Bond 07 - Goldfinger (19 page)

Now Goldfinger was crossing the floor towards him. Bond lowered his paper and looked up. Goldfinger was carrying the ginger cat tucked carelessly under one arm. He reached the fireplace, bent forward and pressed the bell.

He turned towards Bond. ‘Do you like cats?’ His gaze was flat, incurious.

‘Sufficiently.’

The service door opened. The chauffeur stood in the frame. He still wore his bowler hat and his shiny black gloves. He gazed impassively at Goldfinger. Goldfinger crooked a finger. The chauffeur approached and stood within the circle by the fire.

Goldfinger turned to Bond. He said conversationally, ‘This is my handy man.’ He smiled thinly. ‘That is something of a joke. Oddjob, show Mr Bond your hands.’ He smiled again at Bond. ‘I call him Oddjob because that describes his functions on my staff.’

The Korean slowly pulled off his gloves and came and stood at arm’s length from Bond and held out his hands palm upwards. Bond got up and looked at them. They were big and fat with muscle. The fingers all seemed to be the same length. They were very blunt at the tips and the tips glinted as if they were made of yellow bone.

‘Turn them over and show Mr Bond the sides.’

There were no finger-nails. Instead there was this same, yellowish carapace. The man turned the hands sideways. Down each edge of the hands was a hard ridge of the same bony substance.

Bond raised his eyebrows at Goldfinger.

Goldfinger said, ‘We will have a demonstration.’ He pointed at the thick oak banisters that ran up the stairs. The rail was a massive six inches by four thick. The Korean obediently walked over to the stairs and climbed a few steps. He stood with his hands at his sides, gazing across at Goldfinger like a good retriever. Goldfinger gave a quick nod. Impassively the Korean lifted his right hand high and straight above his head and brought the side of it down like an axe across the heavy polished rail. There was a splintering crash and the rail sagged, broken through the centre. Again the hand went up and flashed down. This time it swept right through the rail leaving a jagged gap. Splinters clattered down on to the floor of the hall. The Korean straightened himself and stood to attention, waiting for further orders. There was no flush of effort in his face and no hint of pride in his achievement.

Goldfinger beckoned. The man came back across the floor. Goldfinger said, ‘His feet are the same, the outside edges of them. Oddjob, the mantelpiece.’ Goldfinger pointed at the heavy shelf of carved wood above the fireplace. It was about seven feet off the ground – six inches higher than the top of the Korean’s bowler hat.

‘Garch a har?’

‘Yes, take off your coat and hat.’ Goldfinger turned to Bond. ‘Poor chap’s got a cleft palate. I shouldn’t think there are many people who understand him beside me.’

Bond reflected how useful that would be, a slave who could only communicate with the world through his interpreter – better even than the deaf mutes of the harems, more tightly bound to his master, more secure.

Oddjob had taken off his coat and hat and placed them neatly on the floor. Now he rolled his trouser legs up to the knee and stood back in the wide well-planted stance of the judo expert. He looked as if a charging elephant wouldn’t put him off balance.

‘Better stand back, Mr Bond.’ The teeth glittered in the wide mouth. ‘This blow snaps a man’s neck like a daffodil.’ Goldfinger drew aside the low settee with the drink tray. Now the Korean had a clear run. But he was only three long steps away. How could he possibly reach the high mantelpiece?

Bond watched, fascinated. Now the slanting eyes in the flat yellow mask were glinting with a fierce intentness. Faced by such a man, thought Bond, one could only go down on one’s knees and wait for death.

Goldfinger lifted his hand. The bunched toes in the polished soft leather shoes seemed to grip the ground. The Korean took one long crouching stride with knees well bent and then whirled off the ground. In mid-air his feet slapped together like a ballet dancer’s, but higher than a ballet dancer’s have ever reached, and then the body bent sideways and downwards and the right foot shot out like a piston. There came a crashing thud. Gracefully the body settled back down on the hands, now splayed on the floor, the elbows bent to take the weight and then straightened sharply to throw the man up and back on his feet.

Oddjob stood to attention. This time there was a gleam of triumph in his flat eyes as he looked at the three-inch jagged bite the edge of his foot had taken out of the mantelpiece.

Bond looked at the man in deep awe. And only two nights ago, he, Bond, had been working on his manual of unarmed combat! There was nothing, absolutely nothing, in all his reading, all his experience, to approach what he had just witnessed. This was not a man of flesh and blood. This was a living club, perhaps the most dangerous animal on the face of the earth. Bond had to do it, had to give homage to this uniquely dreadful person. He held out his hand.

‘Softly, Oddjob.’ Goldftnger’s voice was the crack of a whip.

The Korean bowed his head and took Bond’s hand in his. He kept his fingers straight and merely bent his thumb in a light clasp. It was like holding a piece of board. He released Bond’s hand and went to his neat pile of clothes.

‘Forgive me, Mr Bond, and I appreciate your gesture.’ Goldfinger’s face showed his approval. ‘But Oddjob doesn’t know his own strength – particularly when he is keyed up. And those hands are like machine-tools. He could have crushed your hand to pulp without meaning to. Now then,’ Oddjob had dressed and was standing respectfully at attention, ‘you did well, Oddjob. I’m glad to see you are in training. Here –’ Goldfinger took the cat from under his arm and tossed it to the Korean who caught it eagerly – ‘I am tired of seeing this animal around. You may have it for dinner.’ The Korean’s eyes gleamed. ‘And tell them in the kitchen that we will have our own dinner at once.’

The Korean inclined his head sharply and turned away.

Bond hid his disgust. He realized that all this exhibition was simply a message to him, a warning, a light rap on the knuckles. It said, ‘You see my power, Mr Bond. I could easily have killed you or maimed you. Oddjob was giving an exhibition and you got in the way. I would certainly be innocent, and Oddjob would get off with a light sentence. Instead, the cat will be punished in your place. Bad luck on the cat, of course.’

Bond said casually, ‘Why does the man always wear that bowler hat?’

‘Oddjob!’ The Korean had reached the service door. ‘The hat.’ Goldfinger pointed at a panel in the woodwork near the fireplace.

Still holding the cat under his left arm, Oddjob turned and walked stolidly back towards them. When he was half way across the floor, and without pausing or taking aim, he reached up to his hat, took it by the rim and flung it sideways with all his force. There was a loud clang. For an instant the rim of the bowler hat stuck an inch deep in the panel Goldfinger had indicated, then it fell and clattered on the floor.

Goldfinger smiled politely at Bond. ‘A light but very strong alloy, Mr Bond. I fear that will have damaged the felt covering, but Oddjob will put on another. He’s surprisingly quick with a needle and thread. As you can imagine, that blow would have smashed a man’s skull or half severed his neck. A homely and a most ingeniously concealed weapon, I’m sure you’ll agree.’

‘Yes, indeed.’ Bond smiled with equal politeness. ‘Useful chap to have around.’

Oddjob had picked up his hat and disappeared. There came the boom of a gong. ‘Ah, dinner! Shall we go in?’ Goldfinger led the way to a door concealed in the panelling to the right of the fireplace. He pressed a hidden latch and they walked through.

The small dining-room matched the heavy wealth of the hall. It was brilliantly lit from a central chandelier and by candles on a round table that glittered with silver and glass. They sat down opposite each other. Two yellow-faced servants in white mess-jackets brought dishes from a loaded serving-table. The first course was some curried mess with rice. Goldfinger noticed Bond’s hesitation. He gave a dry chuckle. ‘It’s all right, Mr Bond. Shrimp, not the cat.’

‘Ah.’ Bond’s expression was non-committal.

‘Please try the Moselle. I hope it will be to your taste. It is a Piesporter Goldtröpfchen ’53. Help yourself. These people are as likely to pour it into your plate as your glass.’

There was a slim bottle in an ice bucket in front of Bond. He poured some of the wine and tasted it. It was nectar and ice cold. Bond congratulated his host. Goldfinger gave a curt nod.

‘I don’t myself drink or smoke, Mr Bond. Smoking I find the most ridiculous of all the varieties of human behaviour and practically the only one that is entirely against nature. Can you imagine a cow or any animal taking a mouthful of smouldering straw then breathing in the smoke and blowing it out through its nostrils? Pah!’ Goldfinger showed a rare trace of emotion. ‘It is a vile practice. As for drinking, I am something of a chemist and I have yet to find a liquor that is free from traces of a number of poisons, some of them deadly, such as fusel oil, acetic acid, ethylacetate, acetaldehyde and furfurol. A quantity of some of these poisons taken neat would kill you. In the small amounts you find in a bottle of liquor they produce various ill effects most of which are lightly written off as “a hangover”. ’ Goldfinger paused with a forkful of curried shrimp half way to his mouth. ‘Since you are a drinker, Mr Bond, I will give you one word of good advice. Never drink so-called Napoleon brandy, particularly when it is described as “aged in the wood”. That particular potion contains more of the poisons I have mentioned than any other liquor I have analysed. Old bourbon comes next.’ Goldfinger closed his animadversions with a mouthful of shrimp.

‘Thank you. I’ll remember. Perhaps for those reasons I have recently taken to vodka. They tell me its filtration through activated charcoal is a help.’ Bond, dredging this piece of expertise out of dim recollections of something he had read, was rather proud of having been able to return Goldfinger’s powerful serve.

Goldfinger glanced at him sharply. ‘You seem to understand something of these matters. Have you studied chemistry?’

‘Only dabbled in it.’ It was time to move on. ‘I was very impressed by that chauffeur of yours. Where did he learn that fantastic combat stuff? Where did it come from? Is that what the Koreans use?’

Goldfinger patted his mouth with his napkin. He snapped his fingers. The two men cleared away the plates and brought roast duckling and a bottle of Mouton Rothschild 1947 for Bond. When they had withdrawn into immobility at each end of the serving-table, Goldfinger said, ‘Have you ever heard of Karate? No? Well that man is one of the three in the world who have achieved the Black Belt in Karate. Karate is a branch of judo, but it is to judo what a Spandau is to a catapult.’

‘I could see that.’

‘The demonstration was an elementary one. Mr Bond –’ Goldfinger held up the drumstick he had been gnawing – ‘I can tell you that if Oddjob had used the appropriate single blow on any one of seven spots on your body, you would now be dead.’ Goldfinger bit at the side of the drumstick with relish.

Bond said seriously, ‘That’s interesting. I only know five ways of killing Oddjob with one blow.’

Goldfinger seemed not to hear the comment. He put down his drumstick and took a deep draught of water. He sat back and spoke while Bond went on eating the excellent food. ‘Karate, Mr Bond, is based on the theory that the human body possesses five striking surfaces and thirty-seven vulnerable spots – vulnerable, that is, to an expert in Karate whose finger-tips, the side of the hands and the feet are hardened into layers of corn, which is far stronger and more flexible than bone. Every day of his life, Mr Bond, Oddjob spends one hour hitting either sacks of unpolished rice or a strong post whose top is wound many times round with thick rope. He then spends another hour at physical training which is more that of a ballet school than of a gymnasium.’

‘When does he practise tossing the bowler hat?’ Bond had no intention of succumbing to this psychological warfare.

Goldfinger frowned at the interruption. ‘I have never inquired,’ he said without humour. ‘But I think you can take it that Oddjob keeps his eye in at all his skills. However, you were asking where Karate originated. It originated in China where wandering Buddhist priests became an easy prey for footpads and bandits. Their religion did not allow them to carry weapons, so they developed their own form of unarmed combat. The inhabitants of Okinawa refined the art to its present form when the Japanese forbade them to carry weapons. They developed the five striking surfaces of the human body – the fist, the edge of the hand, the fingertips, the ball of the foot and the elbows – and toughened them until they were enveloped in layers of corn. There is no follow-through in a Karate blow. The entire body is stiffened at the moment of impact, with the emphasis on the hips, and then instantly relaxed so that balance is never lost. It is astonishing what Oddjob can do. I have seen him hit a brick wall with his entire force and not hurt his hand. He can split three half-inch thick boards, piled one upon the other, with one blow of his hand. You have seen what he can do with his foot.’

Bond took a deep draught of the delicious claret. ‘All this must be rather hard on your furniture.’

Goldfinger shrugged. ‘I have no more use for this house. I thought a demonstration would amuse you. I hope you agree that Oddjob earned his cat.’ The X-ray eyes blazed briefly across the table.

‘Does he train on cats?’

‘He regards them as a great delicacy. He acquired the taste during a famine in his country when he was young.’

Bond thought it was time to delve rather more deeply. ‘Why do you need such a man? He can’t be very good company.’

‘Mr Bond –’ Goldfinger snapped his fingers for the two servants – ‘it happens that I am a rich man, a very rich man, and the richer the man the more he needs protection. The ordinary bodyguard or detective is usually a retired policeman. Such men are valueless. Their reactions are slow, their methods old-fashioned, and they are open to bribery. Moreover, they have a respect for human life. That is no good if I wish to stay alive. The Koreans have no such feelings. That is why the Japanese employed them as guards for their prison camps during the war. They are the cruellest, most ruthless people in the world. My own staff are hand picked for these qualities. They have served me well. I have no complaints. Nor have they. They are well paid and well fed and housed. When they want women, street women are brought down from London, well remunerated for their services and sent back. The women are not much to look at, but they are white and that is all the Koreans ask – to submit the white race to the grossest indignities. There are sometimes accidents but –’ the pale eyes gazed blankly down the table – ‘money is an effective winding-sheet.’