Complete Works of Ian Fleming, page 148
And there was only one man in the whole world who could stop it. But how?
The next day was an unending blizzard of paper-work. Every half-hour a note would come in from Goldfinger’s operations room asking for schedules of this, copies of that, estimates, timetables, lists of stores. Another typewriter was brought in, maps, reference books — anything that Bond requisitioned. But not once did Oddjob relax the extreme care with which he opened the door to Bond’s knock, not once did his watchful eyes wander from Bond’s eyes, hands, feet when he came into the room to bring meals or notes or supplies. There was no question of Bond and the girl being part of the team. They were dangerous slaves and nothing else.
Tilly Masterton was equally reserved. She worked like a machine — quick, willing, accurate, but uncommunicative. She responded with cool politeness to Bond’s early attempts to make friends, share his thoughts with her. By the evening, he had learnt nothing about her except that she had been a successful amateur ice-skater in between secretarial work for Unilevers. Then she had started getting star parts in ice-shows. Her hobby had been indoor pistol and rifle shooting and she had belonged to two marksman clubs. She had few friends. She had never been in love or engaged. She lived by herself in two rooms in Earls Court. She was twenty-four. Yes, she realized that they were in a bad fix. But something would turn up. This Fort Knox business was nonsense. It would certainly go wrong. She thought Miss Pussy Galore was ‘divine’. She somehow seemed to count on her to get her out of this mess. Women, with a sniff, were rather good at things that needed finesse. Instinct told them what to do. Bond was not to worry about her. She would be all right.
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 Goldfinger:
Five principals and myself will leave La Guardia Airport tomorrow at 11 a.m. 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 Guardia there would be the same routine. It was now or never. But where? Among the leaves of lavatory paper? But they might be disturbed too soon or not for weeks. Would the ash-tray be emptied? Possibly not. But one thing would.
There was a rattle at the door-handle. Oddjob was getting restless. Perhaps Bond was setting fire to the plane. Bond called, ‘Coming, ape.’ He got up and lifted the seat. He tore the little package off the inside of his thigh and transferred it to the underside of the fore-edge of the seat. The seat would have to be lifted to get at the Elsan and that would certainly be looked to as soon as the plane got back to the hangar. The $5000 REWARD stared back at him boldly. Not even the most hasty cleaner could miss it. So long as no one preceded the cleaner. But Bond didn’t think any of the passengers would lift the seat. The little compartment was too cramped to stand comfortably in. He softly put the seat down, ran some water in the basin, washed his face and smoothed his hair and walked out.
Oddjob was waiting angrily. He pushed past Bond, looked carefully round the lavatory and came out again, shutting the door. Bond walked back to his seat. Now the SOS was in the bottle and the bottle had been committed to the waves. Who would be the finder? How soon?
Everyone, down to the pilot and co-pilot, went to the blasted little lavatory before they got back on the ground. As each one came out, Bond expected to feel the cold nose of a gun in his neck, the harsh suspicious words, the crackle of the paper being unfolded. But at last they were back in the Buick and speeding over the Triborough into uptown Manhattan and then down the river on the parkway and in through the well-guarded doors of the warehouse and back to work.
Now it was a race — a race between Goldfinger’s calm, unhurried, efficient machine and the tiny gunpowder trail Bond had lit. What was going on outside? During every hour of the next three days Bond’s imagination followed what might be happening — Leiter telling his chief, the conference, the quick flight down to Washington, the F.B.I. and Hoover, the Army, the President. Leiter insisting that Bond’s conditions be adhered to, that no suspicious moves be made, no inquiries started, that no one moved an inch except according to some master plan that would operate on the day and get the whole gang into the bag so that not one of them escaped. Would they accept Bond’s conditions or would they not dare take the chance? Had they talked across the Atlantic with M? Had M insisted that Bond should be somehow pulled out? No, M would see the point. He would agree that Bond’s life must be disregarded. That nothing must jeopardize the big clean-up. They would have to get the two ‘Japanese’, of course, somehow beat out of them the code message Goldfinger would be waiting for on D-1.
Was that how it was going, or was it all a shambles? Leiter away on another assignment. ‘Who is this 007? What does it stand for? Some crazy loon. Hi, Smith, check on this, could you? Get down to the warehouse and take a look. Sorry, mister, no five grand for you. Here’s car fare back to La Guardia. Afraid you’ve been hoaxed.’
Or, worse still, had none of these things happened? Was the plane still standing in a corner of the field, unserviced?
Night and day, the torment of thoughts went through Bond’s head while the work got cleared and the hours ticked by and the deadly machine whirred quietly on. D-1 came and flashed by in a last fever of activity. Then, in the evening, came the note from Goldfinger.
First phase of operation successful. Entrain as planned at midnight. Bring copies of all maps, schedules, operation orders. G.
In close formation, with Bond and Tilly Masterton — he in a white surgeon’s coat, she dressed as a nurse — wedged in the middle, the Goldfinger contingent marched swiftly through the almost empty Concourse of Pennsylvania station and down to the waiting Special. Everyone, including Goldfinger, was wearing the conventional white garb and armbands of a medical field force and the dim platform was crowded with the ghostly waiting figures of the posses from the gangs. The silence and tension was appropriate for an emergency force hurrying to the scene of a disaster, and the stretchers and decontamination suits being loaded into the compartments added drama to the scene. The Superintendent was talking quietly with the senior physicians in the shape of Midnight, Strap, Solo and Ring. Near by stood Miss Galore with a dozen pale-faced nurses who waited with eyes bent as if they stood beside an open grave. Without make-up, their exotic hair-do’s tucked into dark blue Red Cross caps, they had been well rehearsed. They were giving an excellent performance — dutiful, merciful, dedicated to the relief of human suffering.
When the Superintendent saw Goldfinger and his party approaching he hurried up. ‘Dr Gold?’ his face was grave. ‘I’m afraid the news coming through isn’t too good. Guess it’ll all be in the papers tonight. All trains held at Louisville, no reply from the depot at Fort Knox. But we’ll get you through all right. God Almighty, Doctor! What’s going on down there? People coming through from Louisville are talking about the Russians spraying something from the air. Of course’ — the Superintendent looked keenly at Goldfinger— ‘I’m not believing that kind of stuff. But what is it? Food poisoning?’
Goldfinger’s face was solemn. He said in a kindly voice, ‘My friend, that’s what we’ve got to find out. That’s why we’re being rushed down. If you want me to make a guess, but mark you it’s only a guess, it’s a form of sleeping sickness — trypanosomiasis we call it.’
‘That so?’ the Superintendent was impressed by the sound of the malady. ‘Well, believe you me, Doctor, we’re all mighty proud of you and your folks of the Emergency Force.’ He held out his hand, Goldfinger took it. ‘Best of luck, Doc; and now, if you’ll get your men and the nurses on board, I’ll have this train on its way just as quick as may be.’
‘Thank you, Superintendent. My colleagues and I will not forget your services.’ Goldfinger gave a short bow. His contingent moved on.
‘Board!’
Bond found himself in a Pullman with Tilly Masterton across the aisle and the Koreans and Germans all around them. Goldfinger was in the front of the car talking cheerfully with his satraps. Miss Pussy Galore strolled by. She ignored the upturned face of Tilly Masterton but gave Bond the usual searching glance. There was a banging of doors being closed. Pussy Galore stopped and rested an arm on the back of the seat in front of Bond. She looked down at him. ‘Hullo, Handsome. Long time no see. Uncle doesn’t seem to let you off the lead much.’
Bond said, ‘Hullo, Beautiful. That outfit suits you fine. I’m feeling rather faint. How about doing a bit of nursing?’
The deep violet eyes examined him carefully. She said softly, ‘You know what, Mister Bond? I got a feeling there’s something phoney about you. I got instincts, see? Just what are you and that doll’ — she jerked her head back— ‘doing in this outfit?’
‘We do all the work.’
The train began to move. Pussy Galore straightened herself. She said, ‘Mebbe you do. But if any little thing goes wrong with this caper, for my money it’ll be Handsome who knows why. Get me?’
She didn’t wait for Bond’s answer, but moved on down and joined the Chiefs of Staff meeting.
It was a confused, busy night. Appearances had to be kept up before the inquisitive, sympathetic eyes of the conductors. Last-minute conferences up and down the train had to wear the appearance of serious medical conclaves — no cigar-smoking, no swearing, no spitting. Jealousies and competition between the gangs had to be kept under rigid control. The cold superiority of the Mafia, particularly vis-à-vis Jack Strap and his soft, easy-living crowd from the West, might have led to gunplay if the chiefs hadn’t been ready for trouble and constantly on the look-out for it. All these minor psychological factors had been foreseen by Goldfinger and prepared for. The women from the Cement Mixers were carefully segregated, there was no drinking and the gang chiefs kept their men occupied with further exact briefings, dummy exercises with maps and lengthy discussions about their escape plans with the gold. There was casual spying on each other’s plans and Goldfinger was often called in to judge who should have which routes to the Mexican border, to the desert, to Canada. To Bond it was amazing that a hundred of the toughest crooks in America, on edge with excitement and greed, could be kept as quiet as they were. It was Goldfinger who had achieved the miracle. Apart from the calm, dangerous quality of the man, it was the minuteness of the planning and the confidence he exuded that calmed the battle nerves and created some sort of a team-spirit among the rival mobs.
As the iron gallop of the train stretched itself out through the flat lands of Pennsylvania, gradually the passengers fell into an uneasy, troubled sleep. But not Goldfinger or Oddjob. They remained awake and watchful and soon Bond gave up any idea he might have had of using one of his hidden knives on Oddjob and making a bid for freedom when the train slowed through a station or on an up-gradient.
Bond dozed fitfully, wondering, imagining, puzzling over the Superintendent’s words. The Superintendent had certainly thought they were the truth, knew that Fort Knox was in emergency. Was his news from Louisville the truth or part of the giant cover plan that would be necessary to get every member of the conspiracy in the bag? If it was a cover plan, how meticulously had it been prepared? Would someone slip up? Would there be some ghastly bungle that would warn Goldfinger in time? Or if the news was true, if the poison had been successful, what did there remain for Bond to do?
Bond had made up his mind on one score. Somehow, in the excitement of H-Hour, he would get close to Goldfinger and cut his throat with one of his hidden knives. How much would that achieve apart from an act of private vengeance? Would Goldfinger’s squad accept another man’s order to arm the warhead and fire it? Who would be strong enough, cool enough to take over? Mr Solo? Probably. The operation would perhaps be half successful, they would get away with plenty of gold — except Goldfinger’s men who would be lost without him to lead them. And in the meantime, whatever else Bond could now do, had sixty thousand people already died? Was there anything he could have done to prevent that? Had there ever been a chance to kill Goldfinger? Would it have done any good to make a scene at Pennsylvania Station? Bond stared at his dark reflection in the window, listened to the sweet ting of the grade-crossing bells and the howl of the windhorn clearing their way, and shredded his nerves with doubts, questions, reproaches.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE. THE RICHEST MAN IN HISTORY
Slowly the red dawn broke over the endless plain black grass that gradually turned to the famous Kentucky blue as the sun ironed out the shadows. At six o’clock the train began to slacken speed and soon they were gliding gently through the waking suburbs of Louisville to come to rest with a sigh of hydraulics in the echoing, almost deserted station.
A small, respectful group was awaiting them. Goldfinger, his eyes black-ringed with lack of sleep, beckoned to one of the Germans, picked up his authoritative little black bag and stepped down on to the platform. There was a short, serious conclave, the Louisville Superintendent doing the talking and Goldfinger interjecting a few questions and nodding gravely at the answers. Goldfinger turned wearily back to the train. Mr Solo had been deputed to take his report. He stood at the open door at the end of the Pullman. Bond heard Goldfinger say sorrowfully, ‘I am afraid, Doctor, the situation is as bad as we feared. I will now go forward to the leading diesel with this,’ he held up the black bag, ‘and we will proceed slowly into the infected area. Would you please tell all personnel to be prepared to put on their masks? I have masks for the driver and fireman. All other railway personnel will leave the train here.’
