Goldfinger’s lips bent ironically. ‘Thank you, Mr Solo. Your conditions are quite acceptable. I have every wish to stay alive. Mr Helmut Springer?’
Mr Springer’s eyes looked deader than ever. He said pompously, ‘I am still giving the matter my full consideration. Pray consult my colleagues while I deliberate.’
Mr Midnight commented impatiently, ‘Same old Hell. Waits for what he calls inspiration. He’s guided – messages from the Almighty on the angels’ wavelength. I guess he hasn’t heard a human voice in twenty years.’
‘And Mr Strap?’
Mr Jack Strap crinkled his eyes at Goldfinger. He said smoothly, ‘Mister, I figure you know the odds and you surely pay the best since one of our machines at Vegas got the trots and gave continuous jackpots. I guess if we provide the muscles and the guns this caper’ll pay off. You can count me in.’ Mr Strap turned off the charm. His eyes, now frightening again, turned, with Goldfinger’s, to Miss Pussy Galore.
Miss Galore veiled her violet eyes so as not to have to look at either of them. She said indifferently to the room at large, ‘Business ain’t been so brisk in my corner of the woods.’ She tapped with long, silver-painted finger-nails on the gold bar before her. ‘Mind you, I won’t say I’m overdrawn at the bank. Let’s put it I’m just a shade under-deposited. Yup. Sure I’ll come in. Me and my gals got to eat.’
Goldfinger allowed himself a half-smile of sympathy. ‘That is excellent news, Miss Galore. And now,’ he turned to face across the table, ‘Mr Springer, might we ask if you have made up your mind?’
Slowly Mr Springer rose to his feet. He gave the controlled yawn of an opera goer. He followed the yawn with a small belch. He took out a fine linen handkerchief and patted his lips. His glazed eyes moved round the table and finally rested on Goldfinger. Slowly his head moved from side to side as if he was trying to exercise fibrositis in his neck muscles. He said gravely, like a bank manager refusing a loan, ‘Mr Gold, I fear your proposal would not find favour with my colleagues in Detroit.’ He gave a little bow which included everyone. ‘It only remains for me to thank you for a most interesting occasion. Good afternoon, gentlemen and madam.’ In the chilly silence, Mr Springer tucked his handkerchief carefully into the left-hand cuff of his immaculate pin-stripe, turned and walked softly to the door and let himself out.
The door closed with a sharp click. Bond noticed Gold finger’s hand slip casually below the table. He guessed that Oddjob was getting his signal. Signal for what?
Mr Midnight said nastily, ‘Glad he’s out. He’s strictly a four-ulcer man. Now then’ – he got up briskly and turned to Bond – ‘how about a little drink?’
They all rose and gathered round the buffet. Bond found himself between Miss Pussy Galore and Tilly Masterton. He offered them champagne. Miss Galore looked at him coldly and said, ‘Move over, Handsome. Us girls want to talk secrets. Don’t we, yummy?’ Miss Masterton blushed and then turned very pale. She whispered adoringly, ‘Oh yes please, Miss Galore.’
Bond smiled sourly at Tilly Masterton and moved down the room.
Jed Midnight had witnessed the snub. He got close to Bond and said earnestly, ‘Mister, if that’s your doll, you better watch her. Pussy gets the girls she wants. She consumes them in bunches – like grapes, if you follow me.’ Mr Midnight sighed wearily. ‘Cheesus how they bore me, the lizzies! You’ll see, she’ll soon have that frail parting her hair three ways in front of the mirror.’
Bond said cheerfully, ‘I’ll watch out. There’s nothing much I can do. She’s an independent sort of a girl.’
‘That so?’ said Mr Midnight with a spark of interest. ‘Well mebbe I can help to break it up.’ He straightened his tie. ‘I could go for that Masterton. She’s sure got natural resources. See you around.” He grinned at Bond and moved off down the room.
Bond was having a quiet square meal off caviar and champagne and thinking how well Goldfinger had handled the meeting when the door at the end of the room opened and one of the Koreans hurried in and went up to Goldfinger. Goldfinger bent his head to the whispered words. His face became grave. He rapped a fork on his glass of Saratoga Vichy.