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Title: Goldfinger
Author: Fleming, Ian [Ian Lancaster] (1908-1964)
Author [introductory paragraphs]: Anonymous
Date of first publication: 1959
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   London: Jonathan Cape, 1959
   [first edition]
Date first posted: 13 January 2015
Date last updated: 13 January 2015
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1228

This ebook was produced by Al Haines and Mark Akrigg


PUBLISHER'S NOTE

Italics in the original printed edition are indicated _thus_.

The copy of the London first edition which we used
to create this ebook was lacking pages 317 and 318,
the final two pages of the novel. We have obtained
from another source the text which would have
appeared on these pages, beginning with the words
"fisherman's jersey that was decent by half an inch."






GOLDFINGER

Goldfinger, the man who loved gold, said, 'Mr Bond, it was a most evil
day for you when you first crossed my path.  If you had then found an
oracle to consult, the oracle would have said to you, "Mr Bond, keep
away from Mr Auric Goldfinger.  He is a most powerful man.  If Mr
Goldfinger wished to crush you, he would only have to turn over in his
sleep to do so."'

With the lazy precision of Fate, this, Ian Fleming's longest narrative
of secret service adventure, brings James Bond to grips with the most
powerful criminal the world has ever known--Goldfinger, the man who had
planned the 'Crime de la Crime'.

Le Chiffre, Mr Big, Sir Hugo Drax, Jack Spang, Rosa Klebb, Doctor
No--and now, the seventh adversary, a Goliath of crime--GOLDFINGER!




  _The Adventures of James Bond_

  CASINO ROYALE
  LIVE AND LET DIE
  MOONRAKER
  DIAMONDS ARE FOREVER
  FROM RUSSIA, WITH LOVE
  DOCTOR NO


  _Also by Ian Fleming_

  THE DIAMOND SMUGGLERS




  GOLDFINGER

  By

  IAN FLEMING



  JONATHAN CAPE
  THIRTY BEDFORD SQUARE
  LONDON




  FIRST PUBLISHED 1959
  (c) 1959 BY GLIDROSE PRODUCTIONS LTD


  PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN IN THE CITY OF OXFORD
  AT THE ALDEN PRESS
  ON PAPER MADE BY JOHN DICKINSON & CO. LTD
  BOUND BY A. W. BAIN & CO. LTD, LONDON




  _To
  my gentle Reader
  William Plomer_




1 - HAPPENSTANCE



CHAPTER ONE

REFLECTIONS IN A DOUBLE BOURBON

James Bond, with two double bourbons inside him, sat in the final
departure lounge of Miami Airport and thought about life and death.

It was part of his profession to kill people.  He had never liked doing
it and when he had to kill he did it as well as he knew how and forgot
about it.  As a secret agent who held the rare double-O prefix--the
licence to kill in the Secret Service--it was his duty to be as cool
about death as a surgeon.  If it happened, it happened.  Regret was
unprofessional--worse, it was death-watch beetle in the soul.

And yet there had been something curiously impressive about the death
of the Mexican.  It wasn't that he hadn't deserved to die.  He was an
evil man, a man they call in Mexico a _capungo_.  A capungo is a bandit
who will kill for as little as forty pesos, which is about twenty-five
shillings--though probably he had been paid more to attempt the killing
of Bond--and, from the look of him, he had been an instrument of pain
and misery all his life.  Yes, it had certainly been time for him to
die; but when Bond had killed him, less than twenty-four hours before,
life had gone out of the body so quickly, so utterly, that Bond had
almost seen it come out of his mouth as it does, in the shape of a
bird, in Haitian primitives.

What an extraordinary difference there was between a body full of
person and a body that was empty!  Now there is someone, now there is
no one.  This had been a Mexican with a name and an address, an
employment card and perhaps a driving licence.  Then something had gone
out of him, out of the envelope of flesh and cheap clothes, and had
left him an empty paper bag waiting for the dustcart.  And the
difference, the thing that had gone out of the stinking Mexican bandit,
was greater than all Mexico.

Bond looked down at the weapon that had done it.  The cutting edge of
his right hand was red and swollen.  It would soon show a bruise.  Bond
flexed the hand, kneading it with his left.  He had been doing the same
thing at intervals through the quick plane trip that had got him away.
It was a painful process, but if he kept the circulation moving the
hand would heal more quickly.  One couldn't tell how soon the weapon
would be needed again.  Cynicism gathered at the corners of Bond's
mouth.

'National Airlines, "Airline of the Stars", announces the departure of
their flight NA 106 to La Guardia Field, New York.  Will all passengers
please proceed to gate number seven.  All aboard, please.'

The Tannoy switched off with an echoing click.  Bond glanced at his
watch.  At least another ten minutes before Transamerica would be
called.  He signalled to a waitress and ordered another double bourbon
on the rocks.  When the wide, chunky glass came, he swirled the liquor
round for the ice to blunt it down and swallowed half of it.  He
stubbed out the butt of his cigarette and sat, his chin resting on his
left hand, and gazed moodily across the twinkling tarmac to where the
last half of the sun was slipping gloriously into the Gulf.

The death of the Mexican had been the finishing touch to a bad
assignment, one of the worst--squalid, dangerous and without any
redeeming feature except that it had got him away from headquarters.

A big man in Mexico had some poppy fields.  The flowers were not for
decoration.  They were broken down for opium which was sold quickly and
comparatively cheaply by the waiters at a small caf in Mexico City
called the 'Madre de Cacao'.  The Madre de Cacao had plenty of
protection.  If you needed opium you walked in and ordered what you
wanted with your drink.  You paid for your drink at the caisse and the
man at the caisse told you how many noughts to add to your bill.  It
was an orderly commerce of no concern to anyone outside Mexico.  Then,
far away in England, the Government, urged on by the United Nations'
drive against drug smuggling, announced that heroin would be banned in
Britain.  There was alarm in Soho and also among respectable doctors
who wanted to save their patients agony.  Prohibition is the trigger of
crime.  Very soon the routine smuggling channels from China, Turkey and
Italy were run almost dry by the illicit stock-piling in England.  In
Mexico City, a pleasant-spoken Import and Export merchant called
Blackwell had a sister in England who was a heroin addict.  He loved
her and was sorry for her and, when she wrote that she would die if
someone didn't help, he believed that she wrote the truth and set about
investigating the illicit dope traffic in Mexico.  In due course,
through friends and friends of friends, he got to the Madre de Cacao
and on from there to the big Mexican grower.  In the process, he came
to know about the economics of the trade, and he decided that if he
could make a fortune and at the same time help suffering humanity he
had found the Secret of Life.  Blackwell's business was in fertilizers.
He had a warehouse and a small plant and a staff of three for soil
testing and plant research.  It was easy to persuade the big Mexican
that, behind this respectable front, Blackwell's team could busy itself
extracting heroin from opium.  Carriage to England was swiftly arranged
by the Mexican.  For the equivalent of a thousand pounds a trip, every
month one of the diplomatic couriers of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs
carried an extra suitcase to London.  The price was reasonable.  The
contents of the suitcase, after the Mexican had deposited it at the
Victoria Station left-luggage office and had mailed the ticket to a man
called Schwab, c/o Boox-an-Pix, Ltd, W.C.1, were worth twenty thousand
pounds.

Unfortunately Schwab was a bad man, unconcerned with suffering
humanity.  He had the idea that if American juvenile delinquents could
consume millions of dollars' worth of heroin every year, so could their
Teddy boy and girl cousins.  In two rooms in Pimlico, his staff watered
the heroin with stomach powder and sent it on its way to the dance
halls and amusement arcades.

Schwab had already made a fortune when the C.I.D. Ghost Squad got on to
him.  Scotland Yard decided to let him make a little more money while
they investigated the source of his supply.  They put a close tail on
Schwab and in due course were led to Victoria Station and thence to the
Mexican courier.  At that stage, since a foreign country was concerned,
the Secret Service had had to be called in and Bond was ordered to find
out where the courier got his supplies and to destroy the channel at
source.

Bond did as he was told.  He flew to Mexico City and quickly got to the
Madre de Cacao.  Thence, posing as a buyer for the London traffic, he
got back to the big Mexican.  The Mexican received him amiably and
referred him to Blackwell.  Bond had rather taken to Blackwell.  He
knew nothing about Blackwell's sister, but the man was obviously an
amateur and his bitterness about the heroin ban in England rang true.
Bond broke into his warehouse one night and left a thermite bomb.  He
then went and sat in a caf a mile away and watched the flames leap
above the horizon of roof-tops and listened to the silver cascade of
the fire-brigade bells.  The next morning he telephoned Blackwell.  He
stretched a handkerchief across the mouthpiece and spoke through it.

'Sorry you lost your business last night.  I'm afraid your insurance
won't cover those stocks of soil you were researching.'

'Who's that?  Who's speaking?'

'I'm from England.  That stuff of yours has killed quite a lot of young
people over there.  Damaged a lot of others.  Santos won't be coming to
England any more with his diplomatic bag.  Schwab will be in jail by
tonight.  That fellow Bond you've been seeing, he won't get out of the
net either.  The police are after him now.'

Frightened words came back down the line.

'All right, but just don't do it again.  Stick to fertilizers.'

Bond hung up.

Blackwell wouldn't have had the wits.  It was obviously the big Mexican
who had seen through the false trail.  Bond had taken the precaution to
move his hotel, but that night, as he walked home after a last drink at
the Copacabana, a man suddenly stood in his way.  The man wore a dirty
white linen suit and a chauffeur's white cap that was too big for his
head.  There were deep blue shadows under Aztec cheek-bones.  In one
corner of the slash of a mouth there was a toothpick and in the other a
cigarette.  The eyes were bright pinpricks of marihuana.

'You like woman?  Make jigajig?'

'No.'

'Coloured girl?  Fine jungle tail?'

'No.'

'Mebbe pictures?'

The gesture of the hand slipping into the coat was so well known to
Bond, so full of old dangers, that, when the hand flashed out and the
long silver finger went for his throat, Bond was on balance and ready
for it.

Almost automatically, Bond went into the 'Parry Defence against
Underhand Thrust' out of the book.  His right arm cut across, his body
swivelling with it.  The two forearms met mid-way between the two
bodies, banging the Mexican's knife arm off target and opening his
guard for a crashing short-arm chin jab with Bond's left.  Bond's
stiff, locked wrist had not travelled far, perhaps two feet, but the
heel of his palm, with fingers spread for rigidity, had come up and
under the man's chin with terrific force.  The blow almost lifted the
man off the sidewalk.  Perhaps it had been that blow that had killed
the Mexican, broken his neck, but as he staggered back on his way to
the ground, Bond had drawn back his right hand and slashed sideways at
the taut, offered throat.  It was the deadly hand-edge blow to the
Adam's apple, delivered with the fingers locked into a blade, that had
been the stand-by of the Commandos.  If the Mexican was still alive, he
was certainly dead before he hit the ground.

Bond stood for a moment, his chest heaving, and looked at the crumpled
pile of cheap clothes flung down in the dust.  He glanced up and down
the street.  There was no one.  Some cars passed.  Others had perhaps
passed during the fight, but it had been in the shadows.  Bond knelt
down beside the body.  There was no pulse.  Already the eyes that had
been so bright with marihuana were glazing.  The house in which the
Mexican had lived was empty.  The tenant had left.

Bond picked up the body and laid it against a wall in deeper shadow.
He brushed his hands down his clothes, felt to see if his tie was
straight and went on to his hotel.

At dawn Bond had got up and shaved and driven to the airport where he
took the first plane out of Mexico.  It happened to be going to
Caracas.  Bond flew to Caracas and hung about in the transit lounge
until there was a plane for Miami, a Transamerica Constellation that
would take him on that same evening to New York.

Again the Tannoy buzzed and echoed.  'Transamerica regrets to announce
a delay on their flight TR 618 to New York due to a mechanical defect.
The new departure time will be at eight a.m.  Will all passengers
please report to the Transamerica ticket counter where arrangements for
their overnight accommodation will be made.  Thank you.'

So!  That too!  Should he transfer to another flight or spend the night
in Miami?  Bond had forgotten his drink.  He picked it up and, tilting
his head back, swallowed the bourbon to the last drop.  The ice tinkled
cheerfully against his teeth.  That was it.  That was an idea.  He
would spend the night in Miami and get drunk, stinking drunk so that he
would have to be carried to bed by whatever tart he had picked up.  He
hadn't been drunk for years.  It was high time.  This extra night,
thrown at him out of the blue, was a spare night, a gone night.  He
would put it to good purpose.  It was time he let himself go.  He was
too tense, too introspective.  What the hell was he doing, glooming
about this Mexican, this capungo who had been sent to kill him?  It had
been kill or get killed.  Anyway, people were killing other people all
the time, all over the world.  People were using their motor cars to
kill with.  They were carrying infectious diseases around, blowing
microbes in other people's faces, leaving gas-jets turned on in
kitchens, pumping out carbon monoxide in closed garages.  How many
people, for instance, were involved in manufacturing H-bombs, from the
miners who mined the uranium to the shareholders who owned the mining
shares?  Was there any person in the world who wasn't somehow, perhaps
only statistically, involved in killing his neighbour?

The last light of the day had gone.  Below the indigo sky the flare
paths twinkled green and yellow and threw tiny reflections off the oily
skin of the tarmac.  With a shattering roar a DC7 hurtled down the main
green lane.  The windows in the transit lounge rattled softly.  People
got up to watch.  Bond tried to read their expressions.  Did they hope
the plane would crash--give them something to watch, something to talk
about, something to fill their empty lives?  Or did they wish it well?
Which way were they willing the sixty passengers?  To live or to die?

Bond's lips turned down.  Cut it out.  Stop being so damned morbid.
All this is just reaction from a dirty assignment.  You're stale, tired
of having to be tough.  You want a change.  You've seen too much death.
You want a slice of life--easy, soft, high.

Bond was conscious of steps approaching.  They stopped at his side.
Bond looked up.  It was a clean, rich-looking, middle-aged man.  His
expression was embarrassed, deprecating.

'Pardon me, but surely it's Mr Bond ... Mr--er--James Bond?'




CHAPTER TWO

LIVING IT UP

Bond liked anonymity.  His 'Yes, it is' was discouraging.

'Well, that's a mighty rare coincidence.'  The man held out his hand.
Bond rose slowly, took the hand and released it.  The hand was pulpy
and unarticulated--like a hand-shaped mud pack, or an inflated rubber
glove.  'My name is Du Pont.  Junius Du Pont.  I guess you won't
remember me, but we've met before.  Mind if I sit down?'

The face, the name?  Yes, there _was_ something familiar.  Long ago.
Not in America.  Bond searched the files while he summed the man up.
Mr Du Pont was about fifty--pink, clean-shaven and dressed in the
conventional disguise with which Brooks Brothers cover the shame of
American millionaires.  He wore a single-breasted dark tan tropical
suit and a white silk shirt with a shallow collar.  The rolled ends of
the collar were joined by a gold safety pin beneath the knot of a
narrow dark red and blue striped tie that fractionally wasn't the
Brigade of Guards'.  The cuffs of the shirt protruded half an inch
below the cuffs of the coat and showed cabochon crystal links
containing miniature trout flies.  The socks were charcoal-grey silk
and the shoes were old and polished mahogany and hinted Peal.  The man
carried a dark, narrow-brimmed straw Homburg with a wide claret ribbon.

Mr Du Pont sat down opposite Bond and produced cigarettes and a plain
gold Zippo lighter.  Bond noticed that he was sweating slightly.  He
decided that Mr Du Pont was what he appeared to be, a very rich
American, mildly embarrassed.  He knew he had seen him before, but he
had no idea where or when.

'Smoke?'

'Thank you.'  It was a Parliament.  Bond affected not to notice the
offered lighter.  He disliked held-out lighters.  He picked up his own
and lit the cigarette.

'France, '51, Royale les Eaux.'  Mr Du Pont looked eagerly at Bond.
'That Casino.  Ethel, that's Mrs Du Pont, and me were next to you at
the table the night you had the big game with the Frenchman.'

Bond's memory raced back.  Yes, of course.  The Du Ponts had been Nos.
4 and 5 at the baccarat table.  Bond had been 6.  They had seemed
harmless people.  He had been glad to have such a solid bulwark on his
left on that fantastic night when he had broken Le Chiffre.  Now Bond
saw it all again--the bright pool of light on the green baize, the pink
crab hands across the table scuttling out for the cards.  He smelled
the smoke and the harsh tang of his own sweat.  That had been a night!
Bond looked across at Mr Du Pont and smiled at the memory.  'Yes, of
course I remember.  Sorry I was slow.  But that was quite a night.  I
wasn't thinking of much except my cards.'

Mr Du Pont grinned back, happy and relieved.  'Why, gosh, Mr Bond.  Of
course I understand.  And I do hope you'll pardon me for butting in.
You see...'  He snapped his fingers for a waitress.  'But we must have
a drink to celebrate.  What'll you have?'

'Thanks.  Bourbon on the rocks.'

'And dimple Haig and water.'  The waitress went away.

Mr Du Pont leant forward, beaming.  A whiff of soap or after-shave
lotion came across the table.  Lentheric?  'I knew it was you.  As soon
as I saw you sitting there.  But I thought to myself, Junius, you don't
often make an error over a face, but let's just go make sure.  Well, I
was flying Transamerican tonight and, when they announced the delay, I
watched your expression and, if you'll pardon me, Mr Bond, it was
pretty clear from the look on your face that you had been flying
Transamerican too.'  He waited for Bond to nod.  He hurried on.  'So I
ran down to the ticket counter and had me a look at the passenger list.
Sure enough, there it was, "J. Bond".'

Mr Du Pont sat back, pleased with his cleverness.  The drinks came.  He
raised his glass.  'Your very good health, sir.  This sure is my lucky
day.'

Bond smiled non-committally and drank.

Mr Du Pont leant forward again.  He looked round.  There was nobody at
the near-by tables.  Nevertheless he lowered his voice.  'I guess
you'll be saying to yourself, well, it's nice to see Junius Du Pont
again, but what's the score?  Why's he so particularly happy at seeing
me on just this night?'  Mr Du Pont raised his eyebrows as if acting
Bond's part for him.  Bond put on a face of polite inquiry.  Mr Du Pont
leant still farther across the table.  'Now, I hope you'll forgive me,
Mr Bond.  It's not like me to pry into other people's secre ...
er--affairs.  But, after that game at Royale, I did hear that you were
not only a grand card player, but also that you were--er--how shall I
put it?--that you were a sort of--er--investigator.  You know, kind of
intelligence operative.'  Mr Du Pont's indiscretion had made him go
very red in the face.  He sat back and took out a handkerchief and
wiped his forehead.  He looked anxiously at Bond.

Bond shrugged his shoulders.  The grey-blue eyes that looked into Mr Du
Pont's eyes, which had turned hard and watchful despite his
embarrassment, held a mixture of candour, irony and self-deprecation.
'I used to dabble in that kind of thing.  Hangover from the war.  One
still thought it was fun playing Red Indians.  But there's no future in
it in peacetime.'

'Quite, quite.'  Mr Du Pont made a throwaway gesture with the hand that
held the cigarette.  His eyes evaded Bond's as he put the next
question, waited for the next lie.  (Bond thought, there's a wolf in
this Brooks Brothers clothing.  This is a shrewd man.)  'And now you've
settled down?'  Mr Du Pont smiled paternally.  'What did you choose, if
you'll pardon the question?'

'Import and Export.  I'm with Universal.  Perhaps you've come across
them.'

Mr Du Pont continued to play the game.  'Hm.  Universal.  Let me see.
Why, yes, sure I've heard of them.  Can't say I've ever done business
with them, but I guess it's never too late.'  He chuckled fatly.  'I've
got quite a heap of interests all over the place.  Only stuff I can
honestly say I'm not interested in is chemicals.  Maybe it's my
misfortune, Mr Bond, but I'm not one of the chemical Du Ponts.'

Bond decided that the man was quite satisfied with the particular brand
of Du Pont he happened to be.  He made no comment.  He glanced at his
watch to hurry Mr Du Pont's play of the hand.  He made a note to handle
his own cards carefully.  Mr Du Pont had a nice pink kindly baby-face
with a puckered, rather feminine turn-down mouth.  He looked as
harmless as any of the middle-aged Americans with cameras who stand
outside Buckingham Palace.  But Bond sensed many tough, sharp qualities
behind the fuddyduddy faade.

Mr Du Pont's sensitive eye caught Bond's glance at his watch.  He
consulted his own.  'My, oh my!  Seven o'clock and here I've been
talking away without coming to the point.  Now, see here, Mr Bond.
I've got me a problem on which I'd greatly appreciate your guidance.
If you can spare me the time and if you were counting on stopping over
in Miami tonight I'd reckon it a real favour if you'd allow me to be
your host.'  Mr Du Pont held up his hand.  'Now, I think I can promise
to make you comfortable.  So happens I own a piece of the Floridiana.
Maybe you heard we opened around Christmas time?  Doing a great
business I'm happy to say.  Really pushing that little old Fountain
Blue.'  Mr Du Pont laughed indulgently.  'That's what we call the
Fontainebleau down here.  Now, what do you say, Mr Bond?  You shall
have the best suite--even if it means putting some good paying
customers out on the sidewalk.  And you'd be doing me a real favour.'
Mr Du Pont looked imploring.

Bond had already decided to accept--blind.  Whatever Mr Du Pont's
problem--blackmail, gangsters, women--it would be some typical form of
rich man's worry.  Here was a slice of the easy life he had been asking
for.  Take it.  Bond started to say something politely deprecating.  Mr
Du Pont interrupted.  'Please, please, Mr Bond.  And believe me, I'm
grateful, very grateful indeed.'  He snapped his fingers for the
waitress.  When she came, he turned away from Bond and settled the bill
out of Bond's sight.  Like many very rich men he considered that
showing his money, letting someone see how much he tipped, amounted to
indecent exposure.  He thrust his roll back into his trousers pocket
(the hip pocket is not the place among the rich) and took Bond by the
arm.  He sensed Bond's resistance to the contact and removed his hand.
They went down the stairs to the main hall.

'Now, let's just straighten out your reservation.'  Mr Du Pont headed
for the Transamerica ticket counter.  In a few curt phrases Mr Du Pont
showed his power and efficiency in his own, his American, realm.

'Yes, Mr Du Pont.  Surely, Mr Du Pont.  I'll take care of that, Mr Du
Pont.'

Outside, a gleaming Chrysler Imperial sighed up to the kerb.  A
tough-looking chauffeur in a biscuit-coloured uniform hurried to open
the door.  Bond stepped in and settled down in the soft upholstery.
The interior of the car was deliciously cool, almost cold.  The
Transamerican representative bustled out with Bond's suitcase, handed
it to the chauffeur and, with a half-bow, went back into the Terminal.
'Bill's on the Beach,' said Mr Du Pont to the chauffeur and the big car
slid away through the crowded parking lots and out on to the parkway.

Mr Du Pont settled back.  'Hope you like stone crabs, Mr Bond.  Ever
tried them?'

Bond said he had, that he liked them very much.

Mr Du Pont talked about Bill's on the Beach and about the relative
merits of stone and Alaska crab meat while the Chrysler Imperial sped
through downtown Miami, along Biscayne Boulevard and across Biscayne
Bay by the Douglas MacArthur Causeway.  Bond made appropriate comments,
letting himself be carried along on the gracious stream of speed and
comfort and rich small-talk.

They drew up at a white-painted, mock-Regency frontage in clapboard and
stucco.  A scrawl of pink neon said: BILL'S ON THE BEACH.  While Bond
got out, Mr Du Pont gave his instructions to the chauffeur.  Bond heard
the words.  'The Aloha Suite,' and 'If there's any trouble, tell Mr
Fairlie to call me here.  Right?'

They went up the steps.  Inside, the big room was decorated in white
with pink muslin swags over the windows.  There were pink lights on the
tables.  The restaurant was crowded with sunburned people in expensive
tropical get-ups--brilliant garish shirts, jangling gold bangles, dark
glasses with jewelled rims, cute native straw hats.  There was a
confusion of scents.  The wry smell of bodies that had been all day in
the sun came through.

Bill, a pansified Italian, hurried towards them.  'Why, Mr Du Pont.  Is
a pleasure, sir.  Little crowded tonight.  Soon fix you up.  Please
this way please.'  Holding a large leather-bound menu above his head
the man weaved his way between the diners to the best table in the
room, a corner table for six.  He pulled out two chairs, snapped his
fingers for the matre d'htel and the wine waiter, spread two menus in
front of them, exchanged compliments with Mr Du Pont and left them.

Mr Du Pont slapped his menu shut.  He said to Bond, 'Now, why don't you
just leave this to me?  If there's anything you don't like, send it
back.'  And to the head waiter, 'Stone crabs.  Not frozen.  Fresh.
Melted butter.  Thick toast.  Right?'

'Very good, Mr Du Pont.'  The wine waiter, washing his hands, took the
waiter's place.

'Two pints of pink champagne.  The Pommery '50.  Silver tankards.
Right?'

'Vairry good, Mr Du Pont.  A cocktail to start?'

Mr Du Pont turned to Bond.  He smiled and raised his eyebrows.

Bond said, 'Vodka martini, please.  With a slice of lemon peel.'

'Make it two,' said Mr Du Pont.  'Doubles.'  The wine waiter hurried
off.  Mr Du Pont sat back and produced his cigarettes and lighter.  He
looked round the room, answered one or two waves with a smile and a
lift of the hand and glanced at the neighbouring tables.  He edged his
chair nearer to Bond's.  'Can't help the noise, I'm afraid,' he said
apologetically.  'Only come here for the crabs.  They're out of this
world.  Hope you're not allergic to them.  Once brought a girl here and
fed her crabs and her lips swelled up like cycle tyres.'

Bond was amused at the change in Mr Du Pont--this racy talk, the
authority of manner once Mr Du Pont thought he had got Bond on the
hook, on his payroll.  He was a different man from the shy embarrassed
suitor who had solicited Bond at the airport.  What did Mr Du Pont want
from Bond?  It would be coming any minute now, the proposition.  Bond
said, 'I haven't got any allergies.'

'Good, good.'

There was a pause.  Mr Du Pont snapped the lid of his lighter up and
down several times.  He realized he was making an irritating noise and
pushed it away from him.  He made up his mind.  He said, speaking at
his hands on the table in front of him, 'You ever play Canasta, Mr
Bond?'

'Yes, it's a good game.  I like it.'

'Two-handed Canasta?'

'I have done.  It's not so much fun.  If you don't make a fool of
yourself--if neither of you do--it tends to even out.  Law of averages
in the cards.  No chance of making much difference in the play.'

Mr Du Pont nodded emphatically.  'Just so.  That's what I've said to
myself.  Over a hundred games or so, two equal players will end up
equal.  Not such a good game as Gin or Oklahoma, but in a way that's
just what I like about it.  You pass the time, you handle plenty of
cards, you have your ups and downs, no one gets hurt.  Right?'

Bond nodded.  The martinis came.  Mr Du Pont said to the wine waiter,
'Bring two more in ten minutes.'  They drank.  Mr Du Pont turned and
faced Bond.  His face was petulant, crumpled.  He said, 'What would you
say, Mr Bond, if I told you I'd lost twenty-five thousand dollars in a
week playing two-handed Canasta?'  Bond was about to reply.  Mr Du Pont
held up his hand.  'And mark you, I'm a good card player.  Member of
the Regency Club.  Play a lot with people like Charlie Goren, Johnny
Crawford--at bridge that is.  But what I mean, I know my way around at
the card table.'  Mr Du Pont probed Bond's eyes.

'If you've been playing with the same man all the time, you've been
cheated.'

'Ex-actly.'  Mr Du Pont slapped the table-cloth.  He sat back.
'Ex-actly.  That's what I said to myself after I'd lost--lost for four
whole days.  So I said to myself, this bastard is cheating me and by
golly I'll find out how he does it and have him hounded out of Miami.
So I doubled the stakes and then doubled them again.  He was quite
happy about it.  And I watched every card he played, every movement.
Nothing!  Not a hint or a sign.  Cards not marked.  New pack whenever I
wanted one.  My own cards.  Never looked at my hand--couldn't, as I
always sat dead opposite him.  No kibitzer to tip him off.  And he just
went on winning and winning.  Won again this morning.  And again this
afternoon.  Finally I got so mad at the game--I didn't show it, mind
you--' Bond might think he had not been a sport--'I paid up politely.
But, without telling this guy, I just packed my bag and got me to the
airport and booked on the first plane to New York.  Think of that!'  Mr
Du Pont threw up his hands.  'Running away.  But twenty-five grand is
twenty-five grand.  I could see it getting to fifty, a hundred.  And I
just couldn't stand another of these damned games and I couldn't stand
not being able to catch this guy out.  So I took off.  What do you
think of that?  Me, Junius Du Pont, throwing in the towel because I
couldn't take the licking any more!'

Bond grunted sympathetically.  The second round of drinks came.  Bond
was mildly interested, he was always interested in anything to do with
cards.  He could see the scene, the two men playing and playing and the
one man quietly shuffling and dealing away and marking up his score
while the other was always throwing his cards into the middle of the
table with a gesture of controlled disgust.  Mr Du Pont was obviously
being cheated.  How?  Bond said, 'Twenty-five thousand's a lot of
money.  What stakes were you playing?'

Mr Du Pont looked sheepish.  'Quarter a point, then fifty cents, then a
dollar.  Pretty high I guess with the games averaging around two
thousand points.  Even at a quarter, that makes five hundred dollars a
game.  At a dollar a point, if you go on losing, it's murder.'

'You must have won sometimes.'

'Oh sure, but somehow, just as I'd got the s.o.b. all set for a
killing, he'd put down as many of his cards as he could meld.  Got out
of the bag.  Sure, I won some small change, but only when he needed a
hundred and twenty to go down and I'd got all the wild cards.  But you
know how it is with Canasta, you have to discard right.  You lay traps
to make the other guy hand you the pack.  Well, darn it, he seemed to
be psychic!  Whenever I laid a trap, he'd dodge it, and almost every
time he laid one for me I'd fall into it.  As for giving me the
pack--why, he'd choose the damndest cards when he was pushed--discard
singletons, aces, God knows what, and always get away with it.  It was
just as if he knew every card in my hand.'

'Any mirrors in the room?'

'Heck, no!  We always played outdoors.  He said he wanted to get
himself a sunburn.  Certainly did that.  Red as lobster.  He'd only
play in the mornings and afternoons.  Said if he played in the evening
he couldn't get to sleep.'

'Who is this man, anyway?  What's his name?'

'Goldfinger.'

'First name?'

'Auric.  That means golden, doesn't it?  He certainly is that.  Got
flaming red hair.'

'Nationality?'

'You won't believe it, but he's a Britisher.  Domiciled in Nassau.
You'd think he'd be a Jew from the name, but he doesn't look it.  We're
restricted at the Floridiana.  Wouldn't have got in if he had been.
Nassavian passport.  Age forty-two.  Unmarried.  Profession, broker.
Got all this from his passport.  Had me a peek via the house detective
when I started to play with him.'

'What sort of broker?'

Du Pont smiled grimly.  'I asked him.  He said, "Oh, anything that
comes along."  Evasive sort of fellow.  Clams up if you ask him a
direct question.  Talks away quite pleasantly about nothing at all.'

'What's he worth?'

'Ha!' said Mr Du Pont explosively.  'That's the damnedest thing.  He's
loaded.  But loaded!  I got my bank to check with Nassau.  He's lousy
with it.  Millionaires are a dime a dozen in Nassau, but he's rated
either first or second among them.  Seems he keeps his money in gold
bars.  Shifts them around the world a lot to get the benefit of changes
in the gold price.  Acts like a damn federal bank.  Doesn't trust
currencies.  Can't say he's wrong in that, and seeing how he's one of
the richest men in the world there must be something to his system.
But the point is, if he's as rich as that, what the hell does he want
to take a lousy twenty-five grand off me for?'

A bustle of waiters round their table saved Bond having to think up a
reply.  With ceremony, a wide silver dish of crabs, big ones, their
shells and claws broken, was placed in the middle of the table.  A
silver sauceboat brimming with melted butter and a long rack of toast
was put beside each of their plates.  The tankards of champagne frothed
pink.  Finally, with an oily smirk, the head waiter came behind their
chairs and, in turn, tied round their necks long white silken bibs that
reached down to the lap.

Bond was reminded of Charles Laughton playing Henry VIII, but neither
Mr Du Pont nor the neighbouring diners seemed surprised at the hoggish
display.  Mr Du Pont, with a gleeful 'Every man for himself', raked
several hunks of crab on to his plate, doused them liberally in melted
butter and dug in.  Bond followed suit and proceeded to eat, or rather
devour, the most delicious meal he had had in his life.

The meat of the stone crabs was the tenderest, sweetest shellfish he
had ever tasted.  It was perfectly set off by the dry toast and
slightly burned taste of the melted butter.  The champagne seemed to
have the faintest scent of strawberries.  It was ice cold.  After each
helping of crab, the champagne cleaned the palate for the next.  They
ate steadily and with absorption and hardly exchanged a word until the
dish was cleared.

With a slight belch, Mr Du Pont for the last time wiped butter off his
chin with his silken bib and sat back.  His face was flushed.  He
looked proudly at Bond.  He said reverently, 'Mr Bond, I doubt if
anywhere in the world a man has eaten as good a dinner as that tonight.
What do you say?'

Bond thought, I asked for the easy life, the rich life.  How do I like
it?  How do I like eating like a pig and hearing remarks like that?
Suddenly the idea of ever having another meal like this, or indeed any
other meal with Mr Du Pont, revolted him.  He felt momentarily ashamed
of his disgust.  He had asked and it had been given.  It was the
puritan in him that couldn't take it.  He had made his wish and the
wish had not only been granted, it had been stuffed down his throat.
Bond said, 'I don't know about that, but it was certainly very good.'

Mr Du Pont was satisfied.  He called for coffee.  Bond refused the
offer of cigars or liqueurs.  He lit a cigarette and waited with
interest for the catch to be presented.  He knew there would be one.
It was obvious that all this was part of the come-on.  Well, let it
come.

Mr Du Pont cleared his throat.  'And now, Mr Bond, I have a proposition
to put to you.'  He stared at Bond, trying to gauge his reaction in
advance.

'Yes?'

'It surely was providential to meet you like that at the airport.'  Mr
Du Pont's voice was grave, sincere.  'I've never forgotten our first
meeting at Royale.  I recall every detail of it--your coolness, your
daring, your handling of the cards.'  Bond looked down at the
table-cloth.  But Mr Du Pont had got tired of his peroration.  He said
hurriedly, 'Mr Bond, I will pay you ten thousand dollars to stay here
as my guest until you have discovered how this man Goldfinger beats me
at cards.'

Bond looked Mr Du Pont in the eye.  He said, 'That's a handsome offer,
Mr Du Pont.  But I have to get back to London.  I must be in New York
to catch my plane within forty-eight hours.  If you will play your
usual sessions tomorrow morning and afternoon I should have plenty of
time to find out the answer.  But I must leave tomorrow night, whether
I can help you or not.  Done?'

'Done,' said Mr Du Pont.




CHAPTER THREE

THE MAN WITH AGORAPHOBIA

The flapping of the curtains wakened Bond.  He threw off the single
sheet and walked across the thick pile carpet to the picture window
that filled the whole of one wall.  He drew back the curtains and went
out on to the sun-filled balcony.

The black and white chequer-board tiles were warm, almost hot to the
feet although it could not yet be eight o'clock.  A brisk inshore
breeze was blowing off the sea, straining the flags of all nations that
flew along the pier of the private yacht basin.  The breeze was humid
and smelt strongly of the sea.  Bond guessed it was the breeze that the
visitors like, but the residents hate.  It would rust the metal
fittings in their homes, fox the pages of their books, rot their
wallpaper and pictures, breed damp-rot in their clothes.

Twelve storeys down the formal gardens, dotted with palm trees and beds
of bright croton and traced with neat gravel walks between avenues of
bougainvillaea, were rich and dull.  Gardeners were working, raking the
paths and picking up leaves with the lethargic slow motion of coloured
help.  Two mowers were at work on the lawns and, where they had already
been, sprinklers were gracefully flinging handfuls of spray.

Directly below Bond, the elegant curve of the Cabana Club swept down to
the beach--two storeys of changing-rooms below a flat roof dotted with
chairs and tables and an occasional red and white striped umbrella.
Within the curve was the brilliant green oblong of the Olympic-length
swimming-pool fringed on all sides by row upon row of mattressed
steamer chairs on which the customers would soon be getting their
fifty-dollar-a-day sunburn.  White-jacketed men were working among
them, straightening the lines of chairs, turning the mattresses and
sweeping up yesterday's cigarette butts.  Beyond was the long, golden
beach and the sea, and more men--raking the tideline, putting up the
umbrellas, laying out mattresses.  No wonder the neat card inside
Bond's wardrobe had said that the cost of the Aloha Suite was two
hundred dollars a day.  Bond made a rough calculation.  If he was
paying the bill, it would take him just three weeks to spend his whole
salary for the year.  Bond smiled cheerfully to himself.  He went back
into the bedroom, picked up the telephone and ordered himself a
delicious, wasteful breakfast, a carton of king-size Chesterfields and
the newspapers.

By the time he had shaved and had an ice-cold shower and dressed it was
eight o'clock.  He walked through into the elegant sitting-room and
found a waiter in a uniform of plum and gold laying out his breakfast
beside the window.  Bond glanced at the _Miami Herald_.  The front page
was devoted to yesterday's failure of an American ICBM at the near-by
Cape Canaveral and a bad upset in a big race at Hialeah.

Bond dropped the paper on the floor and sat down and slowly ate his
breakfast and thought about Mr Du Pont and Mr Goldfinger.

His thoughts were inconclusive.  Mr Du Pont was either a much worse
player than he thought, which seemed unlikely on Bond's reading of his
tough, shrewd character, or else Goldfinger was a cheat.  If Goldfinger
cheated at cards, although he didn't need the money, it was certain
that he had also made himself rich by cheating or sharp practice on a
much bigger scale.  Bond was interested in big crooks.  He looked
forward to his first sight of Goldfinger.  He also looked forward to
penetrating Goldfinger's highly successful and, on the face of it,
highly mysterious method of fleecing Mr Du Pont.  It was going to be a
most entertaining day.  Idly Bond waited for it to get underway.  The
plan was that he would meet Mr Du Pont in the garden at ten o'clock.
The story would be that Bond had flown down from New York to try and
sell Mr Du Pont a block of shares from an English holding in a Canadian
Natural Gas property.  The matter was clearly confidential and
Goldfinger would not think of questioning Bond about details.  Shares,
Natural Gas, Canada.  That was all Bond needed to remember.  They would
go along together to the roof of the Cabana Club where the game was
played and Bond would read his paper and watch.  After luncheon, during
which Bond and Mr Du Pont would discuss their 'business', there would
be the same routine.  Mr Du Pont had inquired if there was anything
else he could arrange.  Bond had asked for the number of Mr
Goldfinger's suite and a pass-key.  He had explained that if Goldfinger
was any kind of a professional card-sharp, or even an expert amateur,
he would travel with the usual tools of the trade--marked and shaved
cards, the apparatus for the Short Arm Delivery, and so forth.  Mr Du
Pont had said he would give Bond the key when they met in the garden.
He would have no difficulty getting one from the manager.

After breakfast, Bond relaxed and gazed into the middle distance of the
sea.  He was not keyed up by the job on hand, only interested and
amused.  It was just the kind of job he had needed to clear his palate
after Mexico.

At half past nine Bond left his suite and wandered along the corridors
of his floor, getting lost on his way to the elevator in order to
reconnoitre the lay-out of the hotel.  Then, having met the same maid
twice, he asked his way and went down in the elevator and moved among
the scattering of early risers through the Pineapple Shopping Arcade.
He glanced into the Bamboo Coffee Shoppe, the Rendezvous Bar, the La
Tropicala dining-room, the Kittekat Klub for children and the Boom-Boom
Nighterie.  He then went purposefully out into the garden.  Mr Du Pont,
now dressed 'for the beach' by Abercrombie & Fitch, gave him the
pass-key to Goldfinger's suite.  They sauntered over to the Cabana Club
and climbed the two short flights of stairs to the top deck.

Bond's first view of Mr Goldfinger was startling.  At the far corner of
the roof, just below the cliff of the hotel, a man was lying back with
his legs up on a steamer chair.  He was wearing nothing but a yellow
satin bikini slip, dark glasses and a pair of wide tin wings under his
chin.  The wings, which appeared to fit round his neck, stretched out
across his shoulders and beyond them and then curved up slightly to
rounded tips.

Bond said, 'What the hell's he wearing round his neck?'

'You never seen one of those?'  Mr Du Pont was surprised.  'That's a
gadget to help your tan.  Polished tin.  Reflects the sun up under your
chin and behind the ears--the bits that wouldn't normally catch the
sun.'

'Well, well,' said Bond.

When they were a few yards from the reclining figure Mr Du Pont called
out cheerfully, in what seemed to Bond an overloud voice, 'Hi there!'

Mr Goldfinger did not stir.

Mr Du Pont said in his normal voice.  'He's very deaf.'  They were now
at Mr Goldfinger's feet.  Mr Du Pont repeated his hail.

Mr Goldfinger sat up sharply.  He removed his dark glasses.  'Why,
hullo there.'  He unhitched the wings from round his neck, put them
carefully on the ground beside him and got heavily to his feet.  He
looked at Bond with slow, inquiring eyes.

'Like you to meet Mr Bond, James Bond.  Friend of mine from New York.
Countryman of yours.  Come down to try and talk me into a bit of
business.'

Mr Goldfinger held out a hand.  'Pleased to meet you, Mr Bomb.'

Bond took the hand.  It was hard and dry.  There was the briefest
pressure and it was withdrawn.  For an instant Mr Goldfinger's pale,
china-blue eyes opened wide and stared hard at Bond.  They stared right
through his face to the back of his skull.  Then the lids drooped, the
shutter closed over the X-ray, and Mr Goldfinger took the exposed plate
and slipped it away in his filing system.

'So no game today.'  The voice was flat, colourless.  The words were
more of a statement than a question.

'Whaddya mean, no game?' shouted Mr Du Pont boisterously.  'You weren't
thinking I'd let you hang on to my money?  Got to get it back or I
shan't be able to leave this darned hotel,' Mr Du Pont chuckled richly.
'I'll tell Sam to fix the table.  James here says he doesn't know much
about cards and he'd like to learn the game.  That right, James?'  He
turned to Bond.  'Sure you'll be all right with your paper and the
sunshine?'

'I'd be glad of the rest,' said Bond.  'Been travelling too much.'

Again the eyes bored into Bond and then drooped.  'I'll get some
clothes on.  I had intended to have a golf lesson this afternoon from
Mr Armour at the Boca Raton.  But cards have priority among my hobbies.
My tendency to un-cock the wrists too early with the mid-irons will
have to wait.'  The eyes rested incuriously on Bond.  'You play golf,
Mr Bomb?'

Bond raised his voice.  'Occasionally, when I'm in England.'

'And where do you play?'

'Huntercombe.'

'Ah--a pleasant little course.  I have recently joined the Royal St
Marks.  Sandwich is close to one of my business interests.  You know
it?'

'I have played there.'

'What is your handicap?'

'Nine.'

'That is a coincidence.  So is mine.  We must have a game one day.'  Mr
Goldfinger bent down and picked up his tin wings.  He said to Mr Du
Pont, 'I will be with you in five minutes.'  He walked slowly off
towards the stairs.

Bond was amused.  This social sniffing at him had been done with just
the right casual touch of the tycoon who didn't really care if Bond was
alive or dead but, since he was there and alive, might as well place
him in an approximate category.

Mr Du Pont gave instructions to a steward in a white coat.  Two others
were already setting up a card table.  Bond walked to the rail that
surrounded the roof and looked down into the garden, reflecting on Mr
Goldfinger.

He was impressed.  Mr Goldfinger was one of the most relaxed men Bond
had ever met.  It showed in the economy of his movement, of his speech,
of his expressions.  Mr Goldfinger wasted no effort, yet there was
something coiled, compressed, in the immobility of the man.

When Goldfinger had stood up, the first thing that had struck Bond was
that everything was out of proportion.  Goldfinger was short, not more
than five feet tall, and on top of the thick body and blunt, peasant
legs was set, almost directly into the shoulders, a huge and it seemed
exactly round head.  It was as if Goldfinger had been put together with
bits of other people's bodies.  Nothing seemed to belong.  Perhaps,
Bond thought, it was to conceal his ugliness that Goldfinger made such
a fetish of sunburn.  Without the red-brown camouflage the pale body
would be grotesque.  The face, under the cliff of crew-cut carroty
hair, was as startling, without being as ugly, as the body.  It was
moon-shaped without being moonlike.  The forehead was fine and high and
the thin sandy brows were level above the large light blue eyes fringed
with pale lashes.  The nose was fleshily aquiline between high
cheekbones and cheeks that were more muscular than fat.  The mouth was
thin and dead straight, but beautifully drawn.  The chin and jaws were
firm and glinted with health.  To sum up, thought Bond, it was the face
of a thinker, perhaps a scientist, who was ruthless, sensual, stoical
and tough.  An odd combination.

What else could he guess?  Bond always mistrusted short men.  They grew
up from childhood with an inferiority complex.  All their lives they
would strive to be big--bigger than the others who had teased them as a
child.  Napoleon had been short, and Hitler.  It was the short men that
caused all the trouble in the world.  And what about a misshapen short
man with red hair and a bizarre face?  That might add up to a really
formidable misfit.  One could certainly feel the repressions.  There
was a powerhouse of vitality humming in the man that suggested that if
one stuck an electric bulb into Goldfinger's mouth it would light up.
Bond smiled at the thought.  Into what channels did Goldfinger release
his vital force?  Into getting rich?  Into sex?  Into power?  Probably
into all three.  What could his history be?  Today he might be an
Englishman.  What had he been born?  Not a Jew--though there might be
Jewish blood in him.  Not a Latin or anything farther south.  Not a
Slav.  Perhaps a German--no, a Balt!  That's where he would have come
from.  One of the old Baltic provinces.  Probably got away to escape
the Russians.  Goldfinger would have been warned--or his parents had
smelled trouble and they had got him out in time.  And what had
happened then?  How had he worked his way up to being one of the
richest men in the world?  One day it might be interesting to find out.
For the time being it would be enough to find out how he won at cards.

'All set?' Mr Du Pont called to Goldfinger who was coming across the
roof towards the card table.  With his clothes on--a comfortably
fitting dark blue suit, a white shirt open at the neck--Goldfinger cut
an almost passable figure.  But there was no disguise for the great
brown and red football of a head and the flesh-coloured hearing aid
plugged into the left ear was not an improvement.

Mr Du Pont sat with his back to the hotel.  Goldfinger took the seat
opposite and cut the cards.  Du Pont won the cut, pushed the other pack
over to Goldfinger, tapped them to show they were already shuffled and
he couldn't bother to cut, and Goldfinger began the deal.

Bond sauntered over and took a chair at Mr Du Pont's elbow.  He sat
back, relaxed.  He made a show of folding his paper to the sports page
and watched the deal.

Somehow Bond had expected it, but this was no cardsharp.  Goldfinger
dealt quickly and efficiently, but with no hint of the Mechanic's Grip,
those vital three fingers curled round the long edge of the cards and
the index finger at the outside short upper edge--the grip that means
you are armed for dealing Bottoms or Seconds.  And he wore no signet
ring for pricking the cards, no surgical tape round a finger for
marking them.

Mr Du Pont turned to Bond.  'Deal of fifteen cards,' he commented.
'You draw two and discard one.  Otherwise straight Regency rules.  No
monkey business with the red treys counting one, three, five, eight, or
any of that European stuff.'

Mr Du Pont picked up his cards.  Bond noticed that he sorted them
expertly, not grading them according to value from left to right, or
holding his wild cards, of which he had two, at the left--a pattern
that might help a watchful opponent.  Mr Du Pont concentrated his good
cards in the centre of his hand with the singletons and broken melds on
either side.

The game began.  Mr Du Pont drew first, a miraculous pair of wild
cards.  His face betrayed nothing.  He discarded casually.  He only
needed two more good draws to go out unseen.  But he would have to be
lucky.  Drawing two cards doubles the chance of picking up what you
want, but it also doubles the chance of picking up useless cards that
will only clutter up your hand.

Goldfinger played a more deliberate game, almost irritatingly slow.
After drawing, he shuffled through his cards again and again before
deciding on his discard.

On the third draw, Du Pont had improved his hand to the extent that he
now needed only one of five cards to go down and out and catch his
opponent with a handful of cards which would all count against him.  As
if Goldfinger knew the danger he was in, he went down for fifty and
proceeded to make a canasta with three wild cards and four fives.  He
also got rid of some more melds and ended with only four cards in his
hand.  In any other circumstances it would have been ridiculously bad
play.  As it was, he had made some four hundred points instead of
losing over a hundred, for, on the next draw Mr Du Pont filled his hand
and, with most of the edge taken off his triumph by Goldfinger's
escape, went down unseen with the necessary two canastas.

'By golly, I nearly screwed you that time.'  Mr Du Pont's voice had an
edge of exasperation.  'What in hell told you to cut an' run?'

Goldfinger said indifferently, 'I smelled trouble.'  He added up his
points, announced them and jotted them down, waiting for Mr Du Pont to
do the same.  Then he cut the cards and sat back and regarded Bond with
polite interest.

'Will you be staying long, Mr Bomb?'

Bond smiled.  'It's Bond, B-O-N-D.  No, I have to go back to New York
tonight.'

'How sad.'  Goldfinger's mouth pursed in polite regret.  He turned back
to the cards and the game went on.  Bond picked up his paper and gazed,
unseeing, at the baseball scores, while he listened to the quiet
routine of the game.  Goldfinger won that hand and the next and the
next.  He won the game.  There was a difference of one thousand five
hundred points--one thousand five hundred dollars to Goldfinger.

'There it goes again!'  It was the plaintive voice of Mr Du Pont.

Bond put down his paper.  'Does he usually win?'

'Usually!'  The word was a snort.  'He always wins.'

They cut again and Goldfinger began to deal.

Bond said, 'Don't you cut for seats?  I often find a change of seat
helps the luck.  Hostage to fortune and so on.'

Goldfinger paused in his deal.  He bent his gaze gravely on Bond.
'Unfortunately, Mr Bond, that is not possible or I could not play.  As
I explained to Mr Du Pont at our first game, I suffer from an obscure
complaint--agoraphobia--the fear of open spaces.  I cannot bear the
open horizon.  I must sit and face the hotel.'  The deal continued.

'Oh, I'm so sorry.'  Bond's voice was grave, interested.  'That's a
very rare disability.  I've always been able to understand
claustrophobia, but not the other way round.  How did it come about?'

Goldfinger picked up his cards and began to arrange his hand.  'I have
no idea,' he said equably.

Bond got up.  'Well, I think I'll stretch my legs for a bit.  See
what's going on in the pool.'

'You do just that,' said Mr Du Pont jovially.  'Just take it easy,
James.  Plenty of time to discuss business over lunch.  I'll see if I
can't dish it out to my friend Goldfinger this time instead of taking
it.  Be seeing you.'

Goldfinger didn't look up from his cards.  Bond strolled down the roof,
past the occasional splayed-out body, to the rail at the far end that
overlooked the pool.  For a time he stood and contemplated the ranks of
pink and brown and white flesh laid out below him on the steamer
chairs.  The heavy scent of suntan oil came up to him.  There were a
few children and young people in the pool.  A man, obviously a
professional diver, perhaps the swimming instructor, stood on the
high-dive.  He balanced on the balls of his feet, a muscled Greek god
with golden hair.  He bounced once, casually, and flew off and down,
his arms held out like wings.  Lazily they arrowed out to cleave the
water for the body to pass through.  The impact left only a brief
turbulence.  The diver jack-knifed up again, shaking his head boyishly.
There was a smattering of applause.  The man trudged slowly down the
pool, his head submerged, his shoulders moving with casual power.  Bond
thought, good luck to you!  You won't be able to keep this up for more
than another five or six years.  High-divers couldn't take it for
long--the repeated shock to the skull.  With ski-jumping, which had the
same shattering effect on the frame, high-diving was the shortest-lived
sport.  Bond radioed to the diver, 'Cash in quick!  Get into films
while the hair's still gold.'

Bond turned and looked back down the roof towards the two Canasta
players beneath the cliff of the hotel.  So Goldfinger liked to face
the hotel.  Or was it that he liked Mr Du Pont to have his back to it?
And why?  Now, what was the number of Goldfinger's suite?  No. 200, the
Hawaii Suite.  Bond's on the top floor was 1200.  So, all things being
equal, Goldfinger's would be directly below Bond's, on the second
floor, twenty yards or so above the roof of the Cabana Club--twenty
yards from the card table.  Bond counted down.  He closely examined the
frontage that should be Goldfinger's.  Nothing.  An empty sun balcony.
An open door into the dark interior of the suite.  Bond measured
distances, angles.  Yes, that's how it might be.  That's how it must
be!  Clever Mr Goldfinger!




CHAPTER FOUR

OVER THE BARREL

After luncheon--the traditional shrimp cocktail, 'native' snapper with
a minute paper cup of tartare sauce, roast prime ribs of beef _au jus_,
and pineapple _surprise_--it was time for the siesta before meeting
Goldfinger at three o'clock for the afternoon session.

Mr Du Pont, who had lost a further ten thousand dollars or more,
confirmed that Goldfinger had a secretary.  'Never seen her.  Sticks to
the suite.  Probably just some chorine he's brought down for the ride.'
He smiled wetly.  'I mean the daily ride.  Why?  You on to something?'

Bond was non-committal.  'Can't tell yet.  I probably won't be coming
down this afternoon.  Say I got bored watching--gone into the town.'
He paused.  'But if my idea's right, don't be surprised at what may
happen.  If Goldfinger starts to behave oddly, just sit quiet and
watch.  I'm not promising anything.  I think I've got him, but I may be
wrong.'

Mr Du Pont was enthusiastic.  'Good for you, boyo!' he said effusively.
'I just can't wait to see that bastard over the barrel.  Damn his eyes!'

Bond took the elevator up to his suite.  He went to his suitcase and
extracted an M3 Leica, an MC exposure meter, a K.2 filter and a
flash-holder.  He put a bulb in the holder and checked the camera.  He
went to his balcony, glanced at the sun to estimate where it would be
at about three-thirty and went back into the sitting-room, leaving the
door to the balcony open.  He stood at the balcony door and aimed the
exposure meter.  The exposure was one-hundredth of a second.  He set
this on the Leica, put the shutter at f11, and the distance at twelve
feet.  He clipped on a lens hood and took one picture to see that all
was working.  Then he wound on the film, slipped in the flash-holder
and put the camera aside.

Bond went to his suitcase again and took out a thick book--_The Bible
Designed to be Read as Literature_--opened it and extracted his Walther
PPK in the Berns Martin holster.  He slipped the holster inside his
trouser band to the left.  He tried one or two quick draws.  They were
satisfactory.  He closely examined the geography of his suite, on the
assumption that it would be exactly similar to the Hawaii.  He
visualized the scene that would almost certainly greet him when he came
through the door of the suite downstairs.  He tried his pass-key in the
various locks and practised opening the doors noiselessly.  Then he
pulled a comfortable chair in front of the open balcony door and sat
and smoked a cigarette while he gazed out across the sea and thought of
how he would put things to Goldfinger when the time came.

At three-fifteen, Bond got up and went out on to the balcony and
cautiously looked down at the two tiny figures across the square of
green baize.  He went back into the room and checked the exposure meter
on the Leica.  The light was the same.  He slipped on the coat of his
dark blue tropical worsted suit, straightened his tie and slung the
strap of the Leica round his neck so that the camera hung at his chest.
Then, with a last look round, he went out and along to the elevator.
He rode down to the ground floor and examined the shop windows in the
foyer.  When the elevator had gone up again, he walked to the staircase
and slowly climbed up two floors.  The geography of the second floor
was identical with the twelfth.  Room 200 was where he had expected it
to be.  There was no one in sight.  He took out his pass-key and
silently opened the door and closed it behind him.  In the small lobby,
a raincoat, a light camel-hair coat and a pale grey Homburg hung on
hooks.  Bond took his Leica firmly in his right hand, held it up close
to his face and gently tried the door to the sitting-room.  It was not
locked.  Bond eased it open.

Even before he could see what he expected to see he could hear the
voice.  It was a low, attractive, girl's voice, an English voice.  It
was saying, 'Drew five and four.  Completed canasta in fives with two
twos.  Discarding four.  Has singletons in kings, knaves, nines,
sevens.'

Bond slid into the room.

The girl was sitting on two cushions on top of a table which had been
pulled up a yard inside the open balcony door.  She had needed the
cushions to give her height.  It was at the top of the afternoon heat
and she was naked except for a black brassire and black silk briefs.
She was swinging her legs in a bored fashion.  She had just finished
painting the nails on her left hand.  Now she stretched the hand out in
front of her to examine the effect.  She brought the hand back close to
her lips and blew on the nails.  Her right hand reached sideways and
put the brush back in the Revlon bottle on the table beside her.  A few
inches from her eyes were the eyepieces of a powerful-looking pair of
binoculars supported on a tripod whose feet reached down between her
sunburned legs to the floor.  Jutting out from below the binoculars was
a microphone from which wires led to a box about the size of a portable
record player under the table.  Other wires ran from the box to a
gleaming indoor aerial on the sideboard against the wall.

The briefs tightened as she leant forward again and put her eyes to the
binoculars.  'Drew a queen and a king.  Meld of queens.  Can meld kings
with a joker.  Discarding seven.'  She switched off the microphone.

While she was concentrating, Bond stepped swiftly across the floor
until he was almost behind her.  There was a chair.  He stood on it,
praying it wouldn't squeak.  Now he had the height to get the whole
scene in focus.  He put his eye to the view-finder.  Yes, there it was,
all in line, the girl's head, the edge of the binoculars, the
microphone and, twenty yards below, the two men at the table with Mr Du
Pont's hand of cards held in front of him.  Bond could distinguish the
reds and the blacks.  He pressed the button.

The sharp explosion of the bulb and the blinding flash of light forced
a quick scream out of the girl.  She swivelled round.

Bond stepped down off the chair.  'Good afternoon.'

'Whoryou?  Whatyouwant?'  The girl's hand was up to her mouth.  Her
eyes screamed at him.

'I've got what I want.  Don't worry.  It's all over now.  And my name's
Bond, James Bond.'

Bond put his camera carefully down on the chair and came and stood in
the radius of her scent.  She was very beautiful.  She had the palest
blonde hair.  It fell heavily to her shoulders, unfashionably long.
Her eyes were deep blue against a lightly sunburned skin and her mouth
was bold and generous and would have a lovely smile.

She stood up and took her hand away from her mouth.  She was tall,
perhaps five feet ten, and her arms and legs looked firm as if she
might be a swimmer.  Her breasts thrust against the black silk of the
brassiere.

Some of the fear had gone out of her eyes.  She said in a low voice,
'What are you going to do?'

'Nothing to you.  I may tease Goldfinger a bit.  Move over like a good
girl and let me have a look.'

Bond took the girl's place and looked through the glasses.  The game
was going on normally.  Goldfinger showed no sign that his
communications had broken down.

'Doesn't he mind not getting the signals?  Will he stop playing?'

She said hesitatingly, 'It's happened before when a plug pulled or
something.  He just waits for me to come through again.'

Bond smiled at her.  'Well, let's let him stew for a bit.  Have a
cigarette and relax,' he held out a packet of Chesterfields.  She took
one.  'Anyway it's time you did the nails on your right hand.'

A smile flickered across her mouth.  'How long were you there?  You
gave me a frightful shock.'

'Not long, and I'm sorry about the shock.  Goldfinger's been giving
poor old Mr Du Pont shocks for a whole week.'

'Yes,' she said doubtfully.  'I suppose it's really rather mean.  But
he's very rich, isn't he?'

'Oh yes.  I shouldn't lose any sleep over Mr Du Pont.  But Goldfinger
might choose someone who can't afford it.  Anyway, he's a zillionaire
himself.  Why does he do it?  He's crawling with money.'

Animation flooded back into her face.  'I know.  I simply can't
understand him.  It's a sort of mania with him, making money.  He can't
leave it alone.  I've asked him why and all he says is that one's a
fool not to make money when the odds are right.  He's always going on
about the same thing, getting the odds right.  When he talked me into
doing this,' she waved her cigarette at the binoculars, 'and I asked
him why on earth he bothered, took these stupid risks, all he said was,
"That's the second lesson.  When the odds aren't right, make them
right."'

Bond said, 'Well, it's lucky for him I'm not Pinkertons or the Miami
Police Department.'

The girl shrugged her shoulders.  'Oh, that wouldn't worry him.  He'd
just buy you off.  He can buy anyone off.  No one can resist gold.'

'What do you mean?'

She said indifferently, 'He always carries a million dollars' worth of
gold about with him except when he's going through the Customs.  Then
he just carries a belt full of gold coins round his stomach.  Otherwise
it's in thin sheets in the bottom and sides of his suitcases.  They're
really gold suitcases covered with leather.'

'They must weigh a ton.'

'He always travels by car, one with special springs.  And his chauffeur
is a huge man.  He carries them.  No one else touches them.'

'Why does he carry around all that gold?'

'Just in case he needs it.  He knows that gold will buy him anything he
wants.  It's all twenty-four carat.  And anyway he loves gold, really
loves it like people love jewels or stamps or--well,' she smiled,
'women.'

Bond smiled back.  'Does he love you?'

She blushed and said indignantly, 'Certainly not.'  Then, more
reasonably, 'Of course you can think anything you like.  But really he
doesn't.  I mean, I think he likes people to _think_ that we--that
I'm--that it's a question of love and all that.  You know.  He's not
very prepossessing and I suppose it's a question of--well--of vanity or
something.'

'Yes, I see.  So you're just a kind of secretary?'

'Companion,' she corrected him.  'I don't have to type or anything.'
She suddenly put her hand up to her mouth.  'Oh, but I shouldn't be
telling you all this!  You won't tell him, will you?  He'd fire me.'
Fright came into her eyes.  'Or something.  I don't know what he'd do.
He's the sort of man who might do anything.'

'Of course I won't tell.  But this can't be much of a life for you.
Why do you do it?'

She said tartly, 'A hundred pounds a week and all this,' she waved at
the room, 'doesn't grow on trees.  I save up.  When I've saved enough I
shall go.'

Bond wondered if Goldfinger would let her.  Wouldn't she know too much?
He looked at the beautiful face, the splendid, unselfconscious body.
She might not suspect it, but, for his money, she was in very bad
trouble with this man.

The girl was fidgeting.  Now she said with an embarrassed laugh, 'I
don't think I'm very properly dressed.  Can't I go and put something on
over these?'

Bond wasn't sure he could trust her.  It wasn't he who was paying the
hundred pounds a week.  He said airily, 'You look fine.  Just as
respectable as those hundreds of people round the pool.  Anyway,' he
stretched, 'it's about time to light a fire under Mr Goldfinger.'

Bond had been glancing down at the game from time to time.  It seemed
to be proceeding normally.  Bond bent again to the binoculars.  Already
Mr Du Pont seemed to be a new man, his gestures were expansive, the
half-profile of his pink face was full of animation.  While Bond
watched, he took a fistful of cards out of his hand and spread them
down--a pure canasta in kings.  Bond tilted the binoculars up an inch.
The big red-brown moon face was impassive, uninterested.  Mr Goldfinger
was waiting patiently for the odds to adjust themselves back in his
favour.  While Bond watched, he put up a hand to the hearing aid,
pushing the amplifier more firmly into his ear, ready for the signals
to come through again.

Bond stepped back.  'Neat little machine,' he commented.  'What are you
transmitting on?'

'He told me, but I can't remember.'  She screwed up her eyes.  'A
hundred and seventy somethings.  Would it be mega-somethings?'

'Megacycles.  Might be, but I'd be surprised if he doesn't get a lot of
taxicabs and police messages mixed up with your talk.  Must have
fiendish concentration.'  Bond grinned.  'Now then.  All set?  It's
time to pull the rug away.'

Suddenly she reached out and put a hand on his sleeve.  There was a
Claddagh ring on the middle finger--two gold hands clasped round a gold
heart.  There were tears in her voice.  'Must you?  Can't you leave him
alone?  I don't know what he'll do to me.  Please.'  She hesitated.
She was blushing furiously.  'And I like you.  It's a long time since
I've seen someone like you.  Couldn't you just stay here for a little
more?'  She looked down at the ground.  'If only you'd leave him alone
I'd do--' the words came out in a rush--'I'd do _anything_.'

Bond smiled.  He took the girl's hand off his arm and squeezed it.
'Sorry.  I'm being paid to do this job and I must do it.  Anyway--' his
voice went flat--'I want to do it.  It's time someone cut Mr Goldfinger
down to size.  Ready?'

Without waiting for an answer he bent to the binoculars.  They were
still focused on Goldfinger.  Bond cleared his throat.  He watched the
big face carefully.  His hand felt for the microphone switch and
pressed it down.

There must have been a whisper of static in the deaf aid.  Goldfinger's
expression didn't alter, but he slowly raised his face to heaven and
then down again, as if in benediction.

Bond spoke softly, menacingly into the microphone.  'Now hear me,
Goldfinger.'  He paused.  Not a flicker of expression, but Goldfinger
bent his head a fraction as if listening.  He studied his cards
intently, his hands quite still.

'This is James Bond speaking.  Remember me?  The game's finished and
it's time to pay.  I have a photograph of the whole set-up, blonde,
binoculars, microphone and you and your hearing aid.  This photograph
will not go to the F.B.I. and Scotland Yard so long as you obey me
exactly.  Nod your head if you understand.'

The face was still expressionless.  Slowly the big round head bent
forward and then straightened itself.

'Put your cards down face upwards on the table.'

The hands went down.  They opened and the cards slid off the fingers on
to the table.

'Take out your cheque book and write a cheque to cash for fifty
thousand dollars.  That is made up as follows, thirty-five you have
taken from Mr Du Pont.  Ten for my fee.  The extra five for wasting so
much of Mr Du Pont's valuable time.'

Bond watched to see that his order was being obeyed.  He took a glance
at Mr Du Pont.  Mr Du Pont was leaning forward, gaping.

Mr Goldfinger slowly detached the cheque and countersigned it on the
back.

'Right.  Now jot this down on the back of your cheque book and see you
get it right.  Book me a compartment on the Silver Meteor to New York
tonight.  Have a bottle of vintage champagne on ice in the compartment
and plenty of caviar sandwiches.  The best caviar.  And keep away from
me.  And no monkey business.  The photograph will be in the mails with
a full report to be opened and acted upon if I don't show up in good
health in New York tomorrow.  Nod if you understand.'

Again the big head came slowly down and up again.  Now there were
traces of sweat on the high, unlined forehead.

'Right, now hand the cheque across to Mr Du Pont and say, "I apologize
humbly.  I have been cheating you."  Then you can go.'

Bond watched the hand go across and drop the cheque in front of Mr Du
Pont.  The mouth opened and spoke.  The eyes were placid, slow.
Goldfinger had relaxed.  It was only money.  He had paid his way out.

'Just a moment, Goldfinger, you're not through yet.'  Bond glanced up
at the girl.  She was looking at him strangely.  There was misery and
fear but also a look of submissiveness, of longing.

'What's your name?'

'Jill Masterton.'

Goldfinger had stood up, was turning away.  Bond said sharply, 'Stop.'

Goldfinger stopped in mid-stride.  Now his eyes looked up at the
balcony.  They had opened wide, as when Bond had first met him.  Their
hard, level, X-ray gaze seemed to find the lenses of the binoculars,
travel down them and through Bond's eyes to the back of his skull.
They seemed to say, 'I shall remember this, Mr Bond.'

Bond said softly, 'I'd forgotten.  One last thing.  I shall be taking a
hostage for the ride to New York.  Miss Masterton.  See that she's at
the train.  Oh, and make that compartment a drawing-room.  That's all.'




CHAPTER FIVE

NIGHT DUTY

It was a week later.  Bond stood at the open window of the
seventh-floor office of the tall building in Regent's Park that is the
headquarters of the Secret Service.  London lay asleep under a full
moon that rode swiftly over the town through a shoal of herring-bone
clouds.  Big Ben sounded three.  One of the telephones rang in the dark
room.  Bond turned and moved quickly to the central desk and the pool
of light cast by the green shaded reading-lamp.  He picked up the black
telephone from the rank of four.

He said, 'Duty officer.'

'Station H, sir.'

'Put them on.'

There was the echoing buzz and twang of the usual bad radio connection
with Hongkong.  Why were there always sunspots over China?  A sing-song
voice asked, 'Universal Export?'

'Yes.'

A deep, close voice--London--said, 'You're through to Hongkong.  Speak
up, please.'

Bond said impatiently, 'Clear the line, please.'

The sing-song voice said, 'You're through now.  Speak up, please.'

'Hullo!  Hullo!  Universal Export?'

'Yes.'

'Dickson speaking.  Can you hear me?'

'Yes.'

'That cable I sent you about the shipment of mangoes.  Fruit.  You
know?'

'Yes.  Got it here.'  Bond pulled the file towards him.  He knew what
it was about.  Station H wanted some limpet mines to put paid to three
Communist spy junks that were using Macao to intercept British
freighters and search them for refugees from China.

'Must have payment by the tenth.'

That would mean that the junks were leaving, or else that the guards on
the junks would be doubled after that date, or some other emergency.

Bond said briefly, 'Wilco.'

'Thanks.  'Bye.'

'Bye.'  Bond put down the receiver.  He picked up the green receiver
and dialled Q Branch and talked to the section duty officer.  It would
be all right.  There was a B.O.A.C. Britannia leaving in the morning.
Q Branch would see that the crate caught the plane.

Bond sat back.  He reached for a cigarette and lit it.  He thought of
the badly air-conditioned little office on the waterfront in Hongkong,
saw the sweat marks on the white shirt of 279, whom he knew well and
who had just called himself Dickson.  Now 279 would probably be talking
to his number two: 'It's okay.  London says can do.  Let's just go over
this ops. schedule again.'  Bond smiled wryly.  Better they than he.
He'd never liked being up against the Chinese.  There were too many of
them.  Station H might be stirring up a hornets' nest, but M had
decided it was time to show the opposition that the Service in Hongkong
hadn't quite gone out of business.

When, three days before, M had first told him his name was down for
night duty, Bond hadn't taken to the idea.  He had argued that he
didn't know enough about the routine work of the stations, that it was
too responsible a job to give a man who had been in the double-O
section for six years and who had forgotten all he had ever known about
station work.

'You'll soon pick it up,' M had said unsympathetically.  'If you get in
trouble there are the duty section officers or the Chief of Staff--or
me, for the matter of that.'  (Bond had smiled at the thought of waking
M up in the middle of the night because some man in Aden or Tokyo was
in a flap.)  'Anyway, I've decided.  I want all senior officers to do
their spell of routine.'  M had looked frostily across at Bond.
'Matter of fact, 007, I had the Treasury on to me the other day.  Their
liaison man thinks the double-O section is redundant.  Says that kind
of thing is out of date.  I couldn't bother to argue'--M's voice was
mild.  'Just told him he was mistaken.'  (Bond could visualize the
scene.)  'However, won't do any harm for you to have some extra duties
now you're back in London.  Keep you from getting stale.'

And Bond wasn't minding it.  He was half way through his first week and
so far it had just been a question of common sense or passing routine
problems on down to the sections.  He rather liked the peaceful room
and knowing everybody's secrets and being occasionally fed coffee and
sandwiches by one of the pretty girls from the canteen.

On the first night the girl had brought him tea.  Bond had looked at
her severely.  'I don't drink tea.  I hate it.  It's mud.  Moreover
it's one of the main reasons for the downfall of the British Empire.
Be a good girl and make me some coffee.'  The girl had giggled and
scurried off to spread Bond's dictum in the canteen.  From then on he
had got his coffee.  The expression 'a cup of mud' was seeping through
the building.

A second reason why Bond enjoyed the long vacuum of night duty was that
it gave him time to get on with a project he had been toying with for
more than a year--a handbook of all secret methods of unarmed combat.
It was to be called _Stay Alive!_  It would contain the best of all
that had been written on the subject by the Secret Services of the
world.  Bond had told no one of the project, but he hoped that, if he
could finish it, M would allow it to be added to the short list of
Service manuals which contained the tricks and techniques of Secret
Intelligence.  Bond had borrowed the original textbooks, or where
necessary, translations, from Records.  Most of the books had been
captured from enemy agents or organizations.  Some had been presented
to M by sister Services such as O.S.S., C.I.A. and the Deuxime.  Now
Bond drew towards him a particular prize, a translation of the manual,
entitled simply _Defence_, issued to operatives of SMERSH, the Soviet
organization of vengeance and death.

That night he was halfway through Chapter Two, whose title, freely
translated, was 'Come-along and Restraint Holds'.  Now he went back to
the book and read for half an hour through the sections dealing with
the conventional 'Wrist Come-along', 'Arm Lock Come-along', 'Forearm
Lock', 'Head Hold' and 'Use of Neck Pressure Points'.

After half an hour, Bond thrust the typescript away from him.  He got
up and went across to the window and stood looking out.  There was a
nauseating toughness in the blunt prose the Russians used.  It had
brought on another of the attacks of revulsion to which Bond had
succumbed ten days before at Miami Airport.  What was wrong with him?
Couldn't he take it any more?  Was he going soft, or was he only stale?
Bond stood for a while watching the moon riding, careering, through the
clouds.  Then he shrugged his shoulders and went back to his desk.  He
decided that he was as fed up with the variations of violent physical
behaviour as a psychoanalyst must become with the mental aberrations of
his patients.

Bond read again the passage that had revolted him: 'A drunken woman can
also usually be handled by using the thumb and forefinger to grab the
lower lip.  By pinching hard and twisting, as the pull is made, the
woman will come along.'

Bond grunted.  The obscene delicacy of that 'thumb and forefinger'!
Bond lit a cigarette and stared into the filament of the desk light,
switching his mind to other things, wishing that a signal would come in
or the telephone ring.  Another five hours to go before the nine
o'clock report to the Chief of Staff or to M, if M happened to come in
early.  There was something nagging at his mind, something he had
wanted to check on when he had the time.  What was it?  What had
triggered off the reminder?  Yes, that was it,
'forefinger'--Goldfinger.  He would see if Records had anything on the
man.

Bond picked up the green telephone and dialled Records.

'Doesn't ring a bell, sir.  I'll check and call you back.'

Bond put down the receiver.

It had been a wonderful trip up in the train.  They had eaten the
sandwiches and drunk the champagne and then, to the rhythm of the giant
diesels pounding out the miles, they had made long, slow love in the
narrow berth.  It had been as if the girl was starved of physical love.
She had woken him twice more in the night with soft demanding caresses,
saying nothing, just reaching for his hard, lean body.  The next day
she had twice pulled down the roller blinds to shut out the hard light
and had taken him by the hand and said, 'Love me, James' as if she was
a child asking for a sweet.

Even now Bond could hear the quick silver poem of the level-crossing
bells, the wail of the big windhorn out front and the quiet outside
clamour at the stations when they lay and waited for the sensual gallop
of the wheels to begin again.

Jill Masterton had said that Goldfinger had been relaxed, indifferent
over his defeat.  He had told the girl to tell Bond that he would be
over in England in a week's time and would like to have that game of
golf at Sandwich.  Nothing else--no threats, no curses.  He had said he
would expect the girl back by the next train.  Jill had told Bond she
would go.  Bond had argued with her.  But she was not frightened of
Goldfinger.  What could he do to her?  And it was a good job.

Bond had decided to give her the ten thousand dollars Mr Du Pont had
shuffled into his hand with a stammer of thanks and congratulations.
Bond made her take the money.  'I don't want it,' Bond had said.
'Wouldn't know what to do with it.  Anyway, keep it as mad money in
case you want to get away in a hurry.  It ought to be a million.  I
shall never forget last night and today.'

Bond had taken her to the station and had kissed her once hard on the
lips and had gone away.  It hadn't been love, but a quotation had come
into Bond's mind as his cab moved out of Pennsylvania station: 'Some
love is fire, some love is rust.  But the finest, cleanest love is
lust.'  Neither had had regrets.  Had they committed a sin?  If so,
which one?  A sin against chastity?  Bond smiled to himself.  There was
a quotation for that too, and from a saint--Saint Augustine: 'Oh Lord,
give me Chastity.  But don't give it yet!'

The green telephone rang.  'Three Goldfingers, sir, but two of them are
dead.  The third's a Russian post office in Geneva.  Got a hairdressing
business.  Slips the messages into the right-hand coat pocket when he
brushes the customers down.  He lost a leg at Stalingrad.  Any good,
sir?  There's plenty more on him.'

'No thanks.  That couldn't be my man.'

'We could put a trace through C.I.D. Records in the morning.  Got a
picture, sir?'

Bond remembered the Leica film.  He hadn't even bothered to have it
developed.  It would be quicker to mock up the man's face on the
Identicast.  He said, 'Is the Identicast room free?'

'Yes, sir.  And I can operate it for you if you like.'

'Thanks.  I'll come down.'

Bond told the switchboard to let heads of sections know where he would
be and went out and took the lift down to Records on the first floor.

The big building was extraordinarily quiet at night.  Beneath the
silence, there was a soft whisper of machinery and hidden life--the
muffled clack of a typewriter as Bond passed a door, a quickly
suppressed stammer of radio static as he passed another, the soft
background whine of the ventilation system.  It gave you the impression
of being in a battleship in harbour.

The Records duty officer was already at the controls of the Identicast
in the projection room.  He said to Bond, 'Could you give me the main
lines of the face, sir?  That'll help me leave out the slides that are
obviously no good.'

Bond did so and sat back and watched the lighted screen.

The Identicast is a machine for building up an approximate picture of a
suspect--or of someone who has perhaps only been glimpsed in a street
or a train or in a passing car.  It works on the magic lantern
principle.  The operator flashes on the screen various head-shapes and
sizes.  When one is recognized it stays on the screen.  Then various
haircuts are shown, and then all the other features follow and are
chosen one by one--different shapes of eyes, noses, chins, mouths,
eyebrows, cheeks, ears.  In the end there is the whole picture of a
face, as near as the scanner can remember it, and it is photographed
and put on record.

It took some time to put together Goldfinger's extraordinary face, but
the final result was an approximate likeness in monochrome.  Bond
dictated one or two notes about the sunburn, the colour of the hair and
the expression of the eyes, and the job was done.

'Wouldn't like to meet that on a dark night,' commented the man from
Records.  'I'll put it through to C.I.D. when they come on duty.  You
should get the answer by lunch time.'

Bond went back to the seventh floor.  On the other side of the world it
was around midnight.  Eastern stations were closing down.  There was a
flurry of signals that had to be dealt with, the night's log to be
written up, and then it was eight o'clock.  Bond telephoned the canteen
for his breakfast.  He had just finished it when there came the harsh
purr of the red telephone.  M!  Why the hell had he got in half an hour
early?

'Yes, sir.'

'Come up to my office, 007.  I want to have a word before you go off
duty.'

'Sir.'  Bond put the telephone back.  He slipped on his coat and ran a
hand through his hair, told the switchboard where he would be, took the
night log and went up in the lift to the eighth and top floor.  Neither
the desirable Miss Moneypenny nor the Chief of Staff was on duty.  Bond
knocked on M's door and went in.

'Sit down, 007.'  M was going through the pipe-lighting routine.  He
looked pink and well scrubbed.  The lined sailor's face above the stiff
white collar and loosely tied spotted bow-tie was damnably brisk and
cheerful.  Bond was conscious of the black stubble on his own chin and
of the all-night look of his skin and clothes.  He sharpened his mind.

'Quiet night?'  M had got his pipe going.  His hard, healthy eyes
regarded Bond attentively.

'Pretty quiet, sir.  Station H--'

M raised his left hand an inch or two.  'Never mind.  I'll read all
about it in the log.  Here, I'll take it.'

Bond handed over the Top Secret folder.  M put it to one side.  He
smiled one of his rare, rather sardonic, bitten-off smiles.  'Things
change, 007.  I'm taking you off night duty for the present.'

Bond's answering smile was taut.  He felt the quickening of the pulse
he had so often experienced in this room.  M had got something for him.
He said, 'I was just getting into it, sir.'

'Quite.  Have plenty of opportunity later on.  Something's come up.
Odd business.  Not really your line of country, except for one
particular angle which'--M jerked his pipe sideways in a throwaway
gesture--'may not be an angle at all.'

Bond sat back.  He said nothing, waiting.

'Had dinner with the Governor of the Bank last night.  One's always
hearing something new.  At least, all this was new to me.  Gold--the
seamy side of the stuff.  Smuggling, counterfeiting, all that.  Hadn't
occurred to me that the Bank of England knew so much about crooks.
Suppose it's part of the Bank's job to protect our currency.'  M jerked
his eyebrows up.  'Know anything about gold?'

'No, sir.'

'Well, you will by this afternoon.  You've got an appointment with a
man called Colonel Smithers at the Bank at four o'clock.  That give you
enough time to get some sleep?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Good.  Seems that this man Smithers is head of the Bank's research
department.  From what the Governor told me, that's nothing more or
less than a spy system.  First time I knew they had one.  Just shows
what water-tight compartments we all work in.  Anyway, Smithers and his
chaps keep an eye out for anything fishy in the banking
world--particularly any monkeying about with our currency and bullion
reserves and what not.  There was that business the other day of the
Italians who were counterfeiting sovereigns.  Making them out of real
gold.  Right carats and all that.  But apparently a sovereign or a
French napoleon is worth much more than its melted-down value in gold.
Don't ask me why.  Smithers can tell you that if you're interested.
Anyway, the Bank went after these people with a whole battery of
lawyers--it wasn't technically a criminal offence--and, after losing in
the Italian courts, they finally nailed them in Switzerland.  You
probably read about it.  Then there was that business of dollar
balances in Beirut.  Made quite a stir in the papers.  Couldn't
understand it myself.  Some crack in the fence we put round our
currency.  The wide City boys had found it.  Well, it's Smithers's job
to smell out that kind of racket.  The reason the Governor told me all
this is because for years, almost since the war apparently, Smithers
has had a bee in his bonnet about some big gold leak out of England.
Mostly deduction, plus some kind of instinct.  Smithers admits he's got
damned little to go on, but he's impressed the Governor enough for him
to get permission from the P.M. to call us in.'  M broke off.  He
looked quizzically at Bond.  'Ever wondered who are the richest men in
England?'

'No, sir.'

'Well, have a guess.  Or rather, put it like this: Who are the richest
Englishmen?'

Bond searched his mind.  There were a lot of men who sounded rich or
who were made to sound rich by the newspapers.  But who really had it,
liquid, in the bank?  He had to say something.  He said hesitatingly,
'Well, sir, there's Sassoon.  Then that shipping man who keeps to
himself--er--Ellerman.  They say Lord Cowdray is very rich.  There are
the bankers--Rothschilds, Barings, Hambros.  There was Williamson, the
diamond man.  Oppenheimer in South Africa.  Some of the dukes may still
have a lot of money.'  Bond's voice trailed away.

'Not bad.  Not bad at all.  But you've missed out the joker in the
pack.  Man I'd never thought of until the Governor brought up his name.
He's the richest of the lot.  Man called Goldfinger, Auric Goldfinger.'

Bond couldn't help himself.  He laughed sharply.

'What's the matter?'  M's voice was testy.  'What the hell is there to
laugh about?'

'I'm sorry, sir.'  Bond got hold of himself.  'The truth is, only last
night I was building his face up on the Identicast.'  He glanced at his
watch.  In a strangled voice he said, 'Be on its way to C.I.D. Records.
Asked for a Trace on him.'

M was getting angry.  'What the hell's all this about?  Stop behaving
like a bloody schoolboy.'

Bond said soberly, 'Well, sir, it's like this...'  Bond told the story,
leaving nothing out.

M's face cleared.  He listened with all his attention, leaning forward
across the desk.  When Bond had finished, M sat back in his chair.  He
said 'Well, well ... well' on a diminishing scale.  He put his hands
behind his head and gazed for minutes at the ceiling.

Bond could feel the laughter coming on again.  How would the C.I.D.
word the resounding snub he would get in the course of the day?  He was
brought sharply back to earth by M's next words.  'By the way, what
happened to that ten thousand dollars?'

'Gave it to the girl, sir.'

'Really!  Why not to the White Cross?'

The White Cross Fund was for the families of Secret Service men and
women who were killed on duty.

'Sorry, sir.'  Bond was not prepared to argue that one.

'Humpf.'  M had never approved of Bond's womanizing.  It was anathema
to his Victorian soul.  He decided to let it pass.  He said, 'Well,
that's all for now, 007.  You'll be hearing all about it this
afternoon.  Funny about Goldfinger.  Odd chap.  Seen him once or twice
at Blades.  He plays bridge there when he's in England.  He's the chap
the Bank of England's after.'  M paused.  He looked mildly across the
table at Bond.  'As from this moment, so are you.'




CHAPTER SIX

TALK OF GOLD

Bond walked up the steps and through the fine bronze portals and into
the spacious, softly echoing entrance hall of the Bank of England and
looked around him.  Under his feet glittered the brilliant golden
patterns of the Boris Anrep mosaics; beyond, through twenty-foot-high
arched windows, green grass and geraniums blazed in the central
courtyard.  To right and left were spacious vistas of polished Hopton
Wood stone.  Over all hung the neutral smell of air-conditioned air and
the heavy, grave atmosphere of immense riches.

One of the athletic-looking, pink frock-coated commissionaires came up
to him.  'Yes, sir?'

'Colonel Smithers?'

'Commander Bond, sir?  This way please.'  The commissionaire moved off
to the right between the pillars.  The bronze doors of a discreetly
hidden lift stood open.  The lift rose a few feet to the first floor.
Now there was a long panelled corridor ending in a tall Adams window.
The floor was close-carpeted in beige Wilton.  The commissionaire
knocked at the last of several finely carved oak doors that were just
so much taller and more elegant than ordinary doors.  A grey-haired
woman was sitting at a desk.  She looked as if she had once taken a
double first.  The walls of the room were lined with grey metal filing
cabinets.  The woman had been writing on a quarto pad of yellow
memorandum paper.  She smiled with a hint of conspiracy, picked up a
telephone and dialled a number.  'Commander Bond is here.'  She put the
telephone back and stood up.  'Will you come this way?'  She crossed
the room to a door covered with green baize and held it open for Bond
to go through.

Colonel Smithers had risen from his desk.  He said gravely, 'Nice of
you to have come.  Won't you sit down?'  Bond took the chair.  'Smoke?'
Colonel Smithers pushed forward a silver box of Senior Service and
himself sat down and began to fill a pipe.  Bond took a cigarette and
lit it.

Colonel Smithers looked exactly like someone who would be called
Colonel Smithers.  He had obviously been a colonel, probably on the
staff, and he had the smooth, polished, basically serious mien that
fitted his name.  But for his horn-rimmed glasses, he might have been
an efficient, not very well-fed courtier in a royal household.

Bond felt boredom gathering in the corners of the room.  He said
encouragingly, 'It seems that you are to tell me all about gold.'

'So I understand.  I had a note from the Governor.  I gather I need
keep nothing from you.  Of course you understand'--Colonel Smithers
looked over Bond's right shoulder--'that most of what I shall have to
say will be confidential.'  The eyes swept quickly across Bond's face.

Bond's face was stony.

Colonel Smithers felt the silence that Bond had intended he should
feel.  He looked up, saw that he had put his foot in it, and tried to
make amends.  'Obviously I needn't have mentioned the point.  A man
with your training...'

Bond said, 'We all think our own secrets are the only ones that matter.
You're probably right to remind me.  Other people's secrets are never
quite as important as one's own.  But you needn't worry.  I shall
discuss things with my chief but with no one else.'

'Quite, quite.  Nice of you to take it that way.  In the Bank one gets
into the habit of being over-discreet.  Now then,' Colonel Smithers
scurried for cover into his subject.  'This business of gold.  I take
it it's not a matter you've thought about a great deal?'

'I know it when I see it.'

'Aha, yes--well now, the great thing to remember about gold is that
it's the most valuable and most easily marketable commodity in the
world.  You can go to any town in the world, almost to any village, and
hand over a piece of gold and get goods or services in exchange.
Right?'  Colonel Smithers's voice had taken on a new briskness.  His
eyes were alight.  He had his lecture pat.  Bond sat back.  He was
prepared to listen to anyone who was master of his subject, any
subject.  'And the next thing to remember,' Colonel Smithers held up
his pipe in warning, 'is that gold is virtually untraceable.
Sovereigns have no serial numbers.  If gold bars have Mint marks
stamped on them the marks can be shaved off or the bar can be melted
down and made into a new bar.  That makes it almost impossible to check
on the whereabouts of gold, or its origins, or its movements round the
world.  In England, for instance, we at the Bank can only count the
gold in our own vaults, in the vaults of other banks and at the Mint,
and make a rough guess at the amounts held by the jewellery trade and
the pawnbroking fraternity.'

'Why are you so anxious to know how much gold there is in England?'

'Because gold and currencies backed by gold are the foundation of our
international credit.  We can only tell what the true strength of the
pound is, and other countries can only tell it, by knowing the amount
of valuta we have behind our currency.  And my main job, Mr
Bond'--Colonel Smithers's bland eyes had become unexpectedly sharp--'is
to watch for any leakage of gold out of England--out of anywhere in the
sterling area.  And when I spot a leakage, an escape of gold towards
some country where it can be exchanged more profitably than at our
official buying price, it is my job to put the C.I.D. Gold Squad on to
the fugitive gold and try to get it back into our vaults, plug the leak
and arrest the people responsible.  And the trouble is, Mr
Bond'--Colonel Smithers gave a forlorn shrug of the shoulders--'that
gold attracts the biggest, the most ingenious criminals.  They are very
hard, very hard indeed, to catch.'

'Isn't all this only a temporary phase?  Why should this shortage of
gold go on?  They seem to be digging it out of Africa fast enough.
Isn't there enough to go round?  Isn't it just like any other black
market that disappears when the supplies are stepped up, like the
penicillin traffic after the war?'

'I'm afraid not, Mr Bond.  It isn't quite as easy as that.  The
population of the world is increasing at the rate of five thousand four
hundred every hour of the day.  A small percentage of those people
become gold hoarders, people who are frightened of currencies, who like
to bury some sovereigns in the garden or under the bed.  Another
percentage needs gold fillings for their teeth.  Others need
gold-rimmed spectacles, jewellery, engagement rings.  All these new
people will be taking tons of gold off the market every year.  New
industries need gold wire, gold plating, amalgams of gold.  Gold has
extraordinary properties which are being put to new uses every day.  It
is brilliant, malleable, ductile, almost unalterable and more dense
than any of the common metals except platinum.  There's no end to its
uses.  But it has two defects.  It isn't hard enough.  It wears out
quickly, leaves itself on the linings of our pockets and in the sweat
of our skins.  Every year, the world's stock is invisibly reduced by
friction.  I said that gold has two defects.'  Colonel Smithers looked
sad.  'The other and by far the major defect is that it is the talisman
of fear.  Fear, Mr Bond, takes gold out of circulation and hoards it
against the evil day.  In a period of history when every tomorrow may
be the evil day, it is fair enough to say that a fat proportion of the
gold that is dug out of one corner of the earth is at once buried again
in another corner.'

Bond smiled at Colonel Smithers's eloquence.  This man lived gold,
thought gold, dreamed gold.  Well, it was an interesting subject.  He
might just as well wallow in the stuff.  In the days when Bond had been
after the diamond smugglers he had had first to educate himself in the
fascination, the myth of the stones.  He said, 'What else ought I to
know before we get down to your immediate problem?'

'You're not bored?  Well, you were suggesting that gold production was
so vast nowadays that it ought to take care of all these various
consumers.  Unfortunately that is not so.  In fact the gold content of
the world is being worked out.  You may think that large areas of the
world have still to be explored for gold.  You would be mistaken.
Broadly speaking, there only remains the land under the sea and the sea
itself, which has a notable gold content.  People have been scratching
the surface of the world for gold for thousands of years.  There were
the great gold treasures of Egypt and Mycenae, Montezuma and the Incas.
Croesus and Midas emptied the Middle Eastern territories of gold.
Europe was worked for it--the valleys of the Rhine and the Po, Malaga
and the plains of Granada.  Cyprus was emptied, and the Balkans.  India
got the fever.  Ants coming up from under the earth carrying grains of
gold led the Indians to their alluvial fields.  The Romans worked Wales
and Devon and Cornwall.  In the Middle Ages there were the finds in
Mexico and Peru.  These were followed by the opening up of the Gold
Coast, then called Negro-land, and after that came the Americas.  The
famous gold rushes of the Yukon and Eldorado, and the rich strikes at
Eureka sounded off the first modern Gold Age.  Meanwhile, in Australia,
Bendigo and Ballarat had come into production, and the Russian deposits
at Lena and in the Urals were making Russia the largest gold producer
in the world in the middle of the nineteenth century.  Then came the
second modern Gold Age--the discoveries on the Witwatersrand.  These
were helped by the new method of cyaniding instead of separation of the
gold from the rock by mercury.  Today we are in the third Gold Age with
the opening up of the Orange Free State deposits.'  Colonel Smithers
threw up his hands.  'Now, gold is pouring out of the earth.  Why, the
whole production of the Klondike and the Homestake and Eldorado, which
were once the wonder of the world, would only add up to two or three
years of today's production from Africa!  Just to show you, from 1500
to 1900, when approximate figures were kept, the whole world produced
about eighteen thousand tons of gold.  From 1900 to today we have dug
up forty-one thousand tons!  At this rate, Mr Bond,' Colonel Smithers
leaned forward earnestly,'--and please don't quote me--but I wouldn't
be surprised if in fifty years' time we have not totally exhausted the
gold content of the earth!'

Bond, smothered by this cataract of gold history, found no difficulty
in looking as grave as Colonel Smithers.  He said, 'You certainly make
a fascinating story of it.  Perhaps the position isn't as bad as you
think.  They're already mining oil under the sea.  Perhaps they'll find
a way of mining gold.  Now, about this smuggling.'

The telephone rang.  Colonel Smithers impatiently snatched up the
receiver.  'Smithers speaking.'  He listened, irritation growing on his
face.  'I'm sure I sent you a note about the summer fixtures, Miss
Philby.  The next match is on Saturday against the Discount Houses.'
He listened again.  'Well, if Mrs Flake won't play goals, I'm afraid
she'll have to stand down.  It's the only position on the field we've
got for her.  Everybody can't play centre forward.  Yes, please do.
Say I'll be greatly obliged if just this once.  I'm sure she'll be very
good--right figure and all that.  Thank you, Miss Philby.'

Colonel Smithers took out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead.
'Sorry about that.  Sports and welfare are becoming almost too much of
a fetish at the Bank.  I've just had the women's hockey team thrown
into my lap.  As if I hadn't got enough to do with the annual gymkhana
coming on.  However--'  Colonel Smithers waved these minor irritations
aside--'as you say, time to get on to the smuggling.  Well, to begin
with, and taking only England and the sterling area, it's a very big
business indeed.  We employ three thousand staff at the Bank, Mr Bond,
and of those no less than one thousand work in the exchange control
department.  Of those at least five hundred, including my little
outfit, are engaged in controlling the illicit movements of valuta, the
attempts to smuggle or to evade the Exchange Control Regulations.'

'That's a lot.'  Bond measured it against the Secret Service which had
a total force of two thousand.  'Can you give me an example of
smuggling?  In gold.  I can't understand these dollar swindles.'

'All right.'  Colonel Smithers now talked in the soft, tired voice of
an overworked man in the service of his Government.  It was the voice
of the specialist in a particular line of law enforcement.  It said
that he knew most things connected with that line and that he could
make a good guess at all the rest.  Bond knew the voice well, the voice
of the first-class Civil Servant.  Despite his prosiness, Bond was
beginning to take to Colonel Smithers.  'All right.  Supposing you have
a bar of gold in your pocket about the size of a couple of packets of
Players.  Weight about five and a quarter pounds.  Never mind for the
moment where you got it from--stole it or inherited it or something.
That'll be twenty-four carat--what we call a thousand fine.  Now, the
law says you have to sell that to the Bank of England at the controlled
price of twelve pounds ten per ounce.  That would make it worth around
a thousand pounds.  But you're greedy.  You've got a friend going to
India or perhaps you're on good terms with an airline pilot or a
steward on the Far East run.  All you have to do is cut your bar into
thin sheets or plates--you'd soon find someone to do this for you--and
sew the plates--they'd be smaller than playing cards--into a cotton
belt, and pay your friend a commission to wear it.  You could easily
afford a hundred pounds for the job.  Your friend flies off to Bombay
and goes to the first bullion dealer in the bazaar.  He will be given
one thousand seven hundred pounds for your five-pound bar and you're a
richer man than you might have been.  Mark you,' Colonel Smithers waved
his pipe airily, 'that's only seventy per cent profit.  Just after the
war you could have got three hundred per cent.  If you'd done only half
a dozen little operations like that every year you'd be able to retire
by now.'

'Why the high price in India?'  Bond didn't really want to know.  He
thought M might ask him.

'It's a long story.  Briefly, India is shorter of gold, particularly
for her jewellery trade, than any other country.'

'What's the size of this traffic?'

'Huge.  To give you an idea, the Indian Intelligence Bureau and their
Customs _captured_ forty-three thousand ounces in 1955.  I doubt if
that's one per cent of the traffic.  Gold's been coming into India from
all points of the compass.  Latest dodge is to fly it in from Macao and
drop it by parachute to a reception committee--a ton at a time--like we
used to drop supplies to the Resistance during the war.'

'I see.  Is there anywhere else I can get a good premium for my gold
bar?'

'You could get a small premium in most countries--Switzerland, for
instance--but it wouldn't be worth your while.  India's still the
place.'

'All right,' said Bond.  'I think I've got the picture.  Now what's
your particular problem?'  He sat back and lit a cigarette.  He was
greatly looking forward to hearing about Mr Auric Goldfinger.

Colonel Smithers's eyes took on their hard, foxy look.  He said,
'There's a man who came over to England in 1937.  He was a refugee from
Riga.  Name of Auric Goldfinger.  He was only twenty when he arrived,
but he must have been a bright lad because he smelled that the Russians
would be swallowing his country pretty soon.  He was a jeweller and
goldsmith by trade, like his father and grandfather who had refined
gold for Faberg.  He had a little money and probably one of those
belts of gold I was telling you about.  Stole it from his father, I
daresay.  Well, soon after he'd been naturalized--he was a harmless
sort of chap and in a useful trade and he had no difficulty in getting
his papers--he started buying up small pawnbrokers all over the
country.  He put in his own men, paid them well and changed the name of
the shops to "Goldfinger".  Then he turned the shops over to selling
cheap jewellery and buying old gold--you know the sort of place: "Best
Prices for Old Gold.  Nothing too Large, Nothing too Small", and he had
his own particular slogan: "Buy Her Engagement Ring With Grannie's
Locket."  Goldfinger did very well.  Always chose good sites, just on
the dividing line between the well-to-do streets and the lower-middle.
Never touched stolen goods and got a good name everywhere with the
police.  He lived in London and toured his shops once a month and
collected all the old gold.  He wasn't interested in the jewellery
side.  He let his managers run that as they liked.'  Colonel Smithers
looked quizzically at Bond.  'You may think these lockets and gold
crosses and things are pretty small beer.  So they are, but they mount
up if you've got twenty little shops, each one buying perhaps half a
dozen bits and pieces every week.  Well, the war came and Goldfinger,
like all other jewellers, had to declare his stock of gold.  I looked
up his figure in our old records.  It was fifty ounces for the whole
chain!--just enough of a working stock to keep his shops supplied with
ring settings and so forth, what they call jewellers' findings in the
trade.  Of course, he was allowed to keep it.  He tucked himself away
in a machine-tool firm in Wales during the war--well out of the firing
line--but kept as many of his shops operating as he could.  Must have
done well out of the G.I.s who generally travel with a Gold Eagle or a
Mexican fifty-dollar piece as a last reserve.  Then, when peace broke
out, Goldfinger got moving.  He bought himself a house, pretentious
sort of place, at Reculver, at the mouth of the Thames.  He also
invested in a well-found Brixham trawler and an old Silver Ghost Rolls
Royce--armoured car, built for some South American president who was
killed before he could take delivery.  He set up a little factory
called "Thanet Alloy Research" in the grounds of his house and staffed
it with a German metallurgist, a prisoner of war who didn't want to go
back to Germany, and half a dozen Korean stevedores he picked up in
Liverpool.  They didn't know a word of any civilized language so they
weren't any security risk.  Then, for ten years, all we know is that he
made one trip a year to India in his trawler and a few trips in his car
every year to Switzerland.  Set up a subsidiary of his alloy company
near Geneva.  He kept his shops going.  Gave up collecting the old gold
himself--used one of his Koreans whom he had taught to drive a car.
All right, perhaps Mr Goldfinger is not a very honest man, but he
behaves himself and keeps in well with the police, and with much more
blatant fiddling going on all over the country nobody paid him any
attention.'

Colonel Smithers broke off.  He looked apologetically at Bond.  'I'm
not boring you?  I do want you to get the picture of the sort of man
this is--quiet, careful, law-abiding and with the sort of drive and
single-mindedness we all admire.  We didn't even hear of him until he
suffered a slight misfortune.  In the summer of 1954, his trawler,
homeward bound from India, went ashore on the Goodwins and he sold the
wreck for a song to the Dover Salvage Company.  When this company
started breaking the ship up and got as far as the hold they found the
timbers impregnated with a sort of brown powder which they couldn't put
a name to.  They sent a specimen to a local chemist.  They were
surprised when he said the stuff was gold.  I won't bother you with the
formula, but you see gold can be made to dissolve in a mixture of
hydrochloric and nitric acids, and reducing agents--sulphur dioxide or
oxalic acid--precipitate the metal as a brown powder.  This powder can
be reconstituted into gold ingots by melting at around a thousand
degrees Centrigade.  Have to watch the chlorine gas, but otherwise it's
a simple process.

'The usual nosey parker in the salvage firm gossiped to one of the
Dover Customs men and in due course a report filtered up through the
police and the C.I.D. to me, together with a copy of the cargo
clearance papers for each of Goldfinger's trips to India.  These gave
all the cargoes as mineral dust base for crop fertilizers--all
perfectly credible because these modern fertilizers do use traces of
various minerals in their make-up.  The whole picture was clear as
crystal.  Goldfinger had been refining down his old gold, precipitating
it into this brown powder and shipping it to India as fertilizer.  But
could we pin it on him?  We could not.  Had a quiet look at his bank
balance and tax returns.  Twenty thousand pounds at Barclays in
Ramsgate.  Income tax and super tax paid promptly each year.  Figures
showed the natural progress of a well-run jewellery business.  We
dressed a couple of the Gold Squad up and sent them down to knock on
the door of Mr Goldfinger's factory at Reculver.  "Sorry, sir, routine
inspection for the Small Engineering Section of the Ministry of Labour.
We have to make sure the Factory Acts are being observed for safety and
health."  "Come in.  Come in."  Mr Goldfinger positively welcomed them.
Mark you, he may have been tipped off by his bank manager or someone,
but that factory was entirely devoted to designing a cheap alloy for
jewellers' findings--trying out unusual metals like aluminium and tin
instead of the usual copper and nickel and palladium that are used in
gold alloys.  There were traces of gold about, of course, and furnaces
to heat up to two thousand degrees and so forth, but after all
Goldfinger was a jeweller and a smelter in a small way, and all this
was perfectly above-board.  The Gold Squad retired discomfited, our
legal department decided the brown dust in the trawler's timbers was
not enough to prosecute on without supporting evidence, and that was
more or less that, except'--Colonel Smithers slowly wagged the stem of
his pipe--'that I kept the file open and started sniffing around the
banks of the world.'

Colonel Smithers paused.  The rumble of the City came through the
half-open window high up in the wall behind his chair.  Bond glanced
surreptitiously at his watch.  Five o'clock.  Colonel Smithers got up
from his chair.  He placed both hands palm downwards on the desk and
leant forward.  'It took me five years, Mr Bond, to find out that Mr
Goldfinger, in ready money, is the richest man in England.  In Zrich,
in Nassau, in Panama, in New York, he has twenty million pounds' worth
of gold bars on safe deposit.  And those bars, Mr Bond, are not Mint
bars.  They don't carry any official marks of origin whatsoever.
They're bars that Mr Goldfinger has melted himself.  I flew to Nassau
and had a look at the five million pounds' worth or so he holds there
in the vaults of the Royal Bank of Canada.  Oddly enough, like all
artists, he couldn't refrain from signing his handiwork.  It needs a
microscope to see it, but somewhere, on each Goldfinger bar, a minute
letter Z has been scratched in the metal.  And that gold, or most of
it, belongs to England.  The Bank can do nothing about it, so we are
asking you to bring Mr Goldfinger to book, Mr Bond, and get that gold
back.  You know about the currency crisis and the high bank rate?  Of
course.  Well, England needs that gold, badly--and the quicker the
better.'




CHAPTER SEVEN

THOUGHTS IN A D.B.III

Bond followed Colonel Smithers to the lift.  While they waited for it,
Bond glanced out of the tall window at the end of the passage.  He was
looking down into the deep well of the back courtyard of the Bank.  A
trim chocolate-brown lorry with no owner's name had come into the
courtyard through the triple steel gates.  Square cardboard boxes were
being unloaded from it and put on to a short conveyor belt that
disappeared into the bowels of the Bank.

Colonel Smithers came over.  'Fivers,' he commented.  'Just come up
from our printing works at Loughton.'

The lift came and they got in.  Bond said, 'I'm not very impressed by
the new ones.  They look like any other country's money.  The old ones
were the most beautiful money in the world.'

They walked across the entrance hall, now dimly lit and deserted.
Colonel Smithers said, 'As a matter of fact I agree with you.  Trouble
was that those Reichsbank forgeries during the war were a darn sight
too good.  When the Russians captured Berlin, amongst the loot they got
hold of the plates.  We asked the Narodni Bank for them, but they
refused to give them up.  We and the Treasury decided it was just too
dangerous.  At any moment, if Moscow had been inclined, they could have
started a major raid on our currency.  We had to withdraw the old
fivers.  The new ones aren't much to look at, but at least they'd be
hell to forge.'

The night guard let them out on to the steps.  Threadneedle Street was
almost deserted.  The long City night was beginning.  Bond said goodbye
to Colonel Smithers and walked along to the Tube.  He had never thought
very much about the Bank of England, but now that he had been inside
the place he decided that the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street might be
old but she still had some teeth left in her head.

Bond had been told to report back to M at six.  He did so.  M's face
was no longer pink and shining.  The long day had knocked it about,
stressed it, shrunken it.  When Bond went in and took the chair across
the desk, he noticed the conscious effort M made to clear his mind,
cope with the new problem the day was to fling at him.  M straightened
himself in his chair and reached for his pipe.  'Well?'  Bond knew the
false belligerence of that particular bark.  He told the gist of the
story in less than five minutes.  When he had finished, M said
thoughtfully, 'Suppose we've got to take it on.  Don't understand a
thing about the pound and bank rate and all that but everyone seems to
be taking it damned seriously.  Personally I should have thought the
strength of the pound depended on how hard we all worked rather than
how much gold we'd got.  Germans didn't have much gold after the war.
Look where they've got in ten years.  However, that's probably too easy
an answer for the politicians--or more likely too difficult.  Got any
ideas how to tackle this chap Goldfinger?  Any way of getting closer to
him, offering to do some dirty work for him or something like that?'

Bond said thoughtfully, 'I wouldn't get anywhere sucking up to him,
asking him for a job or something of that sort, sir.  I should say he's
the sort of man who only respects people who are tougher or smarter
than he is.  I've given him one beating and the only message I got from
him was that he'd like me to play golf with him.  Perhaps I'd better do
just that.'

'Fine way for one of my top men to spend his time.'  The sarcasm in M's
voice was weary, resigned.  'All right.  Go ahead.  But if what you say
is right, you'd better see that you beat him.  What's your cover story?'

Bond shrugged.  'I hadn't thought, sir.  Perhaps I'd better be thinking
of leaving Universal Export.  No future in it.  Having a holiday while
I look round.  Thinking of emigrating to Canada.  Fed up here.
Something like that.  But perhaps I'd better play it the way the cards
fall.  I wouldn't think he's an easy man to fool.'

'All right.  Report progress.  And don't think I'm not interested in
this case.'  M's voice had changed.  So had his expression.  His eyes
had become urgent, commanding.  'Now I'll give you one piece of
information the Bank didn't give you.  It just happens that I also know
what Mr Goldfinger's gold bars look like.  As a matter of fact I was
handling one today--scratched Z and all.  It had come in with that haul
we made last week when the Redland Resident Director's office "caught
fire" in Tangier.  You'll have seen the signals.  Well, that's the
twentieth of these particular gold bars that have come our way since
the war.'

Bond interrupted, 'But that Tangier bar was out of the SMERSH safe.'

'Exactly.  I've checked.  All the other nineteen bars with the
scratched Z have been taken from SMERSH operatives.'  M paused.  He
said mildly, 'D'you know, 007, I wouldn't be at all surprised if
Goldfinger doesn't turn out to be the foreign banker, the treasurer so
to speak, of SMERSH.'


James Bond flung the D.B.III through the last mile of straight and did
a racing change down into third and then into second for the short hill
before the inevitable traffic crawl through Rochester.  Leashed in by
the velvet claw of the front discs, the engine muttered its protest
with a mild back-popple from the twin exhausts.  Bond went up into
third again, beat the lights at the bottom of the hill and slid
resignedly up to the back of the queue that would crawl on for a
quarter of an hour--if he was lucky--through the sprawl of Rochester
and Chatham.

Bond settled back into second and let the car idle.  He reached for the
wide gunmetal case of Morland cigarettes on the neighbouring bucket
seat, fumbled for one and lit it from the dashboard.

He had chosen the A2 in preference to the A20 to Sandwich because he
wanted to take a quick look at Goldfinger-land--Reculver and those
melancholy forsaken reaches of the Thames which Goldfinger had chosen
for his parish.  He would then cross the Isle of Thanet to Ramsgate and
leave his bag at the Channel Packet, have an early lunch and be off to
Sandwich.

The car was from the pool.  Bond had been offered the Aston Martin or a
Jaguar 3.4.  He had taken the D.B.III.  Either of the cars would have
suited his cover--a well-to-do, rather adventurous young man with a
taste for the good, the fast things of life.  But the D.B.III had the
advantage of an up-to-date triptyque, an inconspicuous
colour--battleship grey--and certain extras which might or might not
come in handy.  These included switches to alter the type and colour of
Bond's front and rear lights if he was following or being followed at
night, reinforced steel bumpers, fore and aft, in case he needed to
ram, a long-barrelled Colt .45 in a trick compartment under the
driver's seat, a radio pick-up tuned to receive an apparatus called the
Homer, and plenty of concealed space that would fox most Customs men.

Bond saw a chance and picked up fifty yards, sliding into a ten-yard
gap left by a family saloon of slow reactions.  The man at the wheel,
who wore that infallible badge of the bad driver, a hat clamped firmly
on the exact centre of his head, hooted angrily.  Bond reached out of
the window and raised an enigmatically clenched fist.  The hooting
stopped.

And now what about this theory of M's?  It made sense.  The Russians
were notoriously incompetent payers of their men.  Their centres were
always running out of funds--their men complaining to Moscow that they
couldn't afford a square meal.  Perhaps SMERSH couldn't get the valuta
out of the Ministry of Home Security.  Or perhaps the Ministry of Home
Security couldn't get the money out of the Ministry of Finance.  But it
had always been the same--endless money troubles that resulted in
missed chances, broken promises and waste of dangerous radio time.  It
would make sense to have a clever financial brain somewhere outside
Russia who could not only transmit funds to the centres but also, in
this case, make profits large enough to run the SMERSH centres abroad
without any financial assistance from Moscow.  Not only that.  On the
side, Goldfinger was appreciably damaging the currency base of an enemy
country.  If all this was correct, it was typical of SMERSH--a
brilliant scheme, faultlessly operated by an outstanding man.  And
that, reflected Bond as he roared up the hill into Chatham, putting
half a dozen cars behind him, would partly explain Goldfinger's greed
for more and still more money.  Devotion to the cause, to SMERSH, and
perhaps the dangled prize of an Order of Lenin, would be the spur to
pick up even ten or twenty thousand dollars when the odds were right or
could be favourably adjusted.  The funds for Red Revolution, for the
discipline by fear that was the particular speciality of SMERSH, could
never be big enough.  Goldfinger was not making the money for himself.
He was making it for the conquest of the world!  The minor risk of
being found out, as he had been by Bond, was nothing.  Why?  What could
the Bank of England get him if every single one of his past operations
could be exposed?  Two years?  Three?

The traffic was thinning through the outskirts of Gillingham.  Bond
started motoring again, but easily now, not hurrying, following his
thoughts as the hands and feet went through their automatic responses.

So, in 'thirty-seven, SMERSH must have sent Goldfinger out with the
belt of gold round his young waist.  He had shown his special
aptitudes, his acquisitive bent, during his training in the spy school
in Leningrad.  He would have been told there would be a war, that he
must dig himself in and start quietly accumulating.  Goldfinger must
never dirty his hands, never meet an agent, never receive or pass a
message.  Some routine would have been arranged.  'Second-hand '39
Vauxhall.  First offer of 1000 secures', 'Immaculate Rover, 2000',
'Bentley, 5000'.  Always an advertisement that would not attract
attention or correspondence.  The prices would be just too high, the
description inadequate.  In the Agony column of _The Times_, perhaps.
And, obediently, Goldfinger would leave the two thousand pounds or the
five thousand pounds gold bar at one of a long, a very long series of
post-boxes that had been arranged in Moscow before he left.  A
particular bridge, a hollow tree, under a rock in a stream somewhere,
anywhere in England.  And he would never, on any account, visit that
post-box again.  It was up to Moscow to see that the agent got to the
hidden treasure.  Later, after the war, when Goldfinger was blossoming
out, when he had become a big man, the post-boxes would no longer be
bridges and trees.  Now he would be given dates and safety deposit box
numbers, left-luggage lockers at stations.  But still there would be
the rule that Goldfinger must never revisit the scene, never endanger
himself.  Perhaps he would only get his instructions once a year, at a
casual meeting in some park, in a letter slipped into his pocket on a
train journey.  But always it would be bars of gold, anonymous,
untraceable if captured--except for the tiny Z that his vanity had
scratched on his handiwork and that a dull dog at the Bank of England
called Colonel Smithers had happened upon in the course of his duties.

Now Bond was running through the endless orchards of the Faversham
growers.  The sun had come out from behind the smog of London.  There
was the distant gleam of the Thames on his left.  There was traffic on
the river--long, glistening tankers, stubby merchantmen, antediluvian
Dutch Schuyts.  Bond left the Canterbury road and switched on to the
incongruously rich highway that runs through the cheap bungaloid world
of the holiday lands--Whitstable, Herne Bay, Birchington, Margate.  He
still idled along at fifty, holding the racing wheel on a light rein,
listening to the relaxed purr of the exhausts, fitting the bits of his
thoughts into the jigsaw as he had done two nights before with
Goldfinger's face on the Identicast.

And, Bond reflected, while Goldfinger was pumping a million, two
million pounds a year into the bloody maw of SMERSH, he was pyramiding
his reserves, working on them, making them work for him whenever the
odds were right, piling up the surplus for the day when the trumpets
would sound in the Kremlin and every golden sinew would be mobilized.
And no one outside Moscow had been watching the process, no one
suspected that Goldfinger--the jeweller, the metallurgist, the resident
of Reculver and Nassau, the respected member of Blades, of the Royal St
Marks at Sandwich--was one of the greatest conspirators of all time,
that he had financed the murder of hundreds, perhaps thousands of
victims of SMERSH all over the world.  SMERSH, 'Smiert Spionam', Death
to Spies--the murder Apparat of the High Praesidium!  And only M
suspected it, only Bond knew it.  And here was Bond, launched against
this man by a series of flukes, a train of coincidence that had been
started by a plane breaking down on the other side of the world.  Bond
smiled grimly to himself.  How often in his profession had it been the
same--the tiny acorn of coincidence that soared into the mighty oak
whose branches darkened the sky.  And now, once again, he was setting
out to bring the dreadful growth down.  With what?  A bag of golf clubs?

A repainted sky-blue Ford Popular with large yellow ears was scurrying
along the crown of the road ahead.  Mechanically Bond gave the horn
ring a couple of short, polite jabs.  There was no reaction.  The Ford
Popular was doing its forty.  Why should anyone want to go more than
that respectable speed?  The Ford obstinately hunched its shoulders and
kept on its course.  Bond gave it a sharp blast, expecting it to
swerve.  He had to touch his brakes when it didn't.  Damn the man!  Of
course!  The usual tense figure, hands held too high up on the wheel,
and the inevitable hat, this time a particularly hideous black bowler,
square on a large bullet head.  Oh well, thought Bond, they weren't
_his_ stomach ulcers.  He changed down and contemptuously slammed the
D.B.III past on the inside.  Silly bastard!

Another five miles and Bond was through the dainty teleworld of Herne
Bay.  The howl of Manston sounded away on his right.  A flight of three
Super Sabres came in to land.  They skimmed below his right-hand
horizon as if they were diving into the earth.  With half his mind,
Bond heard the roar of their jets catch up with them as they landed and
taxied in to the hangars.  He came up with a crossroads.  To the left
the signpost said RECULVER.  Underneath was the ancient monument sign
for Reculver church.  Bond slowed, but didn't stop.  No hanging about.
He motored slowly on, keeping his eyes open.  The shoreline was too
exposed for a trawler to do anything but beach or anchor.  Probably
Goldfinger had used Ramsgate.  Quiet little port.  Customs and police
who were probably only on the look-out for brandy coming over from
France.  There was a thick clump of trees between the road and the
shore, a glimpse of roofs and of a medium-sized factory chimney with a
thin plume of light smoke or steam.  That would be it.  Soon there was
the gate of a long drive.  A discreetly authoritative sign said THANET
ALLOYS, and underneath: NO ADMITTANCE EXCEPT ON BUSINESS.  All very
respectable.  Bond drove slowly on.  There was nothing more to be seen.
He took the next right-hand turn across the Manston plateau to Ramsgate.

It was twelve o'clock.  Bond inspected his room, a double with
bathroom, on the top floor of the Channel Packet, unpacked his few
belongings and went down to the snack bar where he had one vodka and
tonic and two rounds of excellent ham sandwiches with plenty of
mustard.  Then he got back into his car and drove slowly over to the
Royal St Marks at Sandwich.

Bond carried his clubs to the professional's shop and through to the
workroom.  Alfred Blacking was winding a new grip on to a driver.

'Hullo, Alfred.'

The professional looked up sharply.  His sunburned, leathery face broke
into a wide smile.  'Why, if it isn't Mr James!'  They shook hands.
'Must be fifteen, twenty years.  What brings you down here, sir?
Someone was telling me only the other day that you're in the diplomatic
or something.  Always abroad.  Well, I never!  Still the same flat
swing, sir?'  Alfred Blacking joined his hands and gave a low, flat
sweep.

'Afraid so, Alfred.  Never had time to get myself out of it.  How's Mrs
Blacking and Cecil?'

'Can't complain, sir.  Cecil was runner-up in the Kent Championship
last year.  Should win it this year if he can only get out of the shop
and on to the course a bit more.'

Bond propped his clubs up against the wall.  It was good to be back.
Everything was just the same.  There had been a time in his teens when
he had played two rounds a day every day of the week at St Marks.
Blacking had always wanted to take him in hand.  'A bit of practice, Mr
James, and you'd be scratch.  No fooling.  You really would.  What do
you want to hang around at six for?  It's all there except for that
flat swing and wanting to hit the ball out of sight when there's no
point in it.  And you've got the temperament.  A couple of years,
perhaps only one, and I'd have you in the Amateur.'  But something had
told Bond that there wasn't going to be a great deal of golf in his
life and if he liked the game he'd better forget about lessons and just
play as much of it as he could.  Yes, it would be about twenty years
since he had played his last round on St Marks.  He'd never been
back--even when there had been that bloody affair of the Moonraker at
Kingsdown, ten miles down the coast.  Perhaps it had been
sentimentality.  Since St Marks, Bond had got in a good deal of weekend
golf when he was at headquarters.  But always on the courses round
London--Huntercombe, Swinley, Sunningdale, the Berkshire.  Bond's
handicap had gone up to nine.  But he was a real nine--had to be with
the games he chose to play, the ten-pound Nassaus with the tough cheery
men who were always so anxious to stand you a couple of double kmmels
after lunch.

'Any chance of a game, Alfred?'

The professional glanced through his back window at the parking space
round the tall flag-pole.  He shook his head.  'Doesn't look too good,
sir.  Don't get many players in the middle of the week at this time of
year.'

'What about you?'

'Sorry, sir.  I'm booked.  Playing with a member.  It's a regular
thing.  Every day at two o'clock.  And the trouble is that Cecil's gone
over to Princes to get in some practice for the championship.  What a
dashed nuisance!'  (Alfred never used a stronger oath.)  'It _would_
happen like that.  How long are you staying, sir?'

'Not long.  Never mind.  I'll knock a ball round with a caddie.  Who's
this chap you're playing with?'

'A Mr Goldfinger, sir.'  Alfred looked discouraging.

'Oh, Goldfinger.  I know the chap.  Met him the other day in America.'

'You did, sir?'  Alfred obviously found it difficult to believe that
anyone knew Mr Goldfinger.  He watched Bond's face carefully for any
further reaction.

'Any good?'

'So-so, sir.  Pretty useful off nine.'

'Must take his game damned seriously if he plays with you every day.'

'Well, yes, sir.'  The professional's face had the expression Bond
remembered so well.  It meant that Blacking had an unfavourable view of
a particular member but that he was too good a servant of the club to
pass it on.

Bond smiled.  He said, 'You haven't changed, Alfred.  What you mean is
that no one else will play with him.  Remember Farquharson?  Slowest
player in England.  I remember you going round and round with him
twenty years ago.  Come on.  What's the matter with Goldfinger?'

The professional laughed.  He said, 'It's you that hasn't changed, Mr
James.  You always were dashed inquisitive.'  He came a step closer and
lowered his voice.  'The truth is, sir, some members think Mr
Goldfinger is just a little bit hot.  You know, sir.  Improves his lie
and so forth.'  The professional took the driver he was holding, took
up a stance, gazed towards an imaginary hole and banged the head of the
club up and down on the floor as if addressing an imaginary ball.  'Let
me see now, is this a brassie lie?  What d'you think, caddie?'  Alfred
Blacking chuckled.  'Well, of course, by the time he's finished
hammering the ground behind the ball, the ball's been raised an inch
and it _is_ a brassie lie.'  Alfred Blacking's face closed up again.
He said non-committally, 'But that's only gossip, sir.  I've never seen
anything.  Quiet-spoken gentleman.  He's got a place at Reculver.  Used
to come here a lot.  But for the last few years he's only been coming
to England for a few weeks at a time.  Rings up and asks if anyone's
wanting a game and when there isn't anyone he books Cecil or me.  Rang
up this morning and asked if there was anyone about.  There's sometimes
a stranger drops in.'  Alfred Blacking looked quizzically at Bond.  'I
suppose you wouldn't care to take him on this afternoon?  It'll look
odd you being here and short of a game.  And you knowing him and all.
He might think I'd been trying to keep him to myself or something.
That wouldn't do.'

'Nonsense, Alfred.  And you've got your living to make.  Why don't we
play a three-ball?'

'He won't play them, sir.  Says they're too slow.  And I agree with
him.  And don't you worry about my fee.  There's a lot of work to do in
the shop and I'll be glad of an afternoon to get down to it.'  Alfred
Blacking glanced at his watch.  'He'll be along any minute now.  I've
got a caddie for you.  Remember Hawker?'  Alfred Blacking laughed
indulgently.  'Still the same old Hawker.  He'll be another that'll be
glad to see you down here again.'

Bond said, 'Well thanks, Alfred.  I'd be interested to see how this
chap plays.  But why not leave it like this?  Say I've dropped in to
get a club made up.  Old member.  Used to play here before the war.
And I need a new number four wood anyway.  Your old one has started to
give at the seams a bit.  Just be casual.  Don't say you've told me
he's about.  I'll stay in the shop so it'll give him a chance to take
his choice without offending me.  Perhaps he won't like my face or
something.  Right?'

'Very good, Mr James.  Leave it to me.  That's his car coming now,
sir.'  Blacking pointed through the window.  Half a mile away, a bright
yellow car was turning off the road and coming up the private drive.
'Funny looking contraption.  Sort of motor car we used to see here when
I was a boy.'

Bond watched the old Silver Ghost sweep majestically up the drive
towards the club.  She was a beauty!  The sun glittered off the silver
radiator and off the engine-turned aluminium shield below the high
perpendicular glass cliff of the windscreen.  The luggage rail on the
roof of the heavy coach-built limousine body--so ugly twenty years ago,
so strangely beautiful today--was polished brass, as were the two Lucas
'King of the Road' headlamps that stared so haughtily down the road
ahead, and the wide mouth of the old boa-constrictor bulb horn.  The
whole car, except for a black roof and black carrosserie lines and
curved panels below the windows, was primrose yellow.  It crossed
Bond's mind that the South American president might have had it copied
from the famous yellow fleet in which Lord Lonsdale had driven to the
Derby and Ascot.

And now?  In the driver's seat sat a figure in a caf-au-lait dust coat
and cap, his big round face obscured by black-rimmed driving goggles.
Beside him was a squat figure in black with a bowler hat placed firmly
on the middle of his head.  The two figures stared straight in front of
them with a curious immobility.  It was almost as if they were driving
a hearse.

The car was coming closer.  The six pairs of eyes--the eyes of the two
men and the great twin orbs of the car--seemed to be looking straight
through the little window and into Bond's eyes.

Instinctively, Bond took a few paces back into the dark recesses of the
workroom.  He noticed the movement and smiled to himself.  He picked up
somebody's putter and bent down and thoughtfully addressed a knot in
the wooden floor.




2 - COINCIDENCE



CHAPTER EIGHT

ALL TO PLAY FOR

'Good afternoon, Blacking.  All set?'  The voice was casual,
authoritative.  'I see there's a car outside.  Not somebody looking for
a game, I suppose?'

'I'm not sure, sir.  It's an old member come back to have a club made
up.  Would you like me to ask him, sir?'

'Who is it?  What's his name?'

Bond smiled grimly.  He pricked his ears.  He wanted to catch every
inflection.

'A Mr Bond, sir.'

There was a pause.  'Bond?'  The voice had not changed.  It was
politely interested.  'Met a fellow called Bond the other day.  What's
his first name?'

'James, sir.'

'Oh yes.'  Now the pause was longer.  'Does he know I'm here?'  Bond
could sense Goldfinger's antennae probing the situation.

'He's in the workshop, sir.  May have seen your car drive up.'  Bond
thought: Alfred's never told a lie in his life.  He's not going to
start now.

'Might be an idea.'  Now Goldfinger's voice unbent.  He wanted
something from Alfred Blacking, some information.  'What sort of a game
does this chap play?  What's his handicap?'

'Used to be quite useful when he was a boy, sir.  Haven't seen his game
since then.'

'Hm.'

Bond could feel the man weighing it all up.  Bond smelled that the bait
was going to be taken.  He reached into his bag and pulled out his
driver and started rubbing down the grip with a block of shellac.
Might as well look busy.  A board in the shop creaked.  Bond honed away
industriously, his back to the open door.

'I think we've met before.'  The voice from the doorway was low,
neutral.

Bond looked quickly over his shoulder.  'My God, you made me jump.
Why--' recognition dawned--'it's Gold, Goldman ... er--Goldfinger.'  He
hoped he wasn't overplaying it.  He said with a hint of dislike, or
mistrust, 'Where have you sprung from?'

'I told you I played down here.  Remember?'  Goldfinger was looking at
him shrewdly.  Now the eyes opened wide.  The X-ray gaze pierced
through to the back of Bond's skull.

'No.'

'Did not Miss Masterton give you my message?'

'No.  What was it?'

'I said I would be over here and that I would like a game of golf with
you.'

'Oh, well,' Bond's voice was coldly polite, 'we must do that some day.'

'I was playing with the professional.  I will play with you instead.'
Goldfinger was stating a fact.

There was no doubt that Goldfinger was hooked.  Now Bond must play hard
to get.

'Why not some other time?  I've come to order a club.  Anyway I'm not
in practice.  There probably isn't a caddie.'  Bond was being as rude
as he could.  Obviously the last thing he wanted to do was play with
Goldfinger.

'I also haven't played for some time.'  (Bloody liar, thought Bond.)
'Ordering a club will not take a moment.'  Goldfinger turned back into
the shop.  'Blacking, have you got a caddie for Mr Bond?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Then that is arranged.'

Bond wearily thrust his driver back into his bag.  'Well, all right
then.'  He thought of a final way of putting Goldfinger off.  He said
roughly, 'But I warn you I like playing for money.  I can't be bothered
to knock a ball round just for the fun of it.'  Bond felt pleased with
the character he was building up for himself.

Was there a glint of triumph, quickly concealed, in Goldfinger's pale
eyes?  He said indifferently, 'That suits me.  Anything you like.  Off
handicap, of course.  I think you said you're nine.'

'Yes.'

Goldfinger said carefully, 'Where, may I ask?'

'Huntercombe.'  Bond was also nine at Sunningdale.  Huntercombe was an
easier course.  Nine at Huntercombe wouldn't frighten Goldfinger.

'And I also am nine.  Here.  Up on the board.  So it's a level game.
Right?'

Bond shrugged.  'You'll be too good for me.'

'I doubt it.  However,' Goldfinger was offhand, 'tell you what I'll do.
That bit of money you removed from me in Miami.  Remember?  The big
figure was ten.  I like a gamble.  It will be good for me to have to
try.  I will play you double or quits for that.'

Bond said indifferently, 'That's too much.'  Then, as if he thought
better of it, thought he might win, he said--with just the right amount
of craft mixed with reluctance--'Of course you can say that was "found
money".  I won't miss it if it goes again.  Oh, well, all right.  Easy
come easy go.  Level match.  Ten thousand dollars it is.'

Goldfinger turned away.  He said, and there was a sudden sweetness in
the flat voice, 'That's all arranged then, Mr Blacking.  Many thanks.
Put your fee down on my account.  Very sorry we shall be missing our
game.  Now, let me pay the caddie fees.'

Alfred Blacking came into the workroom and picked up Bond's clubs.  He
looked very directly at Bond.  He said, 'Remember what I told you,
sir.'  One eye closed and opened again.  'I mean about that flat swing
of yours.  It needs watching--all the time.'

Bond smiled at him.  Alfred had long ears.  He might not have caught
the figure, but he knew that somehow this was to be a key game.
'Thanks, Alfred.  I won't forget.  Four Penfolds--with hearts on them.
And a dozen tees.  I won't be a minute.'

Bond walked through the shop and out to his car.  The bowler-hatted man
was polishing the metal work of the Rolls with a cloth.  Bond felt
rather than saw him stop and watch Bond take out his zip bag and go
into the club house.  The man had a square flat yellow face.  One of
the Koreans?

Bond paid his green-fee to Hampton, the steward, and went into the
changing-room.  It was just the same--the same tacky smell of old shoes
and socks and last summer's sweat.  Why was it a tradition of the most
famous golf clubs that their standard of hygiene should be that of a
Victorian private school?  Bond changed his socks and put on the
battered old pair of nailed Saxones.  He took off the coat of his
yellowing black and white hound's-tooth suit and pulled on a faded
black wind-cheater.  Cigarettes?  Lighter?  He was ready to go.

Bond walked slowly out, preparing his mind for the game.  On purpose he
had needled this man into a high, tough match so that Goldfinger's
respect for him should be increased and Goldfinger's view of Bond--that
he was the type of ruthless, hard adventurer who might be very useful
to Goldfinger--would be confirmed.  Bond had thought that perhaps a
hundred-pound Nassau would be the form.  But ten thousand dollars!
There had probably never been such a high singles game in
history--except in the finals of American Championships or in the big
amateur Calcutta Sweeps where it was the backers rather than the
players who had the money on.  Goldfinger's private accounting must
have taken a nasty dent.  He wouldn't have liked that.  He would be
aching to get some of his money back.  When Bond had talked about
playing high, Goldfinger had seen his chance.  So be it.  But one thing
was certain, for a hundred reasons Bond could not afford to lose.

He turned into the shop and picked up the balls and tees from Alfred
Blacking.

'Hawker's got the clubs, sir.'

Bond strolled out across the five hundred yards of shaven seaside turf
that led to the first tee.  Goldfinger was practising on the putting
green.  His caddie stood near by, rolling balls to him.  Goldfinger
putted in the new fashion--between his legs with a mallet putter.  Bond
felt encouraged.  He didn't believe in the system.  He knew it was no
good practising himself.  His old hickory Calamity Jane had its good
days and its bad.  There was nothing to do about it.  He knew also that
the St Marks practice green bore no resemblance, in speed or texture,
to the greens on the course.

Bond caught up with the limping, insouciant figure of his caddie who
was sauntering along chipping at an imaginary ball with Bond's blaster.
'Afternoon, Hawker.'

'Afternoon, sir.'  Hawker handed Bond the blaster and threw down three
used balls.  His keen sardonic poacher's face split in a wry grin of
welcome.  'How've you been keepin', sir?  Played any golf in the last
twenty years?  Can you still put them on the roof of the starter's
hut?'  This referred to the day when Bond, trying to do just that
before a match, had put two balls through the starter's window.

'Let's see.'  Bond took the blaster and hefted it in his hand, gauging
the distance.  The tap of the balls on the practice green had ceased.
Bond addressed the ball, swung quickly, lifted his head and shanked the
ball almost at right angles.  He tried again.  This time it was a
dunch.  A foot of turf flew up.  The ball went ten yards.  Bond turned
to Hawker, who was looking his most sardonic.  'It's all right, Hawker.
Those were for show.  Now then, one for you.'  He stepped up to the
third ball, took his club back slowly and whipped the club head
through.  The ball soared a hundred feet, paused elegantly, dropped
eighty feet on to the thatched roof of the starter's hut and bounced
down.

Bond handed back the club.  Hawker's eyes were thoughtful, amused.  He
said nothing.  He pulled out the driver and handed it to Bond.  They
walked together to the first tee, talking about Hawker's family.

Goldfinger joined them, relaxed, impassive.  Bond greeted Goldfinger's
caddie, an obsequious, talkative man called Foulks whom Bond had never
liked.  Bond glanced at Goldfinger's clubs.  They were a brand new set
of American Ben Hogans with smart St Marks leather covers for the
woods.  The bag was one of the stitched black leather holdalls favoured
by American pros.  The clubs were in individual cardboard tubes for
easy extraction.  It was a pretentious outfit, but the best.

'Toss for honour?'  Goldfinger flicked a coin.

'Tails.'

It was heads.  Goldfinger took out his driver and unpeeled a new ball.
He said, 'Dunlop 65.  Number One.  Always use the same ball.  What's
yours?'

'Penfold.  Hearts.'

Goldfinger looked keenly at Bond.  'Strict Rules of Golf?'

'Naturally.'

'Right.'  Goldfinger walked on to the tee and teed up.  He took one or
two careful, concentrated practice swings.  It was a type of swing Bond
knew well--the grooved, mechanical, repeating swing of someone who had
studied the game with great care, read all the books and spent five
thousand pounds on the finest pro teachers.  It would be a good,
scoring swing which might not collapse under pressure.  Bond envied it.

Goldfinger took up his stance, waggled gracefully, took his club head
back in a wide slow arc and, with his eyes glued to the ball, broke his
wrists correctly.  He brought the club head mechanically, effortlessly,
down and through the ball and into a rather artificial, copybook
finish.  The ball went straight and true about two hundred yards down
the fairway.

It was an excellent, uninspiring shot.  Bond knew that Goldfinger would
be capable of repeating the same swing with different clubs again and
again round the eighteen holes.

Bond took his place, gave himself a lowish tee, addressed the ball with
careful enmity and, with a flat, racket-player's swing in which there
was just too much wrist for safety, lashed the ball away.  It was a
fine, attacking drive that landed past Goldfinger's ball and rolled on
fifty yards.  But it had had a shade of draw and ended on the edge of
the left-hand rough.

They were two good drives.  As Bond handed his club to Hawker and
strolled off in the wake of the more impatient Goldfinger, he smelled
the sweet smell of the beginning of a knock-down-and-drag-out game of
golf on a beautiful day in May with the larks singing over the greatest
seaside course in the world.

The first hole of the Royal St Marks is four hundred and fifty yards
long--four hundred and fifty yards of undulating fairway with one
central bunker to trap a mis-hit second shot and a chain of bunkers
guarding three-quarters of the green to trap a well-hit one.  You can
slip through the unguarded quarter, but the fairway slopes to the right
there and you are more likely to end up with a nasty
first-chip-of-the-day out of the rough.  Goldfinger was well placed to
try for this opening.  Bond watched him take what was probably a spoon,
make his two practice swings and address the ball.

Many unlikely people play golf, including people who are blind, who
have only one arm, or even no legs, and people often wear bizarre
clothes to the game.  Other golfers don't think them odd, for there are
no rules of appearance or dress at golf.  That is one of its minor
pleasures.  But Goldfinger had made an attempt to look smart at golf
and that is the only way of dressing that is incongruous on a links.
Everything matched in a blaze of rust-coloured tweed from the buttoned
'golfer's cap' centred on the huge, flaming red hair, to the
brilliantly polished, almost orange shoes.  The plus-four suit was too
well cut and the plus-fours themselves had been pressed down the sides.
The stockings were of a matching heather mixture and had green garter
tabs.  It was as if Goldfinger had gone to his tailor and said, 'Dress
me for golf--you know, like they wear in Scotland.'  Social errors made
no impression on Bond, and for the matter of that he rarely noticed
them.  With Goldfinger it was different.  Everything about the man had
grated on Bond's teeth from the first moment he had seen him.  The
assertive blatancy of his clothes was just part of the malevolent
animal magnetism that had affected Bond from the beginning.

Goldfinger executed his mechanical, faultless swing.  The ball flew
true but just failed to make the slope and curled off to the right to
finish pin high off the green in the short rough.  Easy five.  A good
chip could turn it into a four, but it would have to be a good one.

Bond walked over to his ball.  It was lying cocked up, just off the
fairway.  Bond took his number four wood.  Now for the 'all air
route'--a soaring shot that would carry the cross-bunkers and give him
two putts for a four.  Bond remembered the dictum of the pros: 'It's
never too early to start winning.'  He took it easy, determined not to
press for the long but comfortable carry.

As soon as Bond had hit the shot he knew it wouldn't do.  The
difference between a good golf shot and a bad one is the same as the
difference between a beautiful and a plain woman--a matter of
millimetres.  In this case, the club face had gone through just that
one millimetre too low under the ball.  The arc of flight was high and
soft--no legs.  Why the hell hadn't he taken a spoon or a two iron off
that lie?  The ball hit the lip of the far bunker and fell back.  Now
it was the blaster, and fighting for a half.

Bond never worried too long about his bad or stupid shots.  He put them
behind him and thought of the next.  He came up with the bunker, took
his blaster and measured the distance to the pin.  Twenty yards.  The
ball was lying well back.  Should he splash it out with a wide stance
and an outside-in swing, or should he blast it and take plenty of sand?
For safety's sake he would blast it out.  Bond went down into the
bunker.  Head down and follow well through.  The easiest shot in golf.
Try and put it dead.  The wish, half way down his back swing, hurried
the hands in front of the club head.  The loft was killed and there was
the ball rolling back off the face.  Get it out, you bloody fool, and
hole a long putt!  Now Bond took too much sand.  He was out, but barely
on the green.  Goldfinger bent to his chip and kept his head down until
the ball was half way to the hole.  The ball stopped three inches from
the pin.  Without waiting to be given the putt, Goldfinger turned his
back on Bond and walked off towards the second tee.  Bond picked up his
ball and took his driver from Hawker.

'What does he say his handicap is, sir?'

'Nine.  It's a level match.  Have to do better than that though.  Ought
to have taken my spoon for the second.'

Hawker said encouragingly, 'It's early days yet, sir.'

Bond knew it wasn't.  It was always too early to start losing.




CHAPTER NINE

THE CUP AND THE LIP

Goldfinger had already teed up.  Bond walked slowly behind him,
followed by Hawker.  Bond stood and leant on his driver.  He said, 'I
thought you said we would be playing the strict rules of golf.  But
I'll give you that putt.  That makes you one up.'

Goldfinger nodded curtly.  He went through his practice routine and hit
his usual excellent, safe drive.

The second hole is a three hundred and seventy yard dog-leg to the left
with deep cross-bunkers daring you to take the tiger's line.  But there
was a light helping breeze.  For Goldfinger it would now be a five iron
for his second.  Bond decided to try and make it easier for himself and
only have a wedge for the green.  He laid his ears back and hit the
ball hard and straight for the bunkers.  The breeze got under the
slight draw and winged the ball on and over.  The ball pitched and
disappeared down into the gully just short of the green.  A four.
Chance of a three.

Goldfinger strode off without comment.  Bond lengthened his stride and
caught up.  'How's the agoraphobia?  Doesn't all this wide open space
bother it?'

'No.'

Goldfinger deviated to the right.  He glanced at the distant,
half-hidden flag, planning his second shot.  He took his five iron and
hit a good, careful shot which took a bad kick short of the green and
ran down into the thick grass to the left.  Bond knew that territory.
Goldfinger would be lucky to get down in two.

Bond walked up to his ball, took the wedge and flicked the ball on to
the green with plenty of stop.  The ball pulled up and lay a yard past
the hole.  Goldfinger executed a creditable pitch but missed the
twelve-foot putt.  Bond had two for the hole from a yard.  He didn't
wait to be given the hole but walked up and putted.  The ball stopped
an inch short.  Goldfinger walked off the green.  Bond knocked the ball
in.  All square.

The third is a blind two hundred and forty yards, all carry, a
difficult three.  Bond chose his brassie and hit a good one.  It would
be on or near the green.  Goldfinger's routine drive was well hit but
would probably not have enough steam to carry the last of the rough and
trickle down into the saucer of the green.  Sure enough, Goldfinger's
ball was on top of the protecting mound of rough.  He had a nasty,
cuppy lie, with a tuft just behind the ball.  Goldfinger stood and
looked at the lie.  He seemed to make up his mind.  He stepped past his
ball to take a club from the caddie.  His left foot came down just
behind the ball, flattening the tuft.  Goldfinger could now take his
putter.  He did so and trickled the ball down the bank towards the
hole.  It stopped three feet short.

Bond frowned.  The only remedy against a cheat at golf is not to play
with him again.  But that was no good in this match.  Bond had no
intention of playing with the man again.  And it was no good starting a
you-did-I-didn't argument unless he caught Goldfinger doing something
even more outrageous.  Bond would just have to try and beat him,
cheating and all.

Now Bond's twenty-foot putt was no joke.  There was no question of
going for the hole.  He would have to concentrate on laying it dead.
As usual, when one plays to go dead, the ball stopped short--a good
yard short.  Bond took a lot of trouble about the putt and holed it,
sweating.  He knocked Goldfinger's ball away.  He would go on giving
Goldfinger missable putts until suddenly Bond would ask him to hole
one.  Then that one might look just a bit more difficult.

Still all square.  The fourth is four hundred and sixty yards.  You
drive over one of the tallest and deepest bunkers in the United Kingdom
and then have a long second shot across an undulating hilly fairway to
a plateau green guarded by a final steep slope which makes it easier to
take three putts than two.

Bond picked up his usual fifty yards on the drive and Goldfinger hit
two of his respectable shots to the gully below the green.  Bond,
determined to get up, took a brassie instead of a spoon and went over
the green and almost up against the boundary fence.  From there he was
glad to get down in three for a half.

The fifth was again a long carry, followed by Bond's favourite second
shot on the course--over bunkers and through a valley between high
sand-dunes to a distant, taunting flag.  It is a testing hole for which
the first essential is a well-placed drive.  Bond stood on the tee,
perched high up in the sand-hills, and paused before the shot while he
gazed at the glittering distant sea and at the faraway crescent of
white cliffs beyond Pegwell Bay.  Then he took up his stance and
visualized the tennis court of turf that was his target.  He took the
club back as slowly as he knew how and started down for the last
terrific acceleration before the club head met the ball.  There was a
dull clang on his right.  It was too late to stop.  Desperately Bond
focused the ball and tried to keep his swing all in one piece.  There
came the ugly clonk of a mis-hit ball.  Bond's head shot up.  It was a
lofted hook.  Would it have the legs?  Get on!  Get on!  The ball hit
the top of a mountain of rough and bounced over.  Would it reach the
beginning of the fairway?

Bond turned towards Goldfinger and the caddies, his eyes fierce.
Goldfinger was straightening up.  He met Bond's eyes indifferently.
'Sorry.  Dropped my driver.'

'Don't do it again,' said Bond curtly.  He stood down off the tee and
handed his driver to Hawker.  Hawker shook his head sympathetically.
Bond took out a cigarette and lit it.  Goldfinger hit his drive the
dead straight regulation two hundred yards.

They walked down the hill in a silence which Goldfinger unexpectedly
broke.  'What is the firm you work for?'

'Universal Export.'

'And where do they hang out?'

'London.  Regent's Park.'

'What do they export?'

Bond woke up from his angry ruminations.  Here, pay attention!  This is
work, not a game.  All right, he put you off your drive, but you've got
your cover to think about.  Don't let him needle you into making
mistakes about it.  Build up your story.  Bond said casually, 'Oh
everything from sewing-machines to tanks.'

'What's your speciality?'

Bond could feel Goldfinger's eyes on him.  He said, 'I look after the
small arms side.  Spend most of my time selling miscellaneous
ironmongery to sheiks and rajahs--anyone the Foreign Office decides
doesn't want the stuff to shoot at us with.'

'Interesting work.'  Goldfinger's voice was flat, bored.

'Not very.  I'm thinking of quitting.  Came down here for a week's
holiday to think it out.  Not much future in England.  Rather like the
idea of Canada.'

'Indeed?'

They were past the rough and Bond was relieved to find that his ball
had got a forward kick off the hill on to the fairway.  The fairway
curved slightly to the left and Bond had even managed to pick up a few
feet on Goldfinger.  It was Goldfinger to play.  Goldfinger took out
his spoon.  He wasn't going for the green but only to get over the
bunkers and through the valley.

Bond waited for the usual safe shot.  He looked at his own lie.  Yes,
he could take his brassie.  There came the wooden thud of a mis-hit.
Goldfinger's ball, hit off the heel, sped along the ground and into the
stony wastes of Hell Bunker--the widest bunker and the only unkempt
one, because of the pebbles, on the course.

For once Homer had nodded--or rather, lifted his head.  Perhaps his
mind had been half on what Bond had told him.  Good show!  But
Goldfinger might still get down in three more.  Bond took out his
brassie.  He couldn't afford to play safe.  He addressed the ball,
seeing in his mind's eye its eighty-eight-millimetre trajectory through
the valley and then the two or three bounces that would take it on to
the green.  He laid off a bit to the right to allow for his draw.  Now!

There came a soft clinking away to his right.  Bond stood away from his
ball.  Goldfinger had his back to Bond.  He was gazing out to sea, rapt
in its contemplation, while his right hand played 'unconsciously' with
the money in his pocket.

Bond smiled grimly.  He said, 'Could you stop shifting bullion till
after my shot?'

Goldfinger didn't turn round or answer.  The noise stopped.

Bond turned back to his shot, desperately trying to clear his mind
again.  Now the brassie was too much of a risk.  It needed too good a
shot.  He handed it to Hawker and took his spoon and banged the ball
safely through the valley.  It ran on well and stopped on the apron.  A
five, perhaps a four.

Goldfinger got well out of the bunker and put his chip dead.  Bond
putted too hard and missed the one back.  Still all square.

The sixth, appropriately called 'The Virgin', is a famous short hole in
the world of golf.  A narrow green, almost ringed with bunkers, it can
need anything from an eight to a two iron according to the wind.
Today, for Bond, it was a seven.  He played a soaring shot, laid off to
the right for the wind to bring it in.  It ended twenty feet beyond the
pin with a difficult putt over and down a shoulder.  Should be a three.
Goldfinger took his five and played it straight.  The breeze took it
and it rolled into the deep bunker on the left.  Good news!  That would
be the hell of a difficult three.

They walked in silence to the green.  Bond glanced into the bunker.
Goldfinger's ball was in a deep heel-mark.  Bond walked over to his
ball and listened to the larks.  This was going to put him one up.  He
looked for Hawker to take his putter, but Hawker was the other side of
the green, watching with intent concentration Goldfinger play his shot.
Goldfinger got down into the bunker with his blaster.  He jumped up to
get a view of the hole and then settled himself for the shot.  As his
club went up Bond's heart lifted.  He was going to try and flick it
out--a hopeless technique from that buried lie.  The only hope would
have been to explode it.  Down came the club, smoothly, without hurry.
With hardly a handful of sand the ball curved up out of the deep
bunker, bounced once and lay dead!

Bond swallowed.  Blast his eyes!  How the hell had Goldfinger managed
that?  Now, out of sour grapes, Bond must try for his two.  He went for
it, missed the hole by an inch and rolled a good yard past.  Hell and
damnation!  Bond walked slowly up to the putt, knocking Goldfinger's
ball away.  Come on, you bloody fool!  But the spectre of the big
swing--from an almost certain one up to a possible one down--made Bond
wish the ball into the hole instead of tapping it in.  The coaxed ball,
lacking decision, slid past the lip.  One down!

Now Bond was angry with himself.  He, and he alone, had lost that hole.
He had taken three putts from twenty feet.  He really must pull himself
together and get going.

At the seventh, five hundred yards, they both hit good drives and
Goldfinger's immaculate second lay fifty yards short of the green.
Bond took his brassie.  Now for the equalizer!  But he hit from the
top, his club head came down too far ahead of the hands and the
smothered ball shot into one of the right-hand bunkers.  Not a good
lie, but he must put it on the green.  Bond took a dangerous seven and
failed to get it out.  Goldfinger got his five.  Two down.  They halved
the short eighth in three.  At the ninth, Bond, determined to turn only
one down, again tried to do too much off a poor lie.  Goldfinger got
his four to Bond's five.  Three down at the turn!  Not too good.  Bond
asked Hawker for a new ball.  Hawker unwrapped it slowly, waiting for
Goldfinger to walk over the hillock to the next tee.  Hawker said
softly, 'You saw what he did at The Virgin, sir?'

'Yes, damn him.  It was an amazing shot.'

Hawker was surprised.  'Oh, you didn't see what he did in the bunker,
sir?'

'No, what?  I was too far away.'

The other two were out of sight over the rise.  Hawker silently walked
down into one of the bunkers guarding the ninth green, kicked a hole
with his toe and dropped the ball in the hole.  He then stood just
behind the half-buried ball with his feet close together.  He looked up
at Bond.  'Remember he jumped up to look at the line to the hole, sir?'

'Yes.'

'Just watch this, sir.'  Hawker looked towards the ninth pin and
jumped, just as Goldfinger had done, as if to get the line.  Then he
looked up at Bond again and pointed to the ball at his feet.  The heavy
impact of the two feet just behind the ball had levelled the hole in
which it had lain and had squeezed the ball out so that it was now
perfectly teed for an easy shot--for just the easy cut-up shot which
had seemed utterly impossible from Goldfinger's lie at The Virgin.

Bond looked at his caddie for a moment in silence.  Then he said,
'Thanks, Hawker.  Give me the bat and the ball.  Somebody's going to be
second in this match, and I'm damned if it's going to be me.'

'Yes, sir,' said Hawker stolidly.  He limped off on the short cut that
would take him half way down the tenth fairway.

Bond sauntered slowly over the rise and down to the tenth tee.  He
hardly looked at Goldfinger who was standing on the tee swishing his
driver impatiently.  Bond was clearing his mind of everything but cold,
offensive resolve.  For the first time since the first tee, he felt
supremely confident.  All he needed was a sign from heaven and his game
would catch fire.

The tenth at the Royal St Marks is the most dangerous hole on the
course.  The second shot, to the skiddy plateau green with cavernous
bunkers to right and left and a steep hill beyond, has broken many
hearts.  Bond remembered that Philip Scrutton, out in four under fours
in the Gold Bowl, had taken a fourteen at this hole, seven of them
ping-pong shots from one bunker to another, to and fro across the
green.  Bond knew that Goldfinger would play his second to the apron,
or short of it, and be glad to get a five.  Bond must go for it and get
his four.

Two good drives and, sure enough, Goldfinger well up on the apron with
his second.  A possible four.  Bond took his seven, laid off plenty for
the breeze and fired the ball off into the sky.  At first he thought he
had laid off too much, but then the ball began to float to the left.
It pitched and stopped dead in the soft sand blown on to the green from
the right-hand bunker.  A nasty fifteen-foot putt.  Bond would now be
glad to get a half.  Sure enough, Goldfinger putted up to within a
yard.  That, thought Bond as he squared up to his putt, he will have to
hole.  He hit his own putt fairly smartly to get it through the
powdering of sand and was horrified to see it going like lightning
across the skiddy green.  God, he was going to have not a yard, but a
two-yard putt back!  But suddenly, as if drawn by a magnet, the ball
swerved straight for the hole, hit the back of the tin, bounced up and
fell into the cup with an audible rattle.  The sign from heaven!  Bond
went up to Hawker, winked at him and took his driver.

They left the caddies and walked down the slope and back to the next
tee.  Goldfinger said coldly, 'That putt ought to have run off the
green.'

Bond said off-handedly, 'Always give the hole a chance!'  He teed up
his ball and hit his best drive of the day down the breeze.  Wedge and
one putt?  Goldfinger hit his regulation shot and they walked off
again.  Bond said, 'By the way, what happened to that nice Miss
Masterton?'

Goldfinger looked straight in front of him.  'She left my employ.'

Bond thought, good for her!  He said, 'Oh, I must get in touch with her
again.  Where did she go to?'

'I couldn't say.'  Goldfinger walked away from Bond towards his ball.
Bond's drive was out of sight, over the ridge that bisected the
fairway.  It wouldn't be more than fifty yards from the pin.  Bond
thought he knew what would be in Goldfinger's mind, what is in most
golfers' minds when they smell the first scent of a good lead melting
away.  Bond wouldn't be surprised to see that grooved swing quicken a
trifle.  It did.  Goldfinger hooked into a bunker on the left of the
green.

Now was the moment when it would be the end of the game if Bond made a
mistake, let his man off the hook.  He had a slightly downhill lie,
otherwise an easy chip--but to the trickiest green on the course.  Bond
played it like a man.  The ball ended six feet from the pin.
Goldfinger played well out of his bunker, but missed the longish putt.
Now Bond was only one down.

They halved the dog-leg twelfth in inglorious fives and the longish
thirteenth also in fives, Goldfinger having to hole a good putt to do
so.

Now a tiny cleft of concentration had appeared on Goldfinger's massive,
unlined forehead.  He took a drink of water from the tap beside the
fourteenth tee.  Bond waited for him.  He didn't want a sharp clang
from that tin cup when it was out-of-bounds over the fence to the right
and the drive into the breeze favouring a slice!  Bond brought his left
hand over to increase his draw and slowed down his swing.  The drive,
well to the left, was only just adequate, but at least it had stayed in
bounds.  Goldfinger, apparently unmoved by the out-of-bounds hazard,
hit his standard shot.  They both negotiated the transverse canal
without damage and it was another half in five.  Still one down and now
only four to play.

The four hundred and sixty yards fifteenth is perhaps the only hole
where the long hitter may hope to gain one clear shot.  Two smashing
woods will just get you over the line of bunkers that lie right up
against the green.  Goldfinger had to play short of them with his
second.  He could hardly improve on a five and it was up to Bond to hit
a really godlike second shot from a barely adequate drive.

The sun was on its way down and the shadows of the four men were
beginning to lengthen.  Bond had taken up his stance.  It was a good
lie.  He had kept his driver.  There was dead silence as he gave his
two incisive waggles.  This was going to be a vital stroke.  Remember
to pause at the top of the swing, come down slow and whip the club head
through at the last second.  Bond began to take the club back.
Something moved at the corner of his right eye.  From nowhere the
shadow of Goldfinger's huge head approached the ball on the ground,
engulfed it and moved on.  Bond let his swing take itself to pieces in
sections.  Then he stood away from his ball and looked up.
Goldfinger's feet were still moving.  He was looking carefully up at
the sky.

'Shades please, Goldfinger.'  Bond's voice was furiously controlled.

Goldfinger stopped and looked slowly at Bond.  The eyebrows were raised
a fraction in inquiry.  He moved back and stood still, saying nothing.

Bond went back to his ball.  Now then, relax!  To hell with Goldfinger.
Slam that ball on to the green.  Just stand still and hit it.  There
was a moment when the world stood still, then ... then somehow Bond did
hit it--on a low trajectory that mounted gracefully to carry the
distant surf of the bunkers.  The ball hit the bank below the green,
bounced high with the impact and rolled out of sight into the saucer
round the pin.

Hawker came up and took the driver out of Bond's hand.  They walked on
together.  Hawker said seriously, 'That's one of the finest shots I've
seen in thirty years.'  He lowered his voice.  'I thought he'd fixed
you then, sir.'

'He damned nearly did, Hawker.  It was Alfred Blacking that hit that
ball, not me.'  Bond took out his cigarettes, gave one to Hawker and
lit his own.  He said quietly, 'All square and three to play.  We've
got to watch those next three holes.  Know what I mean?'

'Don't you worry, sir.  I'll keep my eye on him.'

They came up with the green.  Goldfinger had pitched on and had a long
putt for a four, but Bond's ball was only two inches away from the
hole.  Goldfinger picked up his ball and walked off the green.  They
halved the short sixteenth in good threes.  Now there were the two long
holes home.  Fours would win them.  Bond hit a fine drive down the
centre.  Goldfinger pushed his far out to the right into deep rough.
Bond walked along trying not to be too jubilant, trying not to count
his chickens.  A win for him at this hole and he would only need a half
at the eighteenth for the match.  He prayed that Goldfinger's ball
would be unplayable or, better still, lost.

Hawker had gone on ahead.  He had already laid down his bag and was
busily--far too busily to Bond's way of thinking--searching for
Goldfinger's ball when they came up.

It was bad stuff--jungle country, deep thick luxuriant grass whose
roots still held last night's dew.  Unless they were very lucky, they
couldn't hope to find the ball.  After a few minutes' search Goldfinger
and his caddie drifted away still wider to where the rough thinned out
into isolated tufts.  That's good, thought Bond.  That wasn't anything
like the line.  Suddenly he trod on something.  Hell and damnation.
Should he stamp it in?  He shrugged his shoulders, bent down and gently
uncovered the ball so as not to improve the lie.  Yes it was a Dunlop
65.  'Here you are,' he called grudgingly.  'Oh no, sorry.  You play
with a Number One, don't you?'

'Yes,' came back Goldfinger's voice impatiently.

'Well, this is a Number Seven.'  Bond picked it up and walked over to
Goldfinger.

Goldfinger gave the ball a cursory glance.  He said, 'Not mine,' and
went on poking among the tufts with the head of his driver.

It was a good ball, unmarked and almost new.  Bond put it in his pocket
and went back to his search.  He glanced at his watch.  The statutory
five minutes was almost up.  Another half-minute and by God he was
going to claim the hole.  Strict rules of golf, Goldfinger had
stipulated.  All right my friend, you shall have them!

Goldfinger was casting back towards Bond, diligently prodding and
shuffling through the grass.

Bond said, 'Nearly time, I'm afraid.'

Goldfinger grunted.  He started to say something when there came a cry
from his caddie, 'Here you are, sir.  Number One Dunlop.'

Bond followed Goldfinger over to where the caddie stood on a small
plateau of higher ground.  He was pointing down.  Bond bent and
inspected the ball.  Yes, an almost new Dunlop One and in an
astonishingly good lie.  It was miraculous--more than miraculous.  Bond
stared hard from Goldfinger to his caddie.  'Must have had the hell of
a lucky kick,' he said mildly.

The caddie shrugged his shoulders.  Goldfinger's eyes were calm,
untroubled.  'So it would seem.'  He turned to his caddie.  'I think we
can get a spoon to that one, Foulks.'

Bond walked thoughtfully away and then turned to watch the shot.  It
was one of Goldfinger's best.  It soared over a far shoulder of rough
towards the green.  Might just have caught the bunker on the right.

Bond walked on to where Hawker, a long blade of grass dangling from his
wry lips, was standing on the fairway watching the shot finish.  Bond
smiled bitterly at him.  He said in a controlled voice, 'Is my good
friend in the bunker, or is the bastard on the green?'

'Green, sir,' said Hawker unemotionally.

Bond went up to his ball.  Now things had got tough again.  Once more
he was fighting for a half after having a certain win in his pocket.
He glanced towards the pin, gauging the distance.  This was a tricky
one.  He said, 'Five or six?'

'The six should do it, sir.  Nice firm shot.'  Hawker handed him the
club.

Now then, clear your mind.  Keep it slow and deliberate.  It's an easy
shot.  Just punch it so that it's got plenty of zip to get up the bank
and on to the green.  Stand still and head down.  Click!  The ball, hit
with a slightly closed face, went off on just the medium trajectory
Bond had wanted.  It pitched below the bank.  It was perfect!  No, damn
it.  It had hit the bank with its second bounce, stopped dead,
hesitated and then rolled back and down again.  Hell's bells!  Was it
Hagen who had said, 'You drive for show, but you putt for dough'?
Getting dead from below that bank was one of the most difficult putts
on the course.  Bond reached for his cigarettes and lit one, already
preparing his mind for the next crucial shot to save the hole--so long
as that bastard Goldfinger didn't hole his from thirty feet!

Hawker walked along by his side.  Bond said, 'Miracle finding that
ball.'

'It wasn't his ball, sir.'  Hawker was stating a fact.

'What do you mean?'  Bond's voice was tense.

'Money passed, sir.  White, probably a fiver.  Foulks must have dropped
that ball down his trouser leg.'

'Hawker!'  Bond stopped in his tracks.  He looked round.  Goldfinger
and his caddie were fifty yards away, walking slowly towards the green.
Bond said fiercely, 'Do you swear to that?  How can you be sure?'

Hawker gave a half-ashamed, lop-sided grin.  But there was a crafty
belligerence in his eye.  'Because his ball was lying under my bag of
clubs, sir.'  When he saw Bond's open-mouthed expression he added
apologetically, 'Sorry, sir.  Had to do it after what he's been doing
to you.  Wouldn't have mentioned it, but I had to let you know he's
fixed you again.'

Bond had to laugh.  He said admiringly, 'Well, you are a card, Hawker.
So you were going to win the match for me all on your own!'  He added
bitterly, 'But, by God, that man's the flaming limit.  I've got to get
him.  I've simply got to.  Now let's think!'  They walked slowly on.

Bond's left hand was in his trousers pocket, absent-mindedly fingering
the ball he had picked up in the rough.  Suddenly the message went to
his brain.  Got it!  He came close to Hawker.  He glanced across at the
others.  Goldfinger had stopped.  His back was to Bond and he was
taking the putter out of his bag.  Bond nudged Hawker.  'Here, take
this.'  He slipped the ball into the gnarled hand.  Bond said softly,
urgently, 'Be certain you take the flag.  When you pick up the balls
from the green, whichever way the hole has gone, give Goldfinger this
one.  Right?'

Hawker walked stolidly forward.  His face was expressionless.  'Got it,
sir,' he said in his normal voice.  'Will you take the putter for this
one?'

'Yes.'  Bond walked up to his ball.  'Give me a line, would you?'

Hawker walked up on to the green.  He stood sideways to the line of the
putt and then stalked round to behind the flag and crouched.  He got
up.  'Inch outside the right lip, sir.  Firm putt.  Flag, sir?'

'No.  Leave it in, would you.'

Hawker stood away.  Goldfinger was standing by his ball on the right of
the green.  His caddie had stopped at the bottom of the slope.  Bond
bent to the putt.  Come on, Calamity Jane!  This one has got to go dead
or I'll put you across my knee.  Stand still.  Club head straight back
on the line and follow through towards the hole.  Give it a chance.
Now!  The ball, hit firmly in the middle of the club, had run up the
bank and was on its way to the hole.  But too hard, damn it!  Hit the
stick!  Obediently the ball curved in, rapped the stick hard and
bounced back three inches--dead as a doornail!

Bond let out a deep sigh and picked up his discarded cigarette.  He
looked over at Goldfinger.  Now then, you bastard.  Sweat that one out.
And by God if you hole it!  But Goldfinger couldn't afford to try.  He
stopped two feet short.  'All right, all right,' said Bond generously.
'All square and one to go.'  It was vital that Hawker should pick up
the balls.  If he had made Goldfinger hole the short putt it would have
been Goldfinger who would have picked the ball out of the hole.
Anyway, Bond didn't want Goldfinger to miss that putt.  That wasn't
part of the plan.

Hawker bent down and picked up the balls.  He rolled one towards Bond
and handed the other to Goldfinger.  They walked off the green,
Goldfinger leading as usual.  Bond noticed Hawker's hand go to his
pocket.  Now, so long as Goldfinger didn't notice anything on the tee!

But, with all square and one to go, you don't scrutinize your ball.
Your motions are more or less automatic.  You are thinking of how to
place your drive, of whether to go for the green with the second or
play to the apron, of the strength of the wind--of the vital figure
four that must somehow be achieved to win or at least to halve.

Considering that Bond could hardly wait for Goldfinger to follow him
and hit, just once, that treacherous Dunlop Number Seven that looked so
very like a Number One, Bond's own drive down the four hundred and
fifty yard eighteenth was praiseworthy.  If he wanted to, he could now
reach the green--if he wanted to!

Now Goldfinger was on the tee.  Now he had bent down.  The ball was on
the peg, its lying face turned up at him.  But Goldfinger had
straightened, had stood back, was taking his two deliberate practice
swings.  He stepped up to the ball, cautiously, deliberately.  Stood
over it, waggled, focusing the ball minutely.  Surely he would see!
Surely he would stop and bend down at the last minute to inspect the
ball!  Would the waggle never end?  But now the club head was going
back, coming down, the left knee bent correctly in towards the ball,
the left arm straight as a ramrod.  Crack!  The ball sailed off, a
beautiful drive, as good as Goldfinger had hit, straight down the
fairway.

Bond's heart sang.  Got you, you bastard!  Got you!  Blithely Bond
stepped down from the tee and strolled off down the fairway planning
the next steps which could now be as eccentric, as fiendish as he
wished.  Goldfinger was beaten already--hoist with his own petard!  Now
to roast him, slowly, exquisitely.

Bond had no compunction.  Goldfinger had cheated him twice and got away
with it.  But for his cheats at the Virgin and the seventeenth, not to
mention his improved lie at the third and the various times he had
tried to put Bond off, Goldfinger would have been beaten by now.  If it
needed one cheat by Bond to rectify the score-sheet that was only
poetic justice.  And besides, there was more to this than a game of
golf.  It was Bond's duty to win.  By his reading of Goldfinger he
_had_ to win.  If he was beaten, the score between the two men would
have been equalized.  If he won the match, as he now had, he would be
two up on Goldfinger--an intolerable state of affairs, Bond guessed, to
a man who saw himself as all powerful.  This man Bond, Goldfinger would
say to himself, _has_ something.  He has qualities I can use.  He is a
tough adventurer with plenty of tricks up his sleeve.  This is the sort
of man I need for--for what?  Bond didn't know.  Perhaps there would be
nothing for him.  Perhaps his reading of Goldfinger was wrong, but
there was certainly no other way of creeping up on the man.

Goldfinger cautiously took out his spoon for the longish second over
cross-bunkers to the narrow entrance to the green.  He made one more
practice swing than usual and then hit exactly the right, controlled
shot up to the apron.  A certain five, probably a four.  Much good
would it do him!

Bond, after a great show of taking pains, brought his hands down well
ahead of the club and smothered his number three iron so that the
topped ball barely scrambled over the cross-bunkers.  He then wedged
the ball on to the green twenty feet past the pin.  He was where he
wanted to be--enough of a threat to make Goldfinger savour the sweet
smell of victory, enough to make Goldfinger really sweat to get his
four.

And now Goldfinger really was sweating.  There was a savage grin of
concentration and greed as he bent to the long putt up the bank and
down to the hole.  Not too hard, not too soft.  Bond could read every
anxious thought that would be running through the man's mind.
Goldfinger straightened up again, walked deliberately across the green
to behind the flag to verify his line.  He walked slowly back beside
his line, brushing away--carefully, with the back of his hand--a wisp
or two of grass, a speck of top-dressing.  He bent again and made one
or two practice swings and then stood to the putt, the veins standing
out on his temples, the cleft of concentration deep between his eyes.

Goldfinger hit the putt and followed through on the line.  It was a
beautiful putt that stopped six inches past the pin.  Now Goldfinger
would be sure that unless Bond sank his difficult twenty-footer, the
match was his!

Bond went through a long rigmarole of sizing up his putt.  He took his
time, letting the suspense gather like a thunder cloud round the long
shadows on the livid, fateful green.

'Flag out, please.  I'm going to sink this one.'  Bond charged the
words with a deadly certitude, while debating whether to miss the hole
to the right or the left or leave it short.  He bent to the putt and
missed the hole well on the right.

'Missed it, by God!'  Bond put bitterness and rage into his voice.  He
walked over to the hole and picked up the two balls, keeping them in
full view.

Goldfinger came up.  His face was glistening with triumph.  'Well,
thanks for the game.  Seems I was just too good for you after all.'

'You're a good nine handicap,' said Bond with just sufficient sourness.
He glanced at the balls in his hand to pick out Goldfinger's and hand
it to him.  He gave a start of surprise.  'Hullo!'  He looked sharply
at Goldfinger.  'You play a Number One Dunlop, don't you?'

'Yes, of course.'  A sixth sense of disaster wiped the triumph off
Goldfinger's face.  'What is it?  What's the matter?'

'Well,' said Bond apologetically.  ''Fraid you've been playing with the
wrong ball.  Here's my Penfold Hearts and this is a Number Seven
Dunlop.'  He handed both balls to Goldfinger.  Goldfinger tore them off
his palm and examined them feverishly.

Slowly the colour flooded over Goldfinger's face.  He stood, his mouth
working, looking from the balls to Bond and back to the balls.

Bond said softly, 'Too bad we were playing to the rules.  Afraid that
means you lose the hole.  And, of course, the match.'  Bond's eyes
observed Goldfinger impassively.

'But, but...'

This was what Bond had been looking forward to--the cup dashed from the
lips.  He stood and waited, saying nothing.

Rage suddenly burst Goldfinger's usually relaxed face like a bomb.  'It
was a Dunlop Seven you found in the rough.  It was your caddie that
gave me this ball.  On the seventeenth green.  He gave me the wrong
ball on purpose, the damned che--'

'Here, steady on,' said Bond mildly.  'You'll get a slander action on
your hands if you aren't careful.  Hawker, did you give Mr Goldfinger
the wrong ball by mistake or anything?'

'No, sir.'  Hawker's face was stolid.  He said indifferently, 'If you
want my opinion, sir, the mistake may have been made at the seventeenth
when the gentleman found his ball pretty far off the line we'd all
marked it on.  A Seven looks very much like a One.  I'd say that's what
happened, sir.  It would have been a miracle for the gentleman's ball
to have ended up as wide as where it was found.'

'Tommy rot!'  Goldfinger gave a snort of disgust.  He turned angrily on
Bond.  'You saw that was a Number One my caddie found.'

Bond shook his head doubtfully.  'I didn't really look closely, I'm
afraid.  However,' Bond's voice became brisk, businesslike, 'it's
really the job of the player to make certain he's using the right ball,
isn't it?  I can't see that anyone else can be blamed if you tee the
wrong ball up and play three shots with it.  Anyway,' he started
walking off the green, 'many thanks for the match.  We must have it
again one day.'

Goldfinger, lit with glory by the setting sun, but with a long black
shadow tied to his heels, followed Bond slowly, his eyes fixed
thoughtfully on Bond's back.




CHAPTER TEN

UP AT THE GRANGE

There are some rich men who use their riches like a club.  Bond,
luxuriating in his bath, thought that Goldfinger was one of them.  He
was the kind of man who thought he could flatten the world with his
money, bludgeoning aside annoyances and opposition with his heavy wad.
He had thought to break Bond's nerve by playing him for ten thousand
dollars--a flea-bite to him but obviously a small fortune to Bond.  In
most circumstances he might have succeeded.  It needs an iron nerve to
'wait for it' on your swing, to keep your head down on the short putts,
when big money hangs on every shot, over eighteen long holes.  The
pros, playing for their own bread and butter and for their families',
know the cold breath of the poor-house on the back of their necks as
they come to the eighteenth tee all square.  That is why they lead
careful lives, not smoking or drinking, and why the one that wins is
usually the one with the least imagination.

But, in Bond's case, Goldfinger could not have known that high tension
was Bond's natural way of life and that pressure and danger relaxed
him.  And he could not have known that Bond wanted to play Goldfinger
for the highest possible stakes and that he would have the funds of the
Secret Service behind him if he lost.  Goldfinger, so used to
manipulating others, had been blind to the manipulation for once being
practised upon himself.

Or had he been?  Thoughtfully Bond got out of the bath and dried
himself.  That powerful dynamo inside the big round head would be
humming at this very moment, wondering about Bond, knowing he had been
out-cheated, asking itself how it came about that twice Bond had
appeared out of the blue and twice queered his pitch.  Had Bond played
his cards right?  Had he made himself appear an interesting challenge,
or would Goldfinger's sensitive nose smell a threat?  In the latter
case there would be no follow-up by Goldfinger and Bond would have to
bow out of the case and leave it to M to devise a new approach.  How
soon would he know if the big fish was hooked?  This one would take
plenty of time sniffing the bait.  It would be good to have just one
small bite to tell him he had chosen the right lure.

There was a knock on the door of his bedroom.  Bond wrapped the towel
round him and walked through.  He opened the door.  It was the hall
porter.  'Yes?'

'Telephone message from a Mr Goldfinger, sir.  His compliments and
would you care to come to his house for dinner tonight.  It's The
Grange over at Reculver, sir.  Six-thirty for drinks beforehand and not
to bother to dress.'

'Please thank Mr Goldfinger and say I shall be delighted.'  Bond shut
the door and walked across to the open window and stood looking out
across the quiet evening sea.  'Well, well!  Talk of the devil!'  Bond
smiled to himself, 'And then go and sup with him!  What was that about
a long spoon?'

At six o'clock Bond went down to the bar and had a large vodka and
tonic with a slice of lemon peel.  The bar was empty save for a group
of American Air Force officers from Manston.  They were drinking whisky
and water and talking baseball.  Bond wondered if they had spent the
day toting a hydrogen bomb round the skies over Kent, over the four
little dots in the dunes that had been his match with Goldfinger.  He
thought wryly, Not too much of that whisky, cousins, paid for his
drink, and left.

He motored slowly over to Reculver, savouring the evening and the drink
inside him and the quiet bubble of the twin exhausts.  This was going
to be an interesting dinner-party.  Now was the moment to sell himself
to Goldfinger.  If he put a foot wrong he was out, and the pitch would
have been badly queered for his successor.  He was unarmed--it would be
fatal for Goldfinger to smell that kind of rat.  He felt a moment's
qualm.  But that was going too fast.  No state of war had been
declared--the opposite if anything.  When they had parted at the golf
club, Goldfinger had been cordial in a rather forced, oily fashion.  He
had inquired where he should send Bond's winnings and Bond had given
him the address of Universal Export.  He had asked where Bond was
staying and Bond had told him and added that he would only be at
Ramsgate a few days while he made up his mind about his future.
Goldfinger hoped that they would one day have a return match but, alas,
he was leaving for France tomorrow and wasn't certain when he would be
back.  Flying?  Yes, taking the Air Ferry from Lydd.  Well, thanks for
the match.  And thank you, Mr Bond.  The eyes had given Bond one last
X-ray treatment, as if fixing him for a last time in Goldfinger's
filing system, and then the big yellow car had sighed away.

Bond had had a good look at the chauffeur.  He was a chunky flat-faced
Japanese, or more probably Korean, with a wild, almost mad glare in
dramatically slanting eyes that belonged in a Japanese film rather than
in a Rolls Royce on a sunny afternoon in Kent.  He had the snout-like
upper lip that sometimes goes with a cleft palate, but he said nothing
and Bond had no opportunity of knowing whether his guess was right.  In
his tight, almost bursting black suit and farcical bowler hat he looked
rather like a Japanese wrestler on his day off.  But he was not a
figure to make one smile.  If one had been inclined to smile, a touch
of the sinister, the unexplained, in the tight shining patent-leather
black shoes that were almost dancing pumps, and in the heavy black
leather driving gloves, would have changed one's mind.  There was
something vaguely familiar to Bond in the man's silhouette.  It was
when the car drove away and Bond had a glimpse of the head from the
rear that he remembered.  Those were the head and shoulders and bowler
hat of the driver of the sky-blue Ford Popular that had so obstinately
hugged the crown of the Herne Bay road at about twelve o'clock that
morning.  Where had he been coming from?  What errand had he been on?
Bond remembered something Colonel Smithers had said.  Could this have
been the Korean who now travelled the country collecting the old gold
from the chain of Goldfinger jewellery shops?  Had the boot of the
innocent, scurrying little saloon been stuffed with the week's takings
of presentation watches, signet rings, lockets, gold crosses?  As he
watched the high, primrose-yellow silhouette of the Silver Ghost
disappearing towards Sandwich, Bond thought the answer was yes.

Bond turned off the main road into the drive and followed it down
between high Victorian evergreens to the gravel sweep in front of just
the sort of house that would be called The Grange--a heavy, ugly,
turn-of-the-century mansion with a glass-enclosed portico and sun
parlour whose smell of trapped sunshine, rubber plants and dead flies
came to Bond in his imagination before he had switched off the engine.
Bond got slowly out of the car and stood looking at the house.  Its
blank, well-washed eyes stared back at him.  The house had a background
noise, a heavy rhythmic pant like a huge animal with a rather quick
pulse.  Bond assumed it came from the factory whose plumed chimney
reared up like a giant cautionary finger from the high conifers to the
right where the stabling and garages would normally be.  The quiet
watchful faade of the house seemed to be waiting for Bond to do
something, make some offensive move to which there would be a quick
reply.  Bond shrugged his shoulders to lighten his thoughts and went up
the steps to the opaque glass-panelled door and pressed the bell.
There was no noise of it ringing, but the door slowly opened.  The
Korean chauffeur still had his bowler hat on.  He looked without
interest at Bond.  He stood motionless, his left hand on the inside
doorknob and his outstretched right pointing like a signpost into the
dark hall of the house.

Bond walked past him, vanquishing a desire either to stamp on his neat
black feet or hit him very hard indeed in the centre of his tightly
buttoned black stomach.  This Korean matched up with what he had always
heard about Koreans, and anyway Bond wanted to do something violent to
the heavy, electric atmosphere of the house.

The gloomy hall was also the main living-room.  A meagre fire flickered
behind the fire-irons in the wide hearth and two club chairs and a
Knole sofa stood impassively watching the flames.  Between them on a
low settee was a well-stocked drink tray.  The wide spaces surrounding
this spark of life were crowded with massive Rothschildian pieces of
furniture of the Second Empire, and ormolu, tortoiseshell, brass and
mother-of-pearl winked back richly at the small fire.  Behind this
orderly museum, dark panelling ran up to a first-floor gallery which
was reached by a heavy curved stairway to the left of the hall.  The
ceiling was laced with the sombre wood-carving of the period.

Bond was standing taking all this in when the Korean came silently up.
He flung out his signpost of an arm towards the drink tray and the
chairs.  Bond nodded and stayed where he was.  The Korean walked past
him and disappeared through a door into what Bond assumed were the
servants' quarters.  The silence, helped by the slow iron tick of a
massively decorated grandfather clock, gathered and crept nearer.

Bond walked over and stood with his back to the poor fire.  He stared
offensively back at the room.  What a dump!  What a bloody awful
deathly place to live in.  How did one, could one, live in this rich
heavy morgue amongst the conifers and evergreens when a hundred yards
away there was light and air and wide horizons?  Bond took out a
cigarette and lit it.  What did Goldfinger do for enjoyment, for fun,
for sex?  Perhaps he didn't need these things.  Perhaps the pursuit of
gold slaked all his thirsts.

Somewhere in the distance a telephone rang.  The bell shrilled twice
and stopped.  There was the murmur of a voice, then steps echoed down a
passage and a door under the stairway opened.  Goldfinger came through
and quietly closed the door behind him.  He was wearing a plum-coloured
velvet dinner jacket.  He came slowly across the polished wood floor.
He didn't hold out his hand.  He said, smiling with his mouth, 'It was
kind of you to come at such short notice, Mr Bond.  You were alone and
so was I and it occurred to me that we might discuss the price of corn.'

It was the sort of remark that rich men make to each other.  Bond was
amused at being made a temporary member of the club.  He said, 'I was
delighted to get the invitation.  I was already bored with worrying
over my problems.  Ramsgate hasn't much to offer.'

'No.  And now I have an apology to make.  I have had a telephone call.
One of my staff--I employ Koreans, by the way--has had some minor
trouble with the Margate police and I must go over and straighten it
out.  Some incident at the fun fair, I understand.  These people get
easily over-excited.  My chauffeur will drive me and we should not be
more than half an hour.  Meanwhile I fear I must leave you to your own
devices.  Please help yourself to drinks.  There are magazines to read.
Will you forgive me?  Not more than half an hour I assure you.'

'That's quite all right.'  Bond felt there was something fishy in this.
He couldn't put his finger on what it was.

'Well then, au revoir.'  Goldfinger went to the front door.  'But I
must give you some light.  It's really very dark in here.'  Goldfinger
brushed his hand down a wall-plate of switches and suddenly lights
blazed all over the hall--from standard lamps, wall brackets, and four
clusters in the ceiling.  Now the room was as bright as a film studio.
It was an extraordinary transformation.  Bond, half dazzled, watched
Goldfinger open the front door and stride out.  In a minute he heard
the sound of a car, but not the Rolls, rev up noisily, change gear and
go off fast down the drive.

On an instinct, Bond walked over to the front door and opened it.  The
drive was empty.  In the distance he saw the lights of the car turn
left-handed on the main road and make off in the direction of Margate.
He turned back into the house and closed the door.  He stood still,
listening.  The silence, except for the heavy clock-tick, was complete.
He walked across to the service door and opened it.  A long dark
passage disappeared towards the back of the house.  Bond bent forward,
all his senses alert.  Silence, dead silence.  Bond shut the door and
looked thoughtfully round the brilliantly lit hall.  He had been left
alone in Goldfinger's house, alone with its secrets.  Why?

Bond walked over to the drink tray and poured himself a strong gin and
tonic.  There certainly had been a telephone call, but it could easily
have been an arranged call from the factory.  The story of the servant
was plausible and it was reasonable that Goldfinger should go himself
to bail the man out and take his chauffeur with him.  Goldfinger had
twice mentioned that Bond would be alone for half an hour during which
he 'would be left to his own devices'.  This could be innocent, or it
could be an invitation for Bond to show his hand, commit some
indiscretion.  Was somebody watching him?  How many of these Koreans
were there and what were they doing?  Bond glanced at his watch.  Five
minutes had gone.  He made up his mind.  Trap or no trap, this was too
good a chance to miss.  He would have a quick look round--but an
innocent one, with some sort of a cover story to explain why he had
left the hall.  Where should he begin?  A look at the factory.  His
story?  That his car had given trouble on the way over--choked petrol
feed probably--and that he had gone to see if there was a mechanic who
could give him a hand.  Flimsy, but it would do.  Bond downed his drink
and went purposefully to the service door and walked through.

There was a light switch.  He turned on the light and walked swiftly
down a long passage.  It ended with a blank wall and two doors to right
and left.  He listened for an instant at the left-hand one and heard
muffled kitchen noises.  He opened the right-hand door and found
himself in the paved garage yard he might have expected.  The only odd
thing about it was that it was brilliantly lit by arc lights.  The long
wall of the factory occupied the far side and now the rhythmic engine
thump was very loud.  There was a plain wooden door low down in the
wall opposite.  Bond walked across the yard to it, looking around him
with casual interest.  The door was unlocked.  He opened it with
discretion and walked through, leaving the door ajar.  He found himself
in a small empty office lit by one naked bulb hanging from the ceiling.
There was a desk with papers on it, a time-clock, a couple of filing
cabinets and a telephone.  Another door led from the office into the
main factory space and there was a window beside the door for keeping
an eye on the workmen.  It would be the foreman's office.  Bond walked
to the window and looked through.

Bond didn't know what he had expected, but there seemed to be the usual
accoutrements of a small metal-working business.  Facing him were the
open mouths of two blast furnaces, their fires now drawn.  Beside these
stood a row of kilns for the molten metal, of which sheets of different
sizes and colours stood against the wall near by.  There was the
polished steel table of a circular saw, a diamond saw presumably, for
cutting the sheets, and to the left in the shadows a big oil engine
connected to a generator pounded away making power.  To the right,
under arc lights, a group of five men in overalls, four of them
Koreans, were at work on--of all things--Goldfinger's Rolls Royce.  It
stood there gleaming under the lights, immaculate save for the
right-hand door which had been taken off its hinges and now lay across
two near-by benches minus its door panel.  As Bond watched, two men
picked up the new door panel, a heavy, discoloured sheet of
aluminium-coloured metal, and placed it on the door frame.  There were
two hand riveters on the floor and soon, Bond thought, the men would
rivet the panel into place and paint it to match the rest of the car.
All perfectly innocent and above-board.  Goldfinger had dented the
panel that afternoon and had had a quick repair job done in preparation
for his trip tomorrow.  Bond gave a quick, sour look round, withdrew
from the window and went out by the factory door and closed it softly
behind him.  Nothing there, damn it.  And now what was his story?  That
he had not wanted to disturb the men at their work--perhaps after
dinner, if one of them had a moment.

Bond walked unhurriedly back the way he had come and regained the hall
without misadventure.

Bond looked at his watch.  Ten minutes to go.  Now for the first floor.
The secrets of a house are in the bedrooms and bathrooms.  Those are
the private places where the medicine cabinets, the dressing-table, the
bedside drawers, reveal the intimate things, the frailties.  Bond had a
bad headache.  He had gone to look for an aspirin.  He acted the part
for an invisible audience, massaged his temples, glanced up at the
gallery, walked decisively across the floor and climbed the stairs.
The gallery gave on to a brightly lit passage.  Bond walked down it
opening the doors and glancing in.  But they were spare bedrooms, the
beds not made up.  They held a smell of must and shut windows.  A large
ginger cat appeared from nowhere and followed him, mewing and rubbing
itself against his trouser legs.  The end room was the one.  Bond went
in and closed the door to a crack.

All the lights were on.  Perhaps one of the servants was in the
bathroom.  Bond walked boldly across to the communicating door and
opened it.  More lights, but no one.  It was a big bathroom, probably a
spare room converted into a bathroom and, in addition to the bath and
lavatory, it held various fitness machines--a rowing machine, a fixed
bicycle wheel, Indian clubs and a Ralli Health Belt.  The medicine
cabinet contained nothing except a great variety of purges--senna pods,
cascara, Calsalettes, Enos and various apparatus for the same purpose.
There were no other drugs and no aspirin.  Bond went back into the
bedroom and again drew a blank.  It was a typical man's room,
comfortable, lived in, with plenty of fitted cupboards.  It even
smelled neutral.  There was a small bookcase beside the bed in which
all the books were history or biography, all in English.  The drawer of
the bedside table yielded a solitary indiscretion, a yellow-backed copy
of _The Hidden Sight of Love_, Palladium Publications, Paris.

Bond glanced at his watch.  Five more minutes.  It was time to go.  He
took a last look round the room and moved to the door.  Suddenly he
stopped.  What was it he had noticed almost subconsciously ever since
he had come into the room?  He sharpened his senses.  There was an
incongruity somewhere.  What was it?  A colour?  An object?  A smell?
A sound?  That was it!  From where he stood he could hear the faintest,
mosquito-shrill whine.  It was almost extra-sensory in its pitch.
Where did it come from?  What was making it?  Now there was something
else in the room, something that Bond knew all too well, the smell of
danger.

Tensely Bond stepped closer to the fitted cupboard beside the door,
softly opened it.  Yes, it came from inside the cupboard, from behind a
range of sports coats that reached down to the top of three banks of
drawers.  Sharply Bond swept the coats aside.  His jaws clenched at
what was behind them.

From three slots near the top of the cupboard, sixteen-millimetre film
was inching down in three separate strips into a deep bin behind the
false front of the drawers.  The bin was almost half full of the slimy
snakes of the stuff.  Bond's eyes narrowed tensely as he watched the
damning evidence coil slowly down on to the pile.  So that was
it--cine-cameras, three of them, their lenses concealed God knows
where--in the hall, in the garage courtyard, in this room--had been
watching his every move from the moment Goldfinger had left the house,
switching on the cameras, and, of course, the dazzling lights, as he
went out of the door.  Why hadn't Bond seen the significance of those
lights?  Why hadn't he had the elementary imagination to see the trap
as well as smell it?  Cover stories, indeed!  What use were they now
when he had spent half an hour snooping round and finding nothing for
his pains?  That too!  He had discovered nothing--unearthed no secret.
It had all been an idiotic waste of time.  And now Goldfinger had him.
Now he was finished, hopelessly blown.  Was there any way of saving
something from the wreckage?  Bond stood riveted, staring at the slow
cataracts of film.  Let's see now!  Bond's mind raced, thinking of ways
out, excuses, discarding them all.  Well, at least by opening the
cupboard door he had exposed some of the film.  Then why not expose it
all?  Why not, but how?  How could the open cupboard door be explained
except by his doing?  There came a miaow from the open slit of the
bedroom door.  The cat!  Why shouldn't the cat have done it?  Pretty
thin, but at least it was the shadow of an alibi.  Bond opened the
door.  He picked the cat up in his arms.  He went back with it to the
cupboard, stroking it brusquely.  It purred.  Bond leant over the bin
of film, picking it up in handfuls so that it would all get the light.
Then, when he was satisfied that it must be ruined, he tossed it back
and dropped the cat in on top of it.  The cat would not be able to get
out easily.  With any luck it would settle down and go to sleep.  Bond
left the cupboard door three inches ajar to spoil the continuing film
and the bedroom door the same amount and ran down the passage.  At the
top of the stairs he slowed and sauntered down.  The empty hall yawned
at his play-acting.  He walked across to the fireplace, dashed more
drink into his glass and picked up _The Field_.  He turned to the golf
commentary by Bernard Darwin, ran his eye down it to see what it was
about, and then settled into one of the club chairs and lit a cigarette.

What had he found out?  What was there on the plus side?  Precious
little except that Goldfinger suffered from constipation and a dirty
mind and that he had wanted to put Bond through an elementary test.  He
had certainly done it expertly.  This was no amateur.  The technique
was fully up to SMERSH standards, and it was surely the technique of
somebody with a very great deal to hide.  And now what would happen?
For the cat alibi to stand up, Goldfinger would have to have left two
doors, one of them vital, ajar, and the cat had got into the room and
been intrigued by the whine of the cameras.  Most unlikely, almost
incredible.  Goldfinger would be ninety per cent certain it was
Bond--but only ninety.  There would still be that ten per cent of
uncertainty.  Would Goldfinger have learnt much more than he knew
before--that Bond was a tricky, resourceful customer and that Bond had
been inquisitive, might be a thief?  He would guess Bond had been to
the bedroom, but Bond's other movements, for whatever they were worth,
would remain a secret on the exposed film.

Bond got up and took a handful of other magazines and threw them down
beside his chair.  The only thing for him to do was brazen it out and
make a note for the future, if there was to be a future, that he had
better wake his ideas up and not make any more mistakes.  There
wouldn't be enough ginger cats in the world to help him out of one more
tight spot like the one he was in.

There had been no noise of a car coming down the drive, not a sound
from the door, but Bond felt the evening breeze on his neck and he knew
that Goldfinger had come back into the room.




CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE ODD-JOB MAN

Bond threw down _The Field_ and stood up.  The front door closed
noisily.  Bond turned.  'Hullo.'  His face registered polite surprise.
'Didn't hear you arrive.  How did it go?'

Goldfinger's expression was equally bland.  They might have been old
friends, neighbours in the country who were accustomed to drop in on
each other for a drink.  'Oh, it sorted itself out.  My chap had had a
row in a pub with some American Air Force men who had called him a
bloody Jap.  I explained to the police that Koreans don't like being
called Japs.  They let him off with a caution.  Terribly sorry to have
been so long.  Hope you weren't bored.  Do have another drink.'

'Thanks.  But it's hardly seemed five minutes since you left.  Been
reading what Darwin has to say about the fourteen club rule.
Interesting point of view...'  Bond launched into a detailed review of
the article, adding his own comments on the rule.

Goldfinger stood patiently until it was over.  He said, 'Yes, it's a
complicated business.  Of course you play rather a different game from
me, more workmanlike.  With my kind of swing, I find I need all the
clubs I'm allowed.  Well, I'll just go up and wash and then we'll have
dinner.  Shan't be a moment.'

Bond busied himself noisily with pouring another drink, sat down and
picked up _Country Life_.  He watched Goldfinger climb the stairs and
disappear down the corridor.  He could visualize every step.  He found
he was reading the periodical upside down.  He turned it round and
stared blindly at a fine photograph of Blenheim Palace.

There was dead silence upstairs.  Then a distant lavatory chain was
pulled and a door clicked shut.  Bond reached for his drink, took a
deep swallow and put the glass down beside his chair.  Goldfinger was
coming down the stairs.  Bond turned the pages of _Country Life_ and
flicked ash off his cigarette into the grate.

Now Goldfinger was crossing the floor towards him.  Bond lowered his
paper and looked up.  Goldfinger was carrying the ginger cat tucked
carelessly under one arm.  He reached the fireplace, bent forward and
pressed the bell.

He turned towards Bond.  'Do you like cats?'  His gaze was flat,
incurious.

'Sufficiently.'

The service door opened.  The chauffeur stood in the frame.  He still
wore his bowler hat and his shiny black gloves.  He gazed impassively
at Goldfinger.  Goldfinger crooked a finger.  The chauffeur approached
and stood within the circle by the fire.

Goldfinger turned to Bond.  He said conversationally, 'This is my handy
man.'  He smiled thinly.  'That is something of a joke.  Oddjob, show
Mr Bond your hands.'  He smiled again at Bond.  'I call him Oddjob
because that describes his functions on my staff.'

The Korean slowly pulled off his gloves and came and stood at arm's
length from Bond and held out his hands palm upwards.  Bond got up and
looked at them.  They were big and fat with muscle.  The fingers all
seemed to be the same length.  They were very blunt at the tips and the
tips glinted as if they were made of yellow bone.

'Turn them over and show Mr Bond the sides.'

There were no finger-nails.  Instead there was this same, yellowish
carapace.  The man turned the hands sideways.  Down each edge of the
hands was a hard ridge of the same bony substance.

Bond raised his eyebrows at Goldfinger.

Goldfinger said, 'We will have a demonstration.'  He pointed at the
thick oak banisters that ran up the stairs.  The rail was a massive six
inches by four thick.  The Korean obediently walked over to the stairs
and climbed a few steps.  He stood with his hands at his sides, gazing
across at Goldfinger like a good retriever.  Goldfinger gave a quick
nod.  Impassively the Korean lifted his right hand high and straight
above his head and brought the side of it down like an axe across the
heavy polished rail.  There was a splintering crash and the rail
sagged, broken through the centre.  Again the hand went up and flashed
down.  This time it swept right through the rail leaving a jagged gap.
Splinters clattered down on to the floor of the hall.  The Korean
straightened himself and stood to attention, waiting for further
orders.  There was no flush of effort in his face and no hint of pride
in his achievement.

Goldfinger beckoned.  The man came back across the floor.  Goldfinger
said, 'His feet are the same, the outside edges of them.  Oddjob, the
mantelpiece.'  Goldfinger pointed at the heavy shelf of carved wood
above the fireplace.  It was about seven feet off the ground--six
inches higher than the top of the Korean's bowler hat.

'Garch a har?'

'Yes, take off your coat and hat.'  Goldfinger turned to Bond.  'Poor
chap's got a cleft palate.  I shouldn't think there are many people who
understand him beside me.'

Bond reflected how useful that would be, a slave who could only
communicate with the world through his interpreter--better even than
the deaf mutes of the harems, more tightly bound to his master, more
secure.

Oddjob had taken off his coat and hat and placed them neatly on the
floor.  Now he rolled his trouser legs up to the knee and stood back in
the wide well-planted stance of the judo expert.  He looked as if a
charging elephant wouldn't put him off balance.

'Better stand back, Mr Bond.'  The teeth glittered in the wide mouth.
'This blow snaps a man's neck like a daffodil.'  Goldfinger drew aside
the low settee with the drink tray.  Now the Korean had a clear run.
But he was only three long steps away.  How could he possibly reach the
high mantelpiece?

Bond watched, fascinated.  Now the slanting eyes in the flat yellow
mask were glinting with a fierce intentness.  Faced by such a man,
thought Bond, one could only go down on one's knees and wait for death.

Goldfinger lifted his hand.  The bunched toes in the polished soft
leather shoes seemed to grip the ground.  The Korean took one long
crouching stride with knees well bent and then whirled off the ground.
In mid-air his feet slapped together like a ballet dancer's, but higher
than a ballet dancer's have ever reached, and then the body bent
sideways and downwards and the right foot shot out like a piston.
There came a crashing thud.  Gracefully the body settled back down on
the hands, now splayed on the floor, the elbows bent to take the weight
and then straightened sharply to throw the man up and back on his feet.

Oddjob stood to attention.  This time there was a gleam of triumph in
his flat eyes as he looked at the three-inch jagged bite the edge of
his foot had taken out of the mantelpiece.

Bond looked at the man in deep awe.  And only two nights ago he, Bond,
had been working on his manual of unarmed combat!  There was nothing,
absolutely nothing, in all his reading, all his experience, to approach
what he had just witnessed.  This was not a man of flesh and blood.
This was a living club, perhaps the most dangerous animal on the face
of the earth.  Bond had to do it, had to give homage to this uniquely
dreadful person.  He held out his hand.

'Softly, Oddjob.'  Goldfinger's voice was the crack of a whip.

The Korean bowed his head and took Bond's hand in his.  He kept his
fingers straight and merely bent his thumb in a light clasp.  It was
like holding a piece of board.  He released Bond's hand and went to his
neat pile of clothes.

'Forgive me, Mr Bond, and I appreciate your gesture.'  Goldfinger's
face showed his approval.  'But Oddjob doesn't know his own
strength--particularly when he is keyed up.  And those hands are like
machine-tools.  He could have crushed your hand to pulp without meaning
to.  Now then,' Oddjob had dressed and was standing respectfully at
attention, 'you did well, Oddjob.  I'm glad to see you are in training.
Here--'  Goldfinger took the cat from under his arm and tossed it to
the Korean who caught it eagerly--'I am tired of seeing this animal
around.  You may have it for dinner.'  The Korean's eyes gleamed.  'And
tell them in the kitchen that we will have our own dinner at once.'

The Korean inclined his head sharply and turned away.

Bond hid his disgust.  He realized that all this exhibition was simply
a message to him, a warning, a light rap on the knuckles.  It said,
'You see my power, Mr Bond.  I could easily have killed you or maimed
you.  Oddjob was giving an exhibition and you got in the way.  I would
certainly be innocent, and Oddjob would get off with a light sentence.
Instead, the cat will be punished in your place.  Bad luck on the cat,
of course.'

Bond said casually, 'Why does the man always wear that bowler hat?'

'Oddjob!'  The Korean had reached the service door.  'The hat.'
Goldfinger pointed at a panel in the woodwork near the fireplace.

Still holding the cat under his left arm, Oddjob turned and walked
stolidly back towards them.  When he was half way across the floor, and
without pausing or taking aim, he reached up to his hat, took it by the
rim and flung it sideways with all his force.  There was a loud clang.
For an instant the rim of the bowler hat stuck an inch deep in the
panel Goldfinger had indicated, then it fell and clattered on the floor.

Goldfinger smiled politely at Bond.  'A light but very strong alloy, Mr
Bond.  I fear that will have damaged the felt covering, but Oddjob will
put on another.  He's surprisingly quick with a needle and thread.  As
you can imagine, that blow would have smashed a man's skull or half
severed his neck.  A homely and a most ingeniously concealed weapon,
I'm sure you'll agree.'

'Yes, indeed.'  Bond smiled with equal politeness.  'Useful chap to
have around.'

Oddjob had picked up his hat and disappeared.  There came the boom of a
gong.  'Ah, dinner!  Shall we go in?'  Goldfinger led the way to a door
concealed in the panelling to the right of the fireplace.  He pressed a
hidden latch and they walked through.

The small dining-room matched the heavy wealth of the hall.  It was
brilliantly lit from a central chandelier and by candles on a round
table that glittered with silver and glass.  They sat down opposite
each other.  Two yellow-faced servants in white mess-jackets brought
dishes from a loaded serving-table.  The first course was some curried
mess with rice.  Goldfinger noticed Bond's hesitation.  He gave a dry
chuckle.  'It's all right, Mr Bond.  Shrimp, not the cat.'

'Ah.'  Bond's expression was non-committal.

'Please try the Hock.  I hope it will be to your taste.  It is a
Piesporter Goldtrpfchen '53.  Help yourself.  These people are as
likely to pour it into your plate as your glass.'

There was a slim bottle in an ice bucket in front of Bond.  He poured
some of the wine and tasted it.  It was nectar and ice cold.  Bond
congratulated his host.  Goldfinger gave a curt nod.

'I don't myself drink or smoke, Mr Bond.  Smoking I find the most
ridiculous of all the varieties of human behaviour and practically the
only one that is entirely against nature.  Can you imagine a cow or any
animal taking a mouthful of smouldering straw then breathing in the
smoke and blowing it out through its nostrils?  Pah!'  Goldfinger
showed a rare trace of emotion.  'It is a vile practice.  As for
drinking, I am something of a chemist and I have yet to find a liquor
that is free from traces of a number of poisons, some of them deadly,
such as fusel oil, acetic acid, ethylacetate, acetaldehyde and
furfurol.  A quantity of some of these poisons taken neat would kill
you.  In the small amounts you find in a bottle of liquor they produce
various ill effects most of which are lightly written off as "a
hangover".'  Goldfinger paused with a forkful of curried shrimp half
way to his mouth.  'Since you are a drinker, Mr Bond, I will give you
one word of good advice.  Never drink so-called Napoleon brandy,
particularly when it is described as "aged in the wood".  That
particular potion contains more of the poisons I have mentioned than
any other liquor I have analysed.  Old bourbon comes next.'  Goldfinger
closed his animadversions with a mouthful of shrimp.

'Thank you.  I'll remember.  Perhaps for those reasons I have recently
taken to vodka.  They tell me its filtration through activated charcoal
is a help.'  Bond, dredging this piece of expertise out of dim
recollections of something he had read, was rather proud of having been
able to return Goldfinger's powerful serve.

Goldfinger glanced at him sharply.  'You seem to understand something
of these matters.  Have you studied chemistry?'

'Only dabbled in it.'  It was time to move on.  'I was very impressed
by that chauffeur of yours.  Where did he learn that fantastic combat
stuff?  Where did it come from?  Is that what the Koreans use?'

Goldfinger patted his mouth with his napkin.  He snapped his fingers.
The two men cleared away the plates and brought roast duckling and a
bottle of Mouton Rothschild 1947 for Bond.  When they had withdrawn
into immobility at each end of the serving-table, Goldfinger said,
'Have you ever heard of Karate?  No?  Well that man is one of the three
in the world who have achieved the Black Belt in Karate.  Karate is a
branch of judo, but it is to judo what a Spandau is to a catapult.'

'I could see that.'

'The demonstration was an elementary one.  Mr Bond--' Goldfinger held
up the drumstick he had been gnawing--'I can tell you that if Oddjob
had used the appropriate single blow on any one of seven spots on your
body, you would now be dead.'  Goldfinger bit at the side of the
drumstick with relish.

Bond said seriously, 'That's interesting.  I only know five ways of
killing Oddjob with one blow.'

Goldfinger seemed not to hear the comment.  He put down his drumstick
and took a deep draught of water.  He sat back and spoke while Bond
went on eating the excellent food.  'Karate, Mr Bond, is based on the
theory that the human body possesses five striking surfaces and
thirty-seven vulnerable spots--vulnerable, that is, to an expert in
Karate whose finger-tips, the side of the hands and the feet are
hardened into layers of corn, which is far stronger and more flexible
than bone.  Every day of his life, Mr Bond, Oddjob spends one hour
hitting either sacks of unpolished rice or a strong post whose top is
wound many times round with thick rope.  He then spends another hour at
physical training which is more that of a ballet school than of a
gymnasium.'

'When does he practise tossing the bowler hat?'  Bond had no intention
of succumbing to this psychological warfare.

Goldfinger frowned at the interruption.  'I have never inquired,' he
said without humour.  'But I think you can take it that Oddjob keeps
his eye in at all his skills.  However, you were asking where Karate
originated.  It originated in China where wandering Buddhist priests
became an easy prey for footpads and bandits.  Their religion did not
allow them to carry weapons, so they developed their own form of
unarmed combat.  The inhabitants of Okinawa refined the art to its
present form when the Japanese forbade them to carry weapons.  They
developed the five striking surfaces of the human body--the fist, the
edge of the hand, the finger-tips, the ball of the foot and the
elbows--and toughened them until they were enveloped in layers of corn.
There is no follow-through in a Karate blow.  The entire body is
stiffened at the moment of impact, with the emphasis on the hips, and
then instantly relaxed so that balance is never lost.  It is
astonishing what Oddjob can do.  I have seen him hit a brick wall with
his entire force and not hurt his hand.  He can split three half-inch
thick boards, piled one upon the other, with one blow of his hand.  You
have seen what he can do with his foot.'

Bond took a deep draught of the delicious claret.  'All this must be
rather hard on your furniture.'

Goldfinger shrugged.  'I have no more use for this house.  I thought a
demonstration would amuse you.  I hope you agree that Oddjob earned his
cat.'  The X-ray eyes blazed briefly across the table.

'Does he train on cats?'

'He regards them as a great delicacy.  He acquired the taste during a
famine in his country when he was young.'

Bond thought it was time to delve rather more deeply.  'Why do you need
such a man?  He can't be very good company.'

'Mr Bond--' Goldfinger snapped his fingers for the two servants--'it
happens that I am a rich man, a very rich man, and the richer the man
the more he needs protection.  The ordinary bodyguard or detective is
usually a retired policeman.  Such men are valueless.  Their reactions
are slow, their methods old-fashioned, and they are open to bribery.
Moreover, they have a respect for human life.  That is no good if I
wish to stay alive.  The Koreans have no such feelings.  That is why
the Japanese employed them as guards for their prison camps during the
war.  They are the cruellest, most ruthless people in the world.  My
own staff are hand picked for these qualities.  They have served me
well.  I have no complaints.  Nor have they.  They are well paid and
well fed and housed.  When they want women, street women are brought
down from London, well remunerated for their services and sent back.
The women are not much to look at, but they are white and that is all
the Koreans ask--to submit the white race to the grossest indignities.
There are sometimes accidents but--' the pale eyes gazed blankly down
the table--'money is an effective winding-sheet.'

Bond smiled.

'You like the aphorism?  It is my own.'

An excellent cheese souffl came and was followed by coffee.  They ate
in silence, both apparently comfortable and relaxed by these
confidences.  Bond certainly was.  Goldfinger, obviously by design, was
letting his hair down--not far, not farther than his shoulders, but he
was showing Bond one of his private faces, presumably the one to which
he thought Bond would respond--the ruthlessly efficient, cold-blooded
tycoon.  Perhaps, after all, Bond's spying in the house, which
Goldfinger must at least presume, had revealed something about Bond
that Goldfinger was pleased to know--that Bond had a crooked side to
him, that he wasn't 'a gentleman' in more than appearance.  Now there
should be more probing and then, with luck, the proposition would
follow.

Bond sat back and lit a cigarette.  He said, 'That's a beautiful car
you've got.  Must be about the last of the series.  About 1925, wasn't
it--two blocks of three cylinders with two plugs for each cylinder, one
set fired from the mag. and the other from the coil?'

'You are correct.  But in other respects I have had to introduce some
modifications.  I have added five leaves to the springs and fitted disc
brakes to the rear wheels to increase the braking power.  The
Servo-operated front-wheel brakes were not sufficient.'

'Oh.  Why not?  The top speed wouldn't be more than fifty.  The body
can't be all that heavy.'

Goldfinger raised his eyebrows.  'You think not?  One ton of armour
plating and armour-plated glass make a big difference.'

Bond smiled.  'Ah!  I see.  You certainly do take good care of
yourself.  But how does that work flying the Channel?  Doesn't the car
go through the floor of the plane?'

'I take a plane to myself.  The Silver City company knows the car.  It
is a regular routine, twice a year.'

'Just touring round Europe?'

'A golfing holiday.'

'Great fun.  Always wanted to do it myself.'

Goldfinger didn't take the bait.  'You can afford to now.'

Bond smiled.  'Oh, that extra ten thousand dollars.  But I may need
that if I decide to move to Canada.'

'You think you could make money there?  Do you want to make a lot of
money?'

Bond's voice was eager.  'Very much.  There's no other point in
working.'

'Unfortunately most ways of making big money take a long time.  By the
time one has made the money one is too old to enjoy it.'

'That's the trouble.  I'm always on the look-out for short-cuts.  You
won't find them here.  Taxation's too heavy.'

'Quite.  And the laws are strict.'

'Yes.  I found that out.'

'Indeed?'

'Got on the fringe of the heroin racket.  Only just got out without
burning my fingers.  Of course this'll go no further?'

Goldfinger shrugged his shoulders.  'Mr Bond, someone said that "law is
the crystallized prejudices of the community".  I agree with that
definition.  It happens to apply most strongly to the traffic in drugs.
Even if it didn't, I am not concerned with assisting the police.'

'Well, it was like this...'  Bond launched into the story of the
Mexican traffic, swapping roles with Blackwell.  He ended up, 'I was
lucky to get away with it, but it didn't make me particularly popular
with Universal Export.'

'I daresay not.  An interesting story.  You seem to have shown
resource.  You are not tempted to continue in the same line of
business?'

Bond shrugged his shoulders.  'A bit too tricky.  To judge by this
Mexican, the big men in the business aren't quite big enough when it
comes to the pinch.  When things got tough he didn't fight back--except
with his mouth.'

'Well, Mr Bond,' Goldfinger got up from the table and Bond followed
suit.  'It's been an interesting evening.  I don't know that I would go
back into heroin.  There are safer ways of making big money.  You want
to be certain that the odds are right and then you should hazard
everything.  Doubling one's money isn't easy and the chances don't
occur frequently.  You would like to hear another of my aphorisms?'

'Yes.'

'Well, Mr Bond,' Goldfinger gave the rich man's thin smile.  'The
safest way to double your money is fold it twice and put it in your
pocket.'

Bond, the bank clerk harkening to the bank manager, smiled dutifully
but made no comment.  This just wasn't good enough.  He was getting
nowhere.  But instinct told him not to put his foot down on the
accelerator.

They went back into the hall.  Bond held out his hand.  'Well, many
thanks for the excellent dinner.  Time I went and got some sleep.
Perhaps we shall run into each other again some day.'

Goldfinger pressed Bond's hand briefly and pushed it away from him.  It
was another mannerism of the millionaire subconsciously afraid of 'the
touch'.  He looked hard at Bond.  He said enigmatically, 'I shouldn't
be at all surprised, Mr Bond.'

On his way across the Isle of Thanet in the moonlight, Bond turned the
phrase over and over in his mind.  He undressed and got into bed
thinking of it, unable to guess its significance.  It could mean that
Goldfinger intended to get in touch with Bond, or it could mean that
Bond must try and keep in touch with Goldfinger.  Heads the former,
tails the latter.  Bond got out of bed and took a coin from the
dressing-table and tossed it.  It came down tails.  So it was up to him
to keep close to Goldfinger!

So be it.  But his cover would have to be pretty darn good the next
time they 'ran into' each other.  Bond got back into bed and was
instantly asleep.




CHAPTER TWELVE

LONG TAIL ON A GHOST

Punctually at nine the next morning Bond got on to the Chief of Staff:
'James here.  I've had a look at the property.  Been all over it.  Had
dinner last night with the owner.  I can say pretty well for certain
that the managing director's view is right.  Something definitely wrong
about the property.  Not enough facts to send you a surveyor's report.
Owner's going abroad tomorrow, flying from Ferryfield.  Wish I knew his
departure time.  Like to have another sight of his Rolls.  Thought I'd
make him a present of a portable wireless set.  I'll be going over a
bit later in the day.  Could you get Miss Ponsonby to book me?
Destination unknown for the present.  I'll be keeping in touch.
Anything your end?'

'How did the game of golf go?'

'I won.'

There was a chuckle at the other end.  'Thought you had.  Pretty big
stakes, weren't they?'

'How did you know?'

'Had Mr Scotland on last night.  Said he'd had a tip on the telephone
that someone of your name was in possession of a large amount of
undeclared dollars.  Had we got such a person and was it true?  Chap
wasn't very senior and didn't know about Universal.  Told him to have a
word with the Commissioner and we got an apology this morning about the
same time as your secretary found an envelope containing ten thousand
dollars in your mail!  Pretty sly of your man, wasn't it?'

Bond smiled.  Typical of Goldfinger to have thought of a way of getting
him into trouble over the dollars.  Probably made the call to Scotland
Yard directly after the game.  He had wanted to show Bond that if you
gave Goldfinger a knock you'd get at least a thorn in your hand.  But
the Universal Export cover seemed to have stuck.  Bond said, 'That's
pretty hot!  The twister!  You might tell the managing director that
this time it goes to the White Cross.  Can you fix the other things?'

'Of course.  Call you back in a few minutes.  But watch your step
abroad and call us at once if you get bored and need company.  So long.'

''Bye.'  Bond put down the receiver.  He got up and set about packing
his bag.  He could see the scene in the Chief of Staff's office as the
conversation was played back off the tape while the Chief of Staff
translated the call to Miss Moneypenny.  'Says he agrees that
Goldfinger is up to something big but he can't make out what.  G. is
flying this morning with his Rolls from Ferryfield.  007 wants to
follow.  (Let's say two hours later to let G. get well away on the
other side.  Fix the reservation, would you?)  He wants us to have a
word with Customs so that he can take a good look at the Rolls and
plant a Homer in the boot.  (Fix that too, please.)  He'll keep in
touch through stations in case he needs help...'

And so forth.  It was an efficient machine.  Bond finished packing and,
when the London call came giving him his various clearances, he went
downstairs, paid his bill and got quickly out of Ramsgate on to the
Canterbury road.

London had said that Goldfinger was booked on a special flight leaving
at twelve.  Bond got to Ferryfield by eleven, made himself known to the
Chief Passport Control and the Customs officers who were expecting him,
had his car taken out of sight into an empty hangar and sat and smoked
and talked minor shop with the passport men.  They thought he was from
Scotland Yard.  He let them go on thinking it.  No, he said, Goldfinger
was all right.  It was possible that one of his servants was trying to
smuggle something out of the country.  Rather confidential.  If Bond
could just be left alone with the car for ten minutes?  He wanted to
have a look at the tool kit.  Would the Customs give the rest of the
Rolls their Grade A going over for hidden compartments?  They'd be glad
to do so.

At eleven-forty-five one of the Customs men put his head round the
door.  He winked at Bond.  'Coming in now.  Chauffeur on board.  Going
to ask both to board the plane before the car.  Tell them it's
something to do with the weight distribution.  Not so phoney as it
sounds.  We know this old crate.  She's armour-plated.  Weighs about
three tons.  Call you when we're ready.'

'Thanks.'  The room emptied.  Bond took the fragile little parcel out
of his pocket.  It contained a dry-cell battery wired to a small vacuum
tube.  He ran his eye over the wiring and put the apparatus back in his
coat pocket and waited.

At eleven-fifty-five the door opened.  The officer beckoned.  'No
trouble.  They're on the plane.'

The huge gleaming Silver Ghost stood in the Customs bay out of sight of
the plane.  The only other car was a dove-grey Triumph TR3 convertible
with its hood down.  Bond went to the back of the Rolls.  The Customs
men had unscrewed the plate of the spare tool compartment.  Bond pulled
out the tray of tools and made a show of minutely examining them and
the tray.  He knelt down.  Under cover of rummaging at the sides of the
compartment, he slipped the battery and tube into the back of it.  He
replaced the tool tray.  It fitted all right.  He stood up and brushed
his hands together.  'Negative,' he said to the Customs officer.

The officer fitted the plate on and screwed it down with the square
key.  He stood up.  'Nothing funny about the chassis or the bodywork.
Plenty of room in the frame and upholstery but we couldn't get at them
without doing a major job.  All right to go?'

'Yes, and thanks.'  Bond walked back into the office.  He heard the
quick solid whine of the old self-starter.  A minute later, the car
came out of the bay and idled superbly over to the loading ramp.  Bond
stood at the back of the office and watched it being eased up the ramp.
The big jaws of the Bristol Freighter clanged shut.  The chocks were
jerked away and the dispatcher raised a thumb.  The two engines coughed
heavily and fired and the great silver dragonfly trundled off towards
the runway.

When the plane was on the runway, Bond walked round to his car and
climbed into the driver's seat.  He pressed a switch under the dash.
There was a moment's silence, then a loud harsh howl came from the
hidden loud-speaker.  Bond turned a knob.  The howl diminished to a
deep drone.  Bond waited until he heard the Bristol take off.  As the
plane rose and made for the coast the drone diminished.  In five
minutes it had gone.  Bond tuned the set and picked it up again.  He
followed it for five minutes as the plane made off across the Channel
and then switched the set off.  He motored round to the Customs bay,
told the A.A. that he would be back at one-thirty for the two o'clock
flight, and drove slowly off towards a pub he knew in Rye.  From now
on, so long as he kept within about a hundred miles of the Rolls, the
Homer, the rough radio transmitter he had slipped into its tool
compartment, would keep contact with Bond's receiver.  All he had to do
was watch the decibels and not allow the noise to fade.  It was a
simple form of direction finding which allowed one car to put a 'long
tail' on another and keep in touch without any danger of being spotted.
On the other side of the Channel, Bond would have to discover the road
Goldfinger had taken out of Le Touquet, get well within range and close
up near big towns or wherever there was a major fork or crossroads.
Sometimes Bond would make a wrong decision and have to do some fast
motoring to catch up again.  The D.B.III would look after that.  It was
going to be fun playing hare and hounds across Europe.  The sun was
shining out of a clear sky.  Bond felt a moment's sharp thrill down his
spine.  He smiled to himself, a hard, cold, cruel smile.  Goldfinger,
he thought, for the first time in your life you're in trouble--bad
trouble.


There is always an _agent cycliste_ at the dangerous crossroads where
Le Touquet's quiet N38 meets the oily turbulence of the major N1.  Yes,
certainly he had seen the Rolls.  One could not fail to remark it.  A
real aristocrat of a car.  To the right, monsieur, towards Abbeville.
He will be an hour ahead, but with that _bolide_ of yours...!

As soon as Bond had cleared his papers at the airport, the Homer had
picked up the drone of the Rolls.  But it was impossible to tell if
Goldfinger was heading north--for the Low Countries or Austria or
Germany--or if he was off to the south.  For that sort of fix you
needed two radio cars to get a bearing.  Bond raised a hand to the
agent and gave his engine the gun.  He would have to close up fast.
Goldfinger would be through Abbeville and would already have taken the
major fork on to N1 for Paris or N28 for Rouen.  A lot of time and
distance would be wasted if Bond made the wrong guess.

Bond swept along the badly cambered road.  He took no chances but
covered the forty-three kilometres to Abbeville in a quarter of an
hour.  The drone of the Homer was loud.  Goldfinger couldn't be more
than twenty miles ahead.  But which way at the fork?  On a guess Bond
took the Paris road.  He beat the car along.  For a time there was
little change in the voice of the Homer.  Bond could be right or wrong.
Then, imperceptibly, the drone began to fade.  Blast!  Turn back or
press on fast and take one of the secondary roads across to Rouen and
catch up with him there?  Bond hated turning back.  Ten kilometres
short of Beauvais he turned right.  For a time it was bad going but
then he was on to the fast N30 and could afford to drift into Rouen,
led on by the beckoning voice of his pick-up.  He stopped on the
outskirts of the town and listened with one ear while consulting his
Michelin.  By the waxing drone he could tell that he had got ahead of
Goldfinger.  But now there was another vital fork, not quite so easy to
retrieve if Bond guessed wrong again.  Either Goldfinger would take the
Alenon-Le Mans-Tours route to the south, or he meant to move
south-east, missing Paris, by way of Evreux, Chartres and Orleans.
Bond couldn't afford to get closer to the centre of Rouen and perhaps
catch a glimpse of the Rolls and of the way it would take.  He would
have to wait until the Homer went on the wane and then make his own
guess.

It was a quarter of an hour later before Bond could be sure that the
Rolls was well past.  This time he again took the left leg of the fork.
He thrust the pedal into the floor and hurried.  Yes.  This time the
drone was merging into a howl.  Bond was on the track.  He slowed to
forty, tuned down his receiver to a whisper and idled along, wondering
where Goldfinger was heading for.

Five o'clock, six, seven.  The sun set in Bond's driving mirror and
still the Rolls sped on.  They were through Dreux and Chartres and on
to the long straight fifty-mile stretch into Orleans.  If that was to
be the night stop the Rolls wouldn't have done badly at all--over two
hundred and fifty miles in something over six hours.  Goldfinger was
certainly no slouch when it came to motoring.  He must be keeping the
old Silver Ghost at maximum outside the towns.  Bond began to close up.

There were rear-lights ahead--dim ones.  Bond had his fog lights on.
He switched on the Marchals.  It was some little sports car.  Bond
closed up.  M.G.?  Triumph?  Austin Healey?  It was a pale grey Triumph
two-seater with the hood up.  Bond blinked his lights and swept past.
Now there was the glare of another car ahead.  Bond dowsed his
headlamps and drove on the fogs.  The other car was a mile down the
road.  Bond crept up on it.  At a quarter of a mile, he flashed the
Marchals on and off for a quick look.  Yes, it was the Rolls.  Bond
dropped back to a mile and stayed there, vaguely noticing the dim
lights of the TR3 in his mirror.  On the outskirts of Orleans, Bond
pulled into the side of the road.  The Triumph growled casually past.

Bond had never cared for Orleans.  It was a priest and myth ridden town
without charm or gaiety.  It was content to live off Joan of Arc and
give the visitor a hard, holy glare while it took his money.  Bond
consulted his Michelin.  Goldfinger would stop at five-star hotels and
eat fillets of sole and roast chicken.  It would be the Arcades for
him--perhaps the Moderne.  Bond would have liked to stay outside the
town and sleep on the banks of the Loire in the excellent Auberge de la
Montespan, his belly full of _quenelles de brochet_.  He would have to
stick closer to his fox.  He decided on the Htel de la Gare and dinner
at the station buffet.

When in doubt, Bond always chose the station hotels.  They were
adequate, there was plenty of room to park the car and it was better
than even chances that the Buffet de la Gare would be excellent.  And
at the station one could hear the heart-beat of the town.  The
night-sounds of the trains were full of its tragedy and romance.

The drone on the receiver had stayed constant for ten minutes.  Bond
noted his way to the three hotels and cautiously crept into the town.
He went down to the river and along the lighted _quais_.  He had been
right.  The Rolls was outside the Arcades.  Bond turned back into the
town and made for the station.

The Htel de la Gare was all he had expected--cheap, old-fashioned,
solidly comfortable.  Bond had a hot bath, went back to his car to make
sure the Rolls hadn't moved, and walked into the station restaurant and
ate one of his favourite meals--two _oeufs cocotte  la crme_, a large
_sole meunire_ (Orleans was close enough to the sea.  The fish of the
Loire are inclined to be muddy) and an adequate Camembert.  He drank a
well-iced pint of Rose d'Anjou and had a Hennessy's Three Star with his
coffee.  At ten-thirty he left the restaurant, checked on the Rolls and
walked the virtuous streets for an hour.  One more check on the Rolls
and bed.

At six o'clock the next morning the Rolls hadn't moved.  Bond paid his
bill, had a _caf complet_--with a double ration of coffee--at the
station, motored down to the _quais_ and backed his car up a side
street.  This time he could not afford to make a mistake.  Goldfinger
would either cross the river and head south to join N7 for the Riviera,
or he would follow the north bank of the Loire, also perhaps for the
Riviera, but also on the route for Switzerland and Italy.  Bond got out
of the car and lounged against the parapet of the river wall, watching
between the trunks of the plane trees.  At eight-thirty, two small
figures came out of the Arcades.  The Rolls moved off.  Bond watched it
follow the _quais_ until it was out of sight, then he got behind the
wheel of the Aston Martin and set off in pursuit.

Bond motored comfortably along the Loire in the early summer sunshine.
This was one of his favourite corners of the world.  In May, with the
fruit trees burning white and the soft wide river still big with the
winter rains, the valley was green and young and dressed for love.  He
was thinking this when, before Chteauneuf, there was a shrill scream
from twin Bosch horns and the little Triumph tore past.  The hood was
down.  There was the blur of a pretty face hidden by white motoring
goggles with dark blue lenses.  Although Bond only saw the edge of a
profile--a slash of red mouth and the fluttering edge of black hair
under a pink handkerchief with white spots, he knew she was pretty from
the way she held her head.  There was the authority of someone who is
used to being admired, combined with the self-consciousness of a girl
driving alone and passing a man in a smart car.

Bond thought: That _would_ happen today!  The Loire is dressed for just
that--chasing that girl until you run her to ground at lunch-time, the
contact at the empty restaurant by the river, out in the garden under
the vine trellis.  The _friture_ and the ice-cold Vouvray, the cautious
sniffing at each other and then the two cars motoring on in convoy
until that evening, well down to the south, there would be the place
they had agreed on at lunch--olive trees, crickets singing in the
indigo dusk, the discovery that they liked each other and that their
destinations could wait.  Then, next day ('No, not tonight.  I don't
know you well enough, and besides I'm tired') they would leave her car
in the hotel garage and go off in his at a tangent, slowly, knowing
there was no hurry for anything, driving to the west, away from the big
roads.  What was that place he had always wanted to go to, simply
because of the name?  Yes, Entre Deux Seins, a village near Les Baux.
Perhaps there wasn't even an inn there.  Well, then they would go on to
Les Baux itself, at the Bouches du Rhne on the edge of the Camargue.
There they would take adjoining rooms (not a double room, it would be
too early for that) in the fabulous Baumanire, the only
hotel-restaurant in France with Michelin's supreme accolade.  They
would eat the _gratin de langouste_ and perhaps, because it was
traditional on such a night, drink champagne.  And then...

Bond smiled at his story and at the dots that ended it.  Not today.
Today you're working.  Today is for Goldfinger, not for love.  Today
the only scent you may smell is Goldfinger's expensive after-shave
lotion, not ... what would she use?  English girls made mistakes about
scent.  He hoped it would be something slight and clean.  Balmain's
Vent Vert perhaps, or Caron's Muguet.  Bond tuned up his receiver for
reassurance, then hushed it and motored on, relaxed, playing with his
thoughts of the girl, filling in the details.  Of course he might meet
up with her again.  They seemed to be keeping pretty close company.
She must have spent the night in Orleans.  Where?  What a waste.  But
wait a minute!  Suddenly Bond woke up from his day-dreaming.  The open
hood reminded him.  He'd seen that Triumph before.  It had been at
Ferryfield, must have taken the flight after Goldfinger.  It was true
he hadn't seen the girl or noted the registration number, but surely it
was the same.  If so, for her to be still on Goldfinger's tail after
three hundred miles was more than coincidence.  And she had been
driving with dimmed lights the night before!  Here, what's going on?

Bond stepped on the accelerator.  He was approaching Nevers.  He'd
anyway have to close up for the next big turning.  He would kill two
birds with one stone and also see what the girl was up to.  If she was
keeping station somewhere between him and Goldfinger there would have
to be some furious thinking.  And it would be a blasted nuisance.  It
was hard enough keeping up with Goldfinger.  With another tail
sandwiched between them, it would become hellish difficult.

She was still there, perhaps two miles behind the Rolls, keeping well
back.  As soon as he caught sight of her little glittering rump (as he
described it to himself) Bond slowed.  Well, well!  Who _was_ she?
What the hell was all this about?  Bond motored on, his face morose and
thoughtful.

The little convoy kept on, still following the wide black sheen of N7
that runs like a thick, dangerous nerve down through the heart of
France.  But at Moulins Bond nearly lost the scent.  He had to double
back quickly and get on to N73.  Goldfinger had turned at right angles
and was now making for Lyons and Italy, or for Mcon and Geneva.  Bond
had to do some fast motoring and then was only just in time to avoid
running into trouble.  He had not worried much about the pitch of the
Homer.  He had counted on a sight of the Triumph to slow him down.
Suddenly he realized that the drone was becoming a howl.  If he hadn't
braked hard down from the ninety he was doing, he would have been on
top of the Rolls.  As it was, he was barely creeping along when he came
over a rise and saw the big yellow car stopped by the wayside a mile
ahead.  There was a blessed cart-track.  Bond swerved into it and
stopped under cover of standing corn.  He took a small pair of
binoculars out of the glove compartment, got out of the car and walked
back.  Yes, damn it!  Goldfinger was sitting below a small bridge on
the bank of a stream.  He was wearing a white dust coat and white linen
driving helmet in the style of German tourists.  He was eating, having
a picnic.  The sight made Bond hungry.  What about his own lunch?  He
examined the Rolls.  Through the rear window he could see part of the
Korean's black shape in the front seat.  There was no sign of the
Triumph.  If the girl had still been on Goldfinger's tail she would
have had no warning.  She would have just kept her head down and
stepped on the gas.  Now she would be somewhere ahead, waiting in
ambush for the Rolls to come by.  Or would she?  Perhaps Bond's
imagination had run away with him.  She was probably on her way to the
Italian lakes to join an aunt, some friends, a lover.

Now Goldfinger was on his feet.  Tidy man.  That's right, pick up the
scraps of paper and tuck them away carefully under the bridge.  Why not
throw them in the stream?  Suddenly Bond's jaws tightened.  What did
those actions of Goldfinger remind him of?  Was Bond romancing again,
or was the bridge a post box?  Had Goldfinger been instructed to leave
something, one of his bars of gold, under this particular bridge?
France, Switzerland, Italy.  It was convenient for all of them--the
Communist cell in Lyons for instance, one of the strongest in France.
And this was a good place to use with a clear field of view up and down
the road.

Goldfinger scrambled up the bank.  Bond drew back under cover.  He
heard the distant grind of the old self-starter.  He cautiously watched
the Rolls until it had disappeared.

It was a pretty bridge over a pretty stream.  It had a survey number
set in the arch--79/6--the sixth bridge from some town on N79.  Easy to
find.  Bond got quickly out of the car and slid down the shallow bank.
It was dark and cool under the arch.  There were the shadows of fish in
the slow, clear, pebbled water.  Bond searched the edge of the masonry
near the grass verge.  Exactly in the centre, below the road, there was
a patch of thick grass against the wall.  Bond parted the grass.  There
was a sprinkling of freshly turned earth.  Bond dug with his fingers.

There was only one.  It was smooth to the touch and brick-shaped.  It
needed some strength to lift it.  Bond brushed the earth off the dull
yellow metal and wrapped the heavy bar in his handkerchief.  He held
the bar under his coat and climbed back up the bank on to the empty
road.




CHAPTER THIRTEEN

'IF YOU TOUCH ME THERE...'

Bond felt pleased with himself.  A whole lot of people were going to
get very angry with Goldfinger.  You can do a lot of dirty work with
twenty thousand pounds.  Now plans would have to be altered,
conspiracies postponed, perhaps even lives saved.  And, if it ever got
to an inquiry by SMERSH, which was unlikely as they were the sort of
realistic people who cut their losses, it could only be assumed that
some sheltering tramp had found the gold bar.

Bond lifted the secret flap under the passenger seat and slipped the
bar inside.  Dangerous stuff.  He would have to contact the next
station of the Service and hand it over to them.  They would get it
back to London in the Embassy bag.  Bond would have to report this
quickly.  It confirmed a lot.  M might even want to warn the Deuxime
and have the bridge watched to see who came.  But Bond hoped that would
not happen.  He didn't want a scare started just when he was getting
closer to Goldfinger.  He wanted the skies over Goldfinger to be blue
and clear.

Bond got moving.  Now there were other things to think about.  He must
catch up with the Rolls before Mcon and get the next fork, to Geneva
or Lyons, right.  He must solve the problem of the girl and if possible
get her off the road.  Pretty or not, she was confusing the issue.  And
he must stop and buy himself something to eat and drink.  It was one
o'clock and the sight of Goldfinger eating had made him hungry.  And it
was time to fill up and check the water and oil.

The drone of the Homer grew louder.  He was in the outskirts of Mcon.
He must close up and take the risk of being spotted.  The busy traffic
would hide his low-slung car.  It was vital to know if the Rolls
crossed the Sane for the Bourg road or if it turned right at the
bridge and joined the N6 for Lyons.  Far down the Rue Rambuteau there
was a glimpse of yellow.  Over the railway bridge and through the
little square.  The high yellow box kept on towards the river.  Bond
watched the passers-by turn their heads to follow the gleaming Rolls.
The river.  Would Goldfinger turn right or keep on across the bridge?
The Rolls kept straight on.  So it was Switzerland!  Bond followed over
into the suburb of St Laurent.  Now for a butcher and a baker and a
wine shop.  A hundred yards ahead the golden head of a calf hung over
the pavement.  Bond glanced in his driving mirror.  Well, well!  The
little Triumph was only feet away from his tail.  How long had she been
there?  Bond had been so intent on following the Rolls that he hadn't
glanced back since entering the town.  She must have been hiding up a
side street.  So!  Now coincidence was certainly out.  Something must
be done.  Sorry, sweetheart.  I've got to mess you up.  I'll be as
gentle as I can.  Hold tight.  Bond stopped abruptly in front of the
butcher's shop.  He banged the gears into reverse.  There was a
sickening scrunch and tinkle.  Bond switched off his engine and got out.

He walked round to the back of the car.  The girl, her face tense with
anger, had one beautiful silken leg on the road.  There was an
indiscreet glimpse of white thigh.  The girl stripped off her goggles
and stood, legs braced and arms akimbo.  The beautiful mouth was taut
with anger.

The Aston Martin's rear bumper was locked into the wreckage of the
Triumph's lamps and radiator grille.  Bond said amiably, 'If you touch
me there again you'll have to marry me.'

The words were hardly out of his mouth before the open palm cracked
across his face.  Bond put up a hand and rubbed his cheek.  Now there
was quite a crowd.  There was a murmur of approval and ribaldry.
'Allez y la gosse!  Maintenant le knock-out!'

The girl's rage had not dissipated with the blow.  'You bloody fool!
What the hell do you think you're doing?'

Bond thought: If only pretty girls were always angry they would be
beautiful.  He said, 'Your brakes can't be up to much.'

'_My_ brakes!  What the hell do you mean?  You reversed into me.'

'Gears slipped.  I didn't know you were so close.'  It was time to calm
her down.  'I'm most frightfully sorry.  I'll pay for all the repairs
and everything.  It really is bad luck.  Let's see what the damage is.
Try and back away.  Doesn't look as if our bumpers have over-ridden.'
Bond put a foot on the Triumph's bumpers and rocked.

'Don't you dare touch my car!  Leave it alone.'  Angrily the girl
climbed back into the driver's seat.  She pressed the self-starter.
The engine fired.  Metal clanged under the bonnet.  She switched off
and leant out.  'There you are, you idiot!  You've smashed the fan.'

Bond had hoped he had.  He got into his own car and eased it away from
the Triumph.  Bits of the Triumph, released by Bond's bumper, tinkled
on to the road.  He got out again.  The crowd had thinned.  There was a
man in a mechanic's overalls.  He volunteered to call a breakdown van
and went off to do so.  Bond walked over to the Triumph.  The girl had
got out and was waiting for him.  Her expression had changed.  Now she
was more composed.  Bond noticed that her eyes, which were dark blue,
watched his face carefully.

Bond said, 'It really won't be too bad.  Probably knocked the fan out
of alignment.  They'll put temporary headlamps in the sockets and
straighten up the chrome.  You'll be off again by tomorrow morning.
Now,' Bond reached into his pocket for his notecase, 'this is maddening
for you and I'll certainly take all the blame.  Here's a hundred
thousand francs to cover the damage and your expenses for the night and
telephoning your friends and so on.  Please take it and call it quits.
I'd love to stay here and see you get on the road all right tomorrow
morning.  But I've got an appointment this evening and I've simply got
to make it.'

'No.'  The one word was cool, definite.  The girl put her hands behind
her back and waited.

'But...'  What was it she wanted, the police?  Have him charged with
dangerous driving?

'I've got an appointment this evening too.  I've got to make it.  I've
got to get to Geneva.  Will you please take me there?  It's not far.
Only about a hundred miles.  We could do it in two hours in that.'  She
gestured at the D.B.III.  'Will you?  Please?'

There was a desperate urgency in the voice.  No cajolery, no threats,
only a blazing need.

For the first time Bond examined her as more than a pretty girl who
perhaps--they were the only explanations Bond had found to fit the
facts--wanted to be picked up by Goldfinger or had a blackmail on him.
But she didn't look capable of either of these things.  There was too
much character in the face, too much candour.  And she wasn't wearing
the uniform of a seductress.  She wore a white, rather masculine cut,
heavy silk shirt.  It was open at the neck, but it would button up to a
narrow military collar.  The shirt had long wide sleeves gathered at
the wrists.  The girl's nails were unpainted and her only piece of
jewellery was a gold ring on her engagement finger (true or false?).
She wore a very wide black stitched leather belt with double brass
buckles.  It rose at the back to give some of the support of a racing
driver's corset belt.  Her short skirt was charcoal-grey and pleated.
Her shoes were expensive-looking black sandals which would be
comfortable and cool for driving.  The only touch of colour was the
pink handkerchief which she had taken off her head and now held by her
side with the white goggles.  It all looked very attractive.  But the
get-up reminded Bond more of an equipment than a young girl's dress.
There was something faintly mannish and open-air about the whole of her
behaviour and appearance.  She might, thought Bond, be a member of the
English women's ski team, or spend a lot of her time in England hunting
or show-jumping.

Although she was a very beautiful girl she was the kind who leaves her
beauty alone.  She had made no attempt to pat her hair into place.  As
a result, it looked as a girl's hair should look--untidy, with bits
that strayed and a rather crooked parting.  It provided the contrast of
an uneven, jagged dark frame for the pale symmetry of the face, the
main features of which were blue eyes under dark brows, a desirable
mouth, and an air of determination and independence that came from the
high cheek-bones and the fine line of the jaw.  There was the same air
of self-reliance in her figure.  She held her body proudly--her fine
breasts out-thrown and unashamed under the taut silk.  Her stance, with
feet slightly parted and hands behind her back, was a mixture of
provocation and challenge.

The whole picture seemed to say, 'Now then, you handsome bastard, don't
think you can "little woman" me.  You've got me into this mess and, by
God, you're going to get me out!  You may be attractive, but I've got
my life to run, and I know where I'm going.'

Bond weighed her request.  How much of a nuisance would she be?  How
soon could he get rid of her and get on with his business?  Was there
any security risk?  Against the disadvantages, there was his curiosity
about her and what she was up to, the memory of the fable he had spun
round her and which had now taken its first step towards realization,
and, finally, the damsel-in-distress business--any woman's appeal for
help.

Bond said curtly, 'I'll be glad to take you to Geneva.  Now then,' he
opened up the back of the Aston Martin, 'let's get your things in.
While I fix up about the garage here's some money.  Please buy us
lunch--anything you like for yourself.  For me, six inches of Lyon
sausage, a loaf of bread, butter, and half a litre of Mcon with the
cork pulled.'

Their eyes met and exchanged a flurry of masculine/feminine
master/slave signals.  The girl took the money.  'Thank you.  I'll get
the same things for myself.'  She went to the boot of the Triumph and
unlocked it.  'No, don't bother.  I can manage these.'  She hauled out
a bag of golf clubs with the cover zipped shut and a small,
expensive-looking suitcase.  She brought them over to the Aston Martin
and, rejecting Bond's offer of help, fitted them in alongside Bond's
suitcase.  She watched him lock the back of the car and went back to
the Triumph.  She took out a wide, black-stitched leather shoulder bag.

Bond said, 'What name and address shall I give?'

'What?'

Bond repeated his question, wondering if she would lie about the name
or the address, or both.

She said, 'I shall be moving about.  Better say the Bergues at Geneva.
The name's Soames.  Miss Tilly Soames.'  There was no hesitation.  She
went into the butcher's shop.

A quarter of an hour later they were on their way.

The girl sat upright and kept her eyes on the road.  The drone on the
Homer was faint.  The Rolls must have gained fifty miles.  Bond
hurried.  They flashed through Bourg and over the river at Pont d'Ain.
Now they were in the foothills of the Jura and there were the S-bends
of N84.  Bond went at them as if he was competing in the Alpine Trials.
After the girl had swayed against him twice she kept her hand on the
handle on the dash and rode with the car as if she were his spare
driver.  Once, after a particularly sharp dry skid that almost took
them over the side, Bond glanced at her profile.  Her lips were parted
and her nostrils slightly flared.  The eyes were alight.  She was
enjoying herself.

They came to the top of the pass and there was the run down towards the
Swiss frontier.  Now the Homer was sending out a steady howl.  Bond
thought, I must take it easy or we shall be running into them at the
Customs.  He put his hand under the dash and tuned the noise down.  He
pulled in to the side of the road.  They sat in the car and ate a
polite but almost silent picnic, neither making any attempt at
conversation, both, it seemed, with other things on their minds.  After
ten minutes, Bond got going again.  He sat relaxed, motoring easily
down the curving road through the young whispering pines.

The girl said, 'What's that noise?'

'Magneto whine.  Gets worse when I hurry.  Started at Orleans.  Have to
get it fixed tonight.'

She seemed satisfied with this mumbo-jumbo.  She said diffidently,
'Where are you heading for?  I hope I haven't taken you very far out of
your way.'

Bond said in a friendly voice, 'Not at all.  As a matter of fact, I'm
going to Geneva too.  But I may not stop there tonight.  May have to
get on.  Depends on my meeting.  How long will you be there?'

'I don't know.  I'm playing golf.  There's the Swiss Women's Open
Championship at Divonne.  I'm not really that class, but I thought it
would be good for me to try.  Then I was going to play on some of the
other courses.'

Fair enough.  No reason why it shouldn't be true.  But Bond was certain
it wasn't the whole truth.  He said, 'Do you play a lot of golf?
What's your home course?'

'Quite a lot.  Temple.'

It had been an obvious question.  Was the answer true, or just the
first golf course she had thought of?  'Do you live near there?'

'I've got an aunt who lives at Henley.  What are you doing in
Switzerland.  Holiday?'

'Business.  Import and Export.'

'Oh.'

Bond smiled to himself.  It was a stage conversation.  The voices were
polite stage voices.  He could see the scene, beloved of the English
theatre--the drawing-room, sunshine on hollyhocks outside french
windows, the couple sitting on the sofa, on the edge of it, she pouring
out the tea.  'Do you take sugar?'

They came out into the foothills.  There was a long straight stretch of
road and in the distance the small group of buildings of the French
Customs.

The girl gave him no chance to get a glimpse of her passport.  As soon
as the car stopped she said something about tidying up and disappeared
into the 'Dames'.  Bond had gone through the Controle and was dealing
with the triptyque when she reappeared, her passport stamped.  At the
Swiss Customs she chose the excuse of getting something out of her
suitcase.  Bond hadn't got time to hang about and call her bluff.

Bond hurried on into Geneva and pulled up at the imposing entrance of
the Bergues.  The _baggagiste_ took her suitcase and golf clubs.  They
stood together on the steps.  She held out her hand.  'Goodbye.'  There
was no melting of the candid blue eyes.  'And thank you.  You drive
beautifully.'  Her mouth smiled.  'I'm surprised you got into the wrong
gear at Mcon.'

Bond shrugged.  'It doesn't often happen.  I'm glad I did.  If I can
get my business finished, perhaps we could meet again.'

'That would be nice.'  The tone of voice said it wouldn't be.  The girl
turned and went in through the swing-doors.

Bond ran down to his car.  To hell with her!  Now to pick up
Goldfinger.  Then to the little office on the Quai Wilson.  He tuned
the Homer and waited a couple of minutes.  Goldfinger was close, but
moving away.  He could either be following the right or the left bank
of the lake.  From the pitch of the Homer, he was at least a mile
outside the town.  Which way?  To the left towards Lausanne?  To the
right towards Evian?  The D.B.III was already on the left-hand road.
Bond decided to follow its nose.  He got moving.

Bond caught up with the high yellow silhouette just before Coppet, the
tiny lakeside hamlet made famous by Madame de Stal.  He hid behind a
lorry.  At his next reconnaissance the Rolls had disappeared.  Bond
motored on, watching to the left.  At the entrance to the village, big
solid iron gates were closing in a high wall.  Dust hung in the air.
Above the wall was a modest placard.  It said, in faded yellow on blue,
ENTREPRISES AURIC A.G.  The fox had gone to earth!

Bond went on until he found a turning to the left.  He followed this
until there was a lane which led back through the vineyards to the
woods behind Coppet and to the chateau of Madame de Stal.  Bond
stopped among the trees.  Now he should be directly above the
Entreprises Auric.  He took his binoculars, got out and followed a
foot-path down towards the village.  Soon, on his right, was a spiked
iron railing.  There was rolled barbed wire along its top.  A hundred
yards lower down the hill the railing merged into a high stone wall.
Bond walked slowly back up the path looking for the secret entrance the
children of Coppet would have made to get at the chestnut trees.  He
found it--two bars of the railing widened to allow a small body
through.  Bond stood on the lower railing with all his weight, widened
the gap by another couple of inches and wormed his way through.

Bond walked warily through the trees, watching each step for dead
branches.  The trees thinned.  There were glimpses of a huddle of low
buildings behind a small _manoir_.  Bond picked the thick trunk of a
fir tree and got behind it.  Now he was looking down on the buildings.
The nearest was about a hundred yards away.  There was an open
courtyard.  In the middle of the courtyard stood the dusty Silver Ghost.

Bond took out the binoculars and examined everything minutely.

The house was a well-proportioned square block of old red brick with a
slate roof.  It consisted of two storeys and an attic floor.  It would
probably contain four bedrooms and two principal rooms.  The walls were
partly covered by a very old wistaria in full bloom.  It was an
attractive house.  In his mind's eye Bond could see the white-painted
panelling inside.  He smelled the sweet musty sunshiny smell of the
rooms.  The back door gave on to the wide paved courtyard in which
stood the Rolls.  The courtyard was open on Bond's side but closed on
the other two sides by single-storey corrugated iron workshops.  A tall
zinc chimney rose from the angle of the two workshops.  The chimney was
topped by a zinc cowl.  On top of the zinc cowl was the revolving
square mouth of what looked to Bond like a Decca Navigator--the radar
scanner you see on the bridges of most ships.  The apparatus whirled
steadily round.  Bond couldn't imagine what purpose it served on the
roof of this little factory among the trees.

Suddenly the silence and immobility of the peaceful scene were broken.
It was as if Bond had put a penny in the slot of a diorama on Brighton
pier.  Somewhere a tinny clock struck five.  At the signal, the back
door of the house opened and Goldfinger came out, still dressed in his
white linen motoring coat, but without the helmet.  He was followed by
a nondescript, obsequious little man with a tooth-brush moustache and
horn-rimmed spectacles.  Goldfinger looked pleased.  He went up to the
Rolls and patted its bonnet.  The other man laughed politely.  He took
a whistle out of his waistcoat pocket and blew it.  A door in the
right-hand workshop opened and four workmen in blue overalls filed out
and walked over to the car.  From the open door they had left there
came a whirring noise and a heavy engine started up and settled into
the rhythmic pant Bond remembered from Reculver.

The four men disposed themselves round the car.  At a word from the
little man, who was presumably the foreman, they began to take the car
to pieces.

By the time they had lifted the four doors off their hinges, removed
the bonnet cover from the engine and had set about the rivets on one of
the mudguards, it was clear that they were methodically stripping the
car of its armour plating.

Almost as soon as Bond had come to this conclusion, the black,
bowler-hatted figure of Oddjob appeared at the back door of the house
and made some sort of a noise at Goldfinger.  With a word to the
foreman, Goldfinger went indoors and left the workmen to it.

It was time for Bond to get going.  He took a last careful look round
to fix the geography in his mind and edged back among the trees.


'I am from Universal Export.'

'Oh yes?'  Behind the desk there was a reproduction of the Annigoni
portrait of the Queen.  On the other walls were advertisements for
Ferguson tractors and other agricultural machinery.  From outside the
wide window came the hum of traffic along the Quai Wilson.  A steamer
hooted.  Bond glanced out of the window and watched it ride across the
middle distance.  It left an enchanted wake across the flawless evening
mirror of the lake.  Bond looked back into the politely inquiring eyes
in the bland, neutral, businessman's face.

'We were hoping to do business with you.'

'What sort of business?'

'Important business.'

The man's face broke into a smile.  He said cheerfully, 'It's 007,
isn't it?  Thought I recognized you.  Well now, what can I do for you?'
The voice became cautious.  'Only one thing, better make it quick and
get along.  There's been the hell of a heat on since the Dumont
business.  They've got me taped--the locals and Redland.  All very
peaceful of course, but you won't want them sniffing round you.'

'I thought it might be like that.  It's only routine.  Here,' Bond
unbuttoned his shirt and took out the heavy chunk of gold.  'Get that
back, would you?  And transmit this when you have a chance.'  The man
pulled a pad towards him and wrote in shorthand to Bond's dictation.

When the man had finished he put the pad in his pocket.  'Well, well!
Pretty hot stuff.  Wilco.  My routine's at midnight.  This'--he
indicated the gold--'can go to Berne for the bag.  Anything else?'

'Ever heard of the "Entreprises Auric" at Coppet?  Know what they do?'

'I know what every engineering business in the area does.  Have to.
Tried to sell them some hand riveters last year.  They make metal
furniture.  Pretty good stuff.  The Swiss railways take some of it, and
the airlines.'

'Know which airlines?'

The man shrugged.  'I heard they did all the work for Mecca, the big
charter line to India.  Their terminus is Geneva.  They're quite a big
competitor with All-India.  Mecca's privately owned.  Matter of fact, I
did hear that Auric & Co. had some money in it.  No wonder they've got
the contract for the seating.

A slow, grim smile spread across Bond's face.  He got up and held out
his hand.  'You don't know it, but you've just done a whole jigsaw
puzzle in under a minute.  Many thanks.  Best of luck with the tractor
business.  Hope we'll meet again one day.'

Out in the street, Bond got quickly into his car and drove along the
_quai_ to the Bergues.  So that was the picture!  For two days he'd
been trailing a Silver Ghost across Europe.  It was an armour-plated
Silver Ghost.  He'd watched the last bit of plating being riveted on in
Kent, and the whole lot being stripped off at Coppet.  Those sheets
would already be in the furnaces at Coppet, ready to be modelled into
seventy chairs for a Mecca Constellation.  In a few days' time those
chairs would be stripped off the plane in India and replaced with
aluminium ones.  And Goldfinger would have made what?  Half a million
pounds?  A million?

For the Silver Ghost wasn't silver at all.  It was a Golden Ghost--all
the two tons of its bodywork.  Solid, eighteen-carat, white gold.




CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THINGS THAT GO THUMP IN THE NIGHT

James booked in at the Htel des Bergues, took a bath and shower and
changed his clothes.  He weighed the Walther PPK in his hand and
wondered whether he should take it or leave it behind.  He decided to
leave it.  He had no intention of being seen when he went back to the
Entreprises Auric.  If, by dreadful luck, he was seen, it would spoil
everything to get into a fight.  He had his story, a poor one, but at
least one that would not break his cover.  He would have to rely on
that.  But Bond did choose a particular pair of shoes that were rather
heavier than one could expect from their casual build.

At the desk he asked if Miss Soames was in.  He was not surprised when
the receptionist said they had no Miss Soames staying in the hotel.
The only question was whether she had left the hotel when Bond was out
of sight or had registered under another name.

Bond motored across the beautiful Pont du Mont Blanc and along the
brightly lit _quai_ to the Bavaria, a modest Alsatian brasserie that
had been the rendezvous of the great in the days of the League of
Nations.  He sat by the window and drank Enzian washed down with pale
Lwenbrau.  He thought first about Goldfinger.  There was now no doubt
what he was up to.  He financed a spy network, probably SMERSH, and he
made fortunes smuggling gold to India, the country where he could get
the biggest premium.  After the loss of his Brixham trawler, he had
thought out this new way.  He first made it known that he had an
armoured car.  That would only be considered eccentric.  Many English
bodybuilders exported them.  They used to go to Indian rajahs; now they
went to oil sheiks and South American presidents.  Goldfinger had
chosen a Silver Ghost because, with his modifications, the chassis was
strong enough, the riveting was already a feature of the bodywork, and
there was the largest possible area of metal sheeting.  Perhaps
Goldfinger had run it abroad once or twice to get Ferryfield used to
it.  Then, on the next trip, he took off the armour plating in his
works at Reculver.  He substituted eighteen-carat white gold.  Its
alloy of nickel and silver would be strong enough.  The colour of the
metal would not betray him if he got in a smash or if the bodywork were
scratched.  Then off to Switzerland and to the little factory.  The
workmen would have been as carefully picked as the ones at Reculver.
They would take off the plates and mould them into aircraft seats which
would then be upholstered and installed in Mecca Airlines--run
presumably by some stooge of Goldfinger's who got a cut on each 'gold
run'.  On these runs--once, twice, three times a year?--the plane would
accept only light freight and a few passengers.  At Bombay or Calcutta
the plane would need an overhaul, be re-equipped.  It would go to the
Mecca hangar and have new seats fitted.  The old ones, the gold ones,
would go to the bullion brokers.  Goldfinger would get his sterling
credit in Nassau or wherever he chose.  He would have made his hundred,
or two hundred, per cent profit and could start the cycle all over
again, from the 'We Buy Old Gold' shops in Britain to
Reculver--Geneva--Bombay.

Yes, thought Bond, gazing out across the glistening, starlit lake,
that's how it would be--a top-notch smuggling circuit with a minimum
risk and maximum profit.  How Goldfinger must smile as he pressed the
bulb of the old boa-constrictor horn and swept past the admiring
policemen of three countries!  He certainly seemed to have the
answer--the philosopher's stone, the finger of gold!  If he hadn't been
such an unpleasant man, if he wasn't doing all this to sustain the
trigger finger of SMERSH, Bond would have felt admiration for this
monumental trickster whose operations were so big that they worried
even the Bank of England.  As it was, Bond only wanted to destroy
Goldfinger, seize his gold, get him behind bars.  Goldfinger's
gold-lust was too strong, too ruthless, too dangerous to be allowed the
run of the world.

It was eight o'clock.  The Enzian, the firewater distilled from gentian
that is responsible for Switzerland's chronic alcoholism, was beginning
to warm Bond's stomach and melt his tensions.  He ordered another
double and with it a choucroute and a carafe of Fondant.

And what about the girl, this pretty, authoritarian joker that had
suddenly been faced in the deal?  What in hell was she about?  What
about this golf story?  Bond got up and went to the telephone booth at
the back of the room.  He got on to the _Journal de Genve_ and through
to the sports editor.  The man was helpful, but surprised at Bond's
question.  No.  The various championships were of course played in the
summer when the other national programmes were finished and it was
possible to lure a good foreign entry to Switzerland.  It was the same
with all other European countries.  They liked to bring in as many
British and American players as possible.  It increased the gates.
'Pas de quoi, monsieur.'

Bond went back to his table and ate his dinner.  So much for that.
Whoever she was, she was an amateur.  No professional would use a cover
that could be broken down by one telephone call.  It had been in the
back of Bond's mind--reluctantly, because he liked the girl and was
excited by her--that she could, she just could have been an agent of
SMERSH sent to keep an eye on Goldfinger, or Bond or both.  She had
some of the qualities of a secret agent, the independence, the strength
of character, the ability to walk alone.  But that idea was out.  She
hadn't got the training.

Bond ordered a slice of gruyre, pumpernickel and coffee.  No, she was
an enigma.  Bond only prayed that she hadn't got some private plot
involving either him or Goldfinger that was going to mess up his own
operation.

And his own job was so nearly finished!  All he needed was the evidence
of his own eyes that the story he had woven round Goldfinger and the
Rolls was the truth.  One look into the works at Coppet--one grain of
white gold dust--and he could be off to Berne that very night and be on
to the duty officer over the Embassy scrambler.  Then, quietly,
discreetly, the Bank of England would freeze Goldfinger's accounts all
over the world and perhaps, already tomorrow, the Special Branch of the
Swiss police would be knocking on the door of Entreprises Auric.
Extradition would follow, Goldfinger would go to Brixton, there would
be a quiet, rather complicated case in one of the smuggling courts like
Maidstone or Lewes.  Goldfinger would get a few years, his
naturalization would be revoked and his gold hoard, illegally exported,
would trickle back into the vaults below the Bank of England.  And
SMERSH would gnash its blood-stained teeth and add another page to
Bond's bulging zapiska.

Time to go for the last lap.  Bond paid his bill and went out and got
into his car.  He crossed the Rhne and motored slowly along the
glittering _quai_ through the evening traffic.  It was an average night
for his purpose.  There was a blazing three-quarter moon to see by, but
not a breath of wind to hide his approach through the woods to the
factory.  Well, there was no hurry.  They would probably be working
through the night.  He would have to take it very easily and carefully.
The geography of the place and the route he had plotted for himself ran
before Bond's eyes like a film while the automatic pilot that is in all
good drivers took the car along the wide white highway beside the
sleeping lake.

Bond followed his route of the afternoon.  When he had turned off the
main road he drove on his sidelights.  He nosed the car off the lane
into a clearing in the woods and switched off the engine.  He sat and
listened.  In the heavy silence there was only a soft ticking from the
hot metal under the bonnet and the hasty trip of the dashboard clock.
Bond got out, eased the door shut and walked softly down the little
path through the trees.

Now he could hear the soft heavy pant of the generator engine ...
thumpah ... thumpah ... thumpah.  It seemed a watchful, rather
threatening noise.  Bond reached the gap in the iron bars, slipped
through and stood, straining his senses forward through the
moon-dappled trees.

THUMPAH ... THUMPAH ... THUMPAH.  The great iron puffs were on top of
him, inside his brain.  Bond felt the skin-crawling tickle at the groin
that dates from one's first game of hide and seek in the dark.  He
smiled to himself at the animal danger signal.  What primeval chord had
been struck by this innocent engine noise coming out of the tall zinc
chimney?  The breath of a dinosaur in its cave?  Bond tightened his
muscles and crept forward foot by foot, moving small branches carefully
out of his way, placing each step as cautiously as if he was going
through a minefield.

The trees were thinning.  Soon he would be up with the big sheltering
trunk he had used before.  He looked for it and then stood frozen, his
pulse racing.  Below the trunk of his tree, spreadeagled on the ground,
was a body.

Bond opened his mouth wide and breathed slowly in and out to release
the tension.  Softly he wiped his sweating palms down his trousers.  He
dropped slowly to his hands and knees and stared forward, his eyes
widened like camera lenses.

The body under the tree moved, shifted cautiously to a new position.  A
breath of wind whispered in the tops of the trees.  The moonbeams
danced quickly across the body and then were still.  There was a
glimpse of thick black hair, black sweater, narrow black slacks.  And
something else--a straight gleam of metal along the ground.  It began
beneath the clump of black hair and ran past the trunk of the trees
into the grass.

Bond slowly, wearily bent his head and looked at the ground between his
spread hands.  It was the girl, Tilly.  She was watching the buildings
below.  She had a rifle--a rifle that must have been among the innocent
golf clubs-- ready to fire on them.  Damn and blast the silly bitch!

Bond slowly relaxed.  It didn't matter who she was or what she was up
to.  He measured the distance, planned each stride--the trajectory of
the final spring, left hand to her neck, right to the gun.  Now!

Bond's chest skidded over the hump of the buttocks and thudded into the
small of the girl's back.  The impact emptied the breath out of her
with a soft grunt.  The fingers of Bond's left hand flew to the throat
and found the carotid artery.  His right hand was on the waist of the
rifle's stock.  He prised the fingers away, felt that the safety catch
was on and reached the rifle far to one side.

Bond eased the weight of his chest off the girl's back and moved his
fingers away from her neck.  He closed them softly over her mouth.
Beneath him, he felt the body heave, the lungs labouring for breath.
She was still out.  Carefully Bond gathered the two hands behind the
girl's back and held them with his right.  Beneath him the buttocks
began to squirm.  The legs jerked.  Bond pinned the legs to the ground
with his stomach and thighs, noting the strong muscles bunched under
him.  Now the breath was rasping through his fingers.  Teeth gnawed at
his hand.  Bond inched carefully forwards along the girl.  He got his
mouth through her hair to her ear.  He whispered urgently, 'Tilly, for
Christ's sake.  Stay still!  This is me, Bond.  I'm a friend.  This is
vital.  Something you don't know about.  Will you stay still and
listen?'

The teeth stopped reaching for his fingers.  The body relaxed and lay
soft under his.  After a time, the head nodded once.

Bond slid off her.  He lay beside her, still holding her hands prisoned
behind her back.  He whispered, 'Get your breath.  But tell me, were
you after Goldfinger?'

The pale face glanced sideways and away.  The girl whispered fiercely
into the ground, 'I was going to kill him.'

Some girl Goldfinger had put in the family way.  Bond let go her hands.
She brought them up and rested her head on them.  Her whole body
shuddered with exhaustion and released nerves.  The shoulders began to
shake softly.  Bond reached out a hand and smoothed her hair, quietly,
rhythmically.  His eyes carefully went over the peaceful, unchanged
scene below.  Unchanged?  There was something.  The radar thing on the
cowl of the chimney.  It wasn't going round any more.  It had stopped
with its oblong mouth pointing in their direction.  The fact had no
significance for Bond.  Now the girl wasn't crying any more.  Bond
nuzzled his mouth close to her ear.  Her hair smelled of jasmine.  He
whispered, 'Don't worry.  I'm after him too.  And I'm going to damage
him far worse than you could have done.  I've been sent after him by
London.  They want him.  What did he do to you?'

She whispered, almost to herself, 'He killed my sister.  You knew
her--Jill Masterton.'

Bond said fiercely, 'What happened?'

'He has a woman once a month.  Jill told me this when she first took
the job.  He hypnotizes them.  Then he--he paints them gold.'

'Christ!  Why?'

'I don't know.  Jill told me he's mad about gold.  I suppose he sort of
thinks he's--that he's sort of possessing gold.  You know--marrying it.
He gets some Korean servant to paint them.  The man has to leave their
backbones unpainted.  Jill couldn't explain that.  I found out it's so
they wouldn't die.  If their bodies were completely covered with gold
paint, the pores of the skin wouldn't be able to breathe.  Then they'd
die.  Afterwards, they're washed down by the Korean with resin or
something.  Goldfinger gives them a thousand dollars and sends them
away.'

Bond saw the dreadful Oddjob with his pot of gold paint, Goldfinger's
eyes gloating over the glistening statue, the fierce possession.  'What
happened to Jill?'

'She cabled me to come.  She was in an emergency ward in a hospital in
Miami.  Goldfinger had thrown her out.  She was dying.  The doctors
didn't know what was the matter.  She told me what had happened to
her--what he had done to her.  She died the same night.'  The girl's
voice was dry--matter of fact.  'When I got back to England I went to
Train, the skin specialist.  He told me this business about the pores
of the skin.  It had happened to some cabaret girl who had to pose as a
silver statue.  He showed me details of the case and the autopsy.  Then
I knew what had happened to Jill.  Goldfinger had had her painted all
over.  He had murdered her.  It must have been out of revenge for--for
going with you.'  There was a pause.  The girl said dully, 'She told me
about you.  She--she liked you.  She told me if ever I met you I was to
give you this ring.'

Bond closed his eyes tight, fighting with a wave of mental nausea.
More death!  More blood on his hands.  This time, as the result of a
careless gesture, a piece of bravado that had led to twenty-four hours
of ecstasy with a beautiful girl who had taken his fancy and, in the
end, rather more than his fancy.  And this petty sideswipe at
Goldfinger's ego had been returned by Goldfinger a thousand, a
millionfold.  'She left my employ'--the flat words in the sunshine at
Sandwich two days before.  How Goldfinger must have enjoyed saying
that!  Bond's fingernails dug into the palms of his hands.  By God,
he'd pin this murder on Goldfinger if it was the last act of his life.
As for himself...?  Bond knew the answer.  This death he would not be
able to excuse as being part of his job.  This death he would have to
live with.

The girl was pulling at her finger--at the Claddagh ring, the entwined
hands round the gold heart.  She put her knuckle to her mouth.  The
ring came off.  She held it up for Bond to take.  The tiny gold circle,
silhouetted against the trunk of the tree, glittered in the moonlight.

The noise in Bond's ear was something between a hiss and a shrill
whistle.  There was a dry, twanging thud.  The aluminium feathers of
the steel arrow trembled like a humming bird's wings in front of Bond's
eyes.  The shaft of the arrow straightened.  The gold ring tinkled down
the shaft until it reached the bark of the tree.

Slowly, almost incuriously, Bond turned his head.

Ten yards away--half in moonlight, half in shadow--the black
melon-headed figure crouched, its legs widely straddled in the judo
stance.  The left arm, thrust forward against the glinting semicircle
of the bow, was straight as a duellist's.  The right hand, holding the
feathers of the second arrow, was rigid against the right cheek.
Behind the head, the taut right elbow lanced back in frozen suspense.
The silver tip of the second arrow pointed exactly between the two pale
raised profiles.

Bond breathed the words, 'Don't move an inch.'  Aloud he said, 'Hullo,
Oddjob.  Damned good shot.'

Oddjob jerked the tip of the arrow upwards.

Bond got to his feet, shielding the girl.  He said softly out of the
corner of his mouth, 'He mustn't see the rifle.'  He said to Oddjob,
speaking casually, peaceably, 'Nice place Mr Goldfinger has here.  Want
to have a word with him sometime.  Perhaps it's a bit late tonight.
You might tell him I'll be along tomorrow.'  Bond said to the girl,
'Come on, darling.  We've had our walk in the woods.  Time to get back
to the hotel.'  He took a step away from Oddjob towards the fence.

Oddjob stamped his forward foot.  The point of the second arrow swung
to the centre of Bond's stomach.

'Oargn.'  Oddjob jerked his head sideways and downwards towards the
house.

'Oh, you think he'd like to see us now?  All right.  You don't think
we'll be disturbing him?  Come on, darling.'  Bond led the way to the
left of the tree, away from the rifle that lay in the shadowed grass.

As they went slowly down the hill, Bond talked softly to the girl,
briefing her.  'You're my girl friend.  I brought you out from England.
Seem surprised and interested by our little adventure.  We're in a
tough spot.  Don't try any tricks.'  Bond jerked back his head.  'This
man's a killer.'

The girl said angrily, 'If only you hadn't interfered.'

'Same to you,' said Bond shortly.  He took it back.  'I'm sorry, Tilly.
Didn't mean that.  But I don't think you could have got away with it.'

'I had my plans.  I'd have been over the frontier by midnight.'

Bond didn't answer.  Something had caught his eye.  On top of the tall
chimney, the oblong mouth of the radar-thing was revolving again.  It
was that that had spotted them--heard them.  It must be some kind of
sonic detector.  What a bag of tricks this man was!  Bond hadn't meant
to underestimate Goldfinger.  Had he managed to do so--decisively?
Perhaps, if he had had his gun...?  No.  Bond knew that even his
split-second draw wouldn't have beaten the Korean--wouldn't do so now.
There was a total deadliness about this man.  Whether Bond had been
armed or unarmed, it would have been a man fighting a tank.

They reached the courtyard.  As they did so, the back door of the house
opened.  Two more Koreans, who might have been the servants from
Reculver, ran out towards them through the warm splash of electric
light.  They carried ugly-looking polished sticks.  'Stop!'  Both men
wore the savage, empty grin that men from Station J, who had been in
Japanese prison camps, had described to Bond.  'We search.  No trouble
or...'  The man who had spoken, cut the air with a whistling lash of
his stick.  'Hands up!'

Bond put his hands slowly up.  He said to the girl, 'Don't react ...
whatever they do.'

Oddjob came forward and stood, menacingly, watching the search.  The
search was expert.  Bond coldly watched the hands on the girl, the
grinning faces.

'Okay.  Come!'

They were herded through the open door and along a stone-flagged
passage to the narrow entrance hall at the front of the house.  The
house smelled as Bond had imagined it would--musty and fragrant and
summery.  There were white-panelled doors.  Oddjob knocked on one of
them.

'Yes?'

Oddjob opened the door.  They were prodded through.

Goldfinger sat at a big desk.  It was neatly encumbered with
important-looking papers.  The desk was flanked by grey metal filing
cabinets.  Beside the desk, within reach of Goldfinger's hand, stood a
short-wave wireless set on a low table.  There was an operator's
keyboard and a machine that ticked busily and looked like a barograph.
Bond guessed that this had something to do with the detector that had
intercepted them.

Goldfinger wore his purple velvet smoking-jacket over an open-necked
white silk shirt.  The open neck showed a tuft of orange chest-hair.
He sat very erect in a high-backed chair.  He hardly glanced at the
girl.  The big china-blue eyes were fixed on Bond.  They showed no
surprise.  They held no expression except a piercing hardness.

Bond blustered, 'Look here, Goldfinger.  What the hell's all this
about?  You put the police on to me over that ten thousand dollars and
I got on your tracks with my girl friend here, Miss Soames.  I've come
to find out what the hell you mean by it.  We climbed the fence--I know
it's trespassing, but I wanted to catch you before you moved on
somewhere else.  Then this ape of yours came along and damned near
killed one of us with his bow and arrow.  Two more of your bloody
Koreans held us up and searched us.  What the hell's going on?  If you
can't give me a civil answer and full apologies I'll put the police on
you.'

Goldfinger's flat, hard stare didn't flicker.  He might not have heard
Bond's angry-gentleman's outburst.  The finely chiselled lips parted.
He said, 'Mr Bond, they have a saying in Chicago: "Once is
happenstance.  Twice is coincidence.  The third time it's enemy
action."  Miami, Sandwich and now Geneva.  I propose to wring the truth
out of you.'  Goldfinger's eyes slid slowly past Bond's head.  'Oddjob.
The Pressure Room.'




3 - ENEMY ACTION



CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE PRESSURE ROOM

Bond's reaction was automatic.  There was no reason behind it.  He took
one quick step forward and hurled himself across the desk at
Goldfinger.  His body, launched in a shallow dive, hit the top of the
desk and ploughed through the litter of papers.  There was a heavy thud
as the top of his head crashed into Goldfinger's breastbone.  The
momentum of the blow rocked Goldfinger in his chair.  Bond kicked back
at the edge of the desk, got a purchase and rammed forward again.  As
the chair toppled backwards and the two bodies went down in the
splintering woodwork, Bond's fingers got to the throat and his thumbs
went into its base and downwards with every ounce of his force.

Then the whole house fell on Bond, a baulk of timber hit him at the
base of the neck and he rolled sluggishly off Goldfinger on to the
floor and lay still.


The vortex of light through which Bond was whirling slowly flattened
into a disc, a yellow moon, and then into a burning Cyclops eye.
Something was written round the fiery eyeball.  It was a message, an
important message for him.  He must read it.  Carefully, one by one,
Bond spelled out the tiny letters.  The message said: SOCIT ANONYME
MAZDA.  What was its significance?  A hard bolt of water hit Bond in
the face.  The water stung his eyes and filled his mouth.  He retched
desperately and tried to move.  He couldn't.  His eyes cleared, and his
brain.  There was a throbbing pain at the back of his neck.  He was
staring up into a big enamelled light bowl with one powerful bulb.  He
was on some sort of a table and his wrists and ankles were bound to its
edges.  He felt with his fingers.  He felt polished metal.

A voice, Goldfinger's voice, flat, uninterested, said, 'Now we can
begin.'

Bond turned his head towards the voice.  His eyes were dazzled by the
light.  He squeezed them hard and opened them.  Goldfinger was sitting
in a canvas chair.  He had taken off his jacket and was in his shirt
sleeves.  There were red marks round the base of his throat.  On a
folding table beside him were various tools and metal instruments and a
control panel.  On the other side of the table Tilly Masterton sat in
another chair.  She was strapped to it by her wrists and ankles.  She
sat bolt upright as if she was in school.  She looked incredibly
beautiful, but shocked, remote.  Her eyes gazed vacantly at Bond.  She
was either drugged or hypnotized.

Bond turned his head to the right.  A few feet away stood the Korean.
He still wore his bowler hat but now he was stripped to the waist.  The
yellow skin of his huge torso glinted with sweat.  There was no hair on
it.  The flat pectoral muscles were as broad as dinner plates and the
stomach was concave below the great arch of the ribs.  The biceps and
forearms, also hairless, were as thick as thighs.  The
ten-minutes-to-two oil slicks of the eyes looked pleased, greedy.  The
mouthful of blackish teeth formed an oblong grin of anticipation.

Bond raised his head.  The quick look round hurt.  They were in one of
the factory workrooms.  White light blazed round the iron doors of two
electric furnaces.  There were bluish sheets of metal stacked in wooden
frames.  From somewhere came the whir of a generator.  There was a
distant, muffled sound of hammering, and, behind the sound, the faraway
iron pant of the power plant.

Bond glanced down the table on which he lay spread-eagled.  He let his
head fall back with a sigh.  There was a narrow slit down the centre of
the polished steel table.  At the far end of the slit, like a foresight
framed in the vee of his parted feet, were the glinting teeth of a
circular saw.

Bond lay and stared up at the little message on the lamp bulb.
Goldfinger began to speak in a relaxed conversational voice.  Bond
pulled the curtains tight across the ghastly peep-show of his
imagination and listened.

'Mr Bond, the word "pain" comes from the Latin _poena_ meaning
"penalty"--that which must be paid.  You must now pay for the
inquisitiveness which your attack upon me proves, as I suspected, to be
inimical.  Curiosity, as they say, killed the cat.  This time it will
have to kill two cats, for I fear I must also count this girl an enemy.
She tells me she is staying at the Bergues.  One telephone call proved
that to be false.  Oddjob was sent to where you were both hidden and
recovered her rifle and also a ring which it happens that I recognize.
Under hypnotism the rest came out.  This girl came here to kill me.
Perhaps you did too.  You have both failed.  Now must come the _poena_.
Mr Bond--' the voice was weary, bored--'I have had many enemies in my
time.  I am very successful and immensely rich, and riches, if I may
inflict another of my aphorisms upon you, may not make you friends but
they greatly increase the class and variety of your enemies.'

'That's very neatly put.'

Goldfinger ignored the interruption.  'If you were a free man, with
your talent for inquiry, you would be able to find round the world the
relics of those who have wished me ill, or who have tried to thwart me.
There have, as I said, been many of these people and you would find, Mr
Bond, that their remains resemble those of hedgehogs squashed upon the
roads in summertime.'

'Very poetic simile.'

'By chance, Mr Bond.  I am a poet in deeds--not often in words.  I am
concerned to arrange my actions in appropriate and effective patterns.
But that is by the way.  I wish to convey to you that it was a most
evil day for you when you first crossed my path and, admittedly in a
very minor fashion, thwarted a minuscule project upon which I was
engaged.  On that occasion it was someone else who suffered the poena
that should have been meted out to you.  An eye was taken for the eye,
but it was not yours.  You were lucky and, if you had then found an
oracle to consult, the oracle would have said to you, "Mr Bond, you
have been fortunate.  Keep away from Mr Auric Goldfinger.  He is a most
powerful man.  If Mr Goldfinger wanted to crush you, he would only have
to turn over in his sleep to do so."'

'You express yourself most vividly.'  Bond turned his head.  The great
brown and orange football of a head was bent slightly forward.  The
round moon-face was bland, indifferent.  Casually, one hand reached out
to the control panel and pressed down a switch.  There came a slow
metallic growl from the end of the table on which Bond lay.  It curved
quickly up to a harsh whine and then to a shrill high whistle that was
barely audible.  Bond turned his head wearily away.  How soon could he
manage to die?  Was there any way he could hasten death?  A friend of
his had survived the Gestapo.  He had described to Bond how he had
tried to commit suicide by holding his breath.  By superhuman
will-power, after a few minutes without breathing, unconsciousness had
come.  But, with the blackout of the senses, will and intention had
also left the body.  At once reason was forgotten.  The body's instinct
to live manned the pumps and got breath back into the body again.  But
Bond could try it.  There was nothing else to help him through the pain
barrier before the blessing of death.  For death was the only exit.  He
knew he could never squeal to Goldfinger and live with himself
again--even in the unlikely event that Goldfinger could be bought off
with the truth.  No, he must stick to his thin story and hope that the
others who would now follow him on Goldfinger's trail would have better
luck.  Who would M choose?  Probably 008, the second killer in the
small section of three.  He was a good man, more careful than Bond.  M
would know that Goldfinger had killed Bond and he would give 008
licence to kill in return.  258 in Geneva would put him on to the scent
that would end with Bond's inquiry about the Entreprises Auric.  Yes,
fate would catch up with Goldfinger if Bond could only keep his mouth
shut.  If he gave the least clue away, Goldfinger would escape.  That
was unthinkable.

'Now then, Mr Bond.'  Goldfinger's voice was brisk.  'Enough of these
amiabilities.  Sing, as my Chicago friends put it, and you will die
quickly and painlessly.  The girl also.  Sing not, and your death will
be one long scream.  The girl I shall then give to Oddjob, as I did
that cat, for supper.  Which is it to be?'

Bond said, 'Don't be a fool, Goldfinger.  I told my friends at
Universal where I was going and why.  The girl's parents know that she
went with me.  I made inquiries about this factory of yours before we
came here.  We shall be traced here very easily.  Universal is
powerful.  You will have the police after you within days of our
disappearance.  I will make a deal with you.  Let us go and nothing
more will be heard of the matter.  I will vouch for the girl.  You are
making a stupid mistake.  We are two perfectly innocent people.'

Goldfinger said in a bored voice, 'I'm afraid you don't understand, Mr
Bond.  Whatever you have managed to find out about me, which I suspect
is very little, can only be a grain of the truth.  I am engaged upon
gigantic enterprises.  To take the gamble of letting either of you
leave here alive would be quite ludicrous.  It is out of the question.
As for my being bothered by the police, I shall be delighted to receive
them if they come.  Those of my Koreans who can speak won't do so--nor
will the mouths of my electric furnaces which will have vaporized you
both and all your belongings at two thousand degrees Centigrade.  No,
Mr Bond, make your choice.  Perhaps I can encourage you'--there came
the noise of a lever moving across iron teeth.  'The saw is now
approaching your body at about one inch every minute.  Meanwhile,' he
glanced at Oddjob and held up one finger, 'a little massage from
Oddjob.  To begin with, only grade one.  Grades two and three are still
more persuasive.'

Bond closed his eyes.  The sickly zoo-smell of Oddjob enveloped him.
Big, rasping fingers set to work on him carefully, delicately.  A
pressure here, combined with a pressure there, a sudden squeeze, a
pause, and then a quick, sharp blow.  Always the hard hands were
surgically accurate.  Bond ground his teeth until he thought they would
break.  The sweat of pain began to form pools in the sockets of his
closed eyes.  The shrill whine of the saw was getting louder.  It
reminded Bond of the sawdust-scented sounds of long ago summer evenings
at home in England.  Home?  This was his home, this cocoon of danger he
had chosen to live in.  And here he would be buried 'in some corner of
a foreign blast furnace that is for ever two thousand degrees
Centigrade'.  God rest ye merry gentlemen of the Secret Service!  What
should he give himself as an epitaph?  What should be his 'famous last
words'?  That you have no choice about your birth, but you can choose
the way you die?  Yes, it would look well on a tombstone--not _Savoir
vivre_ but _Savoir mourir_.

'Mr Bond.'  Goldfinger's voice held an ounce of urgency.  'Is this
really necessary?  Just tell me the truth.  Who are you?  Who sent you
here?  What do you know?  Then it will be so easy.  You shall both have
a pill.  There will be no pain.  It will be like taking a sleeping
draught.  Otherwise it will be so messy--so messy and distressing.  And
are you being fair to the girl?  Is this the behaviour of an English
gentleman?'

Oddjob's torment had stopped.  Bond turned his head slowly towards the
voice and opened his eyes.  He said, 'Goldfinger, there is nothing more
to tell because there is nothing.  If you will not accept my first
bargain I will make you another.  The girl and I will work for you.
How about that?  We are capable people.  You could put us to good use.'

'And get a knife, two knives in my back?  Thank you no, Mr Bond.'

Bond decided it was time to stop talking.  It was time to start winding
up the mainspring of will-power that must not run down again until he
was dead.  Bond said politely, 'Then you can go and ---- yourself.'  He
expelled all the breath from his lungs and closed his eyes.

'Even I am not capable of that, Mr Bond,' said Goldfinger with good
humour.  'And now, since you have chosen the stony path instead of the
smooth, I must extract what interest I can from your predicament by
making the path as stony as possible.  Oddjob, grade two.'

The lever on the table moved across iron teeth.  Now Bond could feel
the wind of the saw between his knees.  The hands came back.

Bond counted the slowly pounding pulse that utterly possessed his body.
It was like the huge panting power plant in the other part of the
factory but, in his case, it was slowly decelerating.  If only it would
slow down quicker.  What was this ridiculous will to live that refused
to listen to the brain?  Who was making the engine run on although the
tank was dry of fuel?  But he must empty his mind of thought, as well
as his body of oxygen.  He must become a vacuum, a deep hole of
unconsciousness.

Still the light burned red through his eyelids.  Still he could feel
the bursting pressure in his temples.  Still the slow drum of life beat
in his ears.

A scream tried to force its way through the clamped teeth.

Die damn you die die damn you die damn you die damn you die damn you
die...




CHAPTER SIXTEEN

THE LAST AND THE BIGGEST

The wings of a dove, the heavenly choir, Hark the Herald Angels
Sing--what else ought he to remember about Paradise?  It was all so
exactly like what he had been told in the nursery--this sensation of
flying, the darkness, the drone of a million harps.  He really must try
and remember the dope about the place.  Let's see now, one got to the
Pearly Gates...

A deep fatherly voice said, almost in his ear, 'This is your captain
speaking.'  (Well, well.  Who was this.  Saint Peter?)  We are coming
in to land now.  Will you please fasten your seat belts and extinguish
your cigarettes.  Thank you.'

There must be a whole lot of them, going up together.  Would Tilly be
on the same trip?  Bond squirmed with embarrassment.  How would he
introduce her to the others, to Vesper for instance?  And when it came
to the point, which would he like the best?  But perhaps it would be a
big place with countries and towns.  There was probably no more reason
why he should run into one of his former girl friends here than there
had been on earth.  But still there were a lot of people he'd better
avoid until he got settled in and found out the form.  Perhaps, with so
much love about, these things wouldn't matter.  Perhaps one just loved
all the girls one met.  Hm.  Tricky business!

With these unworthy thoughts in his mind, Bond relapsed into
unconsciousness.

The next thing he knew was a gentle sensation of swaying.  He opened
his eyes.  The sun blinded them.  He closed them again.  A voice above
and behind his head said, 'Watch it, bud.  That ramp's steeper than it
looks.'  Almost immediately there was a heavy jolt.  A surly voice in
front said, 'Cheesus, you're telling me.  Why in hell can't they put
down rubber.'

Bond thought angrily, that's a fine way to talk up here.  Just because
I'm new and they think no one's listening.

There was the bang of a swing door.  Something hit Bond sharply on a
protruding elbow.  He shouted 'Hey!' and tried to reach his elbow and
rub it, but his hands wouldn't move.

'Whaddya know.  Hey, Sam, better call the doc.  This one's come round.'

'Sure!  Here, put him alongside the other.'  Bond felt himself being
lowered.  It was cooler now.  He opened his eyes.  A big round Brooklyn
face was bent over his.  The eyes met his and smiled.  The metal
supports of the stretcher touched the ground.  The man said, 'How ya
feelin', mister?'

'Where am I?'  Now there was panic in Bond's voice.  He tried to rise
but couldn't.  He felt the sweat break out on his body.  God!  Was this
still part of the old life?  At the thought of it, a wave of grief
poured through his body.  Tears burned his eyes and trickled down his
cheeks.

'Hey, hey!  Take it easy, mister.  You're okay.  This is Idlewild, New
York.  You're in America now.  No more troubles, see.'  The man
straightened up.  He thought Bond was a refugee from somewhere.  'Sam,
get movin'.  This guy's in shock.'

'Okay, okay.'  The two voices receded, mumbling anxiously.

Bond found he could move his head.  He looked round.  He was in a
white-painted ward--presumably something to do with the health
department of the airport.  There was a row of tidy beds.  Sun poured
down from high windows, but it was cool, air-conditioned.  He was on a
stretcher on the floor.  There was another one next to it.  He strained
his head sideways.  It was Tilly.  She was unconscious.  Her pale face,
framed in the black hair, pointed at the ceiling.

The door at the end of the ward sighed open.  A doctor in a white coat
stood and held it.  Goldfinger, looking brisk, cheerful, walked swiftly
down between the beds.  He was followed by Oddjob.  Bond wearily closed
his eyes.  Christ!  So that was the score.

Feet gathered round his stretcher.  Goldfinger said breezily, 'Well,
they certainly look in good shape, eh, Doctor?  That's one of the
blessings of having enough money.  When one's friends or one's staff
are ill one can get them the very best medical attention.  Nervous
breakdowns, both of them.  And in the same week!  Would you believe it?
But I blame myself for working them both too hard.  Now it's my duty to
get them back on their feet again.  Dr Foch--he's the best man in
Geneva, by the way--was quite definite.  He said, "They need rest, Mr
Goldfinger.  Rest, rest and again rest." He gave them sedatives and now
they're on their way to the Harkness Pavilion at the Presbyterian.'
Goldfinger chuckled fatly.  'Sow and you shall reap, eh, Doctor?  When
I gave the Harkness a million dollars' worth of X-ray equipment, I
certainly never expected anything back.  But now?  I only had to put
through a call and they've got two fine rooms waiting for them.  Now
then--' there was a rustle of notes--'thank you for all your help with
Immigration.  Fortunately they both had valid visas and I think
Immigration was satisfied that Mr Auric Goldfinger was a sufficient
guarantee that neither of them wants to overthrow the United States
Government by force, what?'

'Yes indeed, and thank you Mr Goldfinger.  Anything I can do ... I
understand you have a private ambulance waiting outside.'

Bond opened his eyes and looked at where the doctor's voice came from.
He saw a pleasant, serious young man with rimless glasses and a
crew-cut.  Bond said quietly and with desperate sincerity, 'Doctor,
there is absolutely nothing wrong with me or this girl.  We have been
drugged and brought here against our will.  Neither of us works or has
ever worked for Goldfinger.  I am warning you that we have been
kidnapped.  I demand to see the Chief of Immigration.  I have friends
in Washington and New York.  They will vouch for me.  I beg of you to
believe me.'  Bond held the man's eyes in his, willing him to believe.

The doctor looked worried.  He turned to Goldfinger.  Goldfinger shook
his head--discreetly so that Bond would not be insulted.  A
surreptitious hand went up and tapped the side of his head away from
Bond.  Goldfinger raised helpless eyebrows.  'You see what I mean,
Doctor?  It's been like this for days.  Total nervous prostration
combined with persecution mania.  Dr Foch said they often go together.
It may need weeks at the Harkness.  But I'm going to pull him round if
it's the last thing I do.  It's the shock of these unfamiliar
surroundings.  Perhaps a shot of intraval sodium...'

The doctor bent to his black bag.  'I guess you're right, Mr
Goldfinger.  So long as Harkness is looking after the case.'  There
came the tinkle of instruments.

Goldfinger said, 'It's terribly sad to see a man break down so utterly,
a man who has been one of my best assistants.'  He bent a sweet,
fatherly smile on Bond.  There was a catch in his voice.  'You'll be
all right, James.  Just relax and have a nice sleep.  I was afraid the
flight might be too much for you.  Just relax and leave everything to
me.'

Bond felt the swab on his arm.  He heaved.  Against his will, a shower
of curses poured from his lips.  Then he felt the needle and opened his
mouth and screamed and screamed while the doctor knelt beside him and
delicately, patiently, wiped away the sweat from his forehead.


Now it was a grey painted box of a room.  There were no windows.  Light
came from a single bowl lamp inset in the centre of the ceiling.  Round
the lamp were concentric slits in the plaster and there was the neutral
smell and faint hum of air-conditioning.  Bond found he could sit up.
He did so.  He felt drowsy but well.  He suddenly realized that he was
ravenously hungry and thirsty.  When had he last had a meal?  Two,
three days ago?  He put his feet down on the floor.  He was naked.  He
examined his body.  Oddjob had been careful.  There was no sign of
damage save for the group of needle-marks on his right forearm.  He got
up, conquering dizziness, and took a few steps in the room.  He had
been lying on a ship's type bunk with drawers under it.  The only other
furniture in the room was a plain deal table and an upright wooden
chair.  Everything was clean, functional, Spartan.  Bond knelt to the
drawers under the bunk and opened them.  They contained all the
contents of his suitcase except his watch and the gun.  Even the rather
heavy shoes he had been wearing on his expedition to Entreprises Auric
were there.  He twisted one of the heels and pulled.  The broad
double-sided knife slid smoothly out of its scabbard in the sole.  With
the fingers wrapped round the locked heel it made a workmanlike
stabbing dagger.  Bond verified that the other shoe held its knife and
clicked the heels back into position.  He pulled out some clothes and
put them on.  He found his cigarette case and lighter and lit a
cigarette.  There were two doors of which one had a handle.  He opened
this one.  It led into a small, well-appointed bathroom and lavatory.
His washing and shaving things were neatly laid out.  There were a
girl's things beside them.  Bond softly opened the other door into the
bathroom.  It was a similar room to his own.  Tilly Masterton's black
hair showed on the pillow of the bunk.  Bond tiptoed over and looked
down.  She was sleeping peacefully, a half-smile on the beautiful
mouth.  Bond went back into the bathroom, softly closed the door and
went to the mirror over the basin and looked at himself.  The black
stubble looked more like three days than two.  He set to work to clean
himself up.

Half an hour later, Bond was sitting on the edge of his bunk thinking,
when the door without a handle opened abruptly.  Oddjob stood in the
entrance.  He looked incuriously at Bond.  His eyes flickered carefully
round the room.  Bond said sharply, 'Oddjob, I want a lot of food,
quickly.  And a bottle of bourbon, soda and ice.  Also a carton of
Chesterfields, king-size, and either my own watch or another one as
good as mine.  Quick march!  Chop-chop!  And tell Goldfinger I want to
see him, but not until I've had something to eat.  Come on!  Jump to
it!  Don't stand there looking inscrutable.  I'm hungry.'

Oddjob looked redly at Bond as if wondering which piece to break.  He
opened his mouth, uttered a noise between an angry bark and a belch,
spat drily on the floor at his feet and stepped back, whirling the door
shut.  When the slam should have come, the door decelerated abruptly
and closed with a soft, decisive, double click.

The encounter put Bond in good humour.  For some reason Goldfinger had
decided against killing them.  He wanted them alive.  Soon Bond would
know why he wanted them alive but, so long as he did, Bond intended to
stay alive on his own terms.  Those terms included putting Oddjob and
any other Korean firmly in his place, which, in Bond's estimation, was
rather lower than apes in the mammalian hierarchy.

By the time an excellent meal together with everything else, including
his watch, Bond had asked for, had been brought by one of the Korean
servants, Bond had learned nothing more about his circumstances except
that his room was close to water and not far from a railway bridge.
Assuming his room was in New York, it was either on the Hudson or the
East River.  The railway was electric and sounded like a subway, but
Bond's New York geography was not good enough to place it.  His watch
had stopped.  When he asked the time he got no answer.

Bond had eaten all the food on the tray and was smoking and sipping a
solid bourbon and soda when the door opened.  Goldfinger came in alone.
He was wearing a regulation businessman's clothes and looked relaxed
and cheerful.  He closed the door behind him and stood with his back to
it.  He looked searchingly at Bond.  Bond smoked and looked politely
back.

Goldfinger said, 'Good morning, Mr Bond.  I see you are yourself again.
I hope you prefer being here to being dead.  So as to save you the
trouble of asking a lot of conventional questions, I will tell you
where you are and what has happened to you.  I will then put to you a
proposition to which I require an unequivocal reply.  You are a more
reasonable man than most, so I need only give you one brief warning.
Do not attempt any dramatics.  Do not attack me with a knife or a fork
or that bottle.  If you do, I shall shoot you with this.'  A
small-calibre pistol grew like a black thumb out of Goldfinger's right
fist.  He put the hand with the gun back in his pocket.  'I very seldom
use these things.  When I have had to, I have never needed more than
one .25-calibre bullet to kill.  I shoot at the right eye, Mr Bond.
And I never miss.'

Bond said, 'Don't worry, I'm not as accurate as that with a bourbon
bottle.'  He hitched up the knee of his trousers and put one leg across
the other.  He sat relaxed.  'Go ahead.'

'Mr Bond,' Goldfinger's voice was amiable.  'I am an expert in many
other materials beside metals and I have a keen appreciation of
everything that is one thousand fine, as we say of the purest gold.  In
comparison with that degree of purity, of value, human material is of a
very low grade indeed.  But occasionally one comes across a piece of
this stuff that can at least be put to the lower forms of use.  Oddjob
is an example of what I mean--simple, unrefined clay, capable of
limited exploitation.  At the last moment my hand hesitated to destroy
a utensil with the durability I observed in yourself.  I may have made
a mistake in staying my hand.  In any case I shall take the fullest
steps to protect myself from the consequences of my impulse.  It was
something you said that saved your life.  You suggested that you and
Miss Masterton would work for me.  Normally I would have no use for
either of you, but it just happens that I am on the brink of a certain
enterprise in which the services of both of you could be of a certain
minimal assistance.  So I took the gamble.  I gave you both the
necessary sedatives.  Your bills were paid and your things fetched from
the Bergues where Miss Masterton turned out to be registered under her
real name.  I sent a cable in your name to Universal Export.  You had
been offered employment in Canada.  You were flying over to explore the
prospects.  You were taking Miss Masterton as your secretary.  You
would write further details.  A clumsy cable, but it will serve for the
short period I require your services.  (It won't, thought Bond, unless
you included in the text one of the innocent phrases that would tell M
that the cable was authentic.  By now, the Service would know he was
working under enemy control.  Wheels would be turning very fast
indeed.)  And in case you think, Mr Bond, that my precautions were
inadequate, that you will be traced, let me tell you that I am no
longer in the least interested about your true identity nor the
strength and resources of your employers.  You and Miss Masterton have
utterly disappeared, Mr Bond.  So have I, so have all my staff.  The
airport will refer inquiries to the Harkness Pavilion at the
Presbyterian Hospital.  The hospital will never have heard of Mr
Goldfinger nor of his patients.  The F.B.I. and the C.I.A. have no
record of me, for I have no criminal history.  No doubt the immigration
authorities will have details of my comings and goings over the years,
but these will not be helpful.  As for my present whereabouts, and
yours, Mr Bond, we are now in the warehouse of the Hi-speed Trucking
Corporation, a formerly respectable concern which I own through
nominees and which has been equipped, most thoroughly, as the secret
headquarters for the enterprise of which I spoke.  You and Miss
Masterton will be confined to these quarters.  Here you will live and
work and possibly, though personally I have doubts about Miss
Masterton's inclinations in that respect, make love.'

'And what will our work consist of?'

'Mr Bond--'  For the first time since Bond had known Goldfinger, the
big, bland face, always empty of expression, showed a trace of life.  A
look almost of rapture illuminated the eyes.  The finely chiselled lips
pursed into a thin, beatic curve.  'Mr Bond, all my life I have been in
love.  I have been in love with gold.  I love its colour, its
brilliance, its divine heaviness.  I love the texture of gold, that
soft sliminess that I have learnt to gauge so accurately by touch that
I can estimate the fineness of a bar to within one carat.  And I love
the warm tang it exudes when I melt it down into a true golden syrup.
But, above all, Mr Bond, I love the power that gold alone gives to its
owner--the magic of controlling energy, exacting labour, fulfilling
one's every wish and whim and, when need be, purchasing bodies, minds,
even souls.  Yes, Mr Bond, I have worked all my life for gold and, in
return, gold has worked for me and for those enterprises that I have
espoused.  I ask you,' Goldfinger gazed earnestly at Bond, 'is there
any other substance on earth that so rewards its owner?'

'Many people have become rich and powerful without possessing an ounce
of the stuff.  But I see your point.  How much have you managed to
collect and what do you do with it?'

'I own about twenty million pounds' worth, about as much as a small
country.  It is now all in New York.  I keep it where I need it.  My
treasure of gold is like a compost heap.  I move it here and there over
the face of the earth and, wherever I choose to spread it, that corner
blossoms and blooms.  I reap the harvest and move on.  At this moment I
am proposing to encourage, to force, a certain American enterprise with
my golden compost.  Therefore the gold bars are in New York.'

'How do you choose these enterprises?  What attracts you to them?'

'I espouse any enterprise that will increase my stock of gold.  I
invest, I smuggle, I steal.'  Goldfinger made a small gesture of the
hands, opening the palms persuasively.  'If you will follow the simile,
regard history as a train speeding along through time.  Birds and
animals are disturbed by the noise and tumult of the train's passage,
they fly away from it or run fearfully or cower, thinking they hide.  I
am like the hawk that follows the train--you have no doubt seen them
doing this, in Greece for instance--ready to pounce on anything that
may be flushed by the tram's passage, by the passage of history.  To
give you a simple example: the progress of history produces a man who
invents penicillin.  At the same time, history creates a world war.
Many people are dying or afraid of dying.  Penicillin will save them.
Through bribery at certain military establishments on the Continent, I
obtain stocks of penicillin.  I water these down with some harmless
powder or liquid and sell them at immense profit to those who crave the
stuff.  You see what I mean, Mr Bond?  You have to wait for the prey,
watch it carefully and then pounce.  But, as I say, I do not search out
such enterprises.  I allow the train of history to flush them towards
me.'

'What's the latest one?  What have Miss Masterton and I got to do with
it?'

'The latest one, Mr Bond, is the last one.  It is also the biggest.'
Goldfinger's eyes were now blank, focused inwards.  His voice became
low, almost reverential at what he saw.  'Man has climbed Everest and
he has scraped the depths of the ocean.  He has fired rockets into
outer space and split the atom.  He has invented, devised, created in
every realm of human endeavour, and everywhere he has triumphed, broken
records, achieved miracles.  I said in every realm, but there is one
that has been neglected, Mr Bond.  That one is the human activity
loosely known as crime.  The so-called criminal exploits committed by
individual humans--I do not of course refer to their idiotic wars,
their clumsy destruction of each other--are of miserable dimensions:
little bank robberies, tiny swindles, picayune forgeries.  And yet,
ready to hand, a few hundred miles from here, opportunity for the
greatest crime in history stands waiting.  The stage is set, the
gigantic prize is offered.  Only the actors are missing.  But the
producer is at last here, Mr Bond'--Goldfinger raised a finger and
tapped his chest--'and he has chosen his cast.  This very afternoon the
script will be read to the leading actors.  Then rehearsals will begin
and, in one week, the curtain will go up for the single, the unique
performance.  And then will come the applause, the applause for the
greatest extra-legal coup of all time.  And, Mr Bond, the world will
rock with that applause for centuries.'

Now a dull fire burned in Goldfinger's big pale eyes and there was a
touch of extra colour in his red-brown cheeks.  But he was still calm,
relaxed, profoundly convinced.  There's no trace here, reflected Bond,
of the madman, the visionary.  Goldfinger had some fantastic exploit in
mind, but he had gauged the odds and knew they were right.  Bond said,
'Well, come on.  What is it, and what do we have to do about it?'

'It is a robbery, Mr Bond.  A robbery against no opposition, but one
that will need detailed execution.  There will be much paper-work, many
administrative details to supervise.  I was going to do this myself
until you offered your services.  Now you will do it, with Miss
Masterton as your secretary.  You have already been partly remunerated
for this work with your life.  When the operation is successfully
completed you will receive one million pounds in gold.  Miss Masterton
will receive half a million.'

Bond said enthusiastically, 'Now you're talking.  What are we going to
do?  Rob the end of the rainbow?'

'Yes,' Goldfinger nodded.  'That is exactly what we are going to do.
We are going to burgle fifteen billion dollars' worth of gold bullion,
approximately half the supply of mined gold in the world.  We are
going, Mr Bond, to take Fort Knox.'




CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

HOODS' CONGRESS

'Fort Knox.'  Bond shook his head seriously.  'Isn't that rather a tall
order for two men and a girl?'

Goldfinger shrugged impatiently.  'Please put away your sense of humour
for one week, Mr Bond.  Then laugh as much as you please.  I shall have
under my command approximately one hundred men and women.  These people
will be hand picked from the six most powerful gangster groups in the
United States.  This force will amount to the toughest and most compact
fighting unit that has ever been assembled in peace time.'

'All right.  How many men guard the vault at Fort Knox?'

Goldfinger slowly shook his head.  He knocked once on the door behind
him.  The door flicked open.  Oddjob stood on the threshold, crouching,
alert.  When he saw that the meeting was still peaceful he straightened
himself and waited.  Goldfinger said, 'You will have many questions to
ask, Mr Bond.  They will all be answered this afternoon.  Beginning at
two-thirty.  It is now exactly twelve o'clock.'  Bond glanced at his
watch and adjusted it.  'You and Miss Masterton will attend the meeting
at which the proposition will be put to the heads of the six
organizations I have mentioned.  No doubt these people will ask the
same questions as occur to you.  Everything will be explained.
Afterwards you will settle down to detailed work with Miss Masterton.
Ask for what you want.  Oddjob will see to your welfare and also be on
permanent guard.  Do not be obstreperous or you will instantly be
killed.  And do not waste time trying to escape or to contact the
outside world.  I have hired your services and I shall require every
ounce of them.  Is that a bargain?'

Bond said drily, 'I've always wanted to be a millionaire.'

Goldfinger didn't look at him.  He looked at his fingernails.  Then he
gave Bond one last hard glance and went out and shut the door behind
him.

Bond sat and gazed at the closed door.  He brusquely ran both hands
through his hair and down over his face.  He said 'Well, well' aloud to
the empty room, got up and walked through the bathroom to the girl's
bedroom.  He knocked on the door.

'Who is it?'

'Me.  Are you visible?'

'Yes.'  The voice was unenthusiastic.  'Come in.'

She was sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling on a shoe.  She was
wearing the things Bond had first seen her in.  She looked cool and
collected and unsurprised by her surroundings.  She looked up at Bond.
Her eyes were aloof, disdainful.  She said coldly, precisely, 'You've
got us into this.  Get us out.'

Bond said amiably, 'I may be able to.  I got us out of our graves.'

'After getting us into them.'

Bond looked thoughtfully at the girl.  He decided it would be ungallant
to spank her, so to speak, on an empty stomach.  He said, 'This won't
get us anywhere.  We're in this together, whether we like it or not.
What do you want for breakfast or lunch?  It's a quarter past twelve.
I've eaten.  I'll order yours and then come back and tell you the
score.  There's only one way out of here and Oddjob, that Korean ape,
is guarding it.  Now then, breakfast or lunch?'

She unbent an inch.  'Thank you.  Scrambled eggs and coffee, please.
And toast and marmalade.'

'Cigarettes?'

'No, thank you.  I don't smoke.'

Bond went back to his room and knocked on the door.  It opened an inch.

Bond said, 'All right, Oddjob.  I'm not going to kill you yet.'

The door opened farther.  Oddjob's face was impassive.  Bond gave the
order.  The door closed.  Bond poured himself a bourbon and soda.  He
sat on the edge of the bed and wondered how he was going to get the
girl on his side.  From the beginning she had resented him.  Was that
only because of her sister?  Why had Goldfinger made that cryptic
remark about her 'inclinations'?  What was there about her that he
himself felt--something withdrawn, inimical.  She was
beautiful--physically desirable.  But there was a cold, hard centre to
her that Bond couldn't understand or define.  Oh well, the main thing
was to get her to go along.  Otherwise life in prison would be
intolerable.

Bond went back into her room.  He left both doors open so that he could
hear.  She was still sitting on the bed wrapped in a coiled immobility.
She watched Bond carefully.  Bond leaned against the jamb of the door.
He took a long pull at his whisky.  He said, looking her in the eye,
'You'd better know that I'm from Scotland Yard'--the euphemism would
serve.  'We're after this man Goldfinger.  He doesn't mind.  He thinks
no one can find us for at least a week.  He's probably right.  He saved
our lives because he wants us to work for him on a crime.  It's big
business.  Pretty scatter-brained.  But there's a lot of planning and
paperwork.  We've got to look after that side.  Can you do shorthand
and typing?'

'Yes.'  Her eyes were alight.  'What's the crime?'

Bond told her.  He said, 'Of course it all sounds ridiculous and I
daresay a few questions and answers will show these gangsters, if they
don't show Goldfinger, that the whole thing's impossible.  But I don't
know.  Goldfinger's an extraordinary man.  From what I know about him,
he never moves unless the odds are right.  And I don't think he's
mad--at least not madder than other kinds of geniuses--scientists and
so on.  And there's no doubt he's a genius in his particular field.'

'So what are you going to do about it?'

Bond lowered his voice.  He said, 'What are _we_ going to do about it,
you mean.  _We_ are going to play along.  And to the hilt.  No shirking
and no funny business.  We're going to be greedy for the money and
we're going to give him absolutely top-notch service.  Apart from
saving our lives, which mean less than nothing to him, it's the only
hope we, or rather I because that's my line of country, can have of a
chance to queer his pitch.'

'How are you going to do that?'

'I haven't the faintest idea.  Something may turn up.'

'And you expect me to go along with you?'

'Why not?  Any other suggestions?'

She pursed her lips obstinately.  'Why should I do what you say?'

Bond sighed.  'There's no point in being a suffragette about this.
It's either that or get yourself killed after breakfast.  It's up to
you.'

The mouth turned down with distaste.  She shrugged her shoulders.  She
said ungraciously, 'Oh, all right then.'  Suddenly her eyes flared.
'Only don't ever touch me or I shall kill you.'

There came the click of Bond's bedroom door.  Bond looked mildly down
at Tilly Masterton.  'The challenge is attractive.  But don't worry.  I
won't take it up.'  He turned and strolled out of the room.

One of the Koreans passed him carrying the girl's breakfast.  In his
room another Korean had brought in a typist's desk and chair and a
Remington portable.  He arranged them in the corner away from the bed.
Oddjob was standing in the doorway.  He held out a sheet of paper.
Bond went up to him and took it.

It was a foolscap memo sheet.  The writing, with a ball point, was
neat, careful, legible, undistinguished.  It said:


  _Prepare ten copies of this agenda._

  Meeting held under the chairmanship of Mr. Gold

  _Secretaries_: J. Bond
                 Miss Tilly Masterton

                             _Present_

  Helmut M. Springer         The Purple Gang.  Detroit
  Jed Midnight               Shadow Syndicate.  Miami and Havana
  Billy (The Grinner) Ring   The Machine.  Chicago
  Jack Strap                 The Spangled Mob.  Las Vegas
  Mr Solo                    Unione Siciliano
  Miss Pussy Galore          The Cement Mixers.  Harlem.  New York City

  _Agenda_

  A project with the code name OPERATION GRAND SLAM.

  (Refreshments.)


At the end of this was written, 'You and Miss Masterton will be fetched
at 2.20.  Both will be prepared to take notes.  Formal dress, please.'

Bond smiled.  The Koreans left the room.  He sat down at the desk,
slipped paper and carbons into the typewriter and set to.  At least he
would show the girl that he was prepared to do his stint.  Gosh, what a
crew!  Even the Mafia had come in.  How had Goldfinger persuaded them
all to come?  And who in heaven's name was Miss Pussy Galore?

Bond had the copies finished by two o'clock.  He went into the girl's
room and gave them to her together with a shorthand notebook and
pencils.  He also read her Goldfinger's note.  He said, 'You'd better
get these names in your head.  They probably won't be hard to identify.
We can ask if we get stuck.  I'll go and get into my formal dress.'  He
smiled at her.  'Twenty minutes to go.'

She nodded.


Walking down the corridor behind Oddjob, Bond could hear the sounds of
the river--the slapping of water on the piles below the warehouse, the
long mournful hoot of a ferry clearing her way, the distant thump of
diesels.  Somewhere beneath his feet a truck started up, revved and
then growled away presumably towards the West Side Highway.  They must
be on the top tier of the long two-tiered building.  The grey paint in
the corridor smelled new.  There were no side doors.  Light came from
bowls in the ceiling.  They reached the end.  Oddjob knocked.  There
was the sound of a Yale key being turned and two lots of bolts being
pulled and they walked through and into a large bright sunlit room.
The room was over the end of the warehouse and a wide picture window,
filling most of the facing wall, framed the river and the distant brown
muddle of Jersey City.  The room had been dressed for the conference.
Goldfinger sat with his back to the window at a large round table with
a green baize cloth, carafes of water, yellow scratch-pads and pencils.
There were nine comfortable armchairs and on the scratch-pads in front
of six of them were small oblong white parcels sealed with red wax.  To
the right, against the wall, was a long buffet table gleaming with
silver and cut glass.  Champagne stood in silver coolers and there was
a row of other bottles.  Among the various foods Bond noticed two round
five-pound tins of Beluga caviar and several terrines of foie gras.  On
the wall opposite the buffet hung a blackboard above a table on which
there were papers and one large oblong carton.

Goldfinger watched them come towards him across the thick wine-red
carpet.  He gestured to the chair on his left for Tilly Masterton and
to the one on the right for Bond.  They sat down.

'The agenda?'  Goldfinger took the copies, read the top one and handed
them back to the girl.  He gave a circular wave of the hand and she got
up and distributed the copies round the table.  He put his hand beneath
the table and pressed a hidden bell.  The door at the back of the room
opened.  One of the Koreans came in and stood waiting.  'Is everything
ready?'  The man nodded.  'You understand that no one is to come into
this room but the people on your list?  Good.  Some of them, perhaps
all, will bring a companion.  The companions will remain in the
anteroom.  See that they have everything they wish.  The cards are
there and the dice?  Oddjob.'  Goldfinger glanced up at the Korean who
had remained behind Bond's chair.  'Go and take up your position.  What
is the signal?'  Oddjob held up two fingers.  'Right.  Two rings on the
bell.  You may go.  See that all the staff carry out their duties to
perfection.'

Bond said casually, 'How many staff have you got?'

'Twenty.  Ten Koreans and ten Germans.  They are all excellent men,
hand picked.  Much goes on in this building.  It is like below-decks in
a man-of-war.'  Goldfinger laid his hands flat on the table in front of
him.  'And now, your duties.  Miss Masterton, you will take notes of
any practical points that arise, anything that is likely to require
action by me.  Do not bother with the argument and chatter.  Right?'

Bond was glad to see that Tilly Masterton now looked bright and
businesslike.  She nodded briskly, 'Certainly.'

'And, Mr Bond, I shall be interested in any reactions you may have to
the speakers.  I know a great deal about all these people.  In their
own territories they are paramount chiefs.  They are only here because
I have bribed them to come.  They know nothing of me and I need to
persuade them that I know what I am talking about and will lead them to
success.  Greed will do the rest.  But there may be one or more who
wish to back out.  They will probably reveal themselves.  In their
cases I have made special arrangements.  But there may be doubtful
ones.  During the talk, you will scribble with your pencil on this
agenda.  Casually you will note with a plus or a minus sign opposite
the names whether you consider each one for or against the project.  I
shall be able to see what sign you have made.  Your views may be
useful.  And do not forget, Mr Bond, that one traitor among them, one
backslider, and we could quickly find ourselves either dead or in
prison for life.'

'Who is this Pussy Galore from Harlem?'

'She is the only woman who runs a gang in America.  It is a gang of
women.  I shall need some women for this operation.  She is entirely
reliable.  She was a trapeze artiste.  She had a team.  It was called
"Pussy Galore and her Abrocats".'  Goldfinger did not smile.  'The team
was unsuccessful, so she trained them as burglars, cat burglars.  It
grew into a gang of outstanding ruthlessness.  It is a Lesbian
organization which now calls itself "The Cement Mixers".  Even the big
American gangs respect them.  She is a remarkable woman.'

A buzzer sounded very softly beneath the table.  Goldfinger
straightened himself.  The door at the end of the room opened briskly
and five men came in.  Goldfinger rose in his chair and ducked his head
in welcome.  He said, 'My name is Gold.  Will you please be seated.'

There was a careful murmur.  Silently the men closed round the table,
pulled out chairs and sat down.  Five pairs of eyes looked coldly,
warily at Goldfinger.  Goldfinger sat down.  He said quietly,
'Gentlemen, in the parcels before you you will find one
twenty-four-carat gold bar, value fifteen thousand dollars.  I thank
you for the courtesy of your attendance.  The agenda is
self-explanatory.  Perhaps, while we wait for Miss Galore, I could run
through your names for the information of my secretaries, Mr Bond here,
and Miss Masterton.  No notes will be made of this meeting, except on
action you may wish me to take, and I can assure you there are no
microphones.  Now then, Mr Bond, on your right is Mr Jed Midnight of
the Shadow Syndicate operating out of Miami and Havana.'

Mr Midnight was a big, good-living man with a jovial face but slow
careful eyes.  He wore a light blue tropical suit over a white silk
shirt ornamented with small green palm trees.  The complicated gold
watch on his wrist must have weighed nearly half a pound.  He smiled
tautly at Bond and said, 'Howdo.'

'Then we have Mr Billy Ring who controls the famous Chicago "Machine".'

Bond thought he had never seen anyone who was less of a 'Billy'.  It
was a face out of a nightmare and, as the face turned towards Bond, it
knew it was, and watched Bond for his reactions.  It was a pale,
pear-shaped, baby face with downy skin and a soft thatch of
straw-coloured hair, but the eyes, which should have been pale blue,
were a tawny brown.  The whites showed all round the pupils and gave a
mesmeric quality to the hard thoughtful stare, unsoftened by a tic in
the right eyelid which made the right eye wink with the heart-beat.  At
some early stage in Mr Ring's career someone had cut off Mr Ring's
lower lip--perhaps he had talked too much--and this had given him a
permanent false smile like the grin of a Hallowe'en pumpkin.  He was
about forty years old.  Bond summed him up as a merciless killer.  Bond
smiled cheerfully into the hard stare of Mr Ring's left eye and looked
past him at the man Goldfinger introduced as Mr Helmut Springer of the
Detroit Purple Gang.

Mr Springer had the glazed eyes of someone who is either very rich or
very dead.  The eyes were pale blue opaque glass marbles which briefly
recognized Bond and then turned inwards again in complete absorption
with self.  The rest of Mr Springer was a 'man of
distinction'--casually pin-striped, Hathaway-shirted, Aqua-Velva'd.  He
gave the impression of someone who found himself in the wrong
company--a first-class ticket holder in a third-class compartment, a
man from the stalls who has been shown by mistake to a seat in the pit.

Mr Midnight put his hand up to his mouth and said softly for Bond's
benefit, 'Don't be taken in by the Duke.  My friend Helmut was the man
who put the piqud shirt on the hood.  Daughter goes to Vassar, but
it's protection money that pays for her hockey-sticks.'  Bond nodded
his thanks.

'And Mr Solo of the Unione Siciliano.'

Mr Solo had a dark heavy face, gloomy with the knowledge of much guilt
and many sins.  His thick horn-rimmed spectacles helioed briefly in
Bond's direction and then bent again to the business of cleaning Mr
Solo's nails with a pocket knife.  He was a big, chunky man, half
boxer, half head waiter, and it was quite impossible to tell what was
on his mind or where his strength lay.  But there is only one head of
the Mafia in America and, if Mr Solo had the job, thought Bond, he had
got it by strength out of terror.  It would be by the exercise of both
that he kept it.

'Howdy.'  Mr Jack Strap of the Spangled Mob had the synthetic charm of
a front man for the Las Vegas casinos, but Bond guessed he had
inherited from the late lamented brothers Spang thanks to other
qualities.  He was an expansive, showily dressed man of about fifty.
He was coming to the end of a cigar.  He smoked it as if he was eating
it, munching hungrily.  From time to time he turned his head sideways
and discreetly spat a scrap of it out on to the carpet behind him.
Behind this compulsive smoking there would be a lot of tension.  Mr
Strap had quick conjuror's eyes.  He seemed to know that his eyes
frightened people because now, presumably not wanting to frighten Bond,
he gave them charm by crinkling them at the corners.

The door at the back of the room opened.  A woman in a black
masculine-cut suit with a high coffee-coloured lace jabot stood in the
doorway.  She walked slowly, unself-consciously down the room and stood
behind the empty chair.  Goldfinger had got to his feet.  She examined
him carefully and then ran her eyes round the table.  She said a
collective, bored 'Hi' and sat down.  Mr Strap said 'Hi Pussy,' and the
others, except Mr Springer who merely bowed, made careful sounds of
welcome.

Goldfinger said, 'Good afternoon, Miss Galore.  We have just been
through the formality of introductions.  The agenda is before you,
together with the fifteen-thousand-dollar gold bar I asked you to
accept to meet the expense and inconvenience of attending this meeting.'

Miss Galore reached for her parcel and opened it.  She weighed the
gleaming yellow brick in her hand.  She gave Goldfinger a direct,
suspicious look.  'All the way through?'

'All the way through.'

Miss Galore held his eyes.  She said 'Pardon my asking' with the curt
tone of a hard woman shopper at the sales.

Bond liked the look of her.  He felt the sexual challenge all beautiful
Lesbians have for men.  He was amused by the uncompromising attitude
that said to Goldfinger and to the room, 'All men are bastards and
cheats.  Don't try any masculine hocus on me.  I don't go for it.  I'm
in a separate league.'  Bond thought she would be in her early
thirties.  She had pale, Rupert Brooke good looks with high cheekbones
and a beautiful jawline.  She had the only violet eyes Bond had ever
seen.  They were the true deep violet of a pansy and they looked
candidly out at the world from beneath straight black brows.  Her hair,
which was as black as Tilly Masterton's, was worn in an untidy urchin
cut.  The mouth was a decisive slash of deep vermilion.  Bond thought
she was superb and so, he noticed, did Tilly Masterton who was gazing
at Miss Galore with worshipping eyes and lips that yearned.  Bond
decided that all was now clear to him about Tilly Masterton.

Goldfinger said, 'And now I must introduce myself.  My name is not
Gold.  My credentials are as follows.  By various operations, most of
them illegitimate, I have made a large sum of money in twenty years.
That sum now stands at sixty million dollars.'  (A respectful hm-ing
went round the table.)  'My operations have, for the most part, been
confined to Europe, but you may be interested to know that I founded
and subsequently disposed of the "Golden Poppy Distributors" who
operated out of Hongkong.'  (Mr Jack Strap whistled softly.)  'The
"Happy Landings Travel Agency", which some of you may have employed in
emergency, was organized and owned by me until I disbanded it.'  (Mr
Helmut Springer screwed a rimless monocle into one glazed eye so that
he could examine Goldfinger more closely.)  'I mention these minor
concerns to show you that, although you may not know me, I have, in the
past, acted at many removes on, I believe, all your behalfs.'  ('Well,
whaddya know!' muttered Mr Jed Midnight with something like awe in his
voice.)  'That, gentlemen and--er--madam, is how I knew of you and how
I came to invite here tonight what I have learned through my own
experience to be the aristocracy, if I may so describe it, of American
crime.'

Bond was impressed.  Goldfinger had, in three minutes flat, got the
meeting on his side.  Now everyone was looking towards Goldfinger with
profound attention.  Even Miss Pussy Galore's eyes were rapt.  Bond
knew nothing about the Golden Poppy Distributors or the Happy Landings
Agency, but they must have run like clockwork from the expressions on
their former customers' faces.  Now everyone was hanging on
Goldfinger's words as if he was Einstein.

Goldfinger's face showed no emotion.  He made a throwaway gesture of
his right hand.  He said flatly, 'I have mentioned two projects of mine
that were successful.  They were small.  There have been many others of
a higher calibre.  Not one of them has failed, and, so far as I know,
my name is on the police files of no country.  I say this to show you
that I thoroughly understand my--our--profession.  And now, gentlemen
and madam, I propose to offer you partnership in an undertaking that
will assuredly place in each of your treasuries, within one week, the
sum of one billion dollars.'  Mr Goldfinger held up his hand.  'We have
different views in Europe and America as to what constitutes the
arithmetical expression "a billion".  I use the word in the sense of
one thousand million.  Do I make myself clear?'




CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CRIME DE LA CRIME

A tug hooted on the river.  Another answered.  A flurry of engine
noises receded.

Mr Jed Midnight, on Bond's right, cleared his throat.  He said
emphatically, 'Mister Gold, or whatever your name is, don't you worry
about definitions.  A billion dollars is a lot of money whichever way
you say it.  Keep talking.'

Mr Solo raised slow black eyes and looked across the table at
Goldfinger.  He said, 'Is very moch money, yess.  But how moch your
cut, mister?'

'Five billion.'

Jack Strap from Las Vegas gave a short boisterous laugh.  'Listen
fellers, what's a few billion between friends.  If Mister--er--Whoosis
can lead me to a billion dollars I'll be glad to slip him a fin or even
maybe a mega-fin for his trouble.  Don't let's be small-minded about
this, huh?'

Mr Helmut Springer tapped his monocle on the gold brick in front of
him.  Everyone looked towards him.  'Mister--ah--Gold.'  It was the
grave voice of the family lawyer.  'These are big figures you mention.
As I understand it, a total of some eleven billion dollars is involved.'

Mr Goldfinger said with precision, 'The exact figure will be nearer
fifteen billion.  For convenience I referred only to the amounts I
thought it would be possible for us to carry away.'

A sharp excited giggle came from Mr Billy Ring.

'Quite, quite, Mr Gold.'  Mr Springer screwed his monocle back into his
eye to observe Goldfinger's reactions.  'But quantities of bullion or
currency to that amount are to be found gathered together in only three
depositories in the United States.  They are the Federal Mint in
Washington, the Federal Reserve Bank in New York City, and Fort Knox in
Kentucky.  Do you intend that we should--er--"knock off" one of these?
And if so which?'

'Fort Knox.'

Amidst the chorus of groans, Mr Midnight said resignedly, 'Mister, I
never met any guy outside Hollywood that had what you've got.  There
it's called "vision".  And vision, mister, is a talent for mistaking
spots before the eyes for fabulous projects.  You should have a talk
with your head-shrinker or get yourself Miltownized.'  Mr Midnight
shook his head sorrowfully.  'Too bad.  That billion sure felt good
while I had it.'

Miss Pussy Galore said in a deep, bored voice, 'Sorry mister, none of
my set of bent pins could take that kind of piggy-bank.'  She made to
get up.

Goldfinger said amiably, 'Now hear me through, gentlemen
and--er--madam.  Your reaction was not unexpected.  Let me put it this
way: Fort Knox is a bank like any other bank.  But it is a much bigger
bank and its protective devices are correspondingly stronger and more
ingenious.  To penetrate them will require corresponding strength and
ingenuity.  That is the only novelty in my project--that it is a big
one.  Nothing else.  Fort Knox is no more impregnable than other
fortresses.  No doubt we all thought the Brink organization was
unbeatable until half a dozen determined men robbed a Brink-armoured
car of a million dollars back in 1950.  It is impossible to escape from
Sing Sing and yet men have found ways of escaping from it.  No, no,
gentlemen.  Fort Knox is a myth like other myths.  Shall I proceed to
the plan?'

Billy Ring hissed through his teeth, like a Japanese, when he talked.
He said harshly, 'Listen, shamus, mebbe ya didn't know it, but the
Third Armoured is located at Fort Knox.  If that's a myth, why don't
the Russkis come and take the United States the next time they have a
team over here playing ice-hockey?'

Goldfinger smiled thinly.  'If I may correct you without weakening your
case, Mr Ring, the following is the order of battle of the military
units presently quartered at Fort Knox.  Of the Third Armoured
Division, there is only the Spearhead, but there are also the 6th
Armoured Cavalry Regiment, the 15th Armour Group, the 160th Engineer
Group and approximately half a division from all units of the United
States Army currently going through the Armoured Replacement Training
Centre and Military Human Research Unit No. 1.  There is also a
considerable body of men associated with Continental Armoured Command
Board No. 2, the Army Maintenance Board and various activities
connected with the Armoured Centre.  In addition there is a police
force consisting of twenty officers and some four hundred enlisted men.
In short, out of a total population of some sixty thousand,
approximately twenty thousand are combat troops of one sort or another.'

'And who's going to say boo to them?' jeered Mr Jack Strap through his
cigar.  Without waiting for an answer he disgustedly tore the tattered
stump out of his mouth and mashed it to fragments in the ash-tray.

[Illustration: Map of Fort Knox and area]

Next to him Miss Pussy Galore sucked her teeth sharply with the
incisiveness of a parrot spitting.  She said, 'Go buy yourself some
better smokes, Jacko.  That thing smells like burning wrestlers'
trunks.'

'Shove it, Puss,' said Mr Strap inelegantly.

Miss Galore was determined to have the last word.  She said sweetly,
'Know what, Jacko?  I could go for a he-man like you.  Matter of fact I
wrote a song about you the other day.  Care to hear its title?  It's
called "If I had to do it all over again, I'd do it all over you".

A bray of laughter came from Mr Midnight, a high giggle from Mr Ring.
Goldfinger tapped lightly for order.  He said patiently, 'Now hear me
through, please, gentlemen.'  He got up and walked to the blackboard
and pulled a roll map down over it.  It was a detailed town map of Fort
Knox including the Godman Army Airfield and the roads and railway
tracks leading into the town.  The committee members on the right of
the table swivelled their chairs.  Goldfinger pointed to the Bullion
Depository.  It was down on the left-hand corner enclosed in a triangle
formed by the Dixie Highway, Bullion Boulevard and Vine Grove Road.
Goldfinger said, 'I will show you a detailed plan of the depository in
just a moment.'  He paused.  'Now, gentlemen, allow me to point out the
main features of this fairly straightforward township.  Here'--he ran
his finger from the top centre of the map down through the town and out
beyond the Bullion Depository--'runs the line of the Illinois Central
Railroad from Louisville, thirty-five miles to the north, through the
town and on to Elizabethtown eighteen miles to the south.  We are not
concerned with Brandenburg Station in the centre of the town, but with
this complex of sidings adjoining the Bullion Vault.  That is one of
the loading and unloading bays for the bullion from the Mint in
Washington.  Other methods of transport to the vault, which are varied
in no particular rotation for security reasons, are by truck convoy
down the Dixie Highway or by freight plane to Godman Airfield.  As you
can see, the vault is isolated from these routes and stands alone
without any natural cover whatsoever in the centre of approximately
fifty acres of grassland.  Only one road leads to the vault, a
fifty-yard driveway through heavily armed gates on Bullion Boulevard.
Once inside the armoured stockade, the trucks proceed on to this
circular road which runs round the vault to the rear entrance where the
bullion is unloaded.  That circular road, gentlemen, is manufactured
out of steel plates or flaps.  These plates are on hinges and in an
emergency the entire steel surface of the road can be raised
hydraulically to create a second internal stockade of steel.  Not so
obvious to the eye, but known to me, is that an underground delivery
tunnel runs below the plain between Bullion Boulevard and Vine Grove
Road.  This serves as an additional means of access to the vault
through steel doors that lead from the wall of the tunnel to the first
sub-ground floor of the depository.'

Goldfinger paused and stood away from the map.  He looked round the
table.  'All right, gentlemen.  There is the vault and those are the
main approaches to it with the exception of its front door which is
purely an entrance to the reception hall and offices.  Any questions?'

There were none.  All eyes were on Goldfinger, waiting.  Once again the
authority of his words had gripped them.  This man seemed to know more
about the secrets of Fort Knox than had ever been released to the
outside world.

Goldfinger turned back to the blackboard and pulled down a second map
over the first.  This was the detailed plan of the Gold Vault.
Goldfinger said, 'Well, gentlemen, you can see that this is an
immensely solid two-storey building somewhat like a square, two-layered
cake.  You will notice that the roof has been stepped for bomb
protection, and you will observe the four pill boxes on the ground at
the four corners.  These are of steel and are connected with the
interior of the building.  The exterior dimensions of the vault are a
hundred and five by a hundred and twenty-one feet.  The height from
ground level is forty-two feet.  The construction is of Tennessee
granite, steel-lined.  The exact constituents are: sixteen thousand
cubic feet of granite, four thousand cubic yards of concrete, seven
hundred and fifty tons of reinforcing steel and seven hundred and sixty
tons of structural steel.  Right?  Now, within the building, there is a
two-storey steel and concrete vault divided into compartments.  The
vault door weighs more than twenty tons and the casing of the vault is
of steel plates, steel I-beams and steel cylinders laced with
hoop-bands and encased in concrete.  The roof is of similar
construction and is independent of the roof of the building.  A
corridor encircles the vault at both levels and gives access both to
the vault and to the offices and storerooms that are housed in the
outer wall of the building.  No one person is entrusted with the
combination to the door of the vault.  Various senior members of the
depository staff must separately dial combinations known only to each
of them.  Naturally the building is equipped with the latest and finest
protective devices.  There is a strong guard-post within the building
and immensely powerful reinforcements are at all times available from
the Armoured Centre less than a mile distant.  Do you follow me?  Now,
as to the actual content of the vault--these amount, as I said earlier,
to some fifteen billion dollars' worth of standard mint bars one
thousand fine.  Each bar is double the size of the one before you and
contains four hundred Troy ounces, the avoirdupois weight being some
twenty-seven and a half pounds.  These are stored without wrappings in
the compartments of the vault.'  Goldfinger glanced round the table.
'And that, gentlemen and madam,' he concluded flatly, 'is all I can
tell you, and all I think we need to know, about the nature and
contents of Fort Knox Depository.  Unless there are any questions at
this stage, I will proceed to a brief explanation of how this
depository may be penetrated and its contents seized.'

There was silence.  The eyes round the table were rapt, intent.
Nervously, Mr Jack Strap took a medium-sized cigar out of his vest
pocket and stuffed it in the corner of his mouth.

Pussy Galore said sternly, 'If you set fire to that thing I swear I'll
kayo you with my gold brick.'  She took a threatening hold of the bar.

'Take it easy, kid,' said Mr Strap out of the corner of his mouth.

Mr Jed Midnight commented decisively, 'Mister, if you can heist that
joint, you got yourself a summum cum laude.  Go ahead and tell.  This
is either a bust or the Crime de la Crime.'

Goldfinger said indifferently, 'Very well, gentlemen.  You shall hear
the plan.'  He paused and looked carefully round the table and into
each pair of eyes in turn.  'But I hope you understand that total
security must now prevail.  What I have said so far, if repeated, would
be taken for the maunderings of a lunatic.  What I am about to say will
involve all of us in the greatest peace-time conspiracy in the history
of the United States.  May I take it that we are all bound by an oath
of absolute secrecy?'

Almost instinctively, Bond watched the eyes of Mr Helmut Springer from
Detroit.  While affirmatives in various tones of voice came from the
others, Mr Springer veiled his eyes.  His portentous 'You have my
solemn word' rang hollow.  To Bond, the candour was as false as a
second-hand motor salesman's.  Casually he drew a short straight minus
line beside Mr Springer's name on the agenda.

'Very well then.'  Goldfinger returned to his seat at the table.  He
sat down, picked up his pencil and began talking to it in a thoughtful,
conversational voice.  'First, and in some ways most difficult, is the
question of disposal.  One billion dollars of gold bullion weighs
approximately one thousand tons.  To transport this amount would
require one hundred ten-ton trucks or some twenty six-wheel heavy
industry road transporters.  I recommend the latter vehicles.  I have a
list of the charter companies who hire out this type of vehicle and I
recommend that, if we are to be partners, you should proceed
immediately after this meeting to contracting with the relevant
companies in your territories.  For obvious reasons you will all wish
to engage your own drivers and this I must leave in your hands.  No
doubt'--Mr Goldfinger allowed himself the ghost of a smile--'the
Teamsters' Union will prove a fruitful source for reliable men and you
will perhaps consider recruiting ex-drivers from the Negro Red Ball
Express that served the American armies during the war.  However, these
are details requiring exact planning and co-ordination.  There will
also be a traffic control problem and no doubt you will make
arrangements among yourselves for sharing out the available roads.
Transport aircraft will be a subsidiary source of mobility and
arrangements will be made to keep open the north-south runway on the
Godman Airfield.  Your subsequent disposal of the bullion will, of
course, be your own affair.  For my part'--Goldfinger looked coolly
round the table--'I shall initially be using the railroad and, since I
have a bulkier transport problem, I trust you will allow me to reserve
this means of egress for my own.'  Goldfinger did not wait for comment.
He continued in an even tone: 'Compared with this problem of transport,
the other arrangements will be relatively simple.  To begin with, on
D-1, I propose to put the entire population, military and civilian, of
Fort Knox temporarily out of action.  Exact arrangements have been made
and only await my signal.  Briefly, the town is supplied with all
drinking and other water-supplies by two wells and two filter plants
yielding just under seven million gallons per day.  These are under the
control of the Post Engineer.  This gentleman has been pleased to
accept a visit from the Superintendent and Deputy Superintendent of the
Tokyo Municipal Waterworks who wish to study the workings of a plant of
this size for installation in a new suburb planned for the environs of
Tokyo.  The Post Engineer has been much flattered by this request and
the Japanese gentlemen will be accorded all facilities.  These two
gentlemen, who are, of course, members of my staff, will be carrying on
their persons relatively small quantities of a highly concentrated
opiate devised by the German chemical warfare experts for just this
purpose during the last war.  This substance disseminates rapidly
through a volume of water of this magnitude, and, in its consequent
highly diluted form, has the effect of instant but temporary narcosis
of any person drinking half a tumbler of the infected water.  The
symptoms are a deep and instant sleep from which the victim awakens
much refreshed in approximately three days.  Gentlemen--' Goldfinger
held out one hand palm upwards--'in the month of June in Kentucky I
consider it out of the question that a single resident is able to go
through twenty-four hours without consuming half a glass of water.
There may perhaps be a handful of confirmed alcoholics on their feet on
D-Day, but I anticipate that we shall enter a town in which virtually
the entire population has fallen into a deep sleep where they stand.'

'What was that fairy-tale?'  Miss Galore's eyes were shining with the
vision.

'_Puss in Boots_,' said Mr Jack Strap in a surly voice.  'Go ahead,
mister.  This is good.  How do we get into the town?'

'We come in,' said Goldfinger, 'on a special train that will have left
New York City on the night of D-1.  There will be approximately one
hundred of us and we shall be attired as Red Cross workers.  Miss
Galore will, I hope, provide the necessary contingent of nurses.  It is
to fill this minor but important role that she has been invited to this
meeting.'

Miss Galore said enthusiastically, 'Wilco, Roger, over and out!  My
girls'll look sweet in starch.  Whaddya say, Jacko?'  She leant
sideways and nudged Mr Strap in the ribs.

'I say they'd look better in cement overcoats,' said Mr Strap
impatiently.  'Whaddya have to keep on butting in for?  Keep going,
mister.'

'At Louisville, thirty-five miles from Fort Knox, I myself and an
assistant will ask to be allowed to ride in the leading diesel.  We
shall have delicate instruments.  We shall say that it will be
necessary for us to sample the air as we approach Fort Knox for, by
this time, news of the mysterious affliction that has struck down the
inhabitants will have reached the outer world and there is likely to be
some panic in the surrounding area, and indeed in the country as a
whole.  Rescue planes may be expected to approach shortly after our
arrival at dawn and an early task will be to man the control tower at
Godman Airfield, declare the base closed and re-route all planes to
Louisville.  But, to go back for a moment, shortly after leaving
Louisville, my assistant and I will dispose of the driver and fireman
by as humane methods as are possible' (I bet, thought Bond) 'and I
shall personally bring the train--I may say that I have the requisite
knowledge of these locomotives--through Fort Knox to the bullion
sidings alongside the depository.'  Goldfinger paused.  He looked with
slow, grave eyes round the circle.  Satisfied with what he saw, he
continued in the same even tone.  'By this time, gentlemen and madam,
your transport convoys should be arriving.  The traffic controller will
dispose them in the neighbourhood of the depository according to a
pre-arranged plan, the airport staff will proceed by truck to Godman
Airfield and take over, and we shall enter the depository, paying no
heed to the sleeping bodies with which the landscape will
be--er--decorated.  Right?'

Mr Solo's dark eyes burned across the table.  He said softly, 'Sure, is
right so far.  Now mebbe you--' he blew out his cheeks and gave a quick
hard puff towards Goldfinger--'like this and the twenty-ton door he
fall down.  Yes?'

'Yes,' said Goldfinger equably.  'Almost exactly like that.'  He rose
and went to the table under the blackboard, lifted up the big ungainly
carton and carried it carefully back and placed it on the table in
front of him.  It seemed to be very heavy.

He sat down and continued, 'While ten of my trained assistants are
making preparations for the vault to be opened, stretcher teams will
enter the depository and remove to safety as many of the inmates as can
be located.'  Bond thought he noticed a treacherous purr underlying
Goldfinger's next words.  'I am sure you will all agree, gentlemen and
madam, that all unnecessary loss of life should be avoided.  Thus far,
I hope you notice that there have been no casualties with the exception
of two employees of the Illinois Central Railroad who have received
sore heads.'  Goldfinger didn't wait for comment but went on.  'Now,'
he reached out and placed his hand on the carton, 'when you, gentlemen,
and your associates have needed weapons, other than the conventional
small arms, where have you found them?  At military establishments,
gentlemen.  You have purchased sub-machine guns and other heavy
equipment from quartermaster storekeepers at near-by military bases.
You have achieved this by the use of pressure, blackmail or money.  I
have done the same.  Only one weapon would be powerful enough to blast
open the Bullion Vault at Fort Knox and I obtained one, after much
seeking, from a certain allied military base in Germany.  It cost me
exactly one million dollars.  This, gentlemen, is an atomic warhead
designed for use with the Corporal Intermediate Range Guided Missile.'

'Cheesus Kerist.'  Jed Midnight's hands reached for the edge of the
table beside Bond and gripped it.

All the faces round the table were pale.  Bond could feel the skin taut
over his own tensed jaw.  To break his tension he reached inside his
coat pocket for the Chesterfields and lit one.  He slowly blew out the
flame and put the lighter back in his pocket.  God Almighty!  What had
he got himself into?  Bond looked back down the vista of his knowledge
of Goldfinger.  The first meeting with the naked brown body on the roof
of the Floridiana Cabana Club.  The casual way he had rapped
Goldfinger's knuckles.  The interview with M.  The meeting at the bank
at which it had been a question of tracking down a gold
smuggler--admittedly a big one and one who worked for the Russians--but
still only a man-sized criminal, someone Bond had taken trouble to beat
at golf and then had pursued coolly, efficiently, but still as only one
more quarry like so many others.  And now!  Now it was not a rabbit in
the rabbit hole, not even a fox, it was a king cobra--the biggest, most
deadly inhabitant of the world!  Bond sighed wearily.  Once more into
the breach, dear friends!  This time it really was St George and the
dragon.  And St George had better get a move on and do something before
the dragon hatched the little dragon's egg he was now nesting so
confidently.  Bond smiled tautly.  Do what?  What in God's name was
there he could do?

Goldfinger held up his hand.  'Gentlemen and madam, believe me, this
object is an entirely harmless lump of machinery.  It is not armed.  If
I hit it with a hammer it would not explode.  Nothing can make it
explode until it is armed and that will not happen until The Day.'

Mr Billy Ring's pale face was shiny with sweat.  The words trembled
slightly as they hissed out through the false grin.  'Mister, what ...
what about this thing they call--er--fall-out?'

'Fall-out will be minimal, Mr Ring, and extremely localized.  This is
the latest model--the so-called "clean" atomic bomb.  But protection
suits will be issued to the squad that first enters the ruins of the
building.  They will form the first in the human chain that will remove
the gold and pass it to the waiting trucks.'

'Flying debris, Mister?  Chunks of concrete and steel and so forth?'
Mr Midnight's voice came from somewhere in his stomach.

'We shall take shelter behind the outer steel stockade of the
depository, Mr Midnight.  All personnel will wear ear-plugs.  There may
be minor damage to some of the trucks, but that hazard must be
accepted.'

'Da sleeping guys?'  Mr Solo's eyes were greedy.  'Mebbe dey jess
sleeps a liddle longer?'  Mr Solo obviously didn't worry too much about
the sleeping guys.

'We shall move as many as possible to safety.  We must, I am afraid,
accept minor damage to the town.  I estimate that casualties among the
population will approximately equal three days' toll on the roads of
Fort Knox.  Our operation will merely serve to keep road accident
statistics at a steady level.'

'Damn nice of us.'  Mr Midnight's nerves had now recovered.

'Any more questions?'  Goldfinger's voice was bland.  He had read out
the figures, estimated the prospects for the business.  Now it was time
to put the meeting to the vote.  'Details remain to be worked out
exactly.  In that, my staff here'--he turned first to Bond and then to
Miss Masterton--'will be assisting me.  This room will be our
operations room to which you will all have access by day or by night.
The code word for the project is "Operation Grand Slam", which will
always be used in referring to the project.  May I suggest that those
of you who wish to participate should brief one, and only one, of your
most trusted lieutenants.  Other staff can be trained for their
functions as if this were a run-of-the-mill bank robbery.  On D-1 a
slightly wider briefing of staff will be necessary.  I know I can rely
on you, gentlemen and madam, if you decide to participate, to treat
this whole project as an operation of war.  Inefficiency or insecurity
will of course have to be dealt with decisively.  And now, gentlemen
and madam, I will ask you to reply on behalf of your respective
organizations.  Which of you wishes to enter this race?  The prize is
gigantic.  The risks are minimal.  Mr Midnight?'  Goldfinger turned his
head an inch to the right.  Bond saw the wide open X-ray gaze devour
his neighbour.  'Yes?'  There was a pause.  'Or no?'




CHAPTER NINETEEN

SECRET APPENDIX

'Mr Gold,' Jed Midnight pronounced sonorously, 'you are undoubtedly the
greatest thing in crime since Cain invented murder and used it on
Abel.'  He paused and added emphatically, 'I shall count it an honour
to be associated with you in this enterprise.'

'Thank you, Mr Midnight.  And you, Mr Ring?'

Bond was doubtful about Mr Billy Ring.  He had scrawled plusses against
all the names except Ring and Helmut Springer.  To Mr Ring he had
allotted a nought, to Springer a minus sign.  He had come to his
conclusions by watching eyes, mouths, hands, but nothing had been
betrayed by The Grinner's unwavering false smile.  The wink in his
right eye had been as steady on the pulse-beat as a metronome and he
had kept his hands below the table.

Now Billy Ring brought his hands up from below the table and formed a
cat's cradle with them on the green baize in front of him.  For a
moment he watched the two thumbs twirling, then he raised his nightmare
face to Goldfinger's.  The tic in his right eye had stopped.  The two
rows of teeth began to operate like a ventriloquist's dummy.
'Mister--' he found difficulty with his b's, m's and p's and produced
them by bringing his upper lip down over his teeth like a horse does
when it takes sugar out of your hand--'long time now my friends and I
been back in legal.  What I mean, the old days of leaving corpses
strewn all over the landscape went out with the 'forties.  Me and my
associates, we do all right with the girls, the hemp, and the
racetrack, and when we're short there's our good friends the Unions to
slip us the odd fin.  Ya see, mister--'  The Grinner opened his hands
and then put them back into the cradle--'we figger the old days are
gone.  Big Jim Colossimo, Johnny Torrio, Dion O'Bannion, Al
Capone--where are those guys today, huh?  Mister, they're pushing up
the morning glory by the fence.  Mebbe you weren't around in the days
when we used to hide up between fights in Little Bohemia up behind
Milwaukee?  Well, siree, in those days, people were shooting at each
other so fast you'd often need a programme to tell the act from the
spectators.  So all right, people got tired of it--those that hadn't
already got tired to death, if you get my meaning--and when the
'fifties come along and I take over the team, it's unanimous that we
get out of the fireworks business.  And now what, mister?  Now you come
along and put it to me that me and my friends assist you to let off the
biggest fizzbang in history!  So what do I figger to say to your
proposition, Mister--er--Whoosis?  Well, I tell you, mister.
Everybody's got his price, see?--and for a billion dollars it's a deal.
We'll put away the marbles and bring out the sling-shots.  We're in.'

'Grinner, you sure take one hell of a long time to say yes,' commented
Mr Midnight sourly.

Goldfinger said cordially, 'Thank you for your most interesting
statement, Mr Ring.  I am very happy to welcome you and your
associates.  Mr Solo?'

Mr Solo prefaced his reply by reaching into his coat pocket and taking
out a battery shaver.  He switched it on.  The room filled with the
noise of angry bees.  Mr Solo leant his head back and began running the
machine thoughtfully up the right side of his face while his uptilted
eyes sought decision in the ceiling.  Suddenly he switched the razor
off, put it down on the table in front of him and jerked his head down
and forward like a snake striking.  The black gun-muzzles of his eyes
pointed threateningly across the table at Goldfinger and moved slowly
from feature to feature of the big moon-face.  Half Mr Solo's own face
now looked naked.  The other half was dark with the Italian swarthiness
that comes from an uncontrollable beard growth.  Bond guessed that he
probably had to shave every three or four hours.  Now Mr Solo decided
to speak.  He spoke in a voice that brought chill into the room.  He
said softly, 'Mister, I been watching you.  You are a very relaxed man
for someone who speaks such big things.  Last man I knew was so much
relaxed he got himself totally relaxed by a quick burst of the chopper.
Okay, okay.'  Mr Solo sat back.  He spread open palms in reluctant
surrender.  'So I come in, yes.  But mister--' there was a pause for
emphasis--'either we get that billion or you get dead.  Is okay with
you?'

Goldfinger's lips bent ironically.  'Thank you, Mr Solo.  Your
conditions are quite acceptable.  I have every wish to stay alive.  Mr
Helmut Springer?'

Mr Springer's eyes looked deader than ever.  He said pompously, 'I am
still giving the matter my full consideration.  Pray consult my
colleagues while I deliberate.'

Mr Midnight commented impatiently, 'Same old Hell.  Waits for what he
calls inspiration.  He's guided--messages from the Almighty on the
angels' wavelength.  I guess he hasn't heard a human voice in twenty
years.'

'And Mr Strap?'

Mr Jack Strap crinkled his eyes at Goldfinger.  He said smoothly,
'Mister, I figure you know the odds and you surely pay the best since
one of our machines at Vegas got the trots and gave continuous
jackpots.  I guess if we provide the muscles and the guns this caper'll
pay off.  You can count me in.'  Mr Strap turned off the charm.  His
eyes, now frightening again, turned, with Goldfinger's, to Miss Pussy
Galore.

Miss Galore veiled her violet eyes so as not to have to look at either
of them.  She said indifferently to the room at large, 'Business ain't
been so brisk in my corner of the woods.'  She tapped with long,
silver-painted finger-nails on the gold bar before her.  'Mind you, I
won't say I'm overdrawn at the bank.  Let's put it I'm just a shade
underdeposited.  Yup.  Sure I'll come in.  Me and my gals got to eat.'

Goldfinger allowed himself a half-smile of sympathy.  'That is
excellent news, Miss Galore.  And now,' he turned to face across the
table, 'Mr Springer, might we ask if you have made up your mind?'

Slowly Mr Springer rose to his feet.  He gave the controlled yawn of an
opera-goer.  He followed the yawn with a small belch.  He took out a
fine linen handkerchief and patted his lips.  His glazed eyes moved
round the table and finally rested on Goldfinger.  Slowly his head
moved from side to side as if he was trying to exercise fibrositis in
his neck muscles.  He said gravely, like a bank manager refusing a
loan, 'Mr Gold, I fear your proposal would not find favour with my
colleagues in Detroit.'  He gave a little bow which included everyone.
'It only remains for me to thank you for a most interesting occasion.
Good afternoon, gentlemen and madam.'  In the chilly silence, Mr
Springer tucked his handkerchief carefully into the left-hand cuff of
his immaculate pin-stripe, turned and walked softly to the door and let
himself out.

The door closed with a sharp click.  Bond noticed Goldfinger's hand
slip casually below the table.  He guessed that Oddjob was getting his
signal.  Signal for what?

Mr Midnight said nastily, 'Glad he's out.  He's strictly a four-ulcer
man.  Now then--' he got up briskly and turned to Bond--'how about a
little drink?'

They all rose and gathered round the buffet.  Bond found himself
between Miss Pussy Galore and Tilly Masterton.  He offered them
champagne.  Miss Galore looked at him coldly and said, 'Move over,
Handsome.  Us girls want to talk secrets.  Don't we, yummy?'  Miss
Masterton blushed and then turned very pale.  She whispered adoringly,
'Oh yes please, Miss Galore.'

Bond smiled sourly at Tilly Masterton and moved down the room.

Jed Midnight had witnessed the snub.  He got close to Bond and said
earnestly, 'Mister, if that's your doll, you better watch her.  Pussy
gets the girls she wants.  She consumes them in bunches--like grapes,
if you follow me.'  Mr Midnight sighed wearily.  'Cheesus how they bore
me, the lizzies!  You'll see, she'll soon have that frail parting her
hair three ways in front of the mirror.'

Bond said cheerfully, 'I'll watch out.  There's nothing much I can do.
She's an independent sort of a girl.'

'That so?' said Mr Midnight with a spark of interest.  'Well mebbe I
can help to break it up.'  He straightened his tie.  'I could go for
that Masterton.  She's sure got natural resources.  See you around.'
He grinned at Bond and moved off down the room.

Bond was having a quiet square meal off caviar and champagne and
thinking how well Goldfinger had handled the meeting when the door at
the end of the room opened and one of the Koreans hurried in and went
up to Goldfinger.  Goldfinger bent his head to the whispered words.
His face became grave.  He rapped a fork on his glass of Saratoga Vichy.

'Gentlemen and madam.'  He looked sadly round the group.  'I have
received bad news.  Our friend Mr Helmut Springer has met with an
accident.  He fell down the stairs.  Death was instantaneous.'

'Ho, ho!'  Mr Ring's laugh was not a laugh.  It was a hole in the face.
'And what does that Slappy Hapgood, his torpedo, have to say about it?'

Goldfinger said gravely, 'Alas, Mr Hapgood also fell down the stairs
and has succumbed to his injuries.'

Mr Solo looked at Goldfinger with new respect.  He said softly,
'Mister, you better get those stairs fixed before me and my friend
Giulio come to use them.'

Goldfinger said seriously, 'The fault has been located.  Repairs will
be put in hand at once.'  His face grew thoughtful.  'I fear these
accidents may be misconstrued in Detroit.'

Jed Midnight said cheerfully, 'Don't give it a thought, mister.  They
love funerals up there.  And it'll take a load off their minds.  Old
Hell wouldn't have lasted much longer.  They been stoking the fires
under him these twelve months.'  He appealed to Mr Strap who stood next
to him.  'Am I right, Jacko?'

'Sure, Jed,' said Mr Strap sagely.  'You got the score.  Mr Helmut M.
Springer had to be hit.'


'Hit'--mobese for murder.  When Bond at last got to bed that night, he
couldn't wipe the word out of his mind.  Oddjob had got the signal, a
double ring, and Springer and his guard had got hit.  There had been
nothing Bond could have done about it--even if he had wanted to, and Mr
Helmut Springer meant nothing to him, probably richly deserved to be
hit anyway--but now some 59,998 other people were going to get hit
unless he, and only he, could do something about it.

When the meeting of paramount hoods had broken up to go about their
various duties, Goldfinger had dismissed the girl and kept Bond in the
room.  He told Bond to take notes and then for more than two hours went
over the operation down to the smallest detail.  When they came to the
doping of the two reservoirs (Bond had to work out an exact timetable
to ensure that the people of Fort Knox would all be 'under' in good
time) Bond had asked for details of the drug and its speed of action.

'You won't have to worry about that.'

'Why not?  Everything depends on it.'

'Mr Bond.'  Goldfinger's eyes had a faraway, withdrawn look.  'I will
tell you the truth because you will have no opportunity of passing it
on.  From now, Oddjob will not be more than a yard from your side and
his orders will be strict and exact.  So I can tell you that the entire
population of Fort Knox will be dead or incapacitated by midnight on
D-1.  The substance that will be inserted in the water supply, outside
the filter plant, will be a highly concentrated form of GB.'

'You're mad!  You don't really mean you're going to kill sixty thousand
people!'

'Why not?  American motorists do it every two years.'

Bond stared into Goldfinger's face in fascinated horror.  It couldn't
be true!  He couldn't mean it!  He said tensely, 'What's this GB?'

'GB is the most powerful of the Trilone group of nerve poisons.  It was
perfected by the Wehrmacht in 1943, but never used for fear of
reprisals.  In fact, it is a more effective instrument of destruction
than the hydrogen bomb.  Its disadvantage lies in the difficulty of
applying it to the populace.  The Russians captured the entire German
stocks at Dyhernfurth on the Polish frontier.  Friends of mine were
able to supply me with the necessary quantities.  Introduction through
the water supply is an ideal method of applying it to a densely
populated area.'

Bond said, 'Goldfinger, you're a lousy, ---- bastard.'

'Don't be childish.  We have work to do.'

Later, when they had got to the problem of transporting the tons of
gold out of the town, Bond had had one last try.  He said, 'Goldfinger,
you're not going to get this stuff away.  Nobody's going to get their
hundred tons of gold out of the place--let alone five hundred.  You'll
find yourself tearing down the Dixie Highway in a truck with a few gold
bars loaded with gamma rays and the American Army on your tail.  And
you'll have killed sixty thousand people for that?  The thing's
farcical.  Even if you do get a ton or two away, where the hell do you
think you're going to hide it?'

'Mr Bond.'  Goldfinger's patience was infinite.  'It just happens that
a Soviet cruiser of the _Sverdlovsk_ class will be visiting Norfolk,
Virginia, on a goodwill cruise at that time.  It sails from Norfolk on
D+1.  Initially by train and then by transporter convoy, my gold will
arrive on board the cruiser by midnight on D-Day.  I shall sail in the
cruiser for Kronstadt.  Everything has been carefully planned, every
possible hitch has been foreseen.  I have lived with this operation for
five years.  Now the time has come for the performance.  I have tidied
up my activities in England and Europe.  Such small debris as remains
of my former life can go to the scavengers who will shortly be sniffing
on my trail.  I shall be gone.  I shall have emigrated and, Mr Bond, I
shall have taken the golden heart of America with me.
Naturally'--Goldfinger was indulgent--'this unique performance will not
be immaculate.  There has not been enough time for rehearsals.  I need
these clumsy gangsters with their guns and their men, but I could not
bring them into the plan until the last moment.  They will make
mistakes.  Conceivably they will have much trouble getting their own
loot away.  Some will be caught, others killed.  I couldn't care less.
These men are amateurs who were needed, so to speak, for the crowd
scenes.  They are extras, Mr Bond, brought in off the streets.  What
happens to them after the play is of no interest to me whatsoever.  And
now, on with the work.  I shall need seven copies of all this by
nightfall.  Where were we...?'

So in fact, reflected Bond feverishly, this was not only a Goldfinger
operation with SMERSH in the background.  SMERSH had even got the High
Praesidium to play.  This was Russia versus America with Goldfinger as
the spearhead!  Was it an act of war to steal something from another
country?  But who would know that Russia had the gold?  No one, if the
plan went off as Goldfinger intended.  None of the gangsters had an
inkling.  To them Goldfinger was just another of them, another
gangster, slightly larger than life-size.  And Goldfinger's staff, his
drivers for the golden convoy to the coast?  Bond himself, and Tilly
Masterton?  Some would be killed, including him and the girl.  Some,
the Koreans for instance, would no doubt sail in the cruiser.  Not a
trace would be left, not a witness.  It was modern piracy with all the
old-time trimmings.  Goldfinger was sacking Fort Knox as Bloody Morgan
had sacked Panama.  There was no difference except that the weapons and
the techniques had been brought up to date.

And there was only one man in the whole world who could stop it.  But
how?


The next day was an unending blizzard of paper-work.  Every half-hour a
note would come in from Goldfinger's operations room asking for
schedules of this, copies of that, estimates, timetables, lists of
stores.  Another typewriter was brought in, maps, reference
books--anything that Bond requisitioned.  But not once did Oddjob relax
the extreme care with which he opened the door to Bond's knock, not
once did his watchful eyes wander from Bond's eyes, hands, feet when he
came into the room to bring meals or notes or supplies.  There was no
question of Bond and the girl being part of the team.  They were
dangerous slaves and nothing else.

Tilly Masterton was equally reserved.  She worked like a
machine--quick, willing, accurate, but uncommunicative.  She responded
with cool politeness to Bond's early attempts to make friends, share
his thoughts with her.  By the evening, he had learnt nothing about her
except that she had been a successful amateur ice-skater in between
secretarial work for Unilevers.  Then she had started getting star
parts in ice-shows.  Her hobby had been indoor pistol and rifle
shooting and she had belonged to two marksman clubs.  She had few
friends.  She had never been in love or engaged.  She lived by herself
in two rooms in Earls Court.  She was twenty-four.  Yes, she realized
that they were in a bad fix.  But something would turn up.  This Fort
Knox business was nonsense.  It would certainly go wrong.  She thought
Miss Pussy Galore was 'divine'.  She somehow seemed to count on her to
get her out of this mess.  Women, with a sniff, were rather good at
things that needed finesse.  Instinct told them what to do.  Bond was
not to worry about her.  She would be all right.

Bond came to the conclusion that Tilly Masterton was one of those girls
whose hormones had got mixed up.  He knew the type well and thought
they and their male counterparts were a direct consequence of giving
votes to women and 'sex equality'.  As a result of fifty years of
emancipation, feminine qualities were dying out or being transferred to
the males.  Pansies of both sexes were everywhere, not yet completely
homosexual, but confused, not knowing what they were.  The result was a
herd of unhappy sexual misfits--barren and full of frustrations, the
women wanting to dominate and the men to be nannied.  He was sorry for
them, but he had no time for them.  Bond smiled sourly to himself as he
remembered his fantasies about this girl as they sped along the valley
of the Loire.  Entre Deux Seins indeed!

At the end of the day, there was a final note from Goldfinger:


    Five principals and myself will leave La Guardia Airport tomorrow
    at 11 a.m. in chartered plane flown by my pilots for aerial survey
    of Grand Slam.  You will accompany.  Masterton will remain.  G.


Bond sat on the edge of his bed and looked at the wall.  Then he got up
and went to the typewriter.  He worked for an hour, typing,
single-spaced, on both sides of the sheet, exact details of the
operation.  He folded the sheet, rolled it to a small cylinder about
the size of his little finger and sealed it carefully with gum.  Next
he typed on a slip of paper:


    URGENT AND VITAL.  REWARD OF FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS IS GUARANTEED
    WITH NO QUESTIONS ASKED TO THE FINDER WHO DELIVERS THIS MESSAGE
    UNOPENED TO FELIX LEITER CARE PINKERTON'S DETECTIVE AGENCY, 154
    NASSAU STREET, NEW YORK CITY.  IMMEDIATE CASH ON DELIVERY.


Bond rolled this message round the cylinder, wrote $5000 REWARD in red
ink on the outside, and stuck the little package down the centre of
three inches of Scotch tape.  Then he sat down again on the edge of the
bed and carefully strapped the free ends of the Scotch tape down the
inside of his thigh.




CHAPTER TWENTY

JOURNEY INTO HOLOCAUST

'Mister, Flying Control is buzzing us.  Wants to know who we are.  They
say this is restricted air.'

Goldfinger got up from his seat and went forward into the cockpit.
Bond watched him pick up the hand microphone.  His voice came back
clearly over the quiet hum of the ten-seater Executive Beechcraft.
'Good morning.  This is Mr Gold of Paramount Pictures Corporation.  We
are carrying out an authorized survey of the territory for a
forthcoming 'A' picture of the famous Confederate raid of 1861 which
resulted in the capture of General Sherman at Muldraugh Hill.  Yes,
that's right.  Gary Grant and Elizabeth Taylor in the lead.  What's
that?  Clearance?  Sure we've got clearance.  Let me see now'
(Goldfinger consulted nothing) '--yes, here it is.  Signed by Chief of
Special Services at the Pentagon.  Sure, the Commanding Officer at the
Armoured Centre will have a copy.  Okay and thanks.  Hope you'll enjoy
the picture.  'Bye.'

Goldfinger wiped the breezy expression off his face, handed over the
microphone and came back into the cabin.  He braced his legs and stood
looking down at his passengers.  'Well, gentlemen and madam, do you
think you've seen enough?  I think you'll agree it's all pretty clear
and conforms with your copies of the town plan.  I don't want to go
much lower than six thousand.  Perhaps we could make one more circuit
and be off.  Oddjob, get out the refreshments.'

There was a mumble of comment and questions which Goldfinger dealt with
one by one.  Oddjob got up from Bond's side and walked down to the
rear.  Bond followed him and, under his hard, suspicious stare, went
into the little lavatory and locked the door.

He sat down calmly and thought.  There hadn't been a chance on the way
down to La Guardia.  He had sat with Oddjob in the back of an
unobtrusive Buick saloon.  The doors had been locked on them by the
driver and the windows tightly closed.  Goldfinger had ridden in front,
the partition closed behind him.  Oddjob had sat slightly sideways, his
horn-ridged hands held ready on his thighs like heavy tools.  He had
not taken his eyes off Bond until the car had driven round the boundary
to the charter hangars and come up alongside the private plane.
Sandwiched between Goldfinger and Oddjob, Bond had had no alternative
but to climb up the steps into the plane and take his seat with Oddjob
beside him.  Ten minutes later, the others had arrived.  There was no
communication with them except an exchange of curt greetings.  They
were all different now--no smart remarks, no unnecessary talk.  These
were men who had gone to war.  Even Pussy Galore, in a black Dacron
macintosh with a black leather belt, looked like some young S.S.
guardsman.  Once or twice in the plane she had turned and looked at
Bond rather thoughtfully.  But she hadn't answered his smile.  Perhaps
she just couldn't understand where Bond fitted in, who he was.  When
they got back to La Guardia there would be the same routine.  It was
now or never.  But where?  Among the leaves of lavatory paper?  But
they might be disturbed too soon or not for weeks.  Would the ash-tray
be emptied?  Possibly not.  But one thing would.

There was a rattle at the door-handle.  Oddjob was getting restless.
Perhaps Bond was setting fire to the plane.  Bond called, 'Coming,
ape.'  He got up and lifted the seat.  He tore the little package off
the inside of his thigh and transferred it to the underside of the
fore-edge of the seat.  The seat would have to be lifted to get at the
Elsan and that would certainly be looked to as soon as the plane got
back to the hangar.  The $5000 REWARD stared back at him boldly.  Not
even the most hasty cleaner could miss it.  So long as no one preceded
the cleaner.  But Bond didn't think any of the passengers would lift
the seat.  The little compartment was too cramped to stand comfortably
in.  He softly put the seat down, ran some water in the basin, washed
his face and smoothed his hair and walked out.

Oddjob was waiting angrily.  He pushed past Bond, looked carefully
round the lavatory and came out again, shutting the door.  Bond walked
back to his seat.  Now the SOS was in the bottle and the bottle had
been committed to the waves.  Who would be the finder?  How soon?

Everyone, down to the pilot and co-pilot, went to the blasted little
lavatory before they got back on the ground.  As each one came out,
Bond expected to feel the cold nose of a gun in his neck, the harsh
suspicious words, the crackle of the paper being unfolded.  But at last
they were back in the Buick and speeding over the Triborough into
uptown Manhattan and then down the river on the parkway and in through
the well-guarded doors of the warehouse and back to work.

Now it was a race--a race between Goldfinger's calm, unhurried,
efficient machine and the tiny gunpowder trail Bond had lit.  What was
going on outside?  During every hour of the next three days Bond's
imagination followed what might be happening--Leiter telling his chief,
the conference, the quick flight down to Washington, the F.B.I. and
Hoover, the Army, the President.  Leiter insisting that Bond's
conditions be adhered to, that no suspicious moves be made, no
inquiries started, that no one moved an inch except according to some
master plan that would operate on the day and get the whole gang into
the bag so that not one of them escaped.  Would they accept Bond's
conditions or would they not dare take the chance?  Had they talked
across the Atlantic with M?  Had M insisted that Bond should be somehow
pulled out?  No, M would see the point.  He would agree that Bond's
life must be disregarded.  That nothing must jeopardize the big
clean-up.  They would have to get the two 'Japanese', of course,
somehow beat out of them the code message Goldfinger would be waiting
for on D-1.

Was that how it was going, or was it all a shambles?  Leiter away on
another assignment.  'Who is this 007?  What does it stand for?  Some
crazy loon.  Hi, Smith, check on this, could you?  Get down to the
warehouse and take a look.  Sorry, mister, no five grand for you.
Here's car fare back to La Guardia.  Afraid you've been hoaxed.'

Or, worse still, had none of these things happened?  Was the plane
still standing in a corner of the field, unserviced?

Night and day, the torment of thoughts went through Bond's head while
the work got cleared and the hours ticked by and the deadly machine
whirred quietly on.  D-1 came and flashed by in a last fever of
activity.  Then, in the evening, came the note from Goldfinger.


    First phase of operation successful.  Entrain as planned at
    midnight.  Bring copies of all maps, schedules, operation orders.
    G.


In close formation, with Bond and Tilly Masterton--he in a white
surgeon's coat, she dressed as a nurse--wedged in the middle, the
Goldfinger contingent marched swiftly through the almost empty
Concourse of Pennsylvania station and down to the waiting Special.
Everyone, including Goldfinger, was wearing the conventional white garb
and armbands of a medical field force and the dim platform was crowded
with the ghostly waiting figures of the posses from the gangs.  The
silence and tension was appropriate for an emergency force hurrying to
the scene of a disaster, and the stretchers and decontamination suits
being loaded into the compartments added drama to the scene.  The
Superintendent was talking quietly with the senior physicians in the
shape of Midnight, Strap, Solo and Ring.  Near by stood Miss Galore
with a dozen pale-faced nurses who waited with eyes bent as if they
stood beside an open grave.  Without make-up, their exotic hair-do's
tucked into dark blue Red Cross caps, they had been well rehearsed.
They were giving an excellent performance--dutiful, merciful, dedicated
to the relief of human suffering.

When the Superintendent saw Goldfinger and his party approaching he
hurried up.  'Dr Gold?' his face was grave.  'I'm afraid the news
coming through isn't too good.  Guess it'll all be in the papers
tonight.  All trains held at Louisville, no reply from the depot at
Fort Knox.  But we'll get you through all right.  God Almighty, Doctor!
What's going on down there?  People coming through from Louisville are
talking about the Russians spraying something from the air.  Of
course'--the Superintendent looked keenly at Goldfinger--'I'm not
believing that kind of stuff.  But what is it?  Food poisoning?'

Goldfinger's face was solemn.  He said in a kindly voice, 'My friend,
that's what we've got to find out.  That's why we're being rushed down.
If you want me to make a guess, but mark you it's only a guess, it's a
form of sleeping sickness--trypanosomiasis we call it.'

'That so?' the Superintendent was impressed by the sound of the malady.
'Well, believe you me, Doctor, we're all mighty proud of you and your
folks of the Emergency Force.'  He held out his hand, Goldfinger took
it.  'Best of luck, Doc; and now, if you'll get your men and the nurses
on board, I'll have this train on its way just as quick as may be.'

'Thank you, Superintendent.  My colleagues and I will not forget your
services.'  Goldfinger gave a short bow.  His contingent moved on.

'Board!'

Bond found himself in a Pullman with Tilly Masterton across the aisle
and the Koreans and Germans all around them.  Goldfinger was in the
front of the car talking cheerfully with his satraps.  Miss Pussy
Galore strolled by.  She ignored the upturned face of Tilly Masterton
but gave Bond the usual searching glance.  There was a banging of doors
being closed.  Pussy Galore stopped and rested an arm on the back of
the seat in front of Bond.  She looked down at him.  'Hullo, Handsome.
Long time no see.  Uncle doesn't seem to let you off the lead much.'

Bond said, 'Hullo, Beautiful.  That outfit suits you fine.  I'm feeling
rather faint.  How about doing a bit of nursing?'

The deep violet eyes examined him carefully.  She said softly, 'You
know what, Mister Bond?  I got a feeling there's something phoney about
you.  I got instincts, see?  Just what are you and that doll'--she
jerked her head back--'doing in this outfit?'

'We do all the work.'

The train began to move.  Pussy Galore straightened herself.  She said,
'Mebbe you do.  But if any little thing goes wrong with this caper, for
my money it'll be Handsome who knows why.  Get me?'

She didn't wait for Bond's answer, but moved on down and joined the
Chiefs of Staff meeting.

It was a confused, busy night.  Appearances had to be kept up before
the inquisitive, sympathetic eyes of the conductors.  Last-minute
conferences up and down the train had to wear the appearance of serious
medical conclaves--no cigar-smoking, no swearing, no spitting.
Jealousies and competition between the gangs had to be kept under rigid
control.  The cold superiority of the Mafia, particularly vis--vis
Jack Strap and his soft, easy-living crowd from the West, might have
led to gunplay if the chiefs hadn't been ready for trouble and
constantly on the look-out for it.  All these minor psychological
factors had been foreseen by Goldfinger and prepared for.  The women
from the Cement Mixers were carefully segregated, there was no drinking
and the gang chiefs kept their men occupied with further exact
briefings, dummy exercises with maps and lengthy discussions about
their escape plans with the gold.  There was casual spying on each
other's plans and Goldfinger was often called in to judge who should
have which routes to the Mexican border, to the desert, to Canada.  To
Bond it was amazing that a hundred of the toughest crooks in America,
on edge with excitement and greed, could be kept as quiet as they were.
It was Goldfinger who had achieved the miracle.  Apart from the calm,
dangerous quality of the man, it was the minuteness of the planning and
the confidence he exuded that calmed the battle nerves and created some
sort of a team-spirit among the rival mobs.

As the iron gallop of the train stretched itself out through the flat
lands of Pennsylvania, gradually the passengers fell into an uneasy,
troubled sleep.  But not Goldfinger or Oddjob.  They remained awake and
watchful and soon Bond gave up any idea he might have had of using one
of his hidden knives on Oddjob and making a bid for freedom when the
train slowed through a station or on an up-gradient.

Bond dozed fitfully, wondering, imagining, puzzling over the
Superintendent's words.  The Superintendent had certainly thought they
were the truth, knew that Fort Knox was in emergency.  Was his news
from Louisville the truth or part of the giant cover plan that would be
necessary to get every member of the conspiracy in the bag?  If it was
a cover plan, how meticulously had it been prepared?  Would someone
slip up?  Would there be some ghastly bungle that would warn Goldfinger
in time?  Or if the news was true, if the poison had been successful,
what did there remain for Bond to do?

Bond had made up his mind on one score.  Somehow, in the excitement of
H-Hour, he would get close to Goldfinger and cut his throat with one of
his hidden knives.  How much would that achieve apart from an act of
private vengeance?  Would Goldfinger's squad accept another man's order
to arm the warhead and fire it?  Who would be strong enough, cool
enough to take over?  Mr Solo?  Probably.  The operation would perhaps
be half successful, they would get away with plenty of gold--except
Goldfinger's men who would be lost without him to lead them.  And in
the meantime, whatever else Bond could now do, had sixty thousand
people already died?  Was there anything he could have done to prevent
that?  Had there ever been a chance to kill Goldfinger?  Would it have
done any good to make a scene at Pennsylvania Station?  Bond stared at
his dark reflection in the window, listened to the sweet ting of the
grade-crossing bells and the howl of the windhorn clearing their way,
and shredded his nerves with doubts, questions, reproaches.




CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

THE RICHEST MAN IN HISTORY

Slowly the red dawn broke over the endless plain black grass that
gradually turned to the famous Kentucky blue as the sun ironed out the
shadows.  At six o'clock the train began to slacken speed and soon they
were gliding gently through the waking suburbs of Louisville to come to
rest with a sigh of hydraulics in the echoing, almost deserted station.

A small, respectful group was awaiting them.  Goldfinger, his eyes
black-ringed with lack of sleep, beckoned to one of the Germans, picked
up his authoritative little black bag and stepped down on to the
platform.  There was a short, serious conclave, the Louisville
Superintendent doing the talking and Goldfinger interjecting a few
questions and nodding gravely at the answers.  Goldfinger turned
wearily back to the train.  Mr Solo had been deputed to take his
report.  He stood at the open door at the end of the Pullman.  Bond
heard Goldfinger say sorrowfully, 'I am afraid, Doctor, the situation
is as bad as we feared.  I will now go forward to the leading diesel
with this,' he held up the black bag, 'and we will proceed slowly into
the infected area.  Would you please tell all personnel to be prepared
to put on their masks?  I have masks for the driver and fireman.  All
other railway personnel will leave the train here.'

Mr Solo nodded solemnly.  'Right, Professor.'  He closed his door.
Goldfinger walked off down the platform followed by his German
strong-arm man and the respectful, head-shaking group.

There was a short pause and then silently, almost reverently, the long
train whispered its way out of the station leaving the little group of
officials, now reinforced by four rather shamefaced conductors, with
hands raised in benediction.

Thirty-five miles, half an hour, to go!  Coffee and doughnuts were
brought round by the nurses, and (Goldfinger thought of everything) for
those whose nerves needed it, two grains of dexedrine.  The nurses were
pale, silent.  There were no jokes, no smart remarks.  The train was
electric with tension.

After ten minutes there was a sudden slackening of speed and a sharp
hiss from the brakes.  Coffee was spilled.  The train almost stopped.
Then there was a jerk and it gathered speed again.  A new hand had
taken over on the dead man's handle.

A few minutes later, Mr Strap came hurrying through the train.  'Ten
minutes to go!  On your toes, folks!  Squads A, B and C get their
equipment on.  Everything's going fine.  Stay calm.  Remember your
duties.'  He hurried through to the next compartment and Bond heard the
voice repeating its message.

Bond turned to Oddjob.  'Listen, you ape, I'm going to the lavatory and
probably Miss Masterton will too.'  He turned to the girl.  'What about
it, Tilly?'

'Yes,' she said indifferently, 'I suppose I'd better.'

Bond said, 'Well, go ahead.'

The Korean beside the girl looked inquiringly at Oddjob.  Oddjob shook
his head.

Bond said, 'Unless you leave her alone I'm going to start a fight.
Goldfinger won't like that.'  He turned to the girl.  'Go ahead, Tilly.
I'll see to these apes.'

Oddjob uttered a series of barks and snarls which the other Korean
seemed to understand.  The guard got up and said, 'Okay, but not
locking the door.'  He followed the girl down the Pullman and stood and
waited for her to come out.

Oddjob carried out the same routine with Bond.  Once inside, Bond took
off his right shoe, slid out the knife and slipped it down inside the
waist-band of his trousers.  One shoe would now have no heel, but no
one was going to notice that this morning.  Bond washed himself.  The
face in the mirror was pale and the blue-grey eyes dark with tension.
He went out and back to his seat.

Now there was a distant shimmer away to the right and a hint of low
buildings rising like a mirage in the early morning ground-mist.  They
slowly defined themselves as hangars with a squat control tower.
Godman Field!  The soft pounding howl of the train slackened.  Some
trim modern villas, part of a new housing development, slid by.  They
seemed to be unoccupied.  Now, on the left, there was the black ribbon
of Brandenburg Station Road.  Bond craned.  The gleaming modern sprawl
of Fort Knox looked almost soft in the light mist.  Above its jagged
outline the air was clear as crystal--not a trace of smoke, no
breakfasts cooking!  The train slowed to a canter.  On Station Road
there had been a bad motor accident.  Two cars seemed to have met head
on.  The body of a man sprawled half out of a smashed door.  The other
car lay on its back like a dead beetle.  Bond's heart pounded.  The
main signal box came and went.  Over the levers something white was
draped.  It was a man's shirt.  Inside the shirt the body hung down,
its head below the level of the window.  A row of modern bungalows.  A
body clad in singlet and trousers flat on its face in the middle of a
trim lawn.  The lines of mown grass were beautifully exact until, near
the man, the mower had written an ugly flourish and had then come to
rest on its side in the newly turned earth of the border.  A line of
washing that had broken when the woman had grasped it.  The woman lay
in a white pile at one end of the sagging string of family
underclothes, cloths and towels.  And now the train was moving at
walking pace into the town and everywhere, down every street, on every
sidewalk, there were the sprawling figures--singly, in clumps, in
rocking-chairs on the porches, in the middle of intersections where the
traffic lights still unhurriedly ticked off their coloured signals, in
cars that had managed to pull up and in others that had smashed into
shop windows.  Death!  Dead people everywhere.  No movement, no sound
save the click of the murderer's iron feet as his train slid through
the graveyard.

Now there was bustle in the carriages.  Billy Ring came through
grinning hugely.  He stopped by Bond's chair.  'Oh boy!' he said
delightedly, 'old Goldie certainly slipped them the Micky Finn!  Too
bad some people were out for a ride when they got hit.  But you know
what they say about omelettes: can't make 'em without you break some
eggs, right?'

Bond smiled tightly.  'That's right.'

Billy Ring made his silent O of a laugh and went on his way.

The train trundled through Brandenburg Station.  Now there were scores
of bodies--men, women, children, soldiers.  The platform was scribbled
with them, faces upwards to the roof, down in the dust, cradled
sideways.  Bond searched for movement, for an inquisitive eye, for a
twitching hand.  Nothing!  Wait!  What was that?  Thinly through the
closed window there came a soft, mewing wail.  Three perambulators
stood against the ticket office, the mothers collapsed beside them.  Of
course!  The babies in the perambulators would have drunk milk, not the
deadly water.

Oddjob got to his feet.  So did the whole of Goldfinger's team.  The
faces of the Koreans were indifferent, unchanged, only their eyes
flickered constantly like nervous animals.  The Germans were pale,
grim.  Nobody looked at anyone else.  Silently they filed towards the
exit and lined up, waiting.

Tilly Masterton touched Bond's sleeve.  Her voice trembled.  'Are you
sure they're only asleep?  I thought I saw some sort of ... sort of
froth on some of the lips.'

Bond had seen the same thing.  The froth had been pink.  He said, 'I
expect some of them were eating sweets or something when they fell
asleep.  You know what these Americans are--always chewing something.'
He softly mouthed the next words.  'Stay away from me.  There may be
shooting.'  He looked hard at her to see she understood.

She nodded dumbly, not looking at him.  She whispered out of the corner
of her mouth, 'I'm going to get near Pussy.  She'll look after me.'

Bond gave her a smile and said 'Good', encouragingly.

The train clicked slowly over some points and slid to rest.  There came
one blast of the diesel's windhorn.  The doors swung open and the
different groups piled out on to the platform of the Bullion Depository
siding.

Now everything went with military precision.  The various squads formed
up in their battle order--first an assault group with sub-machine guns,
then the stretcher-bearers to get the guard and other personnel out of
the vault (surely an unnecessary refinement now, thought Bond) then
Goldfinger's demolition team--ten men with their bulky
tarpaulin-covered package--then a mixed group of spare drivers and
traffic-control men, then the group of nurses, now all armed with
pistols, who were to stay in the background with a heavily armed
reserve group that was to deal with any unexpected interference from
anybody who, as Goldfinger had put it, 'might wake up'.

Bond and the girl had been included in the Command Group which
consisted of Goldfinger, Oddjob and the five gang leaders.  They were
to be stationed on the flat roofs of the two diesel locomotives which
now stood, as planned, beyond the siding buildings and in full view of
the objective and its approaches.  Bond and the girl were to handle the
maps, the timetables and the stop-watch, and Bond was to watch out for
fumbles and delays and bring them at once to Goldfinger's attention to
be rectified by walkie-talkie with the squad leaders.  When the bomb
was due to be fired, they would take shelter behind the diesels.

There came a double blast from the windhorn and, as Bond and the girl
climbed to their position on the roof of the first diesel, the assault
squad, followed by the other sections, doubled across the twenty yards
of open ground between the railway and Bullion Boulevard.  Bond edged
as close as he could to Goldfinger.  Goldfinger had binoculars to his
eyes.  His mouth was close to the microphone strapped to his chest.
But Oddjob stood between them, a solid mountain of flesh, and his eyes,
uninterested in the drama of the assault, never flickered from Bond and
the girl.

Bond, under cover of scanning his plastic map-case and keeping an eye
on the stop-watch, measured inches and angles.  He glanced at the
next-door group of the four men and the woman.  They were gazing, in
frozen attention, at the scene before them.  Now Jack Strap said
excitedly, 'They're through the first gates.'  Bond, putting half his
mind to work on his own plans, took a quick look at the battlefield.

It was an extraordinary scene.  In the centre stood the huge squat
mausoleum, the sun glinting off the polished granite of its walls.
Outside the big open field in which it stood, the roads--the Dixie
Highway, Vine Grove and Bullion Boulevard--were lined with trucks and
transporters two deep with the recognition flags of the gangs flying
from the first and last vehicle of each convoy.  Their drivers lay
piled up outside the shelter of the surrounding guard wall of the vault
while, through the main gate, poured the tidy disciplined squads from
the train.  Outside this world of movement there was absolute stillness
and silence as if the rest of America was holding its breath at the
committal of this gigantic crime.  And outside lay the bodies of the
soldiers, sprawling where they had fallen--the sentries by their pill
boxes, still clutching their automatic pistols, and, inside the
protecting wall, two ragged squads of soldiers in battle-dress.  They
lay in vague, untidy heaps, some bodies athwart or on top of their
neighbours.  Outside, between Bullion Boulevard and the main gate, two
armoured cars had crashed into each other and now stood locked, their
heavy machine guns pointing, one at the ground and the other at the
sky.  A driver's body sprawled out of the turret of one of the vehicles.

Desperately Bond looked for a sign of life, a sign of movement, a hint
that all this was a careful ambush.  Nothing!  Not a cat moved, not a
sound came out of the crowded buildings that formed a backdrop to the
scene.  Only the squads hurried about their tasks or now stood waiting
in their planned dispositions.

Goldfinger spoke quietly into his microphone.  'Last stretcher out.
Bomb squad ready.  Prepare to take cover.'

Now the covering troops and the stretcher-bearers were hurrying for the
exit, getting down under cover of the guard wall.  There would be five
minutes' delay to clear the area before the bomb squad, now waiting
bunched at the main gate, would go in.

Bond said efficiently, 'They're a minute ahead of time.'

Goldfinger looked past Oddjob's shoulder.  The pale eyes were aflame.
They stared into Bond's.  Goldfinger's mouth twisted into a harsh
snarl.  He said through his teeth, 'You see, Mr Bond.  You were wrong
and I was right.  Ten more minutes and I shall be the richest man in
the world, the richest man in history!  What do you say to that?'  His
mouth spat out the words.

Bond said equably, 'I'll tell you after those ten minutes are up.'

'Will you?' said Goldfinger.  'Maybe.'  He looked at his watch and
spoke rapidly into his microphone.  The Goldfinger squad loped slowly
through the main gate, their heavy burden slung from four shoulders in
a cradle of webbing.

Goldfinger looked past Bond at the group on the roof of the second
diesel.  He called out triumphantly, 'Another five minutes, gentlemen,
and then we must take cover.'  He turned his eyes on Bond and added
softly, 'And then we will say goodbye, Mr Bond.  And thank you for the
assistance you and the girl have given me.'

Out of the corner of his eye, Bond saw something moving--moving in the
sky.  It was a black, whirling speck.  It reached the top of its
trajectory, paused and then came the ear-splitting crack of a maroon
signal.

Bond's heart leapt.  A quick glance showed him the ranks of dead
soldiers springing to life, the machine guns on the locked armoured
cars swinging to cover the gates.  A loud-speaker roared from nowhere,
'Stand where you are.  Lay down your arms.'  But there came a futile
crackle of fire from one of the rearguard covering party and then all
hell broke loose.

Bond seized the girl round the waist and jumped with her.  It was a
ten-foot drop to the platform.  Bond broke his fall with his left hand
and hoisted the girl to her feet with a jerk of his hip.  As he began
to run, close to the train for cover, he heard Goldfinger shout, 'Get
them and kill them.'  A splatter of lead from Goldfinger's automatic
whipped at the cement to his left.  But Goldfinger would have to shoot
left-handed.  It was Oddjob that Bond feared.  Now, as Bond tore down
the platform with the girl's hand in his, he heard the lightning
scuffle of the running feet.

The girl's hand tugged at him.  She screamed angrily, 'No, No.  Stop!
I want to stay close to Pussy.  I'll be safe with her.'

Bond shouted back, 'Shut up, you little fool!  Run like hell!'  But now
she was dragging at him, checking his speed.  Suddenly she tore her
hand out of his and made to dart into an open Pullman door.  Christ,
thought Bond, that's torn it!  He whipped the knife out of his belt and
swirled to meet Oddjob.

Ten yards away Oddjob hardly paused in his rush.  One hand whipped off
his ridiculous, deadly hat, a glance to take aim and the black steel
half-moon sang through the air.  Its edge caught the girl exactly at
the nape of the neck.  Without a sound she fell backwards on to the
platform in Oddjob's path.  The hurdle was just enough to put Oddjob
off the flying high kick he had started to launch at Bond's head.  He
turned the kick into a leap, his left hand cutting the air towards Bond
like a sword.  Bond ducked and struck upwards and sideways with his
knife.  It got home somewhere near the ribs but the momentum of the
flying body knocked the knife out of his hand.  There was a tinkle on
the platform.  Now Oddjob was coming back at him, apparently unharmed,
his hands outstretched and his feet splayed back ready for another leap
or a kick.  His blood was up.  The eyes were red and there was a fleck
of saliva at the open, panting mouth.

Above the boom and rattle of the guns outside the station, three blasts
sounded on the diesel's windhorn.  Oddjob snarled angrily and leapt.
Bond dived at full length sideways.  Something hit him a gigantic blow
on the shoulder and sent him sprawling.  Now, he thought as he hit the
ground, now the death stroke!  He scrambled clumsily to his feet, his
neck hunched into his shoulders to break the impact.  But no blow came
and Bond's dazed eyes took in the figure of Oddjob flying away from him
up the platform.

Already the leading diesel was on the move.  Oddjob got to it and leapt
for the footplate.  For a moment he hung, his legs scrabbling for a
foothold.  Then he had disappeared into the cabin and the huge
streamlined engine gathered speed.

Behind Bond the door of the quartermaster's office burst open.  There
was the hammer of running feet and a yell 'Santiago!'--St James, the
battle-cry of Cortez that Leiter had once jokingly allotted to Bond.

Bond swivelled.  The straw-haired Texan, clad in his war-time Marine
Corps battle-dress, was pounding up the platform followed by a dozen
men in khaki.  He carried a one-man bazooka by the steel hook he used
for a right hand.  Bond ran to meet him.  He said, 'Don't shoot my fox,
you bastard.  Give over.'  He snatched the bazooka out of Leiter's hand
and threw himself down on the platform, splaying out his legs.  Now the
diesel was two hundred yards away and about to cross the bridge over
the Dixie Highway.  Bond shouted 'Stand clear!' to get the men out of
line of the recoil flash, clicked up the safe and took careful aim.
The bazooka shuddered slightly and the ten-pound armour-piercing rocket
was on its way.  There was a flash and a puff of blue smoke.  Some bits
of metal flew off the rear of the flying engine.  But then it had
crossed the bridge and taken the curve and was away.

'Not bad for a rookie,' commented Leiter.  'May put the rear diesel
out, but those jobs are twins and he can make it on the forward engine.'

Bond got to his feet.  He smiled warmly into the hawk-like, slate-grey
eyes.  'You bungling oaf,' he said sarcastically, 'why in hell didn't
you block that line?'

'Listen, shamus.  If you've got any complaints about the stage
management you can tell them to the President.  He took personal
command of this operation and it's a honey.  There's a spotter plane
overhead now.  They'll pick up the diesel and we'll have old Goldilocks
in the hoosegow by midday.  How were we to know he was going to stay
aboard the train?'  He broke off and thumped Bond between the
shoulder-blades.  'Hell, I'm glad to see you.  These men and I were
detailed off to give you protection.  We've been dodging around looking
for you and getting shot at by both sides for our pains.'  He turned to
the soldiers.  'Ain't that right, men?'

They laughed.  'Sure is, Cap'n.'

Bond looked affectionately at the Texan with whom he had shared so many
adventures.  He said seriously, 'Bless you, Felix.  You've always been
good at saving my life.  It was darn nearly too late this time.  I'm
afraid Tilly Masterton's had it.'  He walked off up the train with
Felix at his heels.  The little figure still lay sprawled where she had
fallen.  Bond knelt beside her.  The broken-doll angle of the head was
enough.  He felt for her pulse.  He got up.  He said softly, 'Poor
little bitch.  She didn't think much of men.'  He looked defensively at
Leiter.  'Felix, I could have got her away if she'd only followed me.'

Leiter didn't understand.  He put his hand on Bond's arm and said,
'Sure kid.  Take it easy.'  He turned to his men.  'Two of you carry
the girl into the Q-M.'s office over there.  O'Brien, you go for the
ambulance.  When you've done that, stop over at the Command post and
give 'em the facts.  Say we've got Commander Bond and I'll bring him
right over.'

Bond stood and looked down at the little empty tangle of limbs and
clothes.  He saw the bright, proud girl with the spotted handkerchief
round her hair in the flying TR3.  Now she had gone.

High up over his head a whirling speck soared into the sky.  It reached
the top of its flight and paused.  There came the sharp crack of the
maroon.  It was the cease-fire.




CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

THE LAST TRICK

It was two days later.  Felix Leiter was weaving the black Studillac
fast through the lanes of dawdling traffic on the Triborough bridge.
There was plenty of time to catch Bond's plane, the evening B.O.A.C.
Monarch to London, but Leiter enjoyed shaking up Bond's low opinion of
American cars.  Now the steel hook that he used for a right hand banged
the gear lever into second and the low black car leapt for a narrow
space between a giant refrigerator truck and a mooning Oldsmobile whose
rear window was almost obscured by holiday stickers.

Bond's body jerked back with the kick of the 300 b.h.p. and his teeth
snapped shut.  When the manoeuvre was completed, and the angry hooting
had vanished behind them, Bond said mildly, 'It's time you graduated
out of the Kiddicar class and bought yourself an express carriage.  You
want to get cracking.  This pedalling along ages one.  One of these
days you'll stop moving altogether and when you stop moving is when you
start to die.'

Leiter laughed.  He said, 'See that green light ahead?  Bet I can make
it before it goes red.'  The car leapt forward as if it had been
kicked.  There was a brief hiatus in Bond's life, an impression of
snipe-like flight and of a steel wall of cars that somehow parted
before the whiplash of Leiter's triple klaxons, a hundred yards when
the speedometer touched ninety and they were across the lights and
cruising genteelly along in the centre lane.

Bond said calmly, 'You meet the wrong traffic cop and that Pinkerton
card of yours won't be good enough.  It isn't so much that you drive
slowly, it's holding back the cars behind they'll book you for.  The
sort of car you need is a nice elderly Rolls Royce Silver Ghost with
big plate-glass windows so you can enjoy the beauties of nature'--Bond
gestured towards a huge automobile junk heap on their right.  'Maximum
fifty and it can stop and even go backwards if you want to.  Bulb horn.
Suit your sedate style.  Matter of fact there should be one on the
market soon--Goldfinger's.  And by the same token, what the hell's
happened to Goldfinger?  Haven't they caught up with him yet?'

Leiter glanced at his watch and edged into the outside lane.  He
brought the car down to forty.  He said seriously, 'Tell you the truth,
we're all a bit worried.  The papers are needling us, or rather Edgar
Hoover's crowd, like hell.  First they had a gripe at the security
clamp-down on you.  We couldn't tell them that wasn't our fault and
that someone in London, an old limey called M, had insisted on it.  So
they're getting their own back.  Say we're dragging our feet and so
forth.  And I'm telling you, James'--Leiter's voice was glum,
apologetic--'we just haven't a clue.  They caught up with the diesel.
Goldfinger had fixed the controls at thirty and had let it run on down
the line.  Somewhere he and the Korean had got off and probably this
Galore girl and the four hoods as well because they've vanished too.
We found his truck convoy, of course, waiting on the eastbound highway
out of Elizabethville.  But never a driver.  Most probably scattered,
but somewhere there's Goldfinger and a pretty tough team hiding up.
They didn't get to the _Sverdlovsk_ cruiser at Norfolk.  We had a
plain-clothes guard scattered round the docks and they report that she
sailed to schedule without any strangers going aboard.  Not a cat's
been near that warehouse on East River and no one's shown at Idlewild
or the frontiers--Mexico and Canada.  For my money, that Jed Midnight
has somehow got them out to Cuba.  If they'd taken two or three trucks
from the convoy and driven like hell they could have got down to
Florida, somewhere like Daytona Beach, by the early hours of D+1.  And
Midnight's darn well organized down there.  The Coast Guards and the
Air Force have put out all they've got, but nothing's shown yet.  But
they could have hidden up during the day and got over to Cuba during
the night.  It's got everybody worried as hell and it's no help that
the President's hopping mad.'

Bond had spent the previous day in Washington treading the thickest,
richest red carpet.  There had been speeches at the Bureau of the Mint,
a big brass lunch at the Pentagon, an embarrassing quarter of an hour
with the President, and the rest of the day had been hard work with a
team of stenographers in Edgar Hoover's suite of offices with a
colleague of Bond's from Station A sitting in.  At the end of that,
there had been a brisk quarter of an hour's talk with M on the Embassy
transatlantic scrambler.  M had told him what had been happening on the
European end of the case.  As Bond had expected, Goldfinger's cable to
Universal Export had been treated as emergency.  The factories at
Reculver and Coppet had been searched and extra evidence of the
gold-smuggling racket had been found.  The Indian Government had been
warned about the Mecca plane that was already en route for Bombay and
that end of the operation was on the way to being cleaned up.  The
Swiss Special Brigade had quickly found Bond's car and had got on to
the route by which Bond and the girl had been taken to America, but
there, at Idlewild, the F.B.I. had lost the scent.  M seemed pleased
with the way Bond had handled Operation Grand Slam, but he said the
Bank of England were worrying him about Goldfinger's twenty million
pounds in gold.  Goldfinger had assembled all this at the Paragon Safe
Deposit Co in New York but had withdrawn it on D-1.  He and his men had
driven it away in a covered truck.  The Bank of England had ready an
Order in Council to impound the gold when it was found and there would
then be a case to prove that it had been smuggled out of England, or at
least that it was originally smuggled gold whose value had been
increased by various doubtful means.  But this was now being handled by
the U.S. Treasury and the F.B.I. and, since M had no jurisdiction in
America, Bond had better come home at once and help tidy things up.  Oh
yes--at the end of the conversation M's voice had sounded gruff--there
had been a very kind request to the P.M. that Bond should be allowed to
accept the American Medal of Merit.  Of course M had had to explain via
the P.M. that the Service didn't go in for those sort of
things--particularly from foreign countries, however friendly they
were.  Too bad, but M knew that this was what Bond would have expected.
He knew the rules.  Bond had said yes of course and thank you very much
and he'd take the next plane home.

Now, as they motored quietly down the Van Wyck Expressway, Bond was
feeling vaguely dissatisfied.  He didn't like leaving ragged ends to a
case.  None of the big gangsters had been put in the bag and he had
failed in the two tasks he had been given, to get Goldfinger and get
Goldfinger's bullion.  It was nothing but a miracle that Operation
Grand Slam had been broken.  It had been two days before the Beechcraft
had been serviced and the cleaner who found the note had got to
Pinkerton's only half an hour before Leiter was due to go off to the
Coast on a big racing scandal.  But then Leiter had really got
cracking--to his chief, then to the F.B.I. and the Pentagon.  The
F.B.I.'s knowledge of Bond's record, plus contact with M through the
Central Intelligence Agency, had been enough to get the whole case up
to the President within an hour.  After that it had just been a case of
building up the gigantic bluff in which all the inhabitants of Fort
Knox had participated in one way or another.  The two 'Japanese' had
been taken easily enough and it was confirmed by Chemical Warfare that
the three pints of GB carried as gin in their briefcases would have
been enough to slay the entire population of Fort Knox.  The two men
had been quickly and forcibly grilled into explaining the form of the
all-clear cable to Goldfinger.  The cable had been sent.  Then the Army
had declared emergency.  Road and rail and air blocks had turned back
all traffic to the Fort Knox area with the exception of the gangster
convoys which had not been hindered.  The rest was play-acting right
down to the pink froth and the squalling babies which it was thought
would add nice touches of verisimilitude.

Yes, it had all been very satisfactory so far as Washington was
concerned, but what about the English end?  Who in America cared about
the Bank of England's gold?  Who cared that two English girls had been
murdered in the course of this business?  Who really minded that
Goldfinger was still at liberty now that America's bullion was safe
again?

They idled across the drab plain of Idlewild, past the
ten-million-dollar steel and cement skeletons that would one day be an
adult airport, and pulled up outside the makeshift huddle of concrete
boxes that Bond knew so well.  Already the well-mannered iron voices
were reaching out to them.  'Pan American World Airways announces the
departure of its President Flight PA 100', 'Trans-world Airways calling
Captain Murphy.  Captain Murphy, please.'  And the pear-shaped vowels
and fluted diction of B.O.A.C., 'B.O.A.C. announces the arrival of its
Bermudan Flight BA 491.  Passengers will be disembarking at gate number
neyne.'

Bond took his bag and said goodbye to Leiter.  He said, 'Well, thanks
for everything, Felix.  Write to me every day.'

Leiter gripped his hand hard.  He said, 'Sure thing, kid.  And take it
easy.  Tell that old bastard M to send you back over soon.  Next visit
we'll take some time off from the razzmatazz.  Time you called in on my
home state.  Like to have you meet my oil-well.  'Bye now.'

Leiter got into his car and accelerated away from the arrival bay.
Bond raised his hand.  The Studillac dry-skidded out on to the approach
road.  There was an answering glint from Leiter's steel hook out of the
window and he was gone.

Bond sighed.  He picked up his bag and walked in and over to the
B.O.A.C. ticket counter.

Bond didn't mind airports so long as he was alone in them.  He had half
an hour to wait and he was quite content to wander through the milling
crowds, have a bourbon and soda at the restaurant and spend some time
choosing something to read at the bookstore.  He bought Ben Hogan's
_Modern Fundamentals of Golf_ and the latest Raymond Chandler and
sauntered along to the Souvenir Shop to see if he could find an amusing
gimmick to take back to his secretary.

Now there was a man's voice on the B.O.A.C. announcing system.  It
called out a long list of Monarch passengers who were required at the
ticket counter.  Ten minutes later Bond was paying for one of the
latest and most expensive ball-point pens when he heard his own name
being called.  'Will Mr James Bond, passenger on B.O.A.C. Monarch
flight No. 510 to Gander and London, please come to the B.O.A.C. ticket
counter.  Mr James Bond, please.'  It was obviously that infernal tax
form to show how much he had earned during his stay in America.  On
principle Bond never went to the Internal Revenue Office in New York to
get clearance and he had only once had to argue it out at Idlewild.  He
went out of the shop and across to the B.O.A.C. counter.  The official
said politely, 'May I see your health certificate, please, Mr Bond?'

Bond took the form out of his passport and handed it over.

The man looked at it carefully.  He said, 'I'm very sorry, sir, but
there's been a typhoid case at Gander and they're insisting that all
transit passengers who haven't had their shots in the last six months
should be topped up.  It's most annoying, sir, but Gander's very touchy
about these things.  Too bad we couldn't have managed a direct flight,
but there's a strong head-wind.'

Bond hated inoculations.  He said irritably, 'But look here, I'm
stuffed with shots of one kind or another.  Been having them for twenty
years for one damned thing or another!'  He looked round.  The area
near the B.O.A.C. departure gate seemed curiously deserted.  He said,
'What about the other passengers?  Where are they?'

'They've all agreed, sir.  Just having their shots now.  It won't take
a minute, sir, if you'll come this way.'

'Oh well.'  Bond shrugged his shoulders impatiently.  He followed the
man behind the counter and through a door to the B.O.A.C. station
manager's office.  There was the usual white-clothed doctor, a mask
over the bottom of his face, the needle held ready.  'Last one?' he
asked of the B.O.A.C. official.

'Yes, Doctor.'

'Okay.  Coat off and left sleeve up, please.  Too bad they're so
sensitive up at Gander.'

'Damned sight too bad,' said Bond.  'What are they afraid of?
Spreading the black death?'

There came the sharp smell of the alcohol and the jab of the needle.

'Thanks,' said Bond gruffly.  He pulled down his sleeve and made to
pick his coat up from the back of the chair.  His hand went down for
it, missed it, went on down, down towards the floor.  His body dived
after the hand, down, down, down...


All the lights were on in the plane.  There seemed to be plenty of
spare places.  Why did he have to get stuck with a passenger whose arm
was hogging the central arm-rest.  Bond made to get up and change his
seat.  A wave of nausea swept over him.  He closed his eyes and waited.
How extraordinary!  He was never air-sick.  He felt the cold sweat on
his face.  Handkerchief.  Wipe it off.  He opened his eyes again and
looked down at his arms.  The wrists were bound to the arms of his
chair.  What had happened?  He had had his shot and then passed out or
something.  Had he got violent?  What the hell was all this about?  He
glanced to his right and then stared, aghast.  Oddjob was sitting
there.  Oddjob!  Oddjob in B.O.A.C. uniform!  Oddjob glanced
incuriously at him and reached for the steward's bell.  Bond heard the
pretty ding-dong back in the pantry.  There was the rustle of a skirt
beside him.  He looked up.  It was Pussy Galore, trim and fresh in the
blue uniform of a stewardess!  She said, 'Hi, Handsome.'  She gave him
the deep, searching look he remembered so well from when?  From
centuries ago, in another life.

Bond said desperately, 'For Christ's sake, what's going on?  Where did
you come from?'

The girl smiled cheerfully, 'Eating caviar and drinking champagne.  You
Britishers sure live the life of Reilly when you get up twenty thousand
feet.  Not a sign of a Brussels sprout and if there's tea I haven't got
around to it yet.  Now, you take it easy.  Uncle wants to talk to you.'
She sauntered up the aisle, swinging her hips, and disappeared through
the cockpit door.

Now nothing could surprise Bond.  Goldfinger, in a B.O.A.C. captain's
uniform that was rather too large for him, the cap squarely on the
centre of his head, closed the cockpit door behind him and came down
the aisle.

He stood and looked grimly down at Bond.  'Well, Mr Bond.  So Fate
wished us to play the game out.  But this time, Mr Bond, there cannot
possibly be a card up your sleeve.  Ha!'  The sharp bark was a mixture
of anger, stoicism and respect.  'You certainly turned out to be a
snake in my pastures.'  The great head shook slowly.  'Why I kept you
alive!  Why I didn't crush you like a beetle!  You and the girl were
useful to me.  Yes, I was right about that.  But I was mad to have
taken the chance.  Yes, mad.'  The voice dropped and went slow.  'And
now tell me, Mr Bond.  How did you do it?  How did you communicate?'

Bond said equably, 'We will have a talk, Goldfinger.  And I will tell
you certain things.  But not until you have taken off these straps and
brought me a bottle of bourbon, ice, soda water and a packet of
Chesterfields.  Then, when you have told me what I wish to know, I will
decide what to tell you.  As you say, my situation is not favourable,
or at least it doesn't appear to be.  So I have nothing to lose and if
you want to get something out of me it will be on my own terms.'

Goldfinger looked gravely down.  'I have no objection to your
conditions.  Out of respect for your abilities as an opponent, you
shall spend your last journey in comfort.  Oddjob'--the voice was
sharp.  'Ring the bell for Miss Galore and undo those straps.  Get into
the seat in front.  There is no harm he can do at the rear of the plane
but he is not to approach the cockpit door.  If need be, kill him at
once, but I prefer to get him to our destination alive.  Understood?'

'Arrgh.'

Five minutes later Bond had what he wanted.  The tray in front of him
was down and on it were his whisky and cigarettes.  He poured himself a
stiff bourbon.  Goldfinger was seated in the chair across the aisle,
waiting.  Bond picked up his drink and sipped it.  He was about to take
a deeper drink when he saw something.  He put the glass carefully down
without disturbing the little round paper coaster that had stuck to the
bottom of his glass.  He lit a cigarette, picked up his drink again and
removed the ice-cubes and put them back in the ice bucket.  He drank
the whisky down almost to the end.  Now he could read the words through
the bottom of the glass.  He carefully put the glass down without
disturbing the coaster.  The message had read, 'I'm with you.  XXX.  P.'

Bond turned and made himself comfortable.  He said, 'Now then,
Goldfinger.  First of all, what's going on, how did you get this plane,
where are we heading?'

Goldfinger crossed one leg over the other.  He gazed away from Bond, up
the aisle.  He said in a relaxed, conversational tone, 'I took three
trucks and drove across country to the vicinity of Cape Hatteras.  One
of the trucks contained my personal hoard of gold bullion.  The other
two contained my drivers, spare personnel and those gangsters.  I
required none of them except Miss Galore.  I kept a nucleus of the
staff I would need, paid off the others with huge sums and dispersed
them gradually along the route.  At the coast I held a meeting with the
four gang leaders in a deserted place, having left Miss Galore under
some pretext with the trucks.  I shot the four men in my usual
fashion--one bullet for each.  I went back to the trucks and explained
that the four men had chosen money and independent action.  I was now
left with six men, the girl and the bullion.  I hired a plane and flew
to Newark, New Jersey, the crates of gold being passed off as lead for
X-ray plates.  From there I proceeded alone to a certain address in New
York from which I talked with Moscow by radio and explained the mishap
to Operation Grand Slam.  In the course of the talk I mentioned your
name.  My friends, whom I believe you know,' Goldfinger looked hard at
Bond, 'pass under the generic name of SMERSH.  They recognized the name
of Bond and told me who you were.  I at once understood a great deal of
what had previously been hidden from me.  SMERSH said they would
greatly like to interview you.  I pondered the matter.  In due course I
conceived the plan which you now see in operation.  Posing as a friend
of yours, I had no difficulty in finding out the flight on which you
were booked.  Three of my men were formerly of the Luftwaffe.  They
assured me there would be no difficulty in flying this plane.  The rest
was mere detail.  By cool bluffing, impersonation and the use of a
certain amount of force, all the B.O.A.C. personnel at Idlewild, the
crew of this plane and the passengers were given the necessary
injections from which they will now be recovering.  We changed clothes
with the unconscious crew, the bullion was loaded on the plane, you
were dealt with and carried out on a stretcher and in due course the
new B.O.A.C. crew, with their stewardess, boarded the plane and we took
to the air.'

Goldfinger paused.  He lifted a hand resignedly.  'Of course there were
small hitches.  We were told to "follow taxiway Alpha to runway four",
and it was only by following a KLM plane that we were successful.  The
Idlewild routine was not easy to master and we must have seemed
somewhat clumsy and inexperienced, but, Mr Bond, with assurance, strong
nerves and a gruff, intimidating manner it is never difficult to
override the Civil Service mentality of what, after all, are minor
employees.  I understand from the wireless operator that a search for
this plane is under way.  They were already questioning us before we
were out of VHF range at Nantucket.  Then the Distant Early Warning
system queried us on high frequency.  That did not disturb me.  We have
enough fuel.  We have already had clearance from Moscow for East
Berlin, Kiev or Murmansk.  We shall take whichever route the weather
dictates.  There should be no trouble.  If there is, I shall talk my
way out of it on the radio.  No one is going to shoot down a valuable
B.O.A.C. plane.  The mystery and confusion will protect us until we are
well within Soviet territory and then, of course, we shall have
disappeared without trace.'

To Bond there had been nothing fantastic, nothing impossible about
Goldfinger since he had heard the details of Operation Grand Slam.  The
theft of a Stratocruiser, as Goldfinger had explained it, was
preposterous, but no more so than his methods of smuggling gold, his
purchase of an atomic warhead.  When one examined these things, while
they had a touch of magic, of genius even, they were logical exercises.
They were bizarre only in their magnitude.  Even the tiny manoeuvre of
cheating Mr Du Pont had been quite brilliantly contrived.  There was no
doubt about it, Goldfinger was an artist--a scientist in crime as great
in his field as Cellini or Einstein in theirs.

'And now, Mr Bond of the British Secret Service, we made a bargain.
What have you to tell me?  Who put you on to me?  What did they
suspect?  How did you manage to interfere with my plans?'  Goldfinger
sat back, placed his hands across his stomach and looked at the ceiling.

Bond gave Goldfinger a censored version of the truth.  He mentioned
nothing about SMERSH or the location of the post box and he said
nothing about the secrets of the Homer, a device that might be new to
the Russians.  He concluded, 'So you see, Goldfinger, you only just got
away.  But for Tilly Masterton's intervention at Geneva, you'd have
been in the bag by now.  You'd be sitting picking your teeth in a Swiss
prison waiting to be sent to England.  You underestimate the English.
They may be slow, but they get there.  You think you'll be pretty safe
in Russia?  I wouldn't be too sure.  We've got people even out of there
before now.  I'll give you one last aphorism for your book, Goldfinger:
"Never go a bear of England."'




CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

T.L.C. TREATMENT

The plane throbbed on, high above the weather, over the great moonlit
landscape.  The lights had been turned out.  Bond sat quietly in the
darkness and sweated with fear at what he was going to do.

An hour before, the girl had brought him dinner.  There was a pencil
hidden in the napkin.  She had made some tough remarks for the benefit
of Oddjob and gone away.  Bond had eaten some scraps of food and drunk
a good deal of bourbon while his imagination hunted round the plane
wondering what he could conceivably do to force an emergency landing at
Gander or somewhere else in Nova Scotia.  As a last resort, could he
set fire to the plane?  He toyed with the idea, and with the
possibility of forcing the entrance hatch open.  Both ideas seemed
impracticable and suicidal.  To save him the trouble of pondering over
them, the man whom Bond had seen before at the B.O.A.C. ticket counter,
one of the Germans, came through and stopped by Bond's chair.

He grinned down at Bond.  'B.O.A.C. takes good care of you, isn't it?
Mister Goldfinger thinks you might have foolish notions.  I am to keep
an eye on the rear of the plane.  So just sit back and enjoy the ride,
isn't it?'

When Bond didn't answer, the man went on back to the rear section.

Something was nagging at Bond's mind, something connected with his
previous thoughts.  That business about forcing the hatch.  Now what
was it that had happened to that plane, flying over Persia back in '57?
Bond sat for a while and stared with wide, unseeing eyes at the back of
the seat in front of him.  It might work!  It just conceivably might!

Bond wrote on the inside of the napkin, 'I'll do my best.  Fasten your
seat belt.  XXX.  J.'

When the girl came to take his tray Bond dropped the napkin and then
picked it up and handed it to her.  He held her hand and smiled up into
the searching eyes.  She bent to pick up the tray.  She kissed him
quickly on the cheek.  She straightened herself.  She said toughly,
'I'll see you in my dreams, Handsome,' and went off to the galley.

And now Bond's mind was made up.  He had worked out exactly what had to
be done.  The inches had been measured, the knife from his heel was
under his coat and he had twisted the longest end of his seat belt
round his left wrist.  All he needed was one sign that Oddjob's body
was turned away from the window.  It would be too much to expect Oddjob
to go to sleep, but at least he could make himself comfortable.  Bond's
eyes never left the dim profile he could see reflected in the Perspex
oblong of the window of the seat in front, but Oddjob sat stolidly
under the reading light he had prudently kept burning, his eyes staring
at the ceiling, his mouth slightly open and his hands held ready and
relaxed on the arms of his chair.

One hour, two hours.  Bond began to snore, rhythmically, drowsily, he
hoped hypnotically.  Now Oddjob's hands had moved to his lap.  The head
nodded once and pulled itself up, shifted to get more comfortable,
turned away from the piercing eye of light in the wall, rested on its
left cheek away from the window!

Bond kept his snores exactly even.  Getting under the Korean's guard
would be as difficult as getting past a hungry mastiff.  Slowly, inch
by inch, he crouched forward on the balls of his feet and reached with
his knife hand between the wall and Oddjob's seat.  Now his hand was
there.  Now the needle-sharp tip of the dagger was aimed at the centre
of the square inch of Perspex he had chosen.  Bond grasped the end of
his seat belt tightly in his hand, drew the knife back two inches and
lunged.

Bond had had no idea what would happen when he cut through the window.
All he knew from the Press reports of the Persian case was that the
suction out of the pressurized cabin had whirled the passenger next to
the window out through the window and into space.  Now, as he whipped
back his dagger, there was a fantastic howl, almost a scream of air,
and Bond was sucked violently against the back of Oddjob's seat with a
force that tore the end of the seat belt from his hand.  Over the back
of the seat he witnessed a miracle.  Oddjob's body seemed to elongate
towards the howling black aperture.  There was a crash as his head went
through and his shoulders hit the frame.  Then, as if the Korean's body
was toothpaste, it was slowly, foot by foot, sucked with a terrible
whistling noise through the aperture.  Now Oddjob was out to his waist.
Now the huge buttocks stuck and the human paste moved only inch by
inch.  Then, with a loud boom, the buttocks got through and the legs
disappeared as if shot from a gun.

After that came the end of the world.  With an appalling crash of
crockery from the galley, the huge plane stood on its nose and dived.
The last thing Bond knew before he blacked out was the high scream of
the engines through the open window and a fleeting vision of pillows
and rugs whipping out into space past his eyes.  Then, with a final
desperate embrace of the seat in front, Bond's oxygen-starved body
collapsed in a sear of lung-pain.

The next thing Bond felt was a hard kick in the ribs.  There was a
taste of blood in his mouth.  He groaned.  Again the foot smashed into
his body.  Painfully he dragged himself to his knees between the seats
and looked up through a red film.  All the lights were on.  There was a
thin mist in the cabin.  The sharp depressurization had brought the air
in the cabin down below the dew-point.  The roar of the engines through
the open window was gigantic.  An icy wind seared him.  Goldfinger
stood over him, his face fiendish under the yellow light.  There was a
small automatic dead steady in his hand.  Goldfinger reached back his
foot and kicked again.  Bond lit with a blast of hot rage.  He caught
the foot and twisted it sharply, almost breaking the ankle.  There came
a scream from Goldfinger and a crash that shook the plane.  Bond leapt
for the aisle and threw himself sideways and down on to the heap of
body.  There was an explosion that burned the side of his face.  But
then his knee thudded into Goldfinger's groin and his left hand was
over the gun.

For the first time in his life, Bond went berserk.  With his fists and
knees he pounded the struggling body while again and again he crashed
his forehead down on to the glistening face.  The gun came quavering
towards him again.  Almost indifferently Bond slashed sideways with the
edge of his hand and heard the clatter of metal among the seats.  Now
Goldfinger's hands were at his throat and Bond's at Goldfinger's.
Down, down went Bond's thumbs into the arteries.  He threw all his
weight forward, gasping for breath.  Would he black out before the
other man died?  Would he?  Could he stand the pressure of Goldfinger's
strong hands?  The glistening moon-face was changing.  Deep purple
showed through the tan.  The eyes began to flicker up.  The pressure of
the hands on Bond's throat slackened.  The hands fell away.  Now the
tongue came out and lolled from the open mouth and there came a
terrible gargling from deep in the lungs.  Bond sat astride the silent
chest and slowly, one by one, unhinged his rigid fingers.

Bond gave a deep sigh and knelt and then stood slowly up.  Dazedly he
looked up and down the lighted plane.  By the galley, Pussy Galore lay
strapped in her seat like a heap of washing.  Farther down, in the
middle of the aisle, the guard lay spreadeagled, one arm and the head
at ridiculous angles.  Without a belt to hold him when the plane dived,
he must have been tossed at the roof like a rag doll.

Bond brushed his hands over his face.  Now he felt the burns on his
palm and cheeks.  Wearily he went down on his knees again and searched
for the little gun.  It was a Colt .25 automatic.  He flicked out the
magazine.  Three rounds left and one in the chamber.  Bond half walked,
half felt his way down the aisle to where the girl lay.  He unbuttoned
her jacket and put his hand against her warm breast.  The heart
fluttered like a pigeon under his palm.  He undid the seat belt and got
the girl face down on the floor and knelt astride her.  For five
minutes he pumped rhythmically at her lungs.  When she began to moan,
he got up and left her and went on down the aisle and took a fully
loaded Luger out of the dead guard's shoulder holster.  On the way back
past the shambles of the galley he saw an unbroken bottle of bourbon
rolling gently to and fro among the wreckage.  He picked it up and
pulled the cork and tilted it into his open mouth.  The liquor burned
like disinfectant.  He put the cork back and went forward.  He stopped
for a minute outside the cockpit door, thinking.  Then, with a gun in
each hand, he knocked the lever down and went through.

The five faces, blue in-the instrument lights, turned towards him.  The
mouths made black holes and the eyes glinted white.  Here the roar of
the engines was less.  There was a smell of fright-sweat and cigarette
smoke.  Bond stood with his legs braced, the guns held unwavering.  He
said, 'Goldfinger's dead.  If anyone moves or disobeys an order I shall
kill him.  Pilot, what's your position, course, height and speed?'

The pilot swallowed.  He had to gather saliva before he could speak.
He said, 'Sir, we are about five hundred miles east of Goose Bay.  Mr
Goldfinger said we would ditch the plane as near the coast north of
there as we could get.  We were to reassemble at Montreal and Mr
Goldfinger said we would come back and salvage the gold.  Our ground
speed is two hundred and fifty miles per hour and our height two
thousand.'

'How much flying can you do at that altitude?  You must be using up
fuel pretty fast.'

'Yes, sir.  I estimate that we have about two hours left at this height
and speed.'

'Get me a time signal.'

The navigator answered quickly, 'Just had one from Washington, sir.
Five minutes to five a.m.  Dawn at this level will be in about an hour.'

'Where is Weathership Charlie?'

'About three hundred miles to the north-east, sir.'

'Pilot, do you think you can make Goose Bay?'

'No, sir, by about a hundred miles.  We can only make the coast north
of there.'

'Right.  Alter course for Weathership Charlie.  Operator, call them up
and give me the mike.'

'Yes, sir.'

While the plane executed a wide curve, Bond listened to the static and
broken snatches of voice that sounded from the amplifier above his head.

The operator's voice came softly to him, 'Ocean Station Charlie.  This
is Speedbird 510.  G-ALGY calling C for Charlie, G-ALGY calling
Charlie, G-ALGY...'

A sharp voice broke in.  'G-ALGY give your position.  G-ALGY give your
position.  This is Gander Control.  Emergency.  G-ALGY...'

London came over faintly.  An excited voice began chattering.  Now
voices were coming at them from all directions.  Bond could imagine the
fix being quickly co-ordinated at all flying control stations, the busy
men under the arcs working on the big plot, telephones being lifted,
urgent voices talking to each other across the world.  The strong
signal of Gander Control smothered all other transmissions.  'We've
located G-ALGY.  We've got them at about 50 N by 70 E.  All stations
stop transmitting.  Priority.  I repeat, we have a fix on G-ALGY...'

Suddenly the quiet voice of C for Charlie came in.  'This is Ocean
Station Charlie calling Speedbird 510.  Charlie calling G-ALGY.  Can
you hear me?  Come in Speedbird 510.'

Bond slipped the small gun into his pocket and took the offered
microphone.  He pressed the transmitter switch and talked quietly into
it, watching the crew over the oblong of plastic.

'C for Charlie this is G-ALGY Speedbird hi-jacked last evening at
Idlewild.  I have killed the man responsible and partly disabled the
plane by depressurizing the cabin.  I have the crew at gunpoint.  Not
enough fuel to make Goose so propose to ditch as close to you as
possible.  Please put out line of flares.'

A new voice, a voice of authority, perhaps the captain's, came over the
air.  'Speedbird this is C for Charlie.  Your message heard and
understood.  Identify the speaker.  I repeat identify the speaker over.'

Bond said and smiled at the sensation his words would cause, 'Speedbird
to C for Charlie.  This is British Secret Service agent Number 007, I
repeat Number 007.  Whitehall Radio will confirm.  I repeat check with
Whitehall Radio over.'

There was a stunned pause.  Voices from round the world tried to break
in.  Some control, presumably Gander, cleared them off the air.  C for
Charlie came back, 'Speedbird this is C for Charlie alias the Angel
Gabriel speaking okay I'll check with Whitehall and Wilco the flares
but London and Gander want more details...'

Bond broke in, 'Sorry C for Charlie but I can't hold five men in my
sights and make polite conversation just give me the sea conditions
would you and then I'm going off the air till we come in to ditch over.'

'Okay Speedbird I see the point wind here force two sea conditions long
smooth swell no broken crests you should make it okay I'll soon have
you on the radar and we'll keep constant watch on your wavelength have
whisky for one and irons for five waiting good luck over.'

Bond said, 'Thanks C for Charlie add a cup of tea to that order would
you I've got a pretty girl on board this is Speedbird saying over and
out.'

Bond released the switch and handed the microphone to the radio
officer.  He said, 'Pilot, they're putting down flares and keeping
constant watch on our wavelength.  Wind force two, long smooth swell
with no broken crests.  Now take it easy and let's try and get out of
this alive.  As soon as we hit the water I'll get the hatch open.
Until then if anyone comes through the cockpit door he gets shot.
Right?'

The girl's voice sounded from the door behind Bond.

'I was just coming to join the party but I won't now.  Getting shot
doesn't agree with me.  But you might call that man back and make it
two whiskies.  Tea makes me hiccup.'

Bond said, 'Pussy, get back to your basket.'  He gave a last glance
round the cockpit and backed out of the door.


Two hours, two years, later Bond was lying in the warm cabin in
Weathership Charlie listening dreamily to an early morning radio
programme from Canada.  Various parts of his body ached.  He had got to
the tail of the plane and made the girl kneel down with her head
cradled in her arms on the seat of a chair.  Then he had wedged himself
in behind and over her and had held her life-jacketed body tightly in
his arms and braced his back against the back of the seat behind him.

She had been nervously making facetious remarks about the indelicacy of
this position when the belly of the Stratocruiser had thudded into the
first mountain of swell at a hundred miles an hour.  The huge plane
skipped once and then crashed nose first into a wall of water.  The
impact had broken the back of the plane.  The leaden weight of the
bullion in the baggage compartment had torn the plane in half, spewing
Bond and the girl out into the icy swell, lit red by the line of
flares.  There they had floated, half stunned, in their yellow
life-jackets until the lifeboat got to them.  By then there were only a
few chunks of wreckage on the surface and the crew, with three tons of
gold round their necks, were on their way down to the bed of the
Atlantic.  The boat hunted for ten minutes but when no bodies came to
the surface they gave up the search and chugged back up the searchlight
beam to the blessed wall of iron of the old frigate.

They had been treated like a mixture of royalty and people from Mars.
Bond had answered the first, most urgent questions and then it had all
suddenly seemed to be too much for his tired mind to cope with.  Now he
was lying luxuriating in the peace and the heat of the whisky and
wondering about Pussy Galore and why she had chosen shelter under his
wing rather than under Goldfinger's.

The connecting door with the next cabin opened and the girl came in.
She was wearing nothing but a grey fisherman's jersey that was decent
by half an inch.  The sleeves were rolled up.  She looked like a
painting by Vertes.  She said, 'People keep on asking if I'd like an
alcohol rub and I keep on saying that if anyone's going to rub me it's
you, and if I'm going to be rubbed with anything it's you I'd like to
be rubbed with.'  She ended lamely, 'So here I am.'

Bond said firmly, 'Lock that door, Pussy, take off that sweater and
come into bed.  You'll catch cold.'

She did as she was told, like an obedient child.

She lay in the crook of Bond's arm and looked up at him.  She said, not
in a gangster's voice, or a Lesbian's, but in a girl's voice, 'Will you
write to me in Sing Sing?'

Bond looked down into the deep blue-violet eyes that were no longer
hard, imperious.  He bent and kissed them lightly.  He said, 'They told
me you only liked women.'

She said, 'I never met a man before.'  The toughness came back into her
voice.  'I come from the South.  You know the definition of a virgin
down there?  Well, it's a girl who can run faster than her brother.  In
my case I couldn't run as fast as my uncle.  I was twelve.  That's not
so good, James.  You ought to be able to guess that.'

Bond smiled down into the pale, beautiful face.  He said, 'All you need
is a course of TLC.'

'What's TLC?'

'Short for Tender Loving Care treatment.  It's what they write on most
papers when a waif gets brought in to a children's clinic.'

'I'd like that.'  She looked at the passionate, rather cruel mouth
waiting above hers.  She reached up and brushed back the comma of black
hair that had fallen over his right eyebrow.  She looked into the
fiercely slitted grey eyes.  'When's it going to start?'

Bond's right hand came slowly up the firm, muscled thighs, over the
flat soft plain of the stomach to the right breast.  Its point was hard
with desire.  He said softly, 'Now.'  His mouth came ruthlessly down on
hers.






[End of Goldfinger, by Ian Fleming]
