Bond came to the conclusion that Tilly Masterton was one of those girls whose hormones had got mixed up. He knew the type well and thought they and their male counterparts were a direct consequence of giving votes to women and ‘sex equality’. As a result of fifty years of emancipation, feminine qualities were dying out or being transferred to the males. Pansies of both sexes were everywhere, not yet completely homosexual, but confused, not knowing what they were. The result was a herd of unhappy sexual misfits – barren and full of frustrations, the women wanting to dominate and the men to be nannied. He was sorry for them, but he had no time for them. Bond smiled sourly to himself as he remembered his fantasies about this girl as they sped along the valley of the Loire. Entre Deux Seins indeed!
At the end of the day, there was a final note from Gold-finger:
Five principals and myself will leave La Guardia Airport tomorrow at 11 am in chartered plane flown by my pilots for aerial survey of Grand Slam. You will accompany. Masterton will remain. G.
Bond sat on the edge of his bed and looked at the wall. Then he got up and went to the typewriter. He worked for an hour, typing, single-spaced, on both sides of the sheet, exact details of the operation. He folded the sheet, rolled it to a small cylinder about the size of his little finger and sealed it carefully with gum. Next he typed on a slip of paper:
URGENT AND VITAL. REWARD OF FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS IS GUARANTEED WITH NO QUESTIONS ASKED TO THE FINDER WHO DELIVERS THIS MESSAGE UNOPENED TO FELIX LEITER CARE PINKERTON’S DETECTIVE AGENCY, 154 NASSAU STREET, NEW YORK CITY. IMMEDIATE CASH ON DELIVERY.
Bond rolled this message round the cylinder, wrote $5000 REWARD in red ink on the outside, and stuck the little package down the centre of three inches of Scotch tape. Then he sat down again on the edge of the bed and carefully strapped the free ends of the Scotch tape down the inside of his thigh.
CHAPTER TWENTY
JOURNEY INTO HOLOCAUST
‘MISTER, Flying Control is buzzing us. Wants to know who we are. They say this is restricted air.’
Goldfinger got up from his seat and went forward into the cockpit. Bond watched him pick up the hand microphone. His voice came back clearly over the quiet hum of the ten-seater Executive Beechcraft. ‘Good morning. This is Mr Gold of Paramount Pictures Corporation. We are carrying out an authorized survey of the territory for a forthcoming “A” picture of the famous Confederate raid of 1861 which resulted in the capture of General Sherman at Muldraugh
Hill. Yes, that’s right. Gary Grant and Elizabeth Taylor in the lead. What’s that? Clearance? Sure we’ve got clearance. Let me see now’ (Goldfinger consulted nothing)’ – yes, here it is. Signed by Chief of Special Services at the Pentagon. ‘Sure, the Commanding Officer at the Armoured Centre will have a copy. Okay and thanks. Hope you’ll enjoy the picture. ‘Bye.’
Goldfinger wiped the breezy expression off his face, handed over the microphone and came back into the cabin. He braced his legs and stood looking down at his passengers. ‘Well, gentlemen and madam, do you think you’ve seen enough? I think you’ll agree it’s all pretty clear and conforms with your copies of the town plan. I don’t want to go much lower than six thousand. Perhaps we could make one more circuit and be off. Oddjob, get out the refreshments.’
There was a mumble of comment and questions which Goldfinger dealt with one by one. Oddjob got up from Bond’s side and walked down to the rear. Bond followed him and, under his hard, suspicious stare, went into the little lavatory and locked the door.
He sat down calmly and thought. There hadn’t been a chance on the way down to La Guardia. He had sat with Oddjob in the back of an unobtrusive Buick saloon. The doors had been locked on them by the driver and the windows tightly closed. Goldfinger had ridden in front, the partition closed behind him. Oddjob had sat slightly sideways, his horn-ridged hands held ready on his thighs like heavy tools. He had not taken his eyes off Bond until the car had driven round the boundary to the charter hangars and come up alongside the private plane. Sandwiched between Goldfinger and Oddjob, Bond had had no alternative but to climb up the steps into the plane and take his seat with Oddjob beside him. Ten minutes later, the others had arrived. There was no communication with them except an exchange of curt greetings. They were all different now – no smart remarks, no unnecessary .talk. These were men who had gone to war. Even Pussy Galore, in a black Dacron macintosh with a black leather belt, looked like some young S.S. guardsman. Once or twice in the plane she had turned and looked at Bond rather thoughtfully. But she hadn’t answered his smile. Perhaps she just couldn’t understand where Bond fitted in, who he was. When they got back to La