Punctually at nine the next morning Bond got on to the Chief of Staff: ‘James here. I’ve had a look at the property. Been all over it. Had dinner last night with the owner. I can say pretty well for certain that the managing director’s view is right. Something definitely wrong about the property. Not enough facts to send you a surveyor’s report. Owner’s going abroad tomorrow, flying from Ferryfield. Wish I knew his departure time. Like to have another sight of his Rolls. Thought I’d make him a present of a portable wireless set. I’ll be going over a bit later in the day. Could you get Miss Ponsonby to book me? Destination unknown for the present. I’ll be keeping in touch. Anything your end?’
‘How did the game of golf go?’
‘I won.’
There was a chuckle at the other end. ‘Thought you had. Pretty big stakes, weren’t they?’
‘How did you know?’
‘Had Mr Scotland on last night. Said he’d had a tip on the telephone that someone of your name was in possession of a large amount of undeclared dollars. Had we got such a person and was it true? Chap wasn’t very senior and didn’t know about Universal. Told him to have a word with the Commissioner and we got an apology this morning about the same time as your secretary found an envelope containing ten thousand dollars in your mail! Pretty sly of your man, wasn’t it?’
Bond smiled. Typical of Goldfinger to have thought of a way of getting him into trouble over the dollars. Probably made the call to Scotland Yard directly after the game. He had wanted to show Bond that if you gave Goldfinger a knock you’d get at least a thorn in your hand. But the Universal Export cover seemed to have stuck. Bond said, ‘That’s pretty hot! The twister! You might tell the managing director that this time it goes to the White Cross. Can you fix the other things?’
‘Of course. Call you back in a few minutes. But watch your step abroad and call us at once if you get bored and need company. So long.’
‘’Bye.’ Bond put down the receiver. He got up and set about packing his bag. He could see the scene in the Chief of Staff’s office as the conversation was played back off the tape while the Chief of Staff translated the call to Miss Moneypenny. ‘Says he agrees that Goldfinger is up to something big but he can’t make out what. G. is flying this morning with his Rolls from Ferryfield. 007 wants to follow. (Let’s say two hours later to let G. get well away on the other side. Fix the reservation, would you?) He wants us to have a word with Customs so that he can take a good look at the Rolls and plant a Homer in the boot. (Fix that too, please.) He’ll keep in touch through stations in case he needs help …’
And so forth. It was an efficient machine. Bond finished packing and, when the London call came giving him his various clearances, he went downstairs, paid his bill and got quickly out of Ramsgate on to the Canterbury road.
London had said that Goldfinger was booked on a special flight leaving at twelve. Bond got to Ferryfield by eleven, made himself known to the Chief Passport Control and the Customs officers who were expecting him, had his car taken out of sight into an empty hangar and sat and smoked and talked minor shop with the passport men. They thought he was from Scotland Yard. He let them go on thinking it. No, he said, Goldfinger was all right. It was possible that one of his servants was trying to smuggle something out of the country. Rather confidential. If Bond could just be left alone with the car for ten minutes? He wanted to have a look at the tool kit. Would the Customs give the rest of the Rolls their Grade A going over for hidden compartments? They’d be glad to do so.
At eleven-forty-five one of the Customs men put his head round the door. He winked at Bond. ‘Coming in now. Chauffeur on board. Going to ask both to board the plane before the car. Tell them it’s something to do with the weight distribution. Not so phoney as it sounds. We know this old crate. She’s armour-plated. Weighs about three tons. Call you when we’re ready.’
‘Thanks.’ The room emptied. Bond took the fragile little parcel out of his pocket. It contained a dry-cell battery wired to a small vacuum tube. He ran his eye over the wiring and put the apparatus back in his coat pocket and waited.
At eleven-fifty-five the door opened. The officer beckoned. ‘No trouble. They’re on the plane.’
The huge gleaming Silver Ghost stood in the Customs bay out of sight of the plane. The only other car was a dove-grey Triumph TR3 convertible with its hood down. Bond went to the back of the Rolls. The Customs men had unscrewed the plate of the spare tool compartment. Bond pulled out the tray of tools and made a show of minutely examining them and the tray. He knelt down. Under cover of rummaging at the sides of the compartment, he slipped the battery and tube into the back of it. He replaced the tool tray. It fitted all right. He stood up and brushed his hands together. ‘Negative,’ he said to the Customs officer.
