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.’