if.goldfinger-第15部分

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　Bond　walked　through　the　shop　and　out　to　his　car。　The　bowler…hatted　man　was　polishing　the　metal　work　of　the　Rolls　with　a　cloth。　Bond　felt　rather　than　saw　him　stop　and　watch　Bond　take　out　his　zip　bag　and　go　into　the　club　house。　The　man　had　a　square　flat　yellow　face。　One　of　the　Koreans？
　Bond　paid　his　green…fee　to　Hampton；　the　steward；　and　went　into　the　changing…room。　It　was　just　the　same　…　the　same　tacky　smell　of　old　shoes　and　socks　and　last　summer's　sweat。　Why　was　it　a　tradition　of　the　most　famous　golf　clubs　that　their　standard　of　hygiene　should　be　that　of　a　Victorian　private　school？　Bond　changed　his　socks　and　put　on　the　battered　old　pair　of　nailed　Saxones。　He　took　off　the　coat　of　his　yellowing　black　and　white　hound's　tooth　suit　and　pulled　on　a　faded　black　wind…cheater。　Cigarettes？　Lighter？　He　was　ready　to　go
　Bond　walked　slowly　out；　preparing　his　mind　for　the　game。　On　purpose　he　had　needled　this　man　into　a　high；　tough　match　so　that　Goldfinger's　respect　for　him　should　be　increased　and　Goldfinger's　view　of　Bond　…　that　he　was　the　type　of　ruthless；　hard　。adventurer　who　might　be　very　useful　to　Goldfinger　…　would　be　confirmed。　Bond　had　thought　that　perhaps　a　hundred…pound　Nassau　would　be　the　form。　But　ten　thousand　dollars！　There　had　probably　never　been　such　a　high　singles　game　in　history…except　in　the　finals　of　American　Championships　or　in　the　big　amateur　Calcutta　Sweeps　where　it　was　the　backers　rather　than　the　players　who　had　the　money　on。　Goldfinger's　private　accounting　must　have　taken　a　nasty　dent。　He　wouldn't　have　liked　that。　He　would　be　aching　to　get　some　of　his　money　back。　When　Bond　had　talked　about　playing　high；　Goldfinger　had　seen　his　chance。　So　be　it。　But　one　thing　was　certain；　for　a　hundred　reasons　Bond　could　not　afford　to　lose。
　He　turned　into　the　shop　and　picked　up　the　balls　and　tees　from　Alfred　Blacking。
　'Hawker's　got　the　clubs；　sir。'
　Bond　strolled　out　across　the　five　hundred　yards　of　shaven　seaside　turf　that　led　to　the　first　tee。　Goldfinger　was　practising　on　the　putting　green。　His　caddie　stood　near　by；　rolling　balk　to　him。　Goldfinger　putted　in　the　new　fashion　…　between　his　legs　with　a　mallet　putter。　Bond　felt　encouraged。　He　didn't　believe　in　the　system。　He　knew　it　was　no　good　practising　himself。　His　old　hickory　Calamity　Jane　had　its　good　days　and　its　bad。　There　was　nothing　to　do　about　it。　He　knew　also　that　the　St　Marks　practice　green　bore　no　resemblance；　in　speed　or　texture；　to　the　greens　on　the　course。
　Bond　caught　up　with　the　limping；　insouciant　figure　of　his　caddie　who　was　sauntering　along　chipping　at　an　imaginary　ball　with　Bond's　blaster。　'Afternoon；　Hawker。'
　'Afternoon；　sir。'　Hawker　handed　Bond　the　blaster　and　threw　down　three　used　balls。　His　keen　sardonic　poacher's　face　split　in　a　wry　grin　of　wele。　'HowVe　you　been　keep　in'；　sir？　Played　any　golf　in　the　last　twenty　years？　Can　you　still　put　them　on　the　roof　of　the　starter's　hut？'　This　referred　to　the　day　when　Bond；　trying　to　do　just　that　before　a　match；　had　put　two　balls　through　the　starter's　window。
　'Let's　see。'　Bond　took　the　blaster　and　hefted　it　in　his　hand；　gauging　the　distance。　The　tap　of　the　balls　on　the　practice　green　had　ceased。　Bond　addressed　the　ball；　swung　quickly；　lifted　his　head　and　shanked　the　ball　almost　at　right　angles。　He　tried　again。　This　time　it　was　a　dunch。　A　foot　of　turf　flew　up。　The　ball　went　ten　yards。　Bond　turned　to　Hawker；　who　was　looking　his　most　sardonic。　'It's　all　right；　Hawker。　Those　were　for　show。　Now　then；　one　for　you。'　He　stepped　up　to　the　third　ball；　took　his　club　back　slowly　and　whipped　the　club　head　through。　The　ball　soared　a　hundred　feet；　paused　elegantly；　dropped　eighty　feet　on　to　the　thatched　roof　of　the　starter's　hut　and　bounced　down。
　Bond　handed　back　the　club。　Hawker's　eyes　were　thoughtful；　amused。　He　said　nothing。　He　pulled　out　the　driver　and　handed　it　to　Bond。　They　walked　together　to　the　first　tee；　talking　about　Hawker's　family。
　Goldfinger　joined　them；　relaxed；　impassive。　Bond　greeted　Goldfinger's　caddie；　an　obsequious；　talkative　man　called　Foulks　whom　Bond　had　never　liked。　Bond　glanced　at　Gold…finger's　clubs。　They　were　a　brand　new　set　of　American　Ben　Hogans　with　smart　St　Marks　leather　covers　for　the　woods。　The　bag　was　one　of　the　stitched　black　leather　holdalls　favoured　by　American　pros。　The　clubs　were　in　individual　cardboard　tubes　for　easy　extraction。　It　was　a　pretentious　outfit；　but　the　best。
　'Toss　for　honour？'　Goldfinger　flicked　a　coin。
　'Tails。'
　It　was　heads。　Goldfinger　took　out　his　driver　and　unpeeled　a　new　ball。　He　said；　'Dunlop　65。　Number　One。　Always　use　the　same　ball。　What's　yours？'
　Tenfold。　Hearts。'
　Goldfinger　looked　keenly　at　Bond。　'Strict　Rules　of　Golf？'
　'Naturally。'
　'Right。'　Goldfinger　walked　on　to　the　tee　and　teed　up。　He　took　one　or　two　careful；　concentrated　practice　swings。　It　was　a　type　of　swing　Bond　knew　well　…　the　grooved；　mechanical；　repeating　swing　of　someone　who'had　studied　the　game　with　great　care；　read　all　the　books　and　spent　five　thousand　pounds　on　the　finest　pro　teachers。　It　would　be　a　good；　scoring　swing　which　might　not　collapse　under　pressure。　Bond　envied　it。
　Goldfinger　took　up　his　stance；　wagged　gracefully；　took　his　club　head　back　in　a　wide　slow　arc　and；　with　his　eyes　glued　to　the　ball；　broke　his　wrists　correctly。　He　brought　the　club　head　mechanically；　effortlessly；　down　and　through　the　ball　and　into　a　rather　artificial；　copybook　finish。　The　ball　went　straight　and　true　about　two　hundred　yards　down　the　fairway。
　It　was　an　excellent；　uninspiring　shot。　Bond　knew　that　Goldfinger　would　be　capable　of　repeating　the　same　swing　with　different　clubs　again　and　again　round　the　eighteen　holes。
　Bond　took　his　place；　gave　himself　a　lowish　tee；　addressed　the　ball　with　careful　enmity　and；　with　a　flat；　racket…player's　swing　in　which　there　was　just　too　much　wrist　for　safety；　lashed　the　ball　away。　It　was　a　fine；　attacking　drive　that　landed　past　Goldfinger's　ball　and　rolled　on　fifty　yards。　But　it　had　had　a　shade　of　draw　and　ended　on　the　edge　of　the　left…hand　rough。
　They　were　two　good　drives。　As　Bond　handed　his　club　to　Hawker　and　strolled　off　in　the　wake　of　the　more　impatient　Goldfinger；　he　smelled　the　sweet　smell　of　the　beginning　of　a　knock…down…and…drag…out　game　of　golf　on　a　beautiful　day　in　May　with　the　larks　singing…over　the　greatest　seaside　course　in　the　world。
　The　first　hole　of　the　Royal　St　Marks　is　four　hundred　and　fifty　yards　long　…　four　hundred　and　fifty　yards　of　undulating　fairway　with　one　central　bunker　to　trap　a　mis…hit　second　shot　and　a　chain　of　bunkers　guarding　three…quarters　of　the　green　to　trap　a　well…hit　one。　You　can　slip　through　the　unguarded　quarter；　but　the　fairway　slopes　to　the　right　there　and　you　are　more　likely　to　end　up　with　a　nasty　first…chip…of…the…day　out　of　the　rough。　Goldfinger　was　well　placed　to　try　for　this　opening。　Bond　watched　him　take　what　was　probably　a　spoon；　make　his　two　practice　swings　and　address　the　ball。
　Many　unlikely　people　play　golf；　including　people　who　are　blind；　who　have　only　one　arm；　or　even　no　legs；　and　people　often　wear　bizarre　clothes　to　the　game。　Other　golfers　don't　think　them　odd；　for　there　are　no　rules　of　appearance　or　dress　at　golf。　That　is　one　of　its　minor　pleasures。　But　Goldfinger　had　made　an　attempt　to　look　smart　at　golf　and　that　is　the　only　way　of　dressing　that　is　incongruous　on　a　links。　Everything　matched　in　a　blaze　of　rust…coloured　tweed　from　the　buttoned　'golfer's　cap'　centred　on　the　huge；　flaming　red　hair；　to　the　brilliantly　polished；　almost　orange　shoes。　The　plus…four　suit　was　too　well　cut　and　the　plus…fours　themselves　had　been　pressed　down　the　sides。　The　stockings　were　of　a　matching　heather　mixture　and　had　green　garter　tabs。　It　was　as　if　Goldfinger　had　gone　to　his　tailor　and　said；　'Dress　me　for　golf　…　you　know；　like　they　wear　in　Scotland。'　Social　errors　made　no　impression　on　Bond；　and　for　the　matter　of　that　he　rarely　noticed　them。　With　Goldfinger　it　was　different。　Everything　about　the　man　had　grated　on　Bond's　teeth　from　the　first　moment　he　had　seen　him。　The　assertive　blatancy　of　his　clothes　was　just　part　of　the　malevolent　animal　magnetism　that　had　affected　Bond　from　the　beginning。
　Goldfinger　executed　his　mechanical；　faultless　swing。　The　ball　flew　true　but　just　failed　to　make　the　slope　and　curled　off　to　the　right　to　finish　pinhigh　off　the　green　in　the　short　rough。　Easy　five。　A　good　chip　could　turn　it　into　a　four；　but　it　would　have　to　be　a　good　one。
　Bond　walked　over　to　his　ball。　It　was　lying　cocked　up；　just　off　the　fairway。　Bond　took　his　number　four　wood。　Now　for　the　'all　air　route'　…　a　soaring　shot　that　would　carry　the　cross…bunkers　and　give　him　two　putts　for　a　four。　Bond　remembered　the　dictum　of　the　pros：　'It^s　never　too　early　to　start　winning。'　He　took　it　easy；　determined　not　to　press　for　the　long　but　fortable　carry。
　As　soon　as　Bond　had　hit　the　shot　he　knew　it　wouldn't　do。　The　difference　between　a　good　golf　shot　and　a　bad　one　is　the　same　as　the　difference　between　a　beautiful　and　a　plain　woman　…　a　matter　of　millimetres。　In　this　case；　the　club　face　had　gone　through　just　that　one　millimetre　too　low　under　the　ball。　The　arc　of　flight　was　high　and　soft　…　no　legs。　Why　the　hell　hadn't　he　taken　a　spoon　or　a　two　iron　off　that　lie？　The　ball　hit　the　lip　of　the　far　bunker　and　fell　back。　Now　it　was　the　blaster；　and　fighting　for　a　half。
　Bond　never　worried　too　long　about　his　bad　or　stupid　shots。　He　put　them　behind　him　and　thought　of　the　next。　He　came　up　with　the　bunker；　took　his　blaster　and　measured　the　distance　to　the　pin。　Twenty　yards。　The　ball　was　lying　well　back。　Should　he　splash　it　out　with　a　wide　stance　and　an　outside…in　swing；　or　should　he　blast　it　and　take　plenty　of　sand？　For　safety's　sake　he　would　blast　it　out。　Bond　went　down　into　the　bunker。　Head　down　and　follow　well　through。　The　easiest　shot　in　golf。　Try　and　put　it　dead。　The　wish；　half　way　down　his　bade　swing；　hurried　the　hands　in　front　of　the　club　head。　The　loft　was　killed　and　there　was　the　ball　rolling　back　off　the　face。　Get　it　out；　you　bloody　fool；　and　hole　a　long　putt！　Now　Bond　took　too　much　sand。　He　was　out；　but　barely　on　the　green。　Goldfinger　bent　to　his　chip　and　kept　his　head　down　until　the　ball　was　half　way　to　the　hole。　The　ball　stopped　three　inches　from　the　pin。　Without　waiting　to　be　given　the　putt；　Goldfinger　turned　his　back　on　Bond　and　walke