‘Ha!’ said Mr Du Pont explosively. ‘That’s the damnedest thing. He’s loaded. But loaded! I got my bank to check with Nassau. He’s lousy with it. Millionaires are a dime a dozen in Nassau, but he’s rated either first or second among them. Seems he keeps his money in gold bars. Shifts them around the world a lot to get the benefit of changes in the gold price. Acts like a damn federal bank. Doesn’t trust currencies. Can’t say he’s wrong in that, and seeing how he’s one of the richest men in the world there must be something to his system. But the point is, if he’s as rich as that, what the hell does he want to take a lousy twenty-five grand off me for?’
A bustle of waiters round their table saved Bond having to think up a reply. With ceremony, a wide silver dish of crabs, big ones, their shells and claws broken, was placed in the middle of the table. A silver sauceboat brimming with melted butter and a long rack of toast was put beside each of their plates. The tankards of champagne frothed pink. Finally, with an oily smirk, the head waiter came behind their chairs and, in turn, tied round their necks long white silken bibs that reached down to the lap.
Bond was reminded of Charles Laughton playing Henry VIII, but neither Mr Du Pont nor the neighbouring diners seemed surprised at the hoggish display. Mr Du Pont, with a gleeful ‘Every man for himself’, raked several hunks of crab on to his plate, doused them liberally in melted butter and dug in. Bond followed suit and proceeded to eat, or rather devour, the most delicious meal he had had in his life.
The meat of the stone crabs was the tenderest, sweetest shellfish he had ever tasted. It was perfectly set off by the dry toast and slightly burned taste of the melted butter. The champagne seemed to have the faintest scent of strawberries. It was ice cold. After each helping of crab, the champagne cleaned the palate for the next. They ate steadily and with absorption and hardly exchanged a word until the dish was cleared.
With a slight belch, Mr Du Pont for the last time wiped butter off his chin with his silken bib and sat back. His face was flushed. He looked proudly at Bond. He said reverently, ‘Mr Bond, I doubt if anywhere in the world a man has eaten as good a dinner as that tonight. What do you say?’
Bond thought, I asked for the easy life, the rich life. How do I like it? How do I like eating like a pig and hearing remarks like that? Suddenly the idea of ever having another meal like this, or indeed any other meal with Mr Du Pont, revolted him. He felt momentarily ashamed of his disgust. He had asked and it had been given. It was the puritan in him that couldn’t take it. He had made his wish and the wish had not only been granted, it had been stuffed down his throat. Bond said, ‘I don’t know about that, but it was certainly very good.’
Mr Du Pont was satisfied. He called for coffee. Bond refused the offer of cigars or liqueurs. He lit a cigarette and waited with interest for the catch to be presented. He knew there would be one. It was obvious that all this was part of the come-on. Well, let it come.
Mr Du Pont cleared his throat. ‘And now, Mr Bond, I have a proposition to put to you.’ He stared at Bond, trying to gauge his reaction in advance.
‘Yes?’
‘It surely was providential to meet you like that at the airport.’ Mr Du Pont’s voice was grave, sincere. ‘I’ve never forgotten our first meeting at Royale. I recall every detail of it – your coolness, your daring, your handling of the cards.’ Bond looked down at the table-cloth. But Mr Du Pont had got tired of his peroration. He said hurriedly, ‘Mr Bond, I will pay you ten thousand dollars to stay here as my guest until you have discovered how this man Goldfinger beats me at cards.’
Bond looked Mr Du Pont in the eye. He said, ‘That’s a handsome offer, Mr Du Pont. But I have to get back to London. I must be in New York to catch my plane within forty-eight hours. If you will play your usual sessions tomorrow morning and afternoon I should have plenty of time to find out the answer. But I must leave tomorrow night, whether I can help you or not. Done?’
‘Done,’ said Mr Du Pont.
3 | THE MAN WITH AGORAPHOBIA
The flapping of the curtains wakened Bond. He threw off the single sheet and walked across the thick pile carpet to the picture window that filled the whole of one wall. He drew back the curtains and went out on to the sun-filled balcony.
The black and white chequer-board tiles were warm, almost hot to the feet although it could not yet be eight o’clock. A brisk inshore breeze was blowing off the sea, straining the flags of all nations that flew along the pier of the private yacht basin. The breeze was humid and smelt strongly of the sea. Bond guessed it was the breeze that the visitors like, but the residents hate. It would rust the metal fittings in their homes, fox the pages of their books, rot their wallpaper and pictures, breed damp-rot in their clothes.
