‘The six should do it, sir. Nice firm shot.’ Hawker handed him the club.
Now then, clear your mind. Keep it slow and deliberate. It’s an easy shot. Just punch it so that it’s got plenty of zip to get up the bank and on to the green. Stand still and head down. Click! The ball, hit with a slightly closed face, went off on just the medium trajectory Bond had wanted. It pitched below the bank. It was perfect! No, damn it. It had hit the bank with its second bounce, stopped dead, hesitated and then rolled back and down again. Hell’s bells! Was it Hagen who had said, ‘You drive for show, but you putt for dough’? Getting dead from below that bank was one of the most difficult putts on the course. Bond reached for his cigarettes and lit one, already preparing his mind for the next crucial shot to save the hole – so long as that bastard Gold-finger didn’t hole his from thirty feet!
Hawker walked along by his side. Bond said, ‘Miracle finding that ball.’
‘It wasn’t his ball, sir.’ Hawker was stating a fact.
‘What do you mean?’ Bond’s voice was tense.
‘Money passed, sir. White, probably a fiver. Foulks must have dropped that ball down his trouser leg.’
‘Hawker!’ Bond stopped in his tracks. He looked round. Goldfinger and his caddie were fifty yards away, walking slowly towards the green. Bond said fiercely, ‘Do you swear to that? How can you be sure?’
Hawker gave a half-ashamed, lop-sided grin. But there was a crafty belligerence in his eye. ‘Because his ball was lying under my bag of clubs, sir.’ When he saw Bond’s open-mouthed expression he added apologetically, ‘Sorry, sir. Had to do it after what he’s been doing to you. Wouldn’t have mentioned it, but I had to let you know he’s fixed you again.’
Bond had to laugh. He said admiringly, “Well, you are a card, Hawker. So you were going to win the match for me all on your own!’ He added bitterly, ‘But, by God, that man’s the flaming limit. I’ve got to get him. I’ve simply got to. Now let’s think!’ They walked slowly on.
Bond’s left hand was in his trousers pocket, absent-mindedly fingering the ball he had picked up in the rough. Suddenly the message went to his brain. Got it! He came close to Hawker. He glanced across at the others. Goldfinger had stopped. His back was to Bond and he was taking the putter out of his bag. Bond nudged Hawker. ‘Here, take this.’ He slipped the ball into the gnarled hand. Bond said softly, urgently, ‘Be certain you take the flag. When you pick up the balls from the green, whichever way the hole has gone, give Goldfinger this one. Right?’
Hawker walked stolidly forward. His face was expressionless. ‘Got it, sir,’ he said in his normal voice. ‘Will you take the putter for this one?’
‘Yes.’ Bond walked up to his ball. ‘Give me a line, would you?’
Hawker walked up on to the green. He stood sideways to the line of the putt and then stalked round to behind the flag and crouched. He got up. ‘Inch outside the right lip, sir. Firm putt. Flag, sir?’
‘No. Leave it in, would you.’
Hawker stood away. Goldfinger was standing by his ball on the right of the green. His caddie had stopped at the bottom of the slope. Bond bent to the putt. Come on, Calamity Jane! This one has got to go dead or I’ll put you across my knee. Stand still. Club head straight back on the line and follow through towards the hole. Give it a chance. Now! The ball, hit firmly in the middle of the club, had run up the bank and was on its way to the hole. But too hard, damn it! Hit the stick! Obediently the ball curved in, rapped the stick hard and bounced back three inches – dead as a doornail!
Bond let out a deep sigh and picked up his discarded cigarette. He looked over at Goldfinger. Now then, you bastard. Sweat that one out. And by God if you hole it! But Goldfinger couldn’t afford to try. He stopped two feet short. ‘All right, all right,’ said Bond generously. ‘All square and one to go.’ It was vital that Hawker should pick up the balls. If he had made Goldfinger hole the short putt it would have been Goldfinger who would have picked the ball out of the hole. Anyway, Bond didn’t want Goldfinger to miss that putt. That wasn’t part of the plan.