I AM BOND, JAMES BOND – The Books Behind The Movies: 20 Book Collection. Ian Fleming
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of someone who has perhaps only been glimpsed in a street or a train or in a passing car. It works on the magic lantern principle. The operator flashes on the screen various head-shapes and sizes. When one is recognized it stays on the screen. Then various haircuts are shown, and then all the other features follow and are chosen one by one—different shapes of eyes, noses, chins, mouths, eyebrows, cheeks, ears. In the end there is the whole picture of a face, as near as the scanner can remember it, and it is photographed and put on record.
It took some time to put together Goldfinger's extraordinary face, but the final result was an approximate likeness in monochrome. Bond dictated one or two notes about the sunburn, the colour of the hair and the expression of the eyes, and the job was done.
'Wouldn't like to meet that on a dark night,' commented the man from Records. 'I'll put it through to C.I.D. when they come on duty. You should get the answer by lunch time.'
Bond went back to the seventh floor. On the other side of the world it was around midnight. Eastern stations were closing down. There was a flurry of signals that had to be dealt with, the night's log to be written up, and then it was eight o'clock. Bond telephoned the canteen for his breakfast. He had just finished it when there came the harsh purr of the red telephone. M! Why the hell had he got in half an hour early?
'Yes, sir.'
'Come up to my office, 007. I want to have a word before you go off duty.'
'Sir.' Bond put the telephone back. He slipped on his coat and ran a hand through his hair, told the switchboard where he would be, took the night log and went up in the lift to the eighth and top floor. Neither the desirable Miss Moneypenny nor the Chief of Staff was on duty. Bond knocked on M's door and went in.
'Sit down, 007.' M was going through the pipe-lighting routine. He looked pink and well scrubbed. The lined sailor's face above the stiff white collar and loosely tied spotted bow-tie was damnably brisk and cheerful. Bond was conscious of the black stubble on his own chin and of the all-night look of his skin and clothes. He sharpened his mind.
'Quiet night?' M had got his pipe going. His hard, healthy eyes regarded Bond attentively.
'Pretty quiet, sir. Station H—'
M raised his left hand an inch or two. 'Never mind. I'll read all about it in the log. Here, I'll take it.'
Bond handed over the Top Secret folder. M put it to one side. He smiled one of his rare, rather sardonic, bitten-off smiles. 'Things change, 007. I'm taking you off night duty for the present.'
Bond's answering smile was taut. He felt the quickening of the pulse he had so often experienced in this room. M had got something for him. He said, 'I was just getting into it, sir.'
'Quite. Have plenty of opportunity later on. Something's come up. Odd business. Not really your line of country, except for one particular angle which'—M jerked his pipe sideways in a throwaway gesture—'may not be an angle at all.'
Bond sat back. He said nothing, waiting.
'Had dinner with the Governor of the Bank last night. One's always hearing something new. At least, all this was new to me. Gold—the seamy side of the stuff. Smuggling, counterfeiting, all that. Hadn't occurred to me that the Bank of England knew so much about crooks. Suppose it's part of the Bank's job to protect our currency.' M jerked his eyebrows up. 'Know anything about gold?'
'No, sir.'
'Well, you will by this afternoon. You've got an appointment with a man called Colonel Smithers at the Bank at four o'clock. That give you enough time to get some sleep?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Good. Seems that this man Smithers is head of the Bank's research department. From what the Governor told me, that's nothing more or less than a spy system. First time I knew they had one. Just shows what water-tight compartments we all work in. Anyway, Smithers and his chaps keep an eye out for anything fishy in the banking world—particularly any monkeying about with our currency and bullion reserves and what not. There was that business the other day of the Italians who were counterfeiting sovereigns. Making them out of real gold. Right carats and all that. But apparently a sovereign or a French napoleon is worth much more than its melted-down value in gold. Don't ask me why. Smithers can tell you that if you're interested. Anyway, the Bank went after these people with a whole battery of lawyers—it wasn't technically a criminal offence—and, after losing in the Italian courts, they finally nailed them in Switzerland. You probably read about it. Then there was that business of dollar balances in Beirut. Made quite a stir in the papers. Couldn't understand it myself. Some crack in the fence we put round our currency. The wide City boys had found it. Well, it's Smithers's job to smell out that kind of racket. The reason the Governor told me all this is because for years, almost since the war apparently, Smithers has had a bee in his bonnet about some big gold leak out of England. Mostly deduction, plus some kind of instinct. Smithers admits he's got damned little to go on, but he's impressed the Governor enough for him to get permission from the P.M. to call us in.' M broke off. He looked quizzically at Bond. 'Ever wondered who are the richest men in England?'
'No, sir.'
'Well, have a guess. Or rather, put it like this: Who are the richest Englishmen?'
Bond searched his mind. There were a lot of men who sounded rich or who were made to sound rich by the newspapers. But who really had it, liquid, in the bank? He had to say something. He said hesitatingly, 'Well, sir, there's Sassoon. Then that shipping man who keeps to himself—er—Ellerman. They say Lord Cowdray is very rich. There are the bankers—Rothschilds, Barings, Hambros. There was Williamson, the diamond man. Oppenheimer in South Africa. Some of the dukes may still have a lot of money.' Bond's voice trailed away.
'Not bad. Not bad at all. But you've missed out the joker in the pack. Man I'd never thought of until the Governor brought up his name. He's the richest of the lot. Man called Goldfinger, Auric Goldfinger.'
Bond couldn't help himself. He laughed sharply.
'What's the matter?' M's voice was testy. 'What the hell is there to laugh about?'
'I'm sorry, sir.' Bond got hold of himself. 'The truth is, only last night I was building his face up on the Identicast.' He glanced at his watch. In a strangled voice he said, 'Be on its way to C.I.D. Records. Asked for a Trace on him.'
M was getting angry. 'What the hell's all this about? Stop behaving like a bloody schoolboy.'
Bond said soberly, 'Well, sir, it's like this...' Bond told the story, leaving nothing out.
M's face cleared. He listened with all his attention, leaning forward across the desk. When Bond had finished, M sat back in his chair. He said 'Well, well ... well' on a diminishing scale. He put his hands behind his head and gazed for minutes at the ceiling.
Bond could feel the laughter coming on again. How would the C.I.D. word the resounding snub he would get in the course of the day? He was brought sharply back to earth by M's next words. 'By the way, what happened to that ten thousand dollars?'
'Gave it to the girl, sir.'
'Really! Why not to the White Cross?'
The White Cross Fund was for the families of Secret Service men and women who were killed on duty.
'Sorry, sir.' Bond was not prepared to argue that one.
'Humpf.' M had never approved of Bond's womanizing. It was anathema to his Victorian soul. He decided to let it pass. He said, 'Well, that's all for now, 007. You'll be hearing all about it this afternoon. Funny about Goldfinger. Odd chap. Seen him once or twice at Blades. He plays bridge there when he's in England. He's the chap the Bank of England's after.' M paused. He looked mildly across the table at Bond. 'As from this moment, so are you.'
Chapter Six.
Talk of Gold
Bond walked up the steps and through