ere Goldfinger was heading for。
Five o'clock； six； seven。 The sun set in Bond's driving mirror and still the Rolls sped on。 They were through Dreux and Chartres and on to the long straight fifty…mile stretch into Orleans。 If that was to be the night stop the Rolls ' wouldn't have done badly at all … over two hundred and fifty miles in something over six hours。 Goldfinger was certainly no slouch when it came to motoring。 He must be keeping the old Silver Ghost at maximum outside the towns。 Bond began to close up。
There were rear…lights ahead … dim ones。 Bond had his fog lights on。 He switched on the Marchals。 It was some little sports car。 Bond closed up。 MG？ Triumph？ Austin Healey？ It was a pale grey Triumph two…seater with the hood up。 Bond blinked his lights and swept past。 Now there was the glare of another car ahead。 Bond dowsed his headlamps and drove on the fogs。 The other car was a mile down the road。 Bond crept up on it。 At a quarter of a mile； he flashed the Marchals on and off for a quick look。 Yes； it was the Rolls。 Bond dropped back to a mile and stayed there； vaguely noticing the dim lights of the TR3 in his mirror。 On the outskirts of Orleans； Bond pulled into the side of the road。 The Triumph growled casually past。
Bond had never cared for Orleans。 It was a priest and myth ridden town without charm or gaiety。 It was content to live off Joan of Arc and give the visitor a hard； holy glare while it took his money。 Bond consulted his Michelin。 Gold…finger would stop at five…star hotels and eat fillets of sole and roast chicken。 It would be the Arcades for him … perhaps the Moderne。 Bond would have liked to stay outside the town and sleep on the banks of the Loire in the excellent Auberge de la Montespan； his belly full of quenelles de brocket。 He would have to stick closer to his fox。 He decided on the Hotel de la Gare and dinner at the station buffet。
When in doubt； Bond always chose the station hotels。 They were adequate； there was plenty of room to park the car and it was better than even chances that the Buffet de la Gare would be excellent。 And at the station one could hear the heartbeat of the town。 The night…sounds of the trains were full of its tragedy and romance。
The drone on the receiver had stayed constant for ten minutes。 Bond noted his way to the three hotels and cautiously crept into the town。 He went down to the river and along the lighted guais。 He had been right。 The Rolls was outside the Arcades。 Bond turned back into the town and made for the station。
The Hotel de la Gare was all he had expected … cheap； old…fashioned； solidly fortable。 Bond had a hot bath； went back to his car to make sure the Rolls hadn't moved； and walked into the station restaurant and ate one of his favourite meals … two aeufs cocotte a la creme； a large sole meuniere （Orleans was close enough to the sea。 The fish of the Loire are inclined to be muddy） and an adequate Camembert。 He drank a well…iced pint of Rose d'Anjou and had a Hennessy's Three Star with his coffee。 At ten…thirty he left the restaurant； checked on the Rolls and walked the virtuous streets for an hour。 One more check on the Rolls and bed。
At six o'clock the next morning the Rolls hadn't moved。 Bond paid his bill； had a cafe plet… with a double ration of coffee … at the station； motored down to the quais and backed his car up a side street。 This time he could not afford to make a mistake。 Goldfinger would either cross the river and head south to join N7 for the Riviera； or he would follow the north bank of the Loire； also perhaps for the Riviera； but also on the route for Switzerland and Italy。 Bond got out of the car and lounged against the parapet of the river wall； watching between the trunks of the plane trees。 At eight…thirty； two small figures came out of the Arcades。 The Rolls moved off。 Bond watched it follow the quais until it was out of sight； then he got behind the wheel of the Aston Martin and set off in pursuit。
Bond motored fortably along the Loire in the early summer sunshine。 This was one of his favourite corners of the world。 In May； with the fruit trees burning white and the soft wide river still big with the winter rains； the valley was green and young and dressed for love。 He was thinking this when； before Chateauneuf； there was a shrill scream from twin Bosch horns and the little Triumph tore past。 The hood was down。 There was the blur of a pretty face hidden by white motoring goggles with dark blue lenses。 Although Bond only saw the edge of a profile … a slash of red mouth and the fluttering edge of black hair under a pink handkerchief with white spots； he knew she was pretty from the way she held her head。 There was the authority of someone who is used to being admired； bined with the self…consciousness of a girl driving alone and passing a man in a smart car。
Bond thought： That would happen today！ The Loire is dressed for just that … chasing that girl until you run her to ground at lunch…time； the contact at the empty restaurant by the river； out in the garden under the vine trellis。 The friture and the ice…cold Vouvray； the cautious sniffing at each other and then the two cars motoring on in convoy until that evening； well down to the south； there would be the place they had agreed on at lunch … olive trees； crickets singing in the indigo dusk； the discovery that they liked each other and that their destinations could wait。 Then； next day （'No； not tonight。 I don't know you well enough； and besides I'm tired'） they would leave her car in the hotel garage and go off in his at a tangent； slowly； knowing there was no hurry for anything； driving to the west； away from the big roads。 What was that place he had always wanted to go to； simply because of the name？ Yes； Entre Deux Seins； a village near Les Baux。 Perhaps there wasn't even an inn there。 Well； then they would go on to Les Baux itself； at the Bouches du Rhone on the edge of the Camargue。 There they would take adjoining rooms （not a double room； it would be too early for that） in the fabulous Baumaniere； the only hotel…restaurant in France with Michelin's supreme accolade。 They would eat the gratin de langouste and perhaps； because it was traditional on such a night； drink champagne。 And then。。
Bond smiled at his story and at the dots that ended it。 Not today。 Today you're working。 Today is for Goldfinger； not for love。 Today the only scent you may smell is Goldfinger's expensive after…shave lotion； not。。。 what would she use？ English girls made mistakes about scent。 He hoped it would be something slight and clean。 Balmain's Vent Vert perhaps； or Caron's Muguet。 Bond tuned up his receiver for reassurance； then hushed it and motored on； relaxed； playing with his thoughts of the girl； filling in the details。 Of course he might meet up with her again。 They seemed to be keeping pretty close pany。 She must have spent the night in Orleans。 Where？ What a waste。 But wait a minute！ Suddenly Bond woke up from his daydreaming。 The open hood reminded him。 He'd seen that Triumph before。 It had been at Ferryfield； must have taken the flight after Goldfinger。 It was true he hadn't seen the girl or noted the registration number； but surely it was the same。 If so； for her to be still on Goldfinger's tail after three hundred miles was more than coincidence。 And she had been driving with dimmed lights the night before！ Here； what's going on？
Bond stepped on the accelerator。 He was approaching Nevers。 He'd anyway have to close up for the next big turning。 He would kill two birds with one stone and also see what the girl was up to。 If she was keeping station somewhere between him and Goldfinger there would have to be some furious thinking。 And it would be a blasted nuisance。 It was hard enough keeping up with Goldfinger。 With another tail sandwiched between them； it would bee hellish difficult。
She was still there； perhaps two miles behind the Rolls； keeping well back。 As soon as he caught sight of her little glittering rump （as he described it to himself） Bond slowed。 Well； well！ Who was she？ What the hell was all this about？ Bond motored on； his face morose and thoughtful。
The little convoy kept on； still following the wide black sheen of N7 that runs like a thick； dang