‘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 cafe-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.
PART TWO: 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?’