The Bourne Identity by Robert Ludlum Read Free Book Online

barely passable," said the woman. "Do better this time, or I'll be forced to Page 28
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    order from Marseilles."
    "And the other evening," added the man, "the marquis mentioned to me that the chops of lamb were much too thin. I repeat, a full inch and a quarter."
    The owner sighed and shrugged, uttering obsequious phrases of apology and assurance. The woman turned to her escort, her voice no less commanding than it was to the butcher.
    "Wait for the packages and put them in the car. I'll be at the grocer's; meet me there."
    "Of course, my dear."
    The woman left, a pigeon in search of further seeds of conflict. The moment she was out the door her husband turned to the shopowner, his demeanor entirely different. Gone was the arrogance; a grin appeared.
    "Just your average day, eh, Marcel?" he said, taking a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.
    "Seen better, seen worse. Were the chops really too thin?"
    "My God, no. When was he last able to tell? But she feels better if I complain, you know that."
    "Where is the Marquis of the Dungheap now?"
    "Drunk next door, waiting for the whore from Toulon. I'll come down later this afternoon, pick him up, and sneak him past the marquise into the stables. He won't be able to drive his car by then. He uses Jean-Pierre's room above the kitchen, you know."
    "I've heard."
    At the mention of the name Jean-Pierre, Washburn's patient turned from the display case of poultry. It was an automatic reflex, but the movement only served to remind the butcher of his presence.
    "What is it? What do you want?"
    It was time to degutturalize his French. "You were recommended by friends in Nice," said the patient, his accent more befitting the Quai d'Orsay than Le Bouc de Mer.
    "Oh?" The shopowner made an immediate reappraisal. Among his clientele, especially the younger ones, there were those who preferred to dress in opposition to their status. The common Basque shirt was even fashionable these days. "You're new here, sir?"
    "My boat's in for repairs; we won't be able to reach Marseilles this afternoon."
    "May I be of service?"
    The patient laughed. "You may be to the chef; I wouldn't dare presume. He'll be around later and I do have some influence."
    The butcher and his friend laughed. "I would think so, sir," said the shopowner. Page 29
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    "I'll need a dozen ducklings and, say, eighteen chateaubriands."
    "Of course."
    "Good. I'll send our master of the galley directly to you." The patient turned to the middle-aged man.
    "By the way, I couldn't help overhearing ... no, please don't be concerned. The marquis wouldn't be that jackass d'Ambois, would he? I think someone told me he lived around here."
    "Oh no, sir," replied the servant. "I don't know the Marquis d'Ambois. I was referring to the Marquis de Chamford. A fine gentleman, sir, but he has problems. A difficult marriage, sir. Very difficult; it's no secret."
    "Chamford? Yes, I think we've met. Rather short fellow, isn't he?"
    "No, sir. Quite tall, actually. About your size, I'd say."
    "Really?"

    The patient learned the various entrances and inside staircases of the two-story cafe quickly--a produce delivery man from Roquevaire unsure of his new route. There were two sets of steps that led to the second floor, one from the kitchen, the other just beyond the front entrance in the small foyer; this was the staircase used by patrons going to the upstairs washrooms. There was also a window through which an interested party outside could see anyone who used this particular staircase, and the patient was sure that if he waited long enough he would see two people doing so. They would undoubtedly go up separately, neither heading for a washroom but, instead, to a bedroom above the kitchen. The patient wondered which of the expensive automobiles parked on the quiet street belonged to the Marquis de Chamford.