The Bourne Identity by Robert Ludlum Read Free Book Online Page A

Whichever, the middle-aged manservant in the butcher shop did not have to be concerned; his employer would not be driving it.
    Money.
    The woman arrived shortly before one o'clock. She was a windswept blonde, her large breasts stretching the blue silk of her blouse, her long legs tanned, striding gracefully above spiked heels, thighs and fluid hips outlined beneath the tight-fitting white skirt. Chamford might have problems but he also had taste.
    Twenty minutes later he could see the white skirt through the window; the girl was heading upstairs. Less than sixty seconds later another figure filled the window-frame; dark trousers and a blazer beneath a white face cautiously lurched up the staircase. The patient counted off the minutes; he hoped the Marquis de Chamford owned a watch.
    Carrying his canvas knapsack as unobtrusively as possible by the straps, the patient walked down the flagstone path to the entrance of the restaurant. Inside, he turned left in the foyer, excusing himself past an elderly man trudging up the staircase, reached the second floor and turned left again down a long corridor that led toward the rear of the building, above the kitchen. He passed the washrooms and came to a closed door at the end of the narrow hallway where he stood motionless, his back pressed into the wall. He turned his head and waited for the elderly man to reach the washroom door and push it open while unzipping his trousers.
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    The patient--instinctively, without thinking, really--raised the soft knapsack and placed it against the center of the door panel. He held it securely in place with his outstretched arms, stepped back, and in one swift movement, crashed his left shoulder into the canvas, dropping his right hand as the door sprang open, gripping the edge before the door could smash into a wall. No one below in the restaurant could have heard the muted forced entry.
    "Nom de Dieu!" she shrieked. "Qui est-ce! ..."
    "Silence!"
    The Marquis de Chamford spun off the naked body of the blond woman, sprawling over the edge of the bed onto the floor. He was a sight from a comic opera, still wearing his starched shirt, the tie knotted in place, and on his feet black silk, knee-length socks; but that was all he wore. The woman grabbed the covers, doing her best to lessen the indelicacy of the moment.
    The patient issued his commands swiftly. "Don't raise your voices. No one will be hurt if you do exactly as I say."
    "My wife hired you!" cried Chamford, his words slurred, his eyes barely in focus. "I'll pay you more!"
    "That's a beginning," answered Dr. Washburn's patient. "Take off your shirt and tie. Also the socks."
    He saw the glistening gold band around the marquis' wrist. "And the watch."
    Several minutes later the transformation was complete. The marquis' clothes were not a perfect fit, but no one could deny the quality of the cloth or the original tailoring. Too, the watch was a Girard Perregaux, and Chamford's billfold contained over thirteen thousand francs. The car keys were also impressive; they were set in monogrammed heads of sterling silver.
    "For the love of God, give me your clothes!" said the marquis, the implausibility of his predicament penetrating the haze of alcohol.
    "I'm sorry, but I can't do that," replied the intruder, gathering up both his own clothes and those of the blond woman.
    "You can't take mine!" she yelled.
    "I told you to keep your voice down."
    "All right, all right ," she continued, "but you can't ..."
    "Yes, I can." The patient looked around the room; there was a telephone on a desk by a window. He crossed to it and yanked the cord out of the socket. "Now no one will disturb you," he added, picking up the knapsack.
    "You won't go free, you know!" snapped Chamford. "You won't get away with this! The police will find you!"
    "The police?" asked the intruder. "Do you really think you should call the police? A formal