King Dong

Then he put a hand to his head, looked frantically about, and went back for his hat.

As his hand touched the brim, he was surrounded. The boat crew looked on in helpless horror as the pursuers loomed over the doomed refugee, raising their dreadful, razor-sharp weapons, ready to stab, rend and tear …

‘Cooo-eeee!’

Startled, the ebony warriors turned. Emerging from the jungle’s edge came a chorus line of the ugliest, hairiest matelots in the Vulture’s crew, all wearing rouge on their cheeks, curly blonde wigs, and high-waisted print dresses that revealed far too much of their preternaturally unlovely thighs. Mugging furiously, and making a variety of horrendously cute gestures, they falsettoed:

‘On the good ship sodapop

You can get sick at the toffee shop

And throw up all day

On the sunny beach of Sugarplum Bay …’

The warriors’ eyes widened. Their hair stood on end, their knees knocked. They moaned and gibbered with primeval terror.

‘Aiiieeeee!’ cried one, pointing a quivering finger. ‘Shirleey Tempellleee!’

‘Shirleey Tempellleee!’ echoed the others. ‘Aiiieeeee!’

Casting aside their weapons in their panic, the war party turned on its heel and fled back the way it had come, leaving its intended victim sprawled on the sand.

Captain Rumbuggery turned a disapproving glance on Deadman as the latter strolled out of the forest, smoking a cigar and grinning from ear to ear. ‘Shirley Temple impersonations? That was a pretty low trick to play on a proud warrior race.’

Deadman’s grin grew even wider. ‘Don’t knock it. It worked.’

Released from the momentary sobriety into which the crisis had thrust him, the Skipper weaved towards the stranger. ‘Who the hell are you?’

The dusty figure raised its perforated fedora. ‘Indiana Bones. Pleased to meet you.’ He passed out.

‘Likewishe,’ said the Skipper. And followed suit.

Back on the Vulture, an impromptu conference took place on the aft deck. Several of the shore party were present; except for those who, following their appearance as the curly-haired moppet of popular movie fame, had already attracted partners from the salacious crew and retired below. Captain Rumbuggery having been lashed into his bunk with an attack of the blue devils, Deadman took the chair for the interrogation of the fugitive.

‘So you’re Indiana Bones, intrepid explorer and inveterate tomb-robber. What were you doing to be chased by those guys?’

Indiana Bones waggled his fingers through the holes in his fedora and sighed. ‘It took me years to get this hat so sweaty and grungy. Now look at it. I guess I’ll have to start all over again.’ He took another long pull at the bottle that had earlier been torn from the screaming Skipper’s clutching fingers. ‘What was I doing? That’s a long story …’

‘Then let’s have the abridged version. We’re in a hurry.’ Deadman pointed to the wrapped bundle that Indiana had, despite all blandishments, refused to part with since his rescue. ‘For starters, what is that thing?’

Indiana gave him a cunning look. ‘That’s what they were after. I recovered it, at great personal risk, from the Lost Temple of Werarwee.’

‘The Temple of Werarwee?’

‘Yes – I said it was lost. I risked life, limb and academic credibility to break into the innermost sanctum. It was a deadly game of cat and mouse.’ The energetic archaeologist shuddered at the recollection. ‘The big round rock that chased me, that was the worst. And the spikes that shot out of the floor and ceiling as the roof came down, that was the worst, too. And the room where the gap between the walls got smaller and smaller, and the rats, and the poison darts, and the revolving blades, and the pit of snakes –’

‘But what were you after?’ Fey Ray, who had taken an instant and obvious shine to the rugged adventurer, was sitting at Indiana’s feet, listening with rapt attention to this preposterous farrago of lies. ‘What in the world is so precious that you would risk your body and soul in such an insanely dangerous quest?’

Indiana leered at his audience and slowly unwrapped the parcel in his lap. ‘The solid gold knobkerrie of Shaka Zulu.’

There was a spontaneous intake of breath from the onlookers.

‘Look at the length of that thing,’ murmured one.

‘It’s solid gold,’ breathed another.

‘And very knobbly,’ gasped a third.

‘Lemme see.’ Unnoticed, Ann had joined the conference. Indiana looked up to see who had spoken – and pointed like a retriever. An idiotic smile played across his rugged features. His eyes glinted. Ray pouted.

Ann reached for Indiana’s treasure. Eyeing her like a wolfhound declaring an interest in a nice, juicy ham-hock, Indiana handed it over.

Ann gasped at the weight of the object. Then, tongue protruding, she ran her hands over the heavy, golden artefact. With great deliberation, she stroked the long, sturdy shaft. Her eyelids half-closed as she caressed the bulbous shape at the end …

Three men fainted dead away.

Anne purred. ‘Hey, this is really something.’

Indiana gazed at her with unbridled lust. ‘Do you know what it is?’

‘No.’ Ann’s hands slid over the smooth metal. ‘But I could have a damn good guess.’

‘It’s a ceremonial staff of office derived from a stick with a heavy bulge at the end, used as a war club.’

‘Well, I was wrong.’ Losing interest immediately, Ann dropped the golden dingus back in Indiana’s lap. As he doubled up in agony, she said, ‘What time does Sloppy open the cook-house on this banana boat? I’m starving,’ and flounced off.

Ray looked at the moaning adventurer with a finely poised mix of revenge, sympathy and opportunism. ‘Shall I rub it better?’

Hastily, Indiana shook his head.

Ray gave a petulant shrug. ‘Suit yourself.’

Deadman’s patience was wearing thin. ‘Now see here, Dr Bones, we’ve all heard of your heroic exploits –’

‘Oh, really?’ said a familiar voice. ‘Let’s just get this straight, shall we? This guy claims to be a serious scientist, yet he steals objects of great value from helpless, impoverished indigenous peoples without any regard for their significance or any attempt to record or interpret what he’s found, and sells these priceless artefacts for vast sums on the international antiquities market. Now how does that make him a hero, exactly?’

Thwack!

‘Well, thank you for that cogent and closely reasoned riposte.’ Able Seaman Obote folded up like a deckchair.

‘Like I was saying, Dr Bones,’ Deadman continued, as if the interruption had never taken place, ‘I’m damned if I know what to do with you.’

‘Give … me a … ride … to my next … port,’ gasped Indiana, rubbing at the affected area. ‘I’ve heard of a fantastic treasure in the Himalayas. There’s a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Kathmandu and its remaining green peeper has got my name on it. If you could just see your way clear to take me to Calcutta …’

‘Goddamn it, man!’ exploded Deadman. ‘I’ve got a movie to shoot. This isn’t an archaeology expedition, and we don’t have time for sightseeing trips.’ He considered. ‘However, there’s a strong chance we may have to deal with an ancient and mysterious culture, in which case your expertise may be valuable. What’s more, since the second assistant chef ran amok in the galley with a meat-axe the other night and we had to throw him over the side, we’re a man short in the kitchen and there’s a mountain of potatoes to peel between here and our mysterious destination.’

‘Now hold it right there!’ Indiana was on his feet, his eyes blazing defiance. ‘I have a Master’s degree from Oxford and a PhD from Harvard, I’m a member of the Royal Society, the National Academy of Science and the Benevolent and Protective Order of Elks, and I’m damned if I’m going to waste my time doing KP for a bunch of lowlife chancers.’

‘Or we could leave you for the Zulus.’

Indiana rolled up his sleeves and pulled out his sheath-knife. ‘Would you like me to do the carrots as well?’

CHAPTER FIVE Tall Tales and a Big Whopper

‘Hi there, baby.’

Ann gave Indiana a sidelong glance. If she was pleased to see him, she hid it well. ‘Are you by any chance talking to me, buster?’

‘Well – er – yeah.’

‘Then I would be grateful if you would have the coytesy to address me as “Miss Darling”, as befits my position of being a lady of class and distinction, ya dumb-ass.’

Indiana backtracked hurriedly. ‘Oh, sure, Ann … Miss Darling. Anything you say.’

There was a long pause while Indiana tried to catch Ann’s eye and Ann resolutely ignored him. At length, shuffling his feet, Indiana said, ‘You doing anything special tonight?’

‘Well, I thought I’d take in a movie, and then go down to the Plaza Hotel for supper, and finish up dancing the night away at Radio City Music Hall – what the hell d’ya think I’m gonna do?’ snapped Ann. ‘I’m gonna eat a pailful of slop and go back to my lousy cabin to read a crummy magazine I’ve read three times already, like I do every night, that’s what.’

‘Well, I thought …’ Indiana examined the backs of his hands with inordinate interest. ‘I thought, maybe, you’d like to stay out here on deck with me and look at the stars.’

Ann gave Indiana the sort of look she usually reserved for weevils she’d found in a ship’s biscuit. ‘I like my plan better.’

‘Well, hello.’ A waft of eau-de-Cologne, strong enough to stop a charging rhino in its tracks, announced the arrival of Ray. The effete couturier stood, hands on hips, and eyed Indiana and Ann satirically. ‘Beauty and the beast, eh?’

Ann smirked. ‘Beauty, eh? Why, thank you, Ray.’

‘What makes you think,’ drawled Ray contemptuously, ‘that “Beauty” referred to you?’

‘Blow it out your ears, fancy-pants.’ Turning her nose up, Ann high-heeled away across the deck. Indiana watched, entranced, as a member of the ship’s company accosted her in an over-familiar manner, and she kneed him in the meat and veg with a force that sent the luckless matelot’s glass eye shooting over the starboard rail to splash into the limpid waters of the Indian ocean below.

‘Wow,’ breathed Indiana. ‘That is some woman.’

Ray pouted. ‘I don’t know what you see in her. Hard-faced baggage. A real train-track woman – she’s been laid from coast to coast.’ He slipped a more-than-companionable arm across Indiana’s shoulders. ‘Take it from me, sweetie. Women are poison.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘Pooh! Are you still wearing that smelly old leather jacket? Why not let me run you up a new outfit? I could knock up something in your cotton. Or maybe your denim. I could really let myself go in your denims.’

Indiana began to edge away. ‘Er … no thanks …’

‘Or maybe something softer. How about nylon?’ Ray sidled after Indiana, trapping him in a corner of the rail. ‘I’m unbelievable in nylons.’

‘I bet you are.’

‘Or maybe rayon? You haven’t lived until you’ve had rayon.’

‘Uuuuurgh,’ croaked Indiana.

‘Or maybe you’d rather stick to leather.’ Ray ran his fingers up and down Indiana’s disreputable lapels. ‘I like sticking to leather, myself.’

‘I’m sure you do.’

‘Suede?’

‘No, I’m not in the least swayed, honestly.’

‘Saucy! Well, I’ll think of something. Come down to my cabin and we’ll take a gander at your inside leg.’

Indiana glanced downwards at the ocean, briefly wondering whether certain death in its shark-infested waters was a better option than the fate the besotted costumier had in mind for him.

‘Hey! Dr Bones!’

Indiana felt himself go weak with relief. Deadman had emerged onto the wing of the bridge two decks above, and was beckoning to him. ‘Sorry,’ he gabbled, pushing none-too-gently past Ray, ‘Mr Deadman wants me. Glad we had this little chat – mustn’t keep the boss man waiting.’

‘Oh, go on then.’ Ray gave a disgruntled wriggle. ‘The laddie doth protest too much, methinks. I’ll turn you round sooner or later, you’ll see.’

‘Not while I have my strength,’ Indiana muttered under his breath as he took the companionway steps two at a time.

Deadman greeted him at the door to the bridge. ‘Well, Dr Bones – Fey Ray seems to have taken quite a shine to you.’

‘“Fey” is right.’ Indiana pawed frantically at the movie man’s sleeve. ‘You gotta call him off, Deadman.’

‘Funny thing, romance.’ Deadman gave Indiana a shrewd look. ‘You and Ann, Ray and you. Who’s Beauty and who’s the Beast? It ain’t always safe to make assumptions. I guess, like the song says, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. One thing I do know: when Beauty comes in the door, the Beast starts thinking with his cojones and he’s fixin’ to wind up with his ass in a sling. Think about it, Indy.’ Ignoring Indiana’s spluttering attempts to protest his innocence, Deadman continued, ‘Anyhow, that’s not why I called you up here. We’ve reached the coordinates I gave the Skipper. Time you all found out where we’re headed.’

Indiana followed him into the dog-house where the Skipper was trying to focus his bloodshot eyes on a chart. ‘Here we are, Deadman,’ he slurred. ‘Right where you shaid. 7 degreesh north, 06 degreesh west.’

‘What?’ Deadman stared at the Skipper. Then he grabbed at the chart. ‘You’ve got it upside down, you old fool.’

The Skipper blinked. ‘Sho I have. I wondered why India wash to the south and pointing upwards.’

Rolling his eyes, Deadman spun the chart and jabbed with an index finger. ‘This is where we are – 2 degrees south, 90 degrees east.’

‘But we’re in the middle of nowhere,’ protested Indiana.

‘Sure, that’s what everyone thinks … but they’re wrong. According to my information, there’s an uncharted island just to the south west of here. A mysterious land hidden in a bank of fog which defies meteorological explanation, and which has unaccountably failed to arouse the interest of the hundreds of experienced mariners and explorers who have criss-crossed these waters for centuries and surveyed every inch of the sea-bed.’

‘An island?’ The Skipper’s wandering attention had caught up with Deadman’s opening remarks. ‘What short of island?’

‘This sort.’ Deadman took a much-thumbed paper from his inside pocket. He unfolded it and spread it out on the chart table. ‘Here it is – Skullandcrossbones Island. That native I told you about – he roughed this out before he died.’ He pointed. ‘The only approach to the island is through an inadequately charted reef, whose razor-sharp rocks are easily capable of ripping the keel out of any ship foolhardy enough to attempt the passage. Then there’s this isthm … itshm … strip of land here, next to this sandy cove.’

‘Sandy Cove?’ The Skipper gave Deadman a bleary-eyed stare. ‘Is he there?’

‘What?’

‘My old pal Sandy Cove, bo’sun of the Saucy Mrs Truscott out of New Orleansh, used to be a ship-mate of mine.’

‘No, I mean this sheltered bay.’

‘Shelta’d Bey? The Turkish envoy to Rangoon? I met him in the Ninetiesh.’

‘No, no, no, this minor haven.’

‘Mina Haven? Lovely girl, Nautch dancer from old Bombay.’

‘… this handy landfall …’

‘Andy Landfall? Ish he there ash well? Funny, I thought he wash dead.’

‘Oh, it’s no good.’

‘Noah Goode? Haven’t sheen him in yearsh.’

‘Look here, Skipper …’

‘Luke Earskipper? Last of the Fighting Earskippers.’

‘Skipper!’ roared Deadman. ‘I’m not reminiscing about old friends of yours. I’m trying to tell you about this lousy island.’

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