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The drone of the Homer grew louder. He was in the outskirts of Macon. He must close
up and take the risk of being spotted. The busy traffic would hide his low-slung car. It
was vital to know if the Rolls crossed the Saone for the Bourg road or if it turned right at
the bridge and joined the N6 for Lyons. Far down the Rue Rambuteau there was a
glimpse of yellow. Over the railway bridge and through the little square. The high yellow
box kept on towards the river. Bond watched the passers-by turn their heads to follow
the gleaming Rolls. The river. Would Goldfinger turn right or keep on across the bridge?
The Rolls kept straight on. So it was Switzerland! Bond followed over into the suburb of
St Laurent. Now for a butcher and a baker and a wine shop. A hundred yards ahead the
golden head of a calf hung over the pavement. Bond glanced in his driving mirror. Well,
well! The little Triumph was only feet away from his tail. How long had she been there?
Bond had been so intent on following the Rolls that he hadn't glanced back since
entering the town. She must have been hiding up a ^ide street. So! Now coincidence
was certainly out. Something must be done. Sorry, sweetheart. I've got to mess you up.
I'll be as gentle as I can. Hold tight. Bond stopped abruptly in front of the butcher's
shop. He banged the gears into reverse. There was a sickening scrunch and tinkle.
Bond switched off his engine and got out.
He walked round to the back of the car. The girl, her face tense with anger, had one
beautiful silken leg on the road. There was an indiscreet glimpse' of white thigh. The girl
stripped off her goggles and stood, legs braced and arms akimbo. The beautiful mouth
was taut with anger.
The Aston Martin's rear bumper was locked into the wreckage of the Triumph's lamps
and radiator grille. Bond said amiably, 'If you touch me there again you'll have to marry
me.'
The words were hardly out of his mouth before the open palm cracked across his
face. Bond put up a hand and rubbed his cheek. Now there was quite a crowd. There
was a murmur of approval and ribaldry. 'Allez y la gosse! Main-tenant le knock-out!'
The girl's rage had not dissipated with the blow. 'You bloody fool! What the hell do
you think you're doing?'
Bond thought: If only pretty girls were always angry they would be beautiful. He said,
'Your brakes can't be up to much.'
'My brakes! What the hell do you mean? You reversed into me.'
'Gears slipped. I didn't know you were so close.' It was time to calm her down. 'I'm
most frightfully sorry. I'll pay for all the repairs and everything. It really is bad luck. Let's
see what the damage is. Try and back away. Doesn't look as if our bumpers have over-
ridden.' Bond put a foot on the Triumph's bumpers and rocked.
'Don't you dare touch my car! Leave it alone.' Angrily the girl climbed back into the
driver's seat. She pressed the self-starter. The engine fired. Metal clanged under the
bonnet. She switched off and leant out. 'There you are, you idiot! You've smashed the
72
fan.'
Bond had hoped he had. He got into his own car and eased it away from the Triumph.
Bits of the Triumph, released by Bond's bumper, tinkled on to the road. He got out
again. The crowd had thinned. There was a man in a mechanic's overalls. He
volunteered to call a breakdown van and went off to do so. Bond walked over to the
Triumph. The girl had got out and was waiting for him. Her expression had changed.
Now she was more composed. Bond noticed that her eyes, which were dark blue,
watched his face carefully.
Bond said, 'It really won't be too bad. Probably knocked the fan out of alignment.
They'll put temporary headlamps in the sockets and straighten up the chrome. You'll be
off again by tomorrow morning. Now,' Bond reached into his pocket for his
notecase,'this is maddening for you and I'll certainly take all the blame. Here's a
hundred thousand francs to cover the damage and your expenses for the night and
telephoning your friends and so on. Please take it and call it quits. I'd love to stay here
and see you get on the road all right tomorrow morning. But I've got an appointment
this evening and I've simply got to make it.'
'No.' The one word was cool, definite. The girl put her hands behind her back and
waited.
'But& ' What was it she wanted, the police? Have him charged with dangerous
driving?
'I've got an appointment this evening too. I've got to make it. I've got to get to Geneva.
Will you please take me there? It's not far. Only about a hundred miles. We could do it
in two hours in that.' She gestured at the DB III. 'Will you? Please?'
There was a desperate urgency in the voice. No cajolery, no threats, only a blazing
need.
For the first time Bond examined her as more than a pretty girl who perhaps - they
were the only explanations Bond had found to fit the facts - wanted to be picked up by
Goldfinger or had a blackmail on him. But she didn't look capable of either of these
things. There was too much character in the face, too much candour. And she wasn't
wearing the uniform of a seductress. She wore a white, rather masculine cut, heavy silk
shirt. It was open at the neck, but it would button up to a narrow military collar. The shirt
had long wide sleeves gathered at the wrists. The girl's nails were unpainted and her
only piece of jewellery was a gold ring on her engagement finger (true or false?). She
wore a very wide black stitched leather belt with double brass buckles. It rose at the
back to give some of the support of a racing driver's corset belt. Her short skirt was
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