if.goldfinger-第23部分

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


　'No。　Leave　it　in；　would　you。'
　Hawker　stood　away。　Goldfinger　was　standing　by　his　ball　on　the　right　of　the　green。　His　caddie　had　stopped　at　the　bottom　of　the　slope。　Bond　bent　to　the　putt。　e　on；　Calamity　Jane！　This　one　has　got　to　go　dead　or　I'll　put　you　across　my　knee。　Stand　still。　Club　head　straight　back　on　the　line　and　follow　through　towards　the　hole。　Give　it　a　chance。　Now！　The　ball；　hit　firmly　in　the　middle　of　the　club；　had　run　up　the　bank　and　was　on　its　way　to　the　hole。　But　too　hard；　damn　it！　Hit　the　stick！　Obediently　the　ball　curved　in；　rapped　the　stick　hard　and　bounced　back　three　inches　…　dead　as　a　doornail！
　Bond　let　out　a　deep　sigh　and　picked　up　his　discarded　cigarette。　He　looked　over　at　Goldfinger。　Now　then；　you　bastard。　Sweat　that　one　out。　And　by　God　if　you　hole　it！　But　Goldfinger　couldn't　afford　to　try。　He　stopped　two　feet　short。　'All　right；　all　right；'　said　Bond　generously。　'All　square　and　one　to　go。'　It　was　vital　that　Hawker　should　pick　up　the　balls。　If　he　had　made　Goldfinger　hole　the　short　putt　it　would　have　been　Goldfinger　who　would　have　picked　the　ball　out　of　the　hole。　Anyway；　Bond　didn't　want　Goldfinger　to　miss　that　putt。　That　wasn't　part　of　the　plan。
　Hawker　bent　down　and　picked　up　the　balls。　He　rolled　one　towards　Bond　and　handed　the　other　to　Goldfinger。　They　walked　off　the　green；　Goldfinger　leading　as　usual。　Bond　noticed　Hawker's　hand　go　to　his　pocket。　Now；　so　long　as　Goldfinger　didn't　notice　anything　on　the　tee！
　But；　with　all　square　and　one　to　go；　you　don't　scrutinize　your　ball。　Your　motions　are　more　or　less　automatic。　You　are　thinking　of　how　to　place　your　drive；　of　whether　to　go　for　the　green　with　the　second　or　play　to　the　apron；　of　the　strength　of　the　wind　…　of　the　vital　figure　four　that　must　somehow　be　achieved　to　win　or　at　least　to　halve。
　Considering　that　Bond　could　hardly　wait　for　Goldfinger　to　follow　him　and　hit；　just　once；　that　treacherous　Dunlop　Number　Seven　that　looked　so　very　like　a　Number　One；
　Bond's　own　drive　down　the　four　hundred　and　fifty　yard　eighteenth　was　praiseworthy。　If　he　wanted　to；　he　could　now　reach　the　green　…　if　he　wanted　to！
　Now　Goldfinger　was　on　the　tee。　Now　he　had　bent　down。　The　ball　was　on　the　peg；　its　lying　face　turned　up　at　him。　But　Goldfinger　had　straightened；　had　stood　back；　was　taking　his　two　deliberate　practice　swings。　He　stepped　up　to　the　ball；　cautiously；　deliberately。　Stood　over　it；　waggled；　focusing　the　ball　minutely。　Surely　he　would　see！　Surely　he　would　stop　and　bend　down　at　the　last　minute　to　inspect　the　ball！　Would　the　waggle　never　end？　But　now　the　club　head　was　going　back；　ing　down；　the　left　knee　bent　correctly　in　towards　the　ball；　the　left　arm　straight　as　a　ramrod。　Crack！　The　ball　sailed　off；　a　beautiful　drive；　as　good　as　Goldfinger　had　hit；　straight　down　the　fairway。
　Bond's　heart　sang。　Got　you；　you　bastard！　Got　you！　Blithely　Bond　stepped　down　from　the　tee　and　strolled　off　down　the　fairway　planning　the　next　steps　which　could　now　be　as　eccentric；　as　fiendish　as　he　wished。　Goldfinger　was　beaten　already　…　hoist　with　his　own　petard！　Now　to　roast　him；　slowly；　exquisitely。
　Bond　had　no　punction。　Goldfinger　had　cheated　him　twice　and　got　away　with　it。　But　for　his　cheats　at　the　Virgin　and　the　seventeenth；　not　to　mention　his　improved　lie　at　the　third　and　the　various　times　he　had　tried　to　put　Bond　off；　Goldfinger　would　have　been　beaten　by　now。　If　it　needed　one　cheat　by　Bond　to　rectify　the　score…sheet　that　was　only　poetic　justice。　And　besides；　there　was　more　to　this　than　a　game　of　golf。　It　was　Bond's　duty　to　win。　By　his　reading　of　Goldfinger　he　had　to　win。　If　he　was　beaten；　the　score　between　the　two　men　would　have　been　equalized。　If　he　won　the　match；　as　he　now　had；　he　would　be　two　up　on　Goldfinger　…　an　intolerable　state　of　affairs；　Bond　guessed；　to　a　man　who　saw　himself　as　all　powerful。　This　man　Bond；　Goldfinger　would　say　to　himself；　has　something。　He　has　qualities　I　can　use。　He　is　a　tough　adventurer　with　plenty　of　tricks　up　his　sleeve。　This　is　the　sort　of　man　I　need　for　…　for　what？　Bond　didn't　know。　Perhaps　there　would　be　nothing　for　him。　Perhaps　his　reading　of　Gold…finger　was　wrong；　but　there　was　certainly　no　other　way　of　creeping　up　on　the　man。
　Goldfinger　cautiously　took　out　his　spoon　for　the　longish　second　over　cross…bunkers　to　the　narrow　entrance　to　the　green。　He　made　one　more　practice　swing　than　usual　and　then　hit　exactly　the　right；　controlled　shot　up　to　the　apron。　A　certain　five；　probably　a　four。　Much　good　would　it　do　him！
　Bond；　after　a　great　show　of　taking　pains；　brought　his　hands　down　well　ahead　of　the　club　and　smothered　his　number　three　iron　so　that　the　topped　ball　barely　scrambled　over　the　cross…bunkers。　He　then　wedged　the　ball　on　to　the　green　twenty　feet　past　the　pin。　He　was　where　he　wanted　to　be　…　enough　of　a　threat　to　make　Goldfinger　savour　the　sweet　smell　of　victory；　enough　to　make　Goldfinger　really　sweat　to　get　his　four。
　And　now　Goldfinger　really　was　sweating。　There　was　a　savage　grin　of　concentration　and　greed　as　he　bent　to　the　long　putt　up　the　bank　and　down　to　the　hole。　Not　too　hard；　not　too　soft。　Bond　could　read　every　anxious　thought　that　would　be　running　through　the　man's　mind。　Goldfinger　straightened　up　again；　walked　deliberately　across　the　green　to　behind　the　flag　to　verify　his　line。　He　walked　slowly　back　beside　his　line；　brushing　away　…　carefully；　with　the　back　of　his　hand　…　a　wisp　or　two　of　grass；　a　speck　of　top…dressing。　He　bent　again　and　made　one　or　two　practice　swings　and　then　stood　to　the　putt；　the　veins　standing　out　on　his　temples；　the　cleft　of　concentration　deep　between　his　eyes。
　Goldfinger　hit　the　putt　and　followed　through　on　the　line。　It　was　a　beautiful　putt　that　stopped　six　inches　past　the　pin。　Now　Goldfinger　would　be　sure　that　unless　Bond　sank　his　difficult　twenty…footer；　the　match　was　his！
　Bond　went　through　a　long　rigmarole　of　sizing　up　his　putt。　He　took　his　time；　letting　the　suspense　gather　like　a　thunder　cloud　round　the　long　shadows　on　the　livid；　fateful　green。
　'Flag　out；　please。　I'm　going　to　sink　this　one。'　Bond　charged　the　words　with　a　deadly　certitude；　while　debating　whether　to　miss　the　hole　to　the　right　or　the　left　or　leave　it　short。　He　bent　to　the　putt　and　missed　the　hole　well　on　the　right。
　'Missed　it；　by　God！'　Bond　put　bitterness　and　rage　into　his　voice。　He　walked　over　to　the　hole　and　picked　up　the　two　balls；　keeping　them　in　full　view。
　Goldfinger　came　up。　His　face　was　glistening　with　triumph。　'Well；　thanks　for　the　game。　Seems　I　was　just　too　good　for　you　after　all。'
　'You're　a　good　nine　handicap；'　said　Bond　with　just　sufficient　sourness。　He　glanced　at　the　balls　in　his　hand　to　pick　out
　Goldfinger's　and　hand　it　to　him。　He　gave　a　start　of　surprise。　'Hullo！'　He　looked　sharply　at　Goldfinger。　'You　play　a　Number　One　Dunlop；　don't　you？'
　'Yes；　of　course。'　A　sixth　sense　of　disaster　wiped　the　triumph　off　Goldfinger's　face。　'What　is　it？　What's　the　matter？'
　'Well；'　said　Bond　apologetically。'　〃Fraid　you've　been　playing　with　the　wrong　ball。　Here's　my　Penfold　Hearts　and　this　is　a　Number　Seven　Dunlop。'　He　handed　both　balls　to　Gold…finger。　Goldfinger　tore　them　off　his　palm　and　examined　them　feverishly。
　Slowly　the　colour　flooded　over　Goldfinger's　face。　He　stood；　his　mouth　working；　looking　from　the　balls　to　Bond　and　back　to　the　balls。
　Bond　said　softly；　'Too　bad　we　were　playing　to　the　rules。　Afraid　that　means　you　lose　the　hole。　And；　of　course；　the　match。'　Bond's　eyes　observed　Goldfinger　impassively。
　'But；　but。。。'
　This　was　what　Bond　had　been　looking　forward　to　…　the　cup　dashed　from　the　lips。　He　stood　and　waited；　saying　nothing。
　Rage　suddenly　burst　Goldfinger's　usually　relaxed　face　like　a　bomb。　'It　was　a　Dunlop　Seven　you　found　in　the　rough。　It　was　your　caddie　that　gave　me　this　ball。　On　the　seventeenth　green。　He　gave　me　the　wrong　ball　on　purpose；　the　damned　che…'
　'Here；　steady　on；'　said　Bond　mildly。　'You'll　get　a　slander　action　on　your　hands　if　you　aren't　careful。　Hawker；　did　you　give　Mr　Goldfinger　the　wrong　ball　by　mistake　or　anything？'
　'No；　sir。'　Hawker's　face　was　stolid。　He　said　indifferently；　'If　you　want　my　opinion；　sir；　the　mistake　may　have　been　made　at　the　seventeenth　when　the　gentleman　found　his　ball　pretty　far　off　the　line　we'd　all　marked　it　on。　A　Seven　looks　very　much　like　a　One。