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Chapters (45)
  1. The Man With No Face
  2. Also by
  3. Title
  4. Copyright
  5. Dedication
  6. Epigraph
  7. Contents
  8. INTRODUCTION
  9. CHAPTER ONE
  10. CHAPTER TWO
  11. CHAPTER THREE
  12. CHAPTER FOUR
  13. CHAPTER FIVE
  14. CHAPTER SIX
  15. CHAPTER SEVEN
  16. CHAPTER EIGHT
  17. CHAPTER NINE
  18. CHAPTER TEN
  19. CHAPTER ELEVEN
  20. CHAPTER TWELVE
  21. CHAPTER THIRTEEN
  22. CHAPTER FOURTEEN
  23. CHAPTER FIFTEEN
  24. CHAPTER SIXTEEN
  25. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
  26. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
  27. CHAPTER NINETEEN
  28. CHAPTER TWENTY
  29. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
  30. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
  31. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
  32. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
  33. CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
  34. CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
  35. CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
  36. CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
  37. CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
  38. CHAPTER THIRTY
  39. CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
  40. CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
  41. CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
  42. CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
  43. CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
  44. CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
  45. CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

He had not noticed that same taxi sitting outside the church during the Mass, and then again at the cemetery. If he had, he might have wondered why its passenger had never stepped out. But there was no reason that he should have given it a second thought. The streets were full of taxis.

*

For Kale, drawn and fretful in the back of the taxi, none of this had been easy. There had been problems making the driver understand what it was his fare wanted of him. But money was a language all men understood, though Kale was only too aware that money would not erase the driver’s memory. The man kept looking at him in the rearview mirror. These were risks that he would never have taken before. And he knew he was making mistakes.

An inch of ash fell from the end of his cigarette and burned a tiny hole in his coat. Unaware, he drew more smoke into his lungs.

The driver caught sight of Kale’s face in the mirror and felt a slight chill run through him. He did not like this fare. If it hadn’t been for the money . . . Perhaps, when he had finished the job, he would go to the police. But what could he say? That an Englishman with a face that disturbed him had paid over the odds to have him run around after a blue Volkswagen? More than likely they would laugh at him. Was he in the habit of running to the police every time he took a dislike to the face of a passenger?

What was it about this face whose still, dark eyes stared out from the back seat? What could he tell them? He was being stupid, and yet he could not shake himself free of disquiet. He turned his attention to the road and the Volkswagen ahead of him.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The office was empty when Bannerman got back to the IPC building. It was just after five and already it was dark outside. He was frustrated and tense. In twenty-four hours he had got exactly nowhere. The office was warm and stuffy and he threw open one of the windows, allowing cold air to rush in. It brought with it the odd flake of snow that landed on the sill and melted almost immediately. Twenty-four hours ago he had been sitting with du Maurier in the Café Auguste. What had he accomplished since then? He had been attacked here in this office, punched a colleague in the face, done a deal with Platt, fallen out with his editor and attended a funeral. But he had achieved nothing.