Fleming, Ian - Bond 07 - (1959) Goldfinger

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my gentle Reader

William Plomer

PART ONE: 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 cafe 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 ran almost dry by the illicit stock-piling in England. In Mexico City, a

pleasant-spoken Import and Export merchant called Black-well 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, WC1, 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 CID 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 cafe a mile away and watched the flames leap above the horizon of rooftops 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 ringers 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 standby 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 am. 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 gasjets

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 DC 7 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,

middleaged 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.

Trance, '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 ringers 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 nearby 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 Font'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 Font'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 Fonts.'

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 Font'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 facade.

Mr Du Font'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 Font'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 de-liciously 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 ringers for the maitre d'hotel 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 damnedest 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 Font'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 nearby 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 under way.

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 passkey. 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. Til 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 Gold-finger 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 cheek-bones 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

Bait! 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 net 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 Font'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 card-sharp. 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 Font'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 Gold-finger

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 K2 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 f 11, 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 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 king's,

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 brassiere

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

viewfinder. 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 Font'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^jmme'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 millionaire 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 dt 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

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1TomygentleReaderWilliamPlomerPARTONE:HAPPENSTANCECHAPTERONEREFLECTIONSINADOUBLEBOURBONJAMESBOND,withtwodoublebourbonsinsidehim,satinthefinaldepartureloungeofMiamiAirportandthoughtaboutlifeanddeath.Itwaspartofhisprofessiontokillpeople.Hehadneverlikeddoingitandwhenhehadtokillhediditaswellasheknewhowa...

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Fleming, Ian - Bond 07 - (1959) Goldfinger

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