King Dong

скачать книгу бесплатно


‘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.’