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 watertight 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
‘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 watertight 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
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