by Joe DeVito
“First mate,” the old watchman said in a low voice. “Driscoll, his name is.”
Looking up, Weston saw a figure at the low rail amidships, outlined in light streaming from a cabin astern and higher up. “What do you want?” the figure repeated in a booming voice.
“Want to come aboard, Mr. Driscoll,” Weston yelled back, and he started to climb the wet, slippery gangway cautiously. “Your boss is expecting me.”
“You must be Weston, then,” the younger man said. “Come on aboard. Watch your step there.”
The climb was treacherous and steep, but Weston made it, then stepped onto the deck and got his first clear look at Driscoll. He was a tall young man, strongly built, with reckless eyes and a firm mouth. He held out his hand and Weston shook it, feeling an immediate liking for the young fellow. “Jack Driscoll,” the first mate said.
“Broadway’s one and only John Weston. The ace of theatrical agents.” Weston was puffing a little from the climb, and he grinned. “Even if my wind isn’t what it used to be.”
“Come aft,” Driscoll said. “Denham’s wild to hear from you. Have you found the girl?”
In the darkness, Weston’s cheer evaporated. He made a wry face but said nothing as he followed Driscoll’s swinging stride aft, then up a short ladder to the lighted cabin. Weston blinked in the strong light. In contrast to the rusty sides of the ship, the cabin was spick-and-span, furnished with the Spartan simplicity of seagoing vessels. No decorations, apart from a pipe rack on one wall, a small mirror on the other, and a rack hung with a pea jacket, a civilian overcoat, and a couple of hats. For the rest, four chairs, an oblong map table, an open crate containing black iron spheres smaller than grapefruit but larger than oranges, and a brightly polished brass cuspidor. Two men stood in the cabin, both of them looking expectantly at Weston.
“Visitor, Captain,” Driscoll said to one of the men, of no more than middle height. He had a heavy brown mustache touched with gray, and held in his hand a battered old briar pipe. The man was in vest and shirtsleeves, but wore a captain’s uniform cap, along with an air of command. The captain’s sharp eyes acknowledged Driscoll’s introduction, but he didn’t speak as he tamped down the tobacco in his pipe and applied a match to it. Puffing, he stepped aside, leaving the stage clear for his companion.
Weston knew this man: Carl Denham, a well-tailored, well-groomed fellow of thirty-five, looking as if he might belong behind a stockbroker’s desk—though Weston had to admit he had never met anyone on Wall Street with Denham’s air of solid power, of indomitable will. Denham’s bright brown eyes, shining with an unquenchable zest for life, flashed at Weston, and in an impatient voice, the film director snapped, “Weston! About time. I was just about to go ashore to ring you up.”
Weston’s feet were feeling damp and cold from the snow. “If I’d known that, I would’ve waited in my office.”
Denham grinned. “Well, now you’re here, shake hands with the skipper. Captain Englehorn, this is John Weston of Broadway.”
Englehorn exhaled a cloud of pungent smoke, then extended a hard, rough hand. He didn’t say a word, but as soon as Weston had shaken his hand, Englehorn stooped to drag the crate of iron spheres aside to make room at the table for Weston.
“Sit down, sit down,” Denham said, sinking into the chair opposite Weston’s, but lightly, as if ready to spring up any moment. “I take it you’ve met the first mate here, Jack Driscoll.”
“We’ve met,” Weston said, with a smile at Driscoll, who grinned and nodded his agreement.
Denham hardly waited for the answer. “These two are a pair like you’ve never met on Broadway, old man. Both were with me on my last trip, and I’ll tell you right now, if they weren’t going along this time, I’d think twice before I started.”
Weston took off his hat and set it on the table. Under Denham’s intense gaze, he shifted uncomfortably but did not reply. For a moment a silence stretched out, with Denham looking him quizzically in the face. Then Denham leaned forward and said, “Where’s the girl, Weston?”
With a sigh, Weston met Denham’s gaze. “Haven’t got one.”
“What!” Denham leaped up from his chair and struck the table hard with the flat of his hand. “Look here, Weston, Actors’ Equity and the Hays Office have warned off every actress I’ve tried to hire, and every agent but you has backed away. You’re my last hope. Look, you know I’m square—”
Weston waved a gloved hand. “Denham, everyone knows you’re square. But they also know how reckless you are. And you haven’t inspired confidence in this picture by being so secretive.”
“That’s the truth!” Englehorn said around the stem of his pipe.
“Absolutely,” agreed Driscoll, his arms crossed. “Denham hasn’t told me or the skipper where the old ship is heading. We’re under sealed orders, and whoever heard of that when the trip’s just to shoot a movie?”
Weston spread his hands, palms up. “There you are. Look, Denham, think of my reputation. I can’t ask a young, pretty girl to go on a job like this without even telling her what to expect.”
“How about a homely one?” Denham asked with a grin. He waved off Weston’s protest. “No, skip it. What do you suppose she has to expect?”
Weston felt his face growing warm with irritation. “All I could tell her would be that she’s going on a ship for nobody knows how long to some spot that you won’t name, the only woman on a ship full of tough mugs—” He broke off, noticing the stares of Englehorn and Driscoll. Weston coughed. “Of course, I mean the crew.”
Denham was pacing restlessly. He paused and smacked his hand down on the table again. “Weston, I’m going on the biggest shoot of my life, and I have to have a girl to put in this picture!”
“You never had an actress in any of your other films,” Weston objected. “Not even an actor, for that matter. Why do you need one this time?”
“Not because I want to have one!” Denham paused in his pacing. “It’s the public, that’s why. The public wants a pretty woman’s face. According to them, adventure’s as dull as dishwater, there’s no romance in it, unless every so often up pops a face to launch a thousand ships. Or is it saps?”
Weston objected, “But in an animal picture, a bring-’em-back-alive—”
Denham overrode him: “Imagine! I work, I slave, I sweat blood to make a good picture. It plays the theaters and makes a dime. But the public says, ‘We would’ve liked it better if there was a woman in it.’ And the reviewers say, ‘If the film had a love interest, it would have grossed twice as much!’ Up to now, I’ve been on my own, not beholden to any studio. I’ve arranged the financing for every movie myself—put myself in hock to do it, often enough. There’s my wife and son, in a house I’ve mortgaged to the hilt, waiting for me to succeed. Only now there’s a depression on, and the banks won’t give me a second look unless I can guarantee a big box office. For that I need—I have to have—a woman in the picture! They want a girl, by george, I’ll give them a girl!”
Weston had watched Denham’s growling monologue with growing impatience. He stood up and put on his hat. “Well, Denham, I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do for you.”
“You’ve got to. And you’ve got to do it in a hurry. We’re sailing on the morning tide—have to be away from here by daylight.”
The declaration puzzled Weston. “What? You’re not due to sail for another week! Why the rush?”
Denham glanced at Englehorn, who shrugged. Then, in the same angry growl, he muttered, “Guess it won’t hurt to tell you at this stage of the game. We’re carrying explosives and the insurance company’s got wind of it. If we don’t get away in a jump, the marshal’s deputy will be on our necks, and then we’ll be tied up in court for months.”
“Explosives?” Weston asked nervously.
With a wry grin, Denham reached down to the box Englehorn had set aside and retrieved one of the iron spheres. He tossed it and caught it again, making Weston tense his muscles. Denham barked a sho
rt laugh. “Relax. I know how to handle these things. I invented them. This is just to make a point. Weston, I wouldn’t lie to you—I wouldn’t say any girl who goes with us wouldn’t be heading into danger. On an expedition like this, there’ll be a little risk now and then. Maybe even more than a little. But take this from me: with a couple of these handy, nothing very serious is going to happen.”
Weston found that he had half risen from his chair. He forced himself to sit back down and asked, “What have you got there?”
“Gas bombs, old man! My own design. Or maybe I should say my improvement on an existing design. It’s a formula that will knock out a row of elephants, if they get a couple of whiffs of the stuff.”
Weston stood then, shaking his head. “Denham, everything you tell me makes me like this proposition less. I’m starting to be glad I couldn’t find you a girl.”
“Don’t talk like the insurance company,” Denham snapped, his tone scornful. “Look, as long as men who know what they’re doing handle these things—I mean men like me, the skipper, and Driscoll here—the gas bombs are as harmless as lollipops. The truth is that we’ll be in more peril from plain old rain and the monsoon season than from anything we’re likely to meet up with once we’re on land.”
“Monsoons?” asked Weston suspiciously.
“They do happen, you know,” Denham said, carefully replacing the gas bomb in its crate. “And that’s another reason I have to get under way as soon as possible. I’ve got just six months to get to the location and shoot the film before the monsoon season sets in. Don’t look so gloomy, Weston! I could trust the Wanderer to get through a blow, and the skipper and Driscoll are dependable. But monsoons bring torrential rain, and rain ruins an outdoor picture. Wastes time, wastes money, and leaves a man with nothing to show for all his work. Every minute the Wanderer is moored here takes away from the time we should be using to get our picture.”
Weston felt half dizzy from Denham’s mile-a-minute speech. He held up his hands to silence the man. “Gas bombs! Monsoons! You make me feel like an accessory to murder!” Weston picked up his hat and clapped it onto his round head. “I’m sorry, Denham, but you’ll get no girl from me.”
“What?”
Weston headed for the door. “I mean it.”
“You do, huh? Well, I’ll get one myself!” With a speed surprising in such a solidly built man, he jerked a coat from a hook and a hat from another and shoved past Weston. “You have a cab waiting?”
“Yes, but—”
“If you think I’m going to quit now, just because you can’t find me a girl with backbone—”
Weston stepped aside as Denham yanked the door open. “Wait a second—”
But Denham hadn’t even paused. “—I’m going to make the greatest picture in the world! Something no one’s ever seen, never even dreamed of! They’ll have to invent new adjectives when I come back. You wait!”
The door slammed in Weston’s face. “My cab!” he said weakly.
Englehorn yelled, “Denham! Where are you going?”
Denham’s indomitable voice floated back: “I’m going to find a girl for my picture, even if I have to kidnap one!” His footsteps faded as he hurried down the gangway.
Inside the cabin, Weston buttoned up his overcoat, staring at Englehorn and Driscoll, feeling glad that he had managed to keep out of this whole loony mess. The old watchman was right. Crazy was the word for it. “He’s taken my cab,” Weston said, feeling a little foolish.
Driscoll and Englehorn both laughed. Driscoll threw up his arms. “Denham usually gets what he wants. What do you want to bet he comes back with a girl?”
“I wouldn’t take the bet,” Englehorn replied calmly. “All right, all right, Mr. Weston, we’ll get you home.”
“What kind of girl would be crazy enough—” Weston began, and then broke off in some embarrassment.
Driscoll clapped him on the shoulder. His white teeth flashed as he laughed again. “Hey, Denham would have the nerve to tell me to marry a girl if he decided the script called for it. Come on, Mr. Weston. I’ll call you another taxi.”
2
MANHATTAN
DECEMBER 3, 1932
Carl Denham roamed Broadway, looking for a face. He jostled through the theatre-hour crowds, eyes alert, and every once in a while he swore impatiently under his breath when some young woman who’d looked promising from a distance proved commonplace as he drew near.
He concentrated on his self-imposed task. If he paused long enough, a world of worries waited to flood in on him: crushing debt, his patient wife waiting for him in their cottage upstate, his little son, Vincent. Denham shrugged off his concerns. They were nothing that a hit movie couldn’t fix, and a hit movie was his—if he could find the right face.
His narrowed eyes were like camera lenses, catching countless faces among the crowd: bold faces, frightened faces, sullen faces, inviting faces, pouting faces, expectant faces, painted faces, hard faces, sordid faces, indifferent faces. Not one of them held his gaze or his interest for more than a moment’s inspection.
An hour passed, and another, and the crowds thinned. “Maybe I am nuts,” Denham muttered to himself, feeling the cold through his heavy overcoat. He had traveled toward downtown, passing through Times Square and into the canyons of the lower avenue, leaving behind the glitter and bustle of the theatres. A whipping wind stung his cheeks and lashed snow across his eyes. Still he looked, seeing faces in doorways, faces in breadlines, in passing automobiles. None had the quality he wanted.
Restlessly Denham circled back, leaving Madison Square’s benches behind. Fifth Avenue, Park Avenue, swaggering, intimate Fifty-seventh Street, and no luck. The dreary upper West Forties, and he drifted again toward Broadway, where jostling throngs now boiled out of a hundred theatres and movie palaces.
Denham was passing a shop—hardly even that, more like an overgrown booth, scarcely large enough for the bulky proprietor. Outside it on the sidewalk, stands displayed baskets of fruit, lush in the spilled yellow light from inside: oranges, grapefruit, pears, red apples. A slender girl, her back to Denham, stood looking down at the fruit, evidently trying to decide what she wanted.
It happened in an instant. The girl’s slim white hand reached softly up to a basket of apples, and before she could even touch one, the proprietor erupted through the doorway, shouting in anger: “Ah-hah! So I catch you, you thief!” He seized the girl’s wrist. “No, you don’t run. Hey, police!”
“No!” The girl turned and tried weakly to pull away. “No, I didn’t take anything! I wanted to, but I didn’t. Please let me go.”
Denham’s head snapped back, his eyes narrowing. He took a half step forward and felt a grin widen his mouth.
The shopkeeper kept his grip on the girl’s arm, but with his free hand, he gestured broadly. “Every hour somebody steal. Me, I’ve had enough. Hey, police!”
Denham put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Shut up. I saw it all. The girl’s telling the truth. She was starting to pull her hand away from the apples even before you came out. She wasn’t going to steal anything.”
The girl turned a grateful face toward Denham. “I wasn’t. Truly, I wasn’t.”
Denham reached into his pocket. “Okay, then. Go ahead and call a cop if you want, friend. But you’ve got a witness who’s dead against you. Here, take this and forget it.”
A couple of bills changed the shopkeeper’s opinion at once. “Sorry. I didn’t know she was with you.” He retreated into the shop, out of the cold.
Denham saw the girl totter on her feet, and in an instant he flung his arm around her shoulders. Her head lolled back, and the electric light streaming from the shop shone full on her face. Denham’s eyes opened wide, and the grin spread itself across his face, ear to ear. He laughed, guided the girl to the curb, and threw up a signaling hand. “Taxi!”
A Yellow cab that was headed toward the theatre district pulled over with a squeal of brakes. Denham bustled the girl inside and clim
bed in beside her. “The closest restaurant, and step on it.”
* * *
Half an hour later, in a white-tiled diner around the corner from the sidewalk stand, he still wore his air of triumph. In the chair on the opposite side of the table from him sat the girl, behind a white barricade of empty china plates and cups. She had hardly spoken since the cab, merely murmuring her thanks, which Denham waved away. He leaned forward on his arms, staring in contentment at the girl’s face.
It was a beautiful face, but more than that: she had the kind of well-molded, clearly defined features that the camera loved. Large, incredibly blue eyes, keen with intelligence, looking at him from shadowing lashes. A ripe mouth showing passion and humor. A lifted chin hinting at reserves of courage. Her skin was a delicate, transparent white, and not, Denham decided, because she was undernourished. No, her marvelous complexion went with the kind of hair formed up beneath her shabby hat, hair of pure gold. Denham shook his head. “You know, if I was poetical, which I’m not, I’d say your hair was like something spun out of sunlight.”
She smiled, meeting his gaze. “Thanks, I guess.”
“Feeling a little better now?”
“I’m a different girl. Thank you again.”
“You’re welcome. It was a pleasure to watch you dig in. My name’s Denham, by the way, Carl Denham.”
“Ann Darrow.”
Perfect, Denham thought. We won’t even have to change it.
Ann Darrow seemed a little nervous. “You’ve been wonderfully kind,” she said in a soft voice.
Denham shook his head. “Don’t give me too much credit. I’m not spending time and money on you just out of kindness.”
All of the humor drained from Ann’s face. She lowered her chin, and her gaze became defiant.
Denham ignored that. “How’d you come to be in this fix?”
Ann blinked as if she hadn’t expected that kind of question. “Bad luck, I guess. Times are hard. There must be lots of girls just like me.”
