The James Bond Anthology

9 | THE CUP AND THE LIP

Goldfinger had already teed up. Bond walked slowly behind him, followed by Hawker. Bond stood and leant on his driver. He said, ‘I thought you said we would be playing the strict rules of golf. But I’ll give you that putt. That makes you one up.’

Goldfinger nodded curtly. He went through his practice routine and hit his usual excellent, safe drive.

The second hole is a three hundred and seventy yard dogleg to the left with deep cross-bunkers daring you to take the tiger’s line. But there was a light helping breeze. For Goldfinger it would now be a five iron for his second. Bond decided to try and make it easier for himself and only have a wedge for the green. He laid his ears back and hit the ball hard and straight for the bunkers. The breeze got under the slight draw and winged the ball on and over. The ball pitched and disappeared down into the gully just short of the green. A four. Chance of a three.

Goldfinger strode off without comment. Bond lengthened his stride and caught up. ‘How’s the agoraphobia? Doesn’t all this wide open space bother it?’

‘No.’

Goldfinger deviated to the right. He glanced at the distant, half-hidden flag, planning his second shot. He took his five iron and hit a good, careful shot which took a bad kick short of the green and ran down into the thick grass to the left. Bond knew that territory. Goldfinger would be lucky to get down in two.

Bond walked up to his ball, took the wedge and flicked the ball on to the green with plenty of stop. The ball pulled up and lay a yard past the hole. Goldfinger executed a creditable pitch but missed the twelve-foot putt. Bond had two for the hole from a yard. He didn’t wait to be given the hole but walked up and putted. The ball stopped an inch short. Goldfinger walked off the green. Bond knocked the ball in. All square.

The third is a blind two hundred and forty yards, all carry, a difficult three. Bond chose his brassie and hit a good one. It would be on or near the green. Goldfinger’s routine drive was well hit but would probably not have enough steam to carry the last of the rough and trickle down into the saucer of the green. Sure enough, Goldfinger’s ball was on top of the protecting mound of rough. He had a nasty, cuppy lie, with a tuft just behind the ball. Goldfinger stood and looked at the lie. He seemed to make up his mind. He stepped past his ball to take a club from the caddie. His left foot came down just behind the ball, flattening the tuft. Goldfinger could now take his putter. He did so and trickled the ball down the bank towards the hole. It stopped three feet short.

Bond frowned. The only remedy against a cheat at golf is not to play with him again. But that was no good in this match. Bond had no intention of playing with the man again. And it was no good starting a you-did-I-didn’t argument unless he caught Goldfinger doing something even more outrageous. Bond would just have to try and beat him, cheating and all.

Now Bond’s twenty-foot putt was no joke. There was no question of going for the hole. He would have to concentrate on laying it dead. As usual, when one plays to go dead, the ball stopped short – a good yard short. Bond took a lot of trouble about the putt and holed it, sweating. He knocked Goldfinger’s ball away. He would go on giving Goldfinger missable putts until suddenly Bond would ask him to hole one. Then that one might look just a bit more difficult.

Still all square. The fourth is four hundred and sixty yards. You drive over one of the tallest and deepest bunkers in the United Kingdom and then have a long second shot across an undulating hilly fairway to a plateau green guarded by a final steep slope which makes it easier to take three putts than two.

Bond picked up his usual fifty yards on the drive and Goldfinger hit two of his respectable shots to the gully below the green. Bond, determined to get up, took a brassie instead of a spoon and went over the green and almost up against the boundary fence. From there he was glad to get down in three for a half.

The fifth was again a long carry, followed by Bond’s favourite second shot on the course – over bunkers and through a valley between high sand-dunes to a distant, taunting flag. It is a testing hole for which the first essential is a well-placed drive. Bond stood on the tee, perched high up in the sand-hills, and paused before the shot while he gazed at the glittering distant sea and at the faraway crescent of white cliffs beyond Pegwell Bay. Then he took up his stance and visualized the tennis court of turf that was his target. He took the club back as slowly as he knew how and started down for the last terrific acceleration before the club head met the ball. There was a dull clang on his right. It was too late to stop. Desperately Bond focused the ball and tried to keep his swing all in one piece. There came the ugly clonk of a mis-hit ball. Bond’s head shot up. It was a lofted hook. Would it have the legs? Get on! Get on! The ball hit the top of a mountain of rough and bounced over. Would it reach the beginning of the fairway?

Bond turned towards Goldfinger and the caddies, his eyes fierce. Goldfinger was straightening up. He met Bond’s eyes indifferently. ‘Sorry. Dropped my driver.’

‘Don’t do it again,’ said Bond curtly. He stood down off the tee and handed his driver to Hawker. Hawker shook his head sympathetically. Bond took out a cigarette and lit it. Goldfinger hit his drive the dead straight regulation two hundred yards.

They walked down the hill in a silence which Goldfinger unexpectedly broke. ‘What is the firm you work for?’

‘Universal Export.’

‘And where do they hang out?’

‘London. Regent’s Park.’

‘What do they export?’

Bond woke up from his angry ruminations. Here, pay attention! This is work, not a game. All right, he put you off your drive, but you’ve got your cover to think about. Don’t let him needle you into making mistakes about it. Build up your story. Bond said casually, ‘Oh everything from sewing-machines to tanks.’

‘What’s your speciality?’

Bond could feel Goldfinger’s eyes on him. He said, ‘I look after the small arms side. Spend most of my time selling miscellaneous ironmongery to sheiks and rajahs – anyone the Foreign Office decides doesn’t want the stuff to shoot at us with.’

‘Interesting work.’ Goldfinger’s voice was flat, bored.

‘Not very. I’m thinking of quitting. Came down here for a week’s holiday to think it out. Not much future in England. Rather like the idea of Canada.’

‘Indeed?’

They were past the rough and Bond was relieved to find that his ball had got a forward kick off the hill on to the fairway. The fairway curved slightly to the left and Bond had even managed to pick up a few feet on Goldfinger. It was Goldfinger to play. Goldfinger took out his spoon. He wasn’t going for the green but only to get over the bunkers and through the valley.

Bond waited for the usual safe shot. He looked at his own lie. Yes, he could take his brassie. There came the wooden thud of a mis-hit. Goldfinger’s ball, hit off the heel, sped along the ground and into the stony wastes of Hell Bunker – the widest bunker and the only unkempt one, because of the pebbles, on the course.

For once Homer had nodded – or rather, lifted his head. Perhaps his mind had been half on what Bond had told him. Good show! But Goldfinger might still get down in three more. Bond took out his brassie. He couldn’t afford to play safe. He addressed the ball, seeing in his mind’s eye its eighty-eight-millimetre trajectory through the valley and then the two or three bounces that would take it on to the green. He laid off a bit to the right to allow for his draw. Now!

There came a soft clinking away to his right. Bond stood away from his ball. Goldfinger had his back to Bond. He was gazing out to sea, rapt in its contemplation, while his right hand played ‘unconsciously’ with the money in his pocket.

Bond smiled grimly. He said, ‘Could you stop shifting bullion till after my shot?’

Goldfinger didn’t turn round or answer. The noise stopped.

Bond turned back to his shot, desperately trying to clear his mind again. Now the brassie was too much of a risk. It needed too good a shot. He handed it to Hawker and took his spoon and banged the ball safely through the valley. It ran on well and stopped on the apron. A five, perhaps a four.

Goldfinger got well out of the bunker and put his chip dead. Bond putted too hard and missed the one back. Still all square.

The sixth, appropriately called ‘The Virgin’, is a famous short hole in the world of golf. A narrow green, almost ringed with bunkers, it can need anything from an eight to a two iron according to the wind. Today, for Bond, it was a seven. He played a soaring shot, laid off to the right for the wind to bring it in. It ended twenty feet beyond the pin with a difficult putt over and down a shoulder. Should be a three. Goldfinger took his five and played it straight. The breeze took it and it rolled into the deep bunker on the left. Good news! That would be the hell of a difficult three.

They walked in silence to the green. Bond glanced into the bunker. Goldfinger’s ball was in a deep heel-mark. Bond walked over to his ball and listened to the larks. This was going to put him one up. He looked for Hawker to take his putter, but Hawker was the other side of the green, watching with intent concentration Goldfinger play his shot. Goldfinger got down into the bunker with his blaster. He jumped up to get a view of the hole and then settled himself for the shot. As his club went up Bond’s heart lifted. He was going to try and flick it out – a hopeless technique from that buried lie. The only hope would have been to explode it. Down came the club, smoothly, without hurry. With hardly a handful of sand the ball curved up out of the deep bunker, bounced once and lay dead!

Bond swallowed. Blast his eyes! How the hell had Goldfinger managed that? Now, out of sour grapes, Bond must try for his two. He went for it, missed the hole by an inch and rolled a good yard past. Hell and damnation! Bond walked slowly up to the putt, knocking Goldfinger’s ball away. Come on, you bloody fool! But the spectre of the big swing – from an almost certain one up to a possible one down – made Bond wish the ball into the hole instead of tapping it in. The coaxed ball, lacking decision, slid past the lip. One down!

Now Bond was angry with himself. He, and he alone, had lost that hole. He had taken three putts from twenty feet. He really must pull himself together and get going.

At the seventh, five hundred yards, they both hit good drives and Goldfinger’s immaculate second lay fifty yards short of the green. Bond took his brassie. Now for the equalizer! But he hit from the top, his club head came down too far ahead of the hands and the smothered ball shot into one of the right-hand bunkers. Not a good lie, but he must put it on the green. Bond took a dangerous seven and failed to get it out. Goldfinger got his five. Two down. They halved the short eighth in three. At the ninth Bond, determined to turn only one down, again tried to do too much off a poor lie. Goldfinger got his four to Bond’s five. Three down at the turn! Not too good. Bond asked Hawker for a new ball. Hawker unwrapped it slowly, waiting for Goldfinger to walk over the hillock to the next tee. Hawker said softly, ‘You saw what he did at The Virgin, sir?’

‘Yes, damn him. It was an amazing shot.’

Hawker was surprised. ‘Oh, you didn’t see what he did in the bunker, sir?’

‘No, what? I was too far away.’

The other two were out of sight over the rise. Hawker silently walked down into one of the bunkers guarding the ninth green, kicked a hole with his toe and dropped the ball in the hole. He then stood just behind the half-buried ball with his feet close together. He looked up at Bond. ‘Remember he jumped up to look at the line to the hole, sir?’

‘Yes.’

‘Just watch this, sir.’ Hawker looked towards the ninth pin and jumped, just as Goldfinger had done, as if to get the line. Then he looked up at Bond again and pointed to the ball at his feet. The heavy impact of the two feet just behind the ball had levelled the hole in which it had lain and had squeezed the ball out so that it was now perfectly teed for an easy shot – for just the easy cut-up shot which had seemed utterly impossible from Goldfinger’s lie at The Virgin.

Bond looked at his caddie for a moment in silence. Then he said, ‘Thanks, Hawker. Give me the bat and the ball. Somebody’s going to be second in this match, and I’m damned if it’s going to be me.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Hawker stolidly. He limped off on the short cut that would take him half way down the tenth fairway.

Bond sauntered slowly over the rise and down to the tenth tee. He hardly looked at Goldfinger who was standing on the tee swishing his driver impatiently. Bond was clearing his mind of everything but cold, offensive resolve. For the first time since the first tee, he felt supremely confident. All he needed was a sign from heaven and his game would catch fire.

The tenth at the Royal St Marks is the most dangerous hole on the course. The second shot, to the skiddy plateau green with cavernous bunkers to right and left and a steep hill beyond, has broken many hearts. Bond remembered that Philip Scrutton, out in four under fours in the Gold Bowl, had taken a fourteen at this hole, seven of them ping-pong shots from one bunker to another, to and fro across the green. Bond knew that Goldfinger would play his second to the apron, or short of it, and be glad to get a five. Bond must go for it and get his four.

Two good drives and, sure enough, Goldfinger well up on the apron with his second. A possible four. Bond took his seven, laid off plenty for the breeze and fired the ball off into the sky. At first he thought he had laid off too much, but then the ball began to float to the left. It pitched and stopped dead in the soft sand blown on to the green from the right-hand bunker. A nasty fifteen-foot putt. Bond would now be glad to get a half. Sure enough, Goldfinger putted up to within a yard. That, thought Bond as he squared up to his putt, he will have to hole. He hit his own putt fairly smartly to get it through the powdering of sand and was horrified to see it going like lightning across the skiddy green. God, he was going to have not a yard, but a two-yard putt back! But suddenly, as if drawn by a magnet, the ball swerved straight for the hole, hit the back of the tin, bounced up and fell into the cup with an audible rattle. The sign from heaven! Bond went up to Hawker, winked at him and took his driver.

They left the caddies and walked down the slope and back to the next tee. Goldfinger said coldly, ‘That putt ought to have run off the green.’

Bond said off-handedly, ‘Always give the hole a chance!’ He teed up his ball and hit his best drive of the day down the breeze. Wedge and one putt? Goldfinger hit his regulation shot and they walked off again. Bond said, ‘By the way, what happened to that nice Miss Masterton?’

Goldfinger looked straight in front of him. ‘She left my employ.’

Bond thought, good for her! He said, ‘Oh, I must get in touch with her again. Where did she go to?’

‘I couldn’t say.’ Goldfinger walked away from Bond towards his ball. Bond’s drive was out of sight, over the ridge that bisected the fairway. It wouldn’t be more than fifty yards from the pin. Bond thought he knew what would be in Goldfinger’s mind, what is in most golfers’ minds when they smell the first scent of a good lead melting away. Bond wouldn’t be surprised to see that grooved swing quicken a trifle. It did. Goldfinger hooked into a bunker on the left of the green.

Now was the moment when it would be the end of the game if Bond made a mistake, let his man off the hook. He had a slightly downhill lie, otherwise an easy chip – but to the trickiest green on the course. Bond played it like a man. The ball ended six feet from the pin. Goldfinger played well out of his bunker, but missed the longish putt. Now Bond was only one down.

They halved the dog-leg twelfth in inglorious fives and the longish thirteenth also in fives, Goldfinger having to hole a good putt to do so.

Now a tiny cleft of concentration had appeared on Goldfinger’s massive, unlined forehead. He took a drink of water from the tap beside the fourteenth tee. Bond waited for him. He didn’t want a sharp clang from that tin cup when it was out-of-bounds over the fence to the right and the drive into the breeze favouring a slice! Bond brought his left hand over to increase his draw and slowed down his swing. The drive, well to the left, was only just adequate, but at least it had stayed in bounds. Goldfinger, apparently unmoved by the out-of-bounds hazard, hit his standard shot. They both negotiated the transverse canal without damage and it was another half in five. Still one down and now only four to play.

The four hundred and sixty yards fifteenth is perhaps the only hole where the long hitter may hope to gain one clear shot. Two smashing woods will just get you over the line of bunkers that lie right up against the green. Goldfinger had to play short of them with his second. He could hardly improve on a five and it was up to Bond to hit a really godlike second shot from a barely adequate drive.

The sun was on its way down and the shadows of the four men were beginning to lengthen. Bond had taken up his stance. It was a good lie. He had kept his driver. There was dead silence as he gave his two incisive waggles. This was going to be a vital stroke. Remember to pause at the top of the swing, come down slow and whip the club head through at the last second. Bond began to take the club back. Something moved at the corner of his right eye. From nowhere the shadow of Goldfinger’s huge head approached the ball on the ground, engulfed it and moved on. Bond let his swing take itself to pieces in sections. Then he stood away from his ball and looked up. Goldfinger’s feet were still moving. He was looking carefully up at the sky.

‘Shades please, Goldfinger.’ Bond’s voice was furiously controlled.

Goldfinger stopped and looked slowly at Bond. The eyebrows were raised a fraction in inquiry. He moved back and stood still, saying nothing.

Bond went back to his ball. Now then, relax! To hell with Goldfinger. Slam that ball on to the green. Just stand still and hit it. There was a moment when the world stood still, then ... then somehow Bond did hit it – on a low trajectory that mounted gracefully to carry the distant surf of the bunkers. The ball hit the bank below the green, bounced high with the impact and rolled out of sight into the saucer round the pin.

Hawker came up and took the driver out of Bond’s hand. They walked on together. Hawker said seriously, ‘That’s one of the finest shots I’ve seen in thirty years.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I thought he’d fixed you then, sir.’

‘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 too 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 it 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 Dunlop 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?’

‘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 Goldfinger 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, absentmindedly 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.

Hawker bent down and picked up the balls. He rolled one towards Bond and handed the other to Goldfinger. They walked off the green, Goldfinger leading as usual. Bond noticed Hawker’s hand go to his pocket. Now, so long as Goldfinger didn’t notice anything on the tee!

But, with all square and one to go, you don’t scrutinize your ball. Your motions are more or less automatic. You are thinking of how to place your drive, of whether to go for the green with the second or play to the apron, of the strength of the wind – of the vital figure four that must somehow be achieved to win or at least to halve.

Considering that Bond could hardly wait for Goldfinger to follow him and hit, just once, that treacherous Dunlop Number Seven that looked so very like a Number One, Bond’s own drive down the four hundred and fifty yard eighteenth was praiseworthy. If he wanted to, he could now reach the green – if he wanted to!

Now Goldfinger was on the tee. Now he had bent down. The ball was on the peg, its lying face turned up at him. But Goldfinger had straightened, had stood back, was taking his two deliberate practice swings. He stepped up to the ball, cautiously, deliberately. Stood over it, waggled, focusing the ball minutely. Surely he would see! Surely he would stop and bend down at the last minute to inspect the ball! Would the waggle never end? But now the club head was going back, coming down, the left knee bent correctly in towards the ball, the left arm straight as a ramrod. Crack! The ball sailed off, a beautiful drive, as good as Goldfinger had hit, straight down the fairway.

Bond’s heart sang. Got you, you bastard! Got you! Blithely Bond stepped down from the tee and strolled off down the fairway planning the next steps which could now be as eccentric, as fiendish as he wished. Goldfinger was beaten already – hoist with his own petard! Now to roast him, slowly, exquisitely.

Bond had no compunction. Goldfinger had cheated him twice and got away with it. But for his cheats at The Virgin and the seventeenth, not to mention his improved lie at the third and the various times he had tried to put Bond off, Goldfinger would have been beaten by now. If it needed one cheat by Bond to rectify the score-sheet that was only poetic justice. And besides, there was more to this than a game of golf. It was Bond’s duty to win. By his reading of Goldfinger he had to win. If he was beaten, the score between the two men would have been equalized. If he won the match, as he now had, he would be two up on Goldfinger – an intolerable state of affairs, Bond guessed, to a man who saw himself as all powerful. This man Bond, Goldfinger would say to himself, has something. He has qualities I can use. He is a tough adventurer with plenty of tricks up his sleeve. This is the sort of man I need for – for what? Bond didn’t know. Perhaps there would be nothing for him. Perhaps his reading of Goldfinger was wrong, but there was certainly no other way of creeping up on the man.

Goldfinger cautiously took out his spoon for the longish second over cross-bunkers to the narrow entrance to the green. He made one more practice swing than usual and then hit exactly the right, controlled shot up to the apron. A certain five, probably a four. Much good would it do him!

Bond, after a great show of taking pains, brought his hands down well ahead of the club and smothered his number three iron so that the topped ball barely scrambled over the cross-bunkers. He then wedged the ball on to the green twenty feet past the pin. He was where he wanted to be – enough of a threat to make Goldfinger savour the sweet smell of victory, enough to make Goldfinger really sweat to get his four.

And now Goldfinger really was sweating. There was a savage grin of concentration and greed as he bent to the long putt up the bank and down to the hole. Not too hard, not too soft. Bond could read every anxious thought that would be running through the man’s mind. Goldfinger straightened up again, walked deliberately across the green to behind the flag to verify his line. He walked slowly back beside his line, brushing away – carefully, with the back of his hand – a wisp or two of grass, a speck of top-dressing. He bent again and made one or two practice swings and then stood to the putt, the veins standing out on his temples, the cleft of concentration deep between his eyes.

Goldfinger hit the putt and followed through on the line. It was a beautiful putt that stopped six inches past the pin. Now Goldfinger would be sure that unless Bond sank his difficult twenty-footer, the match was his!

Bond went through a long rigmarole of sizing up his putt. He took his time, letting the suspense gather like a thunder cloud round the long shadows on the livid, fateful green.

‘Flag out, please. I’m going to sink this one.’ Bond charged the words with a deadly certitude, while debating whether to miss the hole to the right or the left or leave it short. He bent to the putt and missed the hole well on the right.

‘Missed it, by God!’ Bond put bitterness and rage into his voice. He walked over to the hole and picked up the two balls, keeping them in full view.

Goldfinger came up. His face was glistening with triumph. ‘Well, thanks for the game. Seems I was just too good for you after all.’

‘You’re a good nine handicap,’ said Bond with just sufficient sourness. He glanced at the balls in his hand to pick out Goldfinger’s and hand it to him. He gave a start of surprise. ‘Hullo!’ He looked sharply at Goldfinger. ‘You play a Number One Dunlop, don’t you?’

‘Yes, of course.’ A sixth sense of disaster wiped the triumph off Goldfinger’s face. ‘What is it? What’s the matter?’

‘Well,’ said Bond apologetically. ‘’Fraid you’ve been playing with the wrong ball. Here’s my Penfold Hearts and this is a Number Seven Dunlop.’ He handed both balls to Goldfinger. Goldfinger tore them off his palm and examined them feverishly.

Slowly the colour flooded over Goldfinger’s face. He stood, his mouth working, looking from the balls to Bond and back to the balls.

Bond said softly, ‘Too bad we were playing to the rules. Afraid that means you lose the hole. And, of course, the match.’ Bond’s eyes observed Goldfinger impassively.

‘But, but ...’

This was what Bond had been looking forward to – the cup dashed from the lips. He stood and waited, saying nothing.

Rage suddenly burst Goldfinger’s usually relaxed face like a bomb. ‘It was a Dunlop Seven you found in the rough. It was your caddie that gave me this ball. On the seventeenth green. He gave me the wrong ball on purpose, the damned che –’

‘Here, steady on,’ said Bond mildly. ‘You’ll get a slander action on your hands if you aren’t careful. Hawker, did you give Mr Goldfinger the wrong ball by mistake or anything?’

‘No, sir.’ Hawker’s face was stolid. He said indifferently, ‘If you want my opinion, sir, the mistake may have been made at the seventeenth when the gentleman found his ball pretty far off the line we’d all marked it on. A Seven looks very much like a One. I’d say that’s what happened, sir. It would have been a miracle for the gentleman’s ball to have ended up as wide as where it was found.’

‘Tommy rot!’ Goldfinger gave a snort of disgust. He turned angrily on Bond. ‘You saw that was a Number One my caddie found.’

Bond shook his head doubtfully. ‘I didn’t really look closely, I’m afraid. However,’ Bond’s voice became brisk, businesslike, ‘it’s really the job of the player to make certain he’s using the right ball, isn’t it? I can’t see that anyone else can be blamed if you tee the wrong ball up and play three shots with it. Anyway,’ he started walking off the green, ‘many thanks for the match. We must have it again one day.’

Goldfinger, lit with glory by the setting sun, but with a long black shadow tied to his heels, followed Bond slowly, his eyes fixed thoughtfully on Bond’s back.