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 There was the briefest pressure and it was withdrawn.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.