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Force.' He held out his hand, Goldfinger took it. 'Best of luck, Doc; and now, if you'll get
your men and the nurses on board, I'll have this train on its way just as quick as may
be.'
'Thank you, Superintendent. My colleagues and I will not forget your services.'
Goldfinger gave a short bow. His contingent moved on.
'Board!'
Bond found himself in a Pullman with Tilly Masterton across the aisle and the Koreans
and Germans all around them. Goldfinger was in the front of the car talking cheerfully
with his satraps. Miss Pussy Galore strolled by. She ignored the upturned face of Tilly
Masterton but gave Bond the usual searching glance. There was a banging of doors
being closed. Pussy Galore stopped and rested an arm on the back of the seat in front
of Bond. She looked down at him. 'Hullo, Handsome. Long time no see. Uncle doesn't
seem to let you off the lead much.'
Bond said, 'Hullo, Beautiful. That outfit suits you fine. I'm feeling rather faint. How
about doing a bit of nursing?"
The deep violet eyes examined him carefully. She said softly, 'You know what, Mister
Bond? I got a feeling there's something phoney about you. I got instincts, see? Just
what are you and that doll' - she jerked her head back -'doing in this outfit?'
'We do all the work.'
The train began to move. Pussy Galore straightened herself. She said, 'Mebbe you
do. But if any little thing goes wrong with this caper, for my money it'll be Handsome
who knows why. Get me?'
She didn't wait for Bond's answer, but moved on down and joined the Chiefs of Staff
meeting.
It was a confused, busy night. Appearances had to be kept up before the inquisitive,
sympathetic eyes of the conductors. Last-minute conferences up and down the train
had to wear the appearance of serious medical conclaves - no cigar smoking, no
swearing, no spitting. Jealousies and competition between the gangs had to be kept
under rigid control. The cold superiority of the Mafia, particularly vis-a-vis Jack Strap
and his soft, easy living crowd from the West, might have led to gunplay if the chiefs
hadn't been ready for trouble and constantly on the lookout for it. All these minor
psychological factors had been foreseen by Goldfinger and prepared for. The women
from the Cement Mixers were carefully segregated, there was no drinking and the gang
chiefs kept their men occupied with further exact briefings, dummy exercises with maps
and lengthy discussions about their escape plans with the gold. There was casual
spying on each other's plans and Goldfinger was often called in to judge who should
have which routes to the Mexican border, to the desert, to Canada. To Bond it was
amazing that a hundred of the toughest crooks in America, on edge with excitement
and greed, could be kept as quiet as they were. It was Goldfinger who had achieved the
miracle. Apart from the calm, dangerous .quality of the man, it was the minuteness of
the planning and the confidence he exuded that calmed the battle nerves and created
some sort of a team-spirit among the rival mobs.
As the iron gallop of the train stretched itself out through the flat lands of
Pennsylvania, gradually the passengers fell into an uneasy, troubled sleep. But not
Goldfinger or Oddjob. They remained awake and watchful and soon Bond gave up any
idea he might have had of using one of his hidden knives on Odd job and making a bid
for freedom when the train slowed through a station or on an up-gradient.
112
Bond dozed fitfully, wondering, imagining, puzzling over the Superintendent's words.
The Superintendent had certainly thought they were the truth, knew that Fort Knox was
in emergency. Was his news from Louisville the truth or part of the giant cover plan that
would be necessary to get every member of the conspiracy in the bag? If it was a cover
plan, how meticulously had it been prepared? Would someone slip up? Would there be
some ghastly bungle that would warn Goldfinger in time? Or if the news was true, if the
poison had been successful, what did there remain for Bond to do?
Bond had made up his mind on one score. Somehow, in the excitement of H-Hour, he
would get close to Goldfinger and cut his throat with one of his hidden knives. How
much would that achieve apart from an act of private vengeance? Would Goldfinger's
squad accept another man's order to arm the warhead and fire it? Who would be strong
enough, cool enough to take over? Mr Solo? .Probably. The operation would perhaps
be half successful, they would get away with plenty of gold - except Goldfinger's men
who would be lost without him to lead them. And in the meantirne, whatever else Bond
could not do, had sixty thousand people already died? Was there anything he could
have done to prevent that? Had there ever been a chance to kill Goldfinger? Would it
have done any good to make a scene at Pennsylvania Station? Bond stared at his dark
reflection in the window, listened to the sweet ting of the grade-crossing bells and the
howl of the windhorn clearing their way, and shredded his nerves with doubts,
questions, reproaches.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE RICHEST MAN IN HISTORY
SLOWLY THE red dawn broke over the endless plain of black grass that gradually
turned to the famous Kentucky blue as the sun ironed out the shadows. At six o'clock
the train began to slacken speed and soon they were gliding gently through the waking
suburbs of Louisville to come to rest with a sigh of hydraulics in the echoing, almost
deserted station.
A small, respectful group was awaiting them. Goldfinger, his eyes black-ringed with
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