‘I have travelled in all lands and I have dwelt with all nations. Every tongue is the same to me. I learned them all to help pass the weary time. I need not tell you how slowly they drifted by, the long dawn of modern civilisation, the dreary middle years, the dark times of barbarism. They are all behind me now. I have never looked with the eyes of love upon another woman. Atma knows that I have been constant to her.
‘It was my custom to read all that the scholars had to say upon Ancient Egypt. I have been in many positions, sometimes affluent, sometimes poor, but I have always found enough to enable me to buy the journals which deal with such matters. Some nine months ago I was in San Francisco, when I read an account of some discoveries made in the neighbourhood of Abaris. My heart leapt into my mouth as I read it. It said that the excavator had busied himself in exploring some tombs recently unearthed. In one there had been found an unopened mummy with an inscription upon the outer case setting forth that it contained the body of the daughter of the Governor of the city in the days of Tuthmosis. It added that on removing the outer case there had been exposed a large platinum ring set with a crystal, which had been laid upon the breast of the embalmed woman. This, then, was where Parmes had hid the ring of Thoth. He might well say that it was safe, for no Egyptian would ever stain his soul by moving even the outer case of a buried friend.
‘That very night I set off from San Francisco, and in a few weeks I found myself once more at Abaris, if a few sand-heaps and crumbling walls may retain the name of the great city. I hurried to the Frenchmen who were digging there and asked them for the ring. They replied that both the ring and the mummy had been sent to the Boulak Museum at Cairo. To Boulak I went, but only to be told that Mariette Bey had claimed them and had shipped them to the Louvre. I followed them, and there, at last, in the Egyptian chamber, I came, after close upon four thousand years, upon the remains of my Atma, and upon the ring for which I had sought so long.
‘But how was I to lay hands upon them? How was I to have them for my very own? It chanced that the office of attendant was vacant. I went to the Director. I convinced him that I knew much about Egypt. In my eagerness I said too much. He remarked that a Professor’s chair would suit me better than a seat in the conciergerie. I knew more, he said, than he did. It was only by blundering, and letting him think that he had overestimated my knowledge, that I prevailed upon him to let me move the few effects which I have retained into this chamber. It is my first and my last night here.
‘Such is my story, Mr Vansittart Smith. I need not say more to a man of your perception. By a strange chance you have this night looked upon the face of the woman whom I loved in those far-off days. There were many rings with crystals in the case, and I had to test for the platinum to be sure of the one which I wanted. A glance at the crystal has shown me that the liquid is indeed within it, and that I shall at last be able to shake off that accursed health which has been worse to me than the foulest disease. I have nothing more to say to you. I have unburdened myself. You may tell my story or you may withhold it at your pleasure. The choice rests with you. I owe you some amends, for you have had a narrow escape of your life this night. I was a desperate man, and not to be baulked in my purpose. Had I seen you before the thing was done, I might have put it beyond your power to oppose me or to raise an alarm. This is the door. It leads into the Rue de Rivoli. Good night.’
The Englishman glanced back. For a moment the lean figure of Sosra the Egyptian stood framed in the narrow doorway. The next the door had slammed, and the heavy rasping of a bolt broke on the silent night.
It was on the second day after his return to London that Mr John Vansittart Smith saw the following concise narrative in the Paris correspondence of The Times:
‘Curious Occurrence in the Louvre – Yesterday morning a strange discovery was made in the principal Eastern chamber. The ouvriers who are employed to clean out the rooms in the morning found one of the attendants lying dead upon the floor with his arms round one of the mummies. So close was his embrace that it was only with the utmost difficulty that they were separated. One of the cases containing valuable rings had been opened and rifled. The authorities are of opinion that the man was bearing away the mummy with some idea of selling it to a private collector, but that he was struck down in the very act by long-standing disease of the heart. It is said that he was a man of uncertain age and eccentric habits, without any living relations to mourn over his dramatic and untimely end.’
KING KONG
by Edgar Wallace & Draycot M Dell
The year 1933 saw the appearance of what is still the most famous of all monster movies, King Kong. The giant gorilla of the title is undoubtedly a triumph of special effects, and the fact that it can startle even the most sophisticated audiences today affirms the very special qualities of the RKO Radio production. Even the lavish Paramount re-make of the story in 1976, aided by all manner of superior technology, is nothing like its equal. As film historian Carlos Clarens has written in his History Of The Horror Film (1967), ‘It took exactly a year to complete the original King Kong at a cost of $650,000, an impressive sum for those days, and most of the money went into the special effects – to this day unsurpassed. . . The picture was an utterly preposterous, utterly enthralling piece of showmanship’
The basis of the story of the giant gorilla, ‘the eighth wonder of the world’, captured in the jungle and brought to New York where it plunges the city into terror and destruction, was conceived by the American documentary film-maker Merian C Cooper while on location in Africa. This outline was then turned into a screen story by Edgar Wallace (1875–1932), the famous English thriller writer then working in Hollywood under contract to RKO. The stop-motion animation, a brilliant technique devised by Willis H O’Brien, brought the monster amazingly alive on the screen. Despite impressive performances by Robert Armstrong, and Fay Wray as the blonde heroine who attracts Kong s affections, it was the colossal ape who stole all the honours in the film. He has since proved to be just the first in a long line of such monsters who have outshone their human co-stars!
Though Merian Cooper’s knowledge of gorilla behaviour contributed a large part to its overall success, it was Edgar Wallace who provided the film with its most dramatic moments and helped produce a milestone in cinema history as important as the “Beauty And The Beast” story in literature. Tragically, though, this prolific writer and larger-than-life character was to die of pneumonia before the picture was completed, and was therefore deprived of the chance – which he would certainly have taken – of novelising the film. As it was, the tale was turned into a novella by one of Wallace’s friends, Draycot M Dell (1880–1936), already a successful adapter of films. Like Wallace, Draycot Dell was a former reporter who had worked on the Daily Mail, later becoming a full-time writer of adventure and thriller books. It was while on the staff of the Mail that Dell met Wallace and, as both men shared a passion for horse racing, they formed a friendship which lasted until Wallace’s death in Hollywood. When King Kong opened in London, it seemed somehow only appropriate that Dell should adapt his late friend’s work and this he did for Cinema Weekly of 28 October 1933. Its inclusion in this anthology marks the first republication of the story in over fifly years, and its very first appearance in book form.
* * *
A dank sea mist enveloped the ss Venture, as she nosed through the grey waters like a baffled hound, seeking some elusive prey. To the men who peered expectantly over the rail, fantastic, swirling shapes seemed to appear out of the ghostly white vapour. Men asked each other why Captain Engiehorn did not heave-to until the fog cleared: but even as they asked the question they knew the answer – knew that Englehorn was kept going by Carl Denham, the movie-picture man who headed the expedition.
Denham stood beside the skipper, his whole body tense, his keen ears strained to catch any sound. Somewhere in that mist lay an island, an island of mystery – if the story he had heard long ago were true.
‘Can you hear anything?’ he a
sked Englehorn.
‘Nothing,’ came from the skipper.
He was listening for the sound of breakers which would tell him he was nearing the reef that surrounded Denham’s mystery island. Only the thump of the engines, however, and the lapping of the water broke the ominous and threatening silence. Still Englehorn kept on.
The tension on board increased. Men seemed to lose control of themselves. Jack Driscoll, the young mate, stood at the rail, his knuckles showing white as he gripped the metal work. Suddenly, he started away as he heard the skipper’s voice boom through the fog.
‘Let go!’ Englehorn bellowed, and there came the rattle of the anchor chain running out. Englehorn dared not go on now, for there came to him out of the cloying fog a sound as of breakers. Breakers he knew must mean the reef– and beyond the reef lay – what?
‘That’s not only breakers!’ Denham jerked out, staring into the mist. ‘That’s drums!’
But Englehorn refused to up-anchor yet, despite all the movie man’s arguing. The drumming increased, and it held a note of mystery and impending danger. Tense and pent, Denham was not afraid, however, even when his trained ears told him that the voice of the drums was angry. Were it not for the confounded fog, he would have landed to make a celluloid record of whatever was going on over there.
Suddenly the tension broke. The mist was lifting, Englehorn, gazing through his glasses, flung out an order for the anchor to be weighed. He was going to take a chance at last, and Denham, like a caged lion, could scarcely contain himself.
He, too, could see through the mist now; and what he saw confirmed the story told him, years before, by a Norwegian skipper. It was a story of a strange island, held in terror by some awful Thing that no white man had ever seen – something that the natives called – Kong.
‘Can you see anybody on shore?’ he snapped at the skipper.
‘Not a thing!’ was the answer.
‘Funny they haven’t spotted us,’ Denham said. ‘I’d have thought the whole population would be on the beach.’
Before them the island showed a dark mass against the spectral grey-white of the mist. Gradually, above the island, loomed a huge sinister shape. It was a towering mountain formed, by some upheaval of nature, like a gigantic skull, adding to the sense of foreboding evil that was produced by the weird, nerve-racking throbbing of native drums.
‘Come on, let’s go!’ shouted Denham.
Englehorn issued tense orders and the vessel moved cautiously forward, while he stood on his bridge, looking for the opening in the reef. Cruel, jagged rocks seemed to be greedy for the ship, but the captain found the open channel and skilfully steered into the calm waters beyond the reef.
Eager now, the men sprang to lower the boats, and within a few minutes were rowing madly towards the island, not a man of them but wondering what lay ahead of them. As they sprang ashore, almost before the boats beached, Denham rasped an order to one of the men.
‘Watch your step, Briggs,’ he said. ‘There’s enough trichioride in that case you’ve got to put a herd of hippos to sleep!’
‘Sure,’ said Briggs, knowing the case contained gas bombs, though only Denham, the skipper and Driscoll knew why they had been brought.
Denham gathered the men together, and set off towards the village, Driscoll marched steadily beside Ann Darrow, the young actress brought out by Denham, who looked eager and keen. Driscoll was worried about her. It seemed that, with all this air of impending peril, Denham ought never to have brought a woman to the island.
At last they came to the edge of the village, and Denham peered through tall grasses. For a moment he stood there, silent and tense. Then, he turned, and spoke over his shoulder.
‘Holy mackerel, come and have a look at this, skipper!’ he breathed.
Wonderingly, Englehorn moved up to him. What he saw almost took away his breath. In a wide space, a large number of men dressed in gorilla skins were dancing with barbaric abandon to the thrum of the drums. In the centre was a young native girl, being decked with flowers. Flaring torches, held by scores of natives cast a lurid light on the wild scene. A great double-gateway was built into a massive wall on top of which stood a tremendous metal gong. All eyes were turned towards the gate, while the natives chanted ceaselessly, monotonously. From the fearful din the white men clearly heard one word
‘Kong! Kong! Kong!’
‘Hear that?’ Denham breathed at the captain, who nodded slowly. Englehorn knew that Denham’s fantastic story of something mysterious was true after all. But what was the mystery? What lay beyond the wall?
‘It sounds something like the language of the Nias Islanders,’ he muttered, listening intently to the shouted words. ‘I think–’
He stopped. Denham followed his gaze and saw a tall native, obviously a chief, marching down some steps from the wall towards the terror-stricken girl. Suddenly, Denham called in a hoarse whisper.
‘Hey, you with the camera, come here!’ In the excitement of watching things, he had forgotten his all-important work. Now he grabbed the camera to set it up, but at that moment the native chief stopped, leant forward and shouted in a loud voice. Only Englehorn, of all those white men knew what he said and he interpreted it for Denham.
‘Stop! Strangers have come!’
Instantly the drums ceased, the dancers came to a standstill, and all natives looked in the direction in which the chief was pointing.
‘Too late, I guess!’ growled Denham. ‘They’ve seen us! No use trying to hide. Come out, everybody!’
When the whites emerged from the tall grass curtain, the attitude of the natives was fierce and menacing. Englehorn stepped boldly forward, however, and addressed the chief.
‘Greetings!’ he shouted. ‘We are friends . . . friends.’
‘We want no friends,’ the chief flung back at him. ‘Go!’
‘Talk him out of that,’ Denham said. ‘Ask him what’s going on, and what that girl’s doing?’
Englehorn jerked out his questions. When he translated the reply, Denham stared incredulously.
‘He says, the girl is a sacrifice to Kong!’ Englehorn whispered.
At that moment, a native decorated with the grisly ornaments of a witch-doctor, leapt up to the chief. He shouted and waved his hands fiercely at the whites.
‘He says the thing’s finished, Denham,’ Englehorn said, ‘because strangers have seen it and–’
He broke off. The Chief, his eyes gleaming, suddenly pointed with his staff to where Ann Darrow stood, her golden hair gleaming in the firelight.
‘He says he wants to buy the Golden Woman!’ the skipper announced. ‘Says she’s a – a gift for Kong!’
‘Great Uncle Sam!’ Denham gasped.
Things were getting fierce now, the natives were shuffling menacingly towards the white men. At the first hostile move, Jack Driscoll grabbed Ann and started off with her for the beach. Even Denham, foolhardy though he was, saw the wisdom of beating a retreat. He rapped out orders and the little company set off, Denham striding in their wake. He walked jauntily whistling gaily, and turning and laughing at the natives who were following.
Suddenly, the chief barked an order and the pursuit stopped, much to the movie man’s relief. But – Carl Denham had no idea what was in the mind of that crafty savage!
Denham’s appetite was whetted by what had happened. The story of the Norwegian skipper had received some confirmation. There was a mysterious Thing called Kong, to whom human sacrifices were apparently made. And Denham meant to get a film of that ceremony if it was humanly possible.
For the rest of the day and well into the night he sat with the captain and the mate, working out a plan to placate the natives next morning. Englehorn was mildly critical; Driscoll was definitely antagonistic; but in the end Denham won. It was past midnight, when he yawned and got up to look out of the chart-room window. From the dark blot that was the island, he saw lights flickering, as from hundreds of torches.
‘Wonder what’s up!’ h
e said. ‘Wish I could take pictures by firelight. I’d sneak ashore and get a scene!’
‘We’re lucky to be all safe on board tonight,’ Englehorn growled, and at that moment a cry went up.
‘All hands on deck – everybody on deck.’
The three rushed from the chart-room, and cannoned into Charlie the Chinese cook. He was yelling excitedly, and in his hand he held a bracelet.
‘Look, sir, me find on deck,’ he chattered at the skipper.
It was a native bracelet! That meant some of the natives had been on board! Driscoll, remembering the chief’s offer to buy the Golden Woman, grasped the sinister meaning of it all, and rushed to Ann’s cabin. It was empty and although a hurried search was made of the ship, there was no trace of Ann.
It could mean only one thing – she had been abducted by the natives! Englehorn rasped out orders; rifles were issued to the men, boats were lowered and within a few minutes the greater part of the company was rowing feverishly to the island. The insistent throbbing of drums became louder and louder, and the lights were moving and bobbing about like huge will-o’-the-wisps.
The men sprang from the boats almost before they grounded, and tore towards the village, dreading what they would find. In ape-like costumes savages danced wildly as others dragged Ann towards the great gateway in the wall. It was open now and just outside it stood an altar. Despite all her struggles the natives got Ann to the altar and lashed her to it. At a sign from the chief standing on the great wall beside the enormous gong, the natives fell silent, the drums ceased.
‘We call thee, Kong!’ the chief’s great voice boomed into the darkness, beyond the wall. ‘Oh, Mighty One, great Kong! Thy gift is here!’
Ann understood the meaning, if not the actual words and she screamed. Her cries were drowned in the great boom-boom of the gong as natives struck it, calling the mysterious Kong to come and accept his gift!
Movie Monsters Page 10
