They came to the top of the pass and there was the run down towards the Swiss frontier. Now the Homer was sending out a steady howl. Bond thought, I must take it easy or we shall be running into them at the Customs. He put his hand under the dash and tuned the noise down. He pulled in to the side of the road. They sat in the car and ate a polite but almost silent picnic, neither making any attempt at conversation, both, it seemed, with other things on their minds. After ten minutes, Bond got going again. He sat relaxed, motoring easily down the curving road through the young whispering pines.
The girl said, ‘What’s that noise?’
‘Magneto whine. Gets worse when I hurry. Started at Orleans. Have to get it fixed tonight.’
She seemed satisfied with this mumbo-jumbo. She said diffidently, ‘Where are you heading for? I hope I haven’t taken you very far out of your way.’
Bond said in a friendly voice, ‘Not at all. As a matter of fact, I’m going to Geneva too. But I may not stop there tonight. May have to get on. Depends on my meeting. How long will you be there?’
‘I don’t know. I’m playing golf. There’s the Swiss Women’s Open Championship at Divonne. I’m not really that class, but I thought it would be good for me to try. Then I was going to play on some of the other courses.’
Fair enough. No reason why it shouldn’t be true. But Bond was certain it wasn’t the whole truth. He said, ‘Do you play a lot of golf? What’s your home course?’
‘Quite a lot. Temple.’
It had been an obvious question. Was the answer true, or just the first golf course she had thought of? ‘Do you live near there?’
‘I’ve got an aunt who lives at Henley. What are you doing in Switzerland. Holiday?’
‘Business. Import and Export.’
‘Oh.’
Bond smiled to himself. It was a stage conversation. The voices were polite stage voices. He could see the scene, beloved of the English theatre – the drawing-room, sunshine on hollyhocks outside french windows, the couple sitting on the sofa, on the edge of it, she pouring out the tea. ‘Do you take sugar?’
They came out into the foothills. There was a long straight stretch of road and in the distance the small group of buildings of the French Customs.
The girl gave him no chance to get a glimpse of her passport. As soon as the car stopped she said something about tidying up and disappeared into the ‘Dames’. Bond had gone through the Controle and was dealing with the triptyque when she reappeared, her passport stamped. At the Swiss Customs she chose the excuse of getting something out of her suitcase. Bond hadn’t got time to hang about and call her bluff.
Bond hurried on into Geneva and pulled up at the imposing entrance of the Bergues. The
Bond shrugged. ‘It doesn’t often happen. I’m glad I did. If I can get my business finished, perhaps we could meet again.’
‘That would be nice.’ The tone of voice said it wouldn’t be. The girl turned and went in through the swing-doors.
Bond ran down to his car. To hell with her! Now to pick up Goldfinger. Then to the little office on the Quai Wilson. He tuned the Homer and waited a couple of minutes. Goldfinger was close, but moving away. He could either be following the right or the left bank of the lake. From the pitch of the Homer, he was at least a mile outside the town. Which way? To the left towards Lausanne? To the right towards Evian? The D.B. III was already on the left-hand road. Bond decided to follow its nose. He got moving.
Bond caught up with the high yellow silhouette just before Coppet, the tiny lakeside hamlet made famous by Madame de Staël. He hid behind a lorry. At his next reconnaissance the Rolls had disappeared. Bond motored on, watching to the left. At the entrance to the village, big solid iron gates were closing in a high wall. Dust hung in the air. Above the wall was a modest placard. It said, in faded yellow on blue, ENTREPRISES AURIC A.G. the fox had gone to earth!
