Merian C. Cooper's King Kong (6 page)

Englehorn raised a hand. “Hold on, Jack. We've done all right on two trips with Denham. We'll come through all right on this one, too.”

Driscoll choked back an angry response and instead said, “This time it's different. There's a woman on board.”

“That's Denham's business,” the captain replied coolly.

“That's right, Jack,” Denham said, hitching himself up to sit on the edge of the chart table. “I'll promise you this, though: I'll look after Ann. She's a good kid, and I'll take care that she doesn't get hurt. As for the mystery, you and Captain Englehorn will be the first to know—but I mean to tell you the coordinates after all possibility of shore leave for the crew is over.”

“Don't want them blabbing about our destination?” Driscoll asked. “Or are you afraid they'd desert if they knew?”

Denham's smile was maddening. “Maybe a little of both, Jack. Maybe a little of both.”

*   *   *

And so the
Wanderer
rolled on, logging her constant 330 to 350 sea miles day after day. Hawaii passed as a gentle dream, and the bustling Japanese port as a chaotic tumult with orders shouted in a tongue utterly foreign to Ann Darrow, who took everything in as if captivated.

Then came the long, steady pull to the south and west. The weather grew torrid, and the crew wore barely enough clothes to be decent with a woman aboard. Ignatz flourished, shedding his little jacket and trousers. He had become devoted to Ann, much to old Lumpy's evident liking. Lumpy seemed to like hanging around Ann, too.

Ann confided to Driscoll that she wondered about the film they were to make. So far, Denham hadn't shown her a script or even spoken of one. Driscoll, who had changed his uniform to a white pongee shirt and white ducks, leaned on the rail and chuckled. “Don't let that bother you,” he advised. “Denham shoots movies his way. So far, his pictures haven't had much in the way of story—travelogues, more like, showing the folks back home how wild animals live. But he'll shoot miles of film and put together a picture that'll knock the socks off an audience. He'll let you know what he expects when the time comes.”

Time was one of the problems. Denham had picked up a crate of books and magazines in Pearl Harbor, all for Ann's amusement. She read steadily through them, sometimes in her cabin and more often on deck, where the sailors were always eager to spread a canvas awning or to bring her a refreshing drink of water. Ignatz sometimes picked up a book and mimicked her, crouching beside her and watching her and turning a page every time she did.

Still, the routine was almost the same, day after day. Sundays were varied by a simple religious service for those who wanted to attend, and they had made a little celebration for Christmas and again for New Year's. On the day when they crossed the equator, there was a kind of party. King Neptune, in the body of one of the biggest sailors, came aboard and ritually inducted the crewmen who had never crossed the line into the fraternity of real seamen—by shaving them with a blunt razor and dunking them into the ocean at the end of a stout line. He waived the dunking for Ann, though, and instead sprinkled her three times with seawater before declaring her an honorary shellback.

But aside from those times, boredom loomed large. Oddly, though, Ann never found herself really jaded. It was all too new, the changing seas, the variable skies, the strange new constellations south of the equator—not to mention the mystery of their destination.

The ship left the Pacific and entered the Indian Ocean, and at their closest approach to land, a few islands lay dim on the far horizon. Ann came on deck one afternoon dressed in a white linen sun hat, a light linen dress, and canvas deck shoes, all of them bought by Denham during the layover in Hawaii. She still felt the heat, and she knew her pale complexion had become ruddy with tan over the past weeks.

Lumpy lay in his usual sunny corner, stripped to the waist. Ignatz sprang up at once and leaped into Ann's arms. She hoisted him to her shoulder effortlessly, his weight now familiar. “Hello, Lumpy,” Ann said.

“Nice day, Miz Darrow,” Lumpy returned. “Hot, though.”

Jack Driscoll walked aft and said, “How about me, Ann?”

“Hello, Jack,” Ann replied with a smile.

“Where have you been for so long?”

“Trying on some more costumes for Mr. Denham,” she said. “And he says I look very nice in them, too.”

“Why not give me a chance to see you in them?”

“You've had chances galore! All the times Mr. Denham has had me here on deck shooting test footage.”

“All the times!” Driscoll said with a snort. “Maybe once or twice.”

“Dozens of times!” Ann protested with a laugh. “He says it's very important for him to discover which side of my face photographs the best.”

Driscoll tilted his head, giving her face a inspection. “I don't see anything wrong with either side.”

“You're not a director. I imagine Mr. Driscoll sees dozens of terrible faults.”

“Well, both sides look good to me.” Driscoll reached out a hand to touch her cheek, but on her shoulder, Ignatz chattered and angrily flapped his front paw at Driscoll's finger. “What do I know?” Driscoll said, lowering his hand. “I'm not a monkey.”

“Or a director, either,” Ann said.

Driscoll leaned moodily on the rail. “If I were, you wouldn't be here.”

His gruffness puzzled Ann. “That's a nice thing to say.”

Driscoll looked away, then back at her. “You know what I mean, Ann. It's all right having you on the ship. I mean it's fine. But what are you here for? What kind of crazy show is Denham planning to put you through when we get to wherever we're going?”

Ann touched his arm. “You told me he was a good director and that I could trust him.”

“Sure, you can trust him in that way,” Driscoll growled. “He's a good enough guy, married, got a kid and all. And he's aces at shooting footage of wild animals. But he's never used an actress before. I don't know what he plans to do with you when he shoots his movie. Might use you as bait or something, for all I know.”

“I can't believe he'd put me in real danger,” Ann said.

“
He
doesn't think of it as danger,” Driscoll snapped. “Lions and tigers are just good theater to him. Maybe if he'd tell me more about where we're going—I don't know. I don't like this voyage, and that's that.”

Ann stood close to him. Softly, she said, “Jack, I don't care what Carl's planning. I don't even care that he's keeping our destination a secret. It doesn't matter where we go, or what happens when we get there. I've had this.” She waved her hand, taking in the ship, everything visible from the
Wanderer
's stern to her bow. “I was down and out, and he held out a hand to help me. No matter what happens from now on, I've had the best time of my life aboard this old ship.”

Driscoll tentatively reached for her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Do you really mean that, Ann?”

“Of course I do.” Driscoll leaned closer, and Ann averted her face. “I—I mean, well, everyone's been so nice. Lumpy and you, and Mr. Denham, and the skipper. Captain Englehorn's a sweet old lamb.”

From the deck, Lumpy gurgled in laughter, and Ignatz clambered down from Ann's shoulder to join him, peering anxiously into his owner's face, making Ann chuckle.

“Lumpy's right,” Driscoll said with a grin. “Better not let the skipper hear you calling him a lamb. Come on.”

He led her farther along the railing, away from Lumpy and Ignatz. She rested her arms on the sun-warmed rail and looked down into the tropical sea, flashing with pulsating jellyfish, each with a miniature upright sail. “There,” she said, pointing. “I've never seen anything like that before. Not one of them bigger than my fist, but they all sail along in the middle of the ocean as if they owned it. What are they?”

“I'm not a biologist,” Driscoll said. “Seamen call them sea asters, though.”

They stood for a time in companionable silence. Ann reflected on what she had learned about Jack Driscoll. He was reticent in her presence, and yet he had really told her a lot in the weeks since they had left New York. He had confessed that at the age of eighteen, he had run away to sea to escape a terrible fate: college. “My mother wanted me to be a lawyer or a doctor,” he had said. “I had other ideas.” Ann had learned that his mother had since forgiven him, that his father had died when Jack was in his early teens, and that Driscoll had worked his way up from being a common sailor before the mast to being an officer in the merchant marine, with papers. He had mentioned working with Captain Englehorn since back before the Wall Street crash, and he had even talked about the two voyages Carl Denham had taken aboard the
Wanderer,
to East Africa and to India. Ann had the feeling that Driscoll had faced considerable danger on those trips, but Jack didn't say much about that.

For her part, Ann had told Driscoll about her own life, her parents' dying within weeks of each other during an influenza epidemic, her attempts to find work, her failure, and about the fateful night when, tempted, she had reached for an apple and instead grasped this adventure. She had told Driscoll of her hard times in New York, of her constant hunger and fear.

Now she reflected on that. “Whatever happens from now on, I was lucky that night when Carl found me. I want you to remember that, Jack. I'll always be grateful to Carl Denham.”

“Speaking of Carl Denham, may he cut in?” Ann jumped at the unexpected voice. She and Driscoll turned to see the director standing a few feet away, hands in pockets, rocking to the motion of the ship.

“What is it now?” Driscoll grumbled. “More tests?”

“Nope, nothing like that,” Denham said. “But I did want to ask Ann for a favor. It's the Beauty and the Beast costume, Ann. I noticed the last time we used it that it's ripped under the left arm. Since we don't have a wardrobe department, except me, and since I'm all thumbs with a needle, I wonder if you could mend it? It's my favorite costume piece on you, and I want it ready when we need it.”

“I thought I heard it tear when I was putting it on last time,” Ann said. “I'll repair it right away.”

Denham gave her an apologetic smile. “I wouldn't ordinarily ask an actress to do something like that—”

Ann tossed her head back and laughed. “I haven't become temperamental yet! I'll see you later, Jack.”

*   *   *

Driscoll watched her walk away, feeling again a wave of irritation. Denham took out his cigarette case and offered one to Jack, but he shook his head and put his hands in his pockets. He watched the director light a cigarette, then said doggedly, “Mr. Denham, I'm going to butt into your business.”

Denham exhaled a cloud of smoke and looked at him with interest. “What's on your mind, Jack?”

“I want to know when we find out where we're going.”

“Pretty soon now.”

Driscoll grunted. “You said once we were clear of Japan—”

“Pretty soon, I said,” Denham told him. “Calm down, Jack. I've never steered you wrong yet.”

With an effort, Driscoll swallowed his annoyance. “Will you at least tell me what happens when we get there?”

Denham squinted against the smoke. “I'm not a fortune-teller, Jack.”

Driscoll swore. “You must have some idea of what you're after!”

With a flick of his fingers, Denham snapped his half-smoked cigarette over the rail. “Are you nervous? Going soft on me, Jack?”

“You know I'm not.”

“Then why all the fuss?”

Driscoll forced himself to take a deep breath. “I'm not worried about my own skin. It's Ann.”

Denham leaned on the rail. “Thought that was it. You're not going soft on me, but on her. Better cut that out, Jack. I've got enough on my hands without having to bother about a love affair between my star and one of the crew.”

Driscoll felt his face grow hot. “Love affair? What are you talking about? I'm just—just—”

Denham turned around and gazed thoughtfully up at the radio antenna. “Never fails. Some big, hard-boiled guy meets up with a pretty face, gets to know her for a little bit, and bingo! He cracks up and melts.”

“Who's cracking up?” Driscoll demanded. “Look, I've never run out on you, have I?”

“No,” Denham said with a chuckle. “No, you haven't. You're a tough guy, Jack, and a good guy. But if Beauty gets under your skin—” He laughed again. “Say, I'm almost making that my theme song.”

Driscoll stared at the older man in baffled irritation. “Look, I don't know what the blazes you're talking about.”

“Beauty and the Beast, see? It's the idea I'll build this picture on. The Beast is a tough guy, see, tougher than you, or me, or anybody in the world. He could lick an army. But when Beauty comes along, she gets him. He sees her, goes soft, forgets his own code. And once he does that, he's easy pickings. The little guys that were afraid of him can knock him off. That's going to be the heart of my movie, Jack. Think about it.”