‘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 tod 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 h 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 Dun-lop 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?’