn whispered back. His jaws never hesitated in their methodical, placid motion. "I guess we can trust him. I guess we've got to trust him."

  Chapter Four

  The Wanderer's blunt and barnacled nose split the warm, oily expanse with a matter-of-fact precision. Crest after endless foamy crest arose, rolled along her rusty flanks, and was lost in the narrowing wake astern. All waters were alike to the Wanderer. Every last one was made to be split and rolled back along rusty hulls. All you needed was the power to do the splitting and, so far as the Wanderer was concerned, that flowed from her engines with the fidelity of the tides. Those engines throbbed now with no less constancy than when the hull they drove had ploughed the Atlantic at a sweet fourteen knots.

  The Atlantic was far astern. The slow drift through the Panama Canal was finished, too, along with the long slide to the Hawaiian Islands, to Japan for more coal, past the Philippines, past Borneo, past even Sumatra. Still the speed was a steady fourteen.

  The direction was south and west. The time was midday. The weather was hot. It was so hot that the crew wore only such garments as the presence of a lady commanded. Some wore hardly that much. Lumpy, sprawling in the shade alongside an inert Ignatz, was as naked as a Sioux down to his waist. There was nothing, not even an excess of flesh, to keep an interested anatomist from counting every one of his hard, thin ribs. From his waist hung a pair of frayed trousers that stopped halfway between his sharp old knees and his sharper ankles. And, on his own word, that was everything ... to the last patch and thread.

  It was a costume admirably suited to the temperature. And yet the temperature might have been hotter, considering that the Wanderer ploughed the sultry latitudes of the Indian Ocean. The Wanderer's first mate, in ducks and a pongee shirt, was fairly cool. At least he would have been if he had not worked up a warm impatience over the failure of an expected figure to appear.

  Ann did appear at last. She was wearing white, too, a soft linen sun hat, a stiffly starched linen dress, canvas shoes, but no more stockings than Lumpy himself. Her rounded ankles were shaded as golden as autumn leaves. And sunburn laid a rosy shadow upon her cheeks.

  "Good afternoon, Lumpy," she called.

  Lumpy sat up, and rubbed his sun-kissed ribs, and made Ignatz sit up also, to bow.

  "And what about me?" Driscoll protested.

  "Hello, Jack," Ann smiled.

  "Where have you been so long?"

  "Trying on more costumes for Mr. Denham." She nodded with open satisfaction. "And I looked very nice in them, too."

  "Why not give me a chance to see?"

  "You? You've had chances galore! All the times Mr. Denham has had me out here on deck, making tests."

  "All the times! Once or twice."

  "Dozens of times."

  Driscoll shook his head pityingly.

  "Some people need a lot of convincing before they can make up their minds."

  "It's very important to find out which side of my face photographs best."

  "What's wrong with either side?"

  "Probably Mr. Denham has found a hundred terrible faults."

  "Both sides look good to me."

  Ann beckoned to Ignatz and that eager playmate leaped into her arms. From behind the partial concealment he offered she smiled a little shyly.

  "Yes, but you aren't my movie director."

  "If I were," Driscoll said, turning solemn, "you wouldn't be here."

  "Well! That's a nice thing to say."

  "You know what I mean, Ann!" He maintained solemnity in spite of her beguiling eyes. "It's fine to have you on the ship, of course. But what are you here for? What crazy show is Denham planning to put you through when we get to ... wherever we're going?"

  "I don't care what he is planning. I don't even mind that he is keeping secret where we are going. No matter where we go; no matter what he asks me to do, I've had this." She waved a slim arm to take in all that was visible from the Wanderer's stern to her prow. "I've had the happiest time of my life on this old ship."

  "Do you mean that, Ann?"

  "Of course!" But she fled at once into smiling generalities. "Everyone's so nice. Lumpy, and you. Mr. Denham and the Skipper. Isn't the Captain a sweet old lamb?"

  "A what?" Driscoll looked around in dismay lest the crew had heard; or worse, the Skipper himself.

  "I said a sweet old lamb."

  "What a row there'd be," Driscoll cried, "if he heard anyone but you say so!"

  They strolled to the railing and looked idly down upon the tropical sea. The water flashed with countless tiny specks which closer inspection revealed as small jellyfish, each with its miniature upright sail. No one was too large to fit easily into the palm of a hand, but there they were, confidently a-sail in the middle of the ocean. Sea asters, Lumpy called them.

  Ann and Driscoll were contentedly silent. In the weeks which had elapsed since the Wanderer left New York, they had come surprisingly close. Driscoll was reticent, and unused to girls; yet he had told Ann about his running away to sea to escape going to college. He had told her of his mother, who had forgiven him and who had braced herself to all his dangerous adventures since his meeting with Denham. Ann had told Driscoll, and only Driscoll, of the past which had led up to the miracle working apple. She had told him of her ranch h
ome, of the loss of her father and mother, of the treachery of the uncle to whom she had confided her inheritance after her father's death. She had told him of her coming to New York, of the despairing quest for work, of her hunger and fear.

  Her thoughts were running on that now.

  "I was lucky," she said suddenly, soberly, "to have Mr. Denham run across me that night in New York."

  "Speaking of Denham, may he cut in?" asked a brisk voice behind them and they turned to see the moving picture director rocking on speculative heels.

  "More tests?" Driscoll wanted to know.

  Ann expectantly handed Ignatz back to Lumpy, but Denham shook his head.

  "Nothing to rush about," he said, "but when you aren't busy, Ann, you might do a bit of sewing. I noticed just now that the Beauty and the Beast costume was ripped along the lining. And above everything else, I want that piece all ready when we need it."

  "I'll mend it right away," Ann promised. "It must have got torn when I took it off yesterday."

  As she disappeared, Denham lighted a cigarette. He offered one to Driscoll, but the first mate shoved his hands deep into his pockets, doubling them there so that they stood out in hard, distinct lumps beneath the white cloth.

  "Mr. Denham," he said doggedly, "I'm going to do some butting in."

  "What's on your mind, Jack?" Denham asked, and considered the smoking tip of his cigarette.

  "When do we find out where we're going?"

  "Pretty soon now," Denham smiled.

  "Are you going to tell us what happens when we get there?"

  "Don't ask me to play fortune teller, young fella."

  "But damn it! You must have some idea what you're after."

  Denham snapped his cigarette over the side and eyed Driscoll questioningly:

  "Going soft on me, Jack?"

  "You know I'm not."

  "Then why all the fuss and blow?"

  "You know it isn't for myself. It's Ann...."

  "Oh!" Denham grew coolly serious. "So you've already gone soft on her. Better cut that out, Jack. I've got enough on my hands. Don't pile on a love affair to complicate things more."

  "Who said anything about a love affair?" Driscoll flushed.

  Chapter Five

  High above the Wanderer's scorched and peeling deck, Driscoll pushed up the floor plate of the crow's nest and clambered through. Once on his feet he reached down to Ann. His brown hand closed over her slight wrist with careful deliberation. When she had got in, the trap dropped beneath his feet and the pair of them swayed slowly in cadence with the gently rocking mast.

  So high up, they could feel a little wind, and Ann pushed her yellow hair severely back over small shapely ears that every available bit of face and neck might receive the welcome breeze. Driscoll nodded approval as he wiped his damp forehead.

  From their high perch the ocean seemed even more brilliantly blue than it had been from the ship's side. Miles to the south a something resembling a fleecy rope stretched along the water, its ends disappearing in distance which baffled the eye. It seemed no higher than a hand's breadth, but at intervals it swelled a little and threw off wispy tendrils.

  Against the blue sweep of the sky there showed only one bit of life. An albatross moved far off and close to the line where sea and sky met. It curved and swung like a brilliantly maneuvered aeroplane between them and the late afternoon sun.

  "How splendid!" cried Ann. "Why didn't you bring me up here before? I feel like an explorer."

  "Let's see," Driscoll considered, grinning. "An explorer is someone who gets there first. Well, you're an explorer then, sure enough. You're the first woman ever to set foot in this crow's nest."

  "And going to an island where we'll all be the first white people. It's terribly exciting. When do you think we'll get there?" Ann lifted an eager questioning face.

  "Well, if there is any such place," Driscoll answered, smiling down at her indulgently, "we ought to find it in the next twenty-four hours."

  "Mr. Denham's so worked up about it he can't keep still. I don't believe he went to bed all last night."

  "I'm kind of worked up myself," Driscoll admitted, looking toward the southwest.

  Ann turned upon him accusingly.

  "You? Why, you don't even believe there is an island."

  "I hope there isn't," Driscoll said soberly.

  "And you the lad who ran away from home to find a life of adventure! Fie, Mr. Mate!"

  Her voice was teasing. If she had any suspicion as to the cause of his reluctance to encounter Mystery Island, she did not betray it. Driscoll looked at her sharply.

  "Don't you know why I'm worked up, Ann? Don't you know it's because of you? Denham's such a fool for risks. What will he expect you to do?"

  "After what he did for me, Jack, I'd do whatever he asks. You wouldn't want me to do anything else."

  "Yes I would, Ann. There's a right limit. But Denham doesn't remember it when there's a picture at stake. He doesn't care what happens, so long as he gets what he's after. Yes, I know! You're going to say that he never asks us to do what he won't do, and that's O.K. as far as men are concerned. But it's different with you aboard."

  "Well, you don't need to worry yet."

  "I can't help it If anything happened to you ...! Ann, look at me!"

  Instead of looking, Ann turned her head so that only one white ear with a wisp of yellow curl behind it remained in Driscoll's view.

  "Ann, you know I love you!"

  Still, she did not turn her head, but the ear with the curl behind it grew pink.

  Driscoll put his hands on her shoulders, drew her slowly against him.

  For the briefest moment, Ann rested there. Then she twisted away to welcome a chattering Ignatz who appeared behind them.

  "Jack! He's broken loose again."

  "Ann! Look at me!"

  But Ann was too busy with the wildly careening Ignatz. He leaped to her shoulder and clung about her neck.

  "I really believe he's jealous of you, Jack."

  Driscoll lifted the monkey urgently and firmly from her neck.

  "Ann!" he said. "We have so little time. Please, Ann, I'm scared of you, and I'm scared for you, and I love you so."

  Ann looked at him then, and with an end to all pretense she stepped forward into his arms. Driscoll's lips bent to her hair, to the ear with the curl behind it, to her lips which she lifted, curving them into a smile.

  Sunset had come on. The bright clear blue of the daylight sky was flooded to the westward with pinks and indigos, with emeralds and jades, with russet, saffron, peach and yellow.

  Against this brilliant camouflage, the distant albatross swung briefly and was lost to sight.

  Southward the faint fleecy rope had grown by minute degrees to a low barrier of fog which was moving perceptibly closer to the ship.

  None on the crow's nest noticed it, however; least of all, Ignatz, who chattered furiously at Ann's feet.

  Chapter Six

  All through the night the fog thickened. Hours before daylight the Wanderer, headed by Captain Englehorn toward the Norwegian skipper's incredible island, had slowed to little more than steerage way. When morning came she was still creeping through a yellow-white blanket, miles in extent.

  Against the penetrating dampness of this blanket no garment was proof. The clothes of everyone drooped in loose, sodden folds. Water dripped everywhere, from spars, stays and walls, and gathering on the cold deck ran in slow, uncertain rivulets.

  At a distance of a dozen feet, men and such solid objects as masts and ventilators became vaguely wavering wraiths. At greater distances they vanished behind the soft, yellow-white silence. Up on the bridge Denham and Englehorn, Driscoll and Ann could see nothing of the sailor who heaved a lead in the bow, or of the other sailor who tried to pierce the thick veil from the high vantage point of the crow's nest. These could be heard, however. By some atmospheric trick their voices seemed to ring more loudly through the fog than they had ever come through clear sunl
ight.

  "This triple-damned fog!" Denham choked. He could scarcely speak from excitement. He was as tense as a man on a tight rope, and he never stopped staring forward into the enwrapping cloud. "Are you sure of your position, Skipper?"

  "Sure!" Englehorn murmured placidly, and cut himself some fresh plug cut. "Last night, before this stuff closed around us, I got a fine sight."

  "Jack!" Ann whispered, taking a fresh hold on Driscoll's hand. "If we don't get somewhere soon, I'll explode. I never was so excited in my life."

  "Don't bounce around so," Driscoll warned her. "Next thing you know you'll be rolling off the ship. And don't," he added more soberly, "keep doing things to get me excited. I'm fit to be tied right now. I'd like to throw my cap up into the air and yell Blue Blazes. But when I think of what we may be taking you into, I know I've got to keep my head."

  "If your position is right, Skipper," said Denham, "we ought to be near the island."

  "If we don't see it when this fog lifts," Englehorn murmured confidently, "we never shall. We've quartered these parts. Either we're on top of it or we've found blue water in the place it should be."

  The high, intent voice of the sailor in the bow came sharply up to the bridge.

  "No bottom at thirty fathoms."

  "Of course," Driscoll ventured, almost hopefully, "that Norse skipper was just guessing at the position."

  "How will we know it's the right island?" Ann asked.

  "I told you!" Denham rasped impatiently. "The mountain!" His eyes tried to pierce the fog. "The mountain that looks like a skull."

  "I'd forgotten," Ann apologized. "Of course. Skull Mountain."

  "Bottom!" The high voice shot back from the bow, and at that triumphant cry they all stiffened. "Bottom! Twenty fathoms!"

  "I knew it." Englehorn chewed placidly. "She's shallowing fast. Dead slow, Mr. Driscoll. Tell 'em!"

  Driscoll tore into the wheel house and spoke down the engine room tube. Bells jangled below in reply and the Wanderer dropped off to a speed that was scarcely more than drifting.