1. THE CASTLE

Many people who passed the hotel on a regular basis simply called it The Castle. The name made sense to Thornhill as he moved to get off the streetcar, his left hand instinctively adjusting the derby hat he used to hide his receding hairline. But the name failed to do justice to the imposing building's modern brick walls and large bay windows protruding from the façade - it was a breath of fresh air amid the surrounding buildings.

Yet, there was something ominous about the three-story building. Nothing you could put in words or grab with your hands, but an eerie aura hung over it like an invisible shadow, robbing the sun of a small part of its radiance in a way that leaves the body warm but the soul cold.

What an odd thought, entirely unlike him . and from which he was abruptly torn by a shrill, impatient ring.

It took Thornhill a second to realize he still had a foot on the step of the streetcar. He stepped out into the street as the two beefy draft horses began to tug the trolley along its steel tracks.

The vehicle was a contrast itself, combining an ancient mode of transportation with the most modern. He had lived to see railways come to dominate urban streets. Thornhill caught himself watching as the streetcar had crossed the square and disappeared. Then he clutched his bag tighter, readjusted his derby and made his way toward the hotel.

He surely was doing the impressive building a disservice, but the fact remained: it scared him.

Maybe it had to do with the neighborhood. Chicago itself didn't enjoy the best reputation, and Englewood was surely the neighborhood with the worst repute. In an already seedy city, everyone looked down on this place. Most people in Englewood had already become victims of the bad reputation they had brought on themselves and hardly dared to leave their homes after sundown.

That was precisely what brought Thornhill to the neighborhood in the first place.

A bicyclist came at him, with no intent to use the bell on his obscene contraption, even though the street was more than wide enough for the both of them. Thornhill walked on without even bothering to give the cyclist an evil glare, consoling himself with the thought of what he could have done to the man, had he been so inclined. The wind turned and a gust of the typically nauseating Chicago stench wafted over him. The reek of the city was more unbearable than the sight of its crime and poverty.

The ground floor of the large corner building was made up almost entirely of shops: A pharmacy, a small barbershop, an even smaller general store that could only exist in neighborhoods like this, selling little from the shelves but much more under the counter - contraband was in high demand by the look of it. Thornhill made a mental note to visit the shop and its owner later, but now turned his quick steps toward the hotel's main entrance.

He was amazed to find it equipped with a modern revolving door, the type you would expect to find in a much classier establishment, which transported him into a surprisingly large and tastefully decorated foyer. Thornhill was shocked - and a little confused. Naturally, he had inquired discreetly about the hotel before embarking for Chicago and knew its owner was, at best, a moderately talented physician but, judging from the utter lack of guests, not much of a hotel owner.

In a nutshell: The guy managed to bleed money with a hotel in a city that was bursting at the seams - a city where you would expect vacant rooms to be worth their weight in gold.

The reception counter gleamed like it was freshly polished, and, like the rest of the lobby, was empty. Only a large brass bell and a guest book with expensive leather binding, with an old-fashioned ink jar and pen beside it, belied that people were staying here at all. Most room keys hung in neat rows on the wall behind the desk instead of jangling in the pockets of paying guests.

Thornhill put his bag down, rang the bell, and politely waited twenty seconds before ringing it again, a little less patiently now. Noise came from somewhere, and he thought he heard steps approaching.

He passed the time until their arrival by turning the guest book his way, unabashedly perusing it. What he read on the pages of finest vellum only confirmed his first impression of The Castle: It was practically empty. Only two of two dozen rooms were occupied - counting the room he had reserved via telegraph. It was the same story on the previous pages of the book. Thornhill was no accountant - or even interested in numbers at all - but anyone could see this handsome façade was all for show, and this grand hotel was teetering on the brink of bankruptcy.

A door opened and a skinny figure of ambiguous age approached with rapid steps. The woman was neat and slender, if just a little shabbily dressed for these environs. She had tied up her raven hair in an unsightly bun and her fair face carried a stern look that robbed it of much of the beauty it doubtlessly possessed.

There was no mistaking her strict demeanor as she slammed the guest book shut, Thornhill barely getting his finger out from between the covers in time.

"That not for guests," she said in a thick Slavic accent. "Doctor not here," she continued in a voice that sounded like she gargled iron filings and bourbon every morning.

"I'm not looking for a doctor, and I reserved a room," Thornhill answered. She probably didn't even understand what he said, he thought, since she simply repeated, "Doctor not here."

"I'm Mr. Porter," he introduced himself with the name he had assumed for this trip. As usual, it was not a made-up identity, but that of a very real, living person. A wealthy Boston merchant visiting the World's Fair on business.

"Why don't you just give me the registration slip, and I'll fill it out myself," he suggested, while wondering - albeit out of clinical curiosity more than anything - whether she would look any paler if he slit her throat and watched her bleed to death. Probably not.

"Doctor not here," she said one more time, not even glancing at the registration form she was not going to give him or the identification he produced from his bag and placed on the counter with his copy of the reservation telegraph. Thornhill felt an anger rising within him before he realized she was probably illiterate. His empty hand slid down into his jacket, caressing the mother-of-pearl handle of the razor-sharp weapon he carried in his pocket. Not yet.

"So where is the . doctor?" he inquired instead. Do it. Now. It's a perfect opportunity. No witnesses. No one has seen you.

No one except the bicyclist. And the other streetcar passengers. And the conductor from whom he bought a ticket and then carelessly asked for directions to the hotel.

He not only had to resist the impulse to grab his razor, he had to suppress any thought of his own existence, taking a step back from the counter to increase the distance between them. Sometimes extreme proximity was all it took for his urge to overpower him, so he had long ago made a habit of keeping at least an arm's length from other people wherever possible.

"Doctor out," she answered his question with some delay and an involuntary wave of her hand in no particular direction. As she cleared her throat, her voice turned into the squawk of a big, mangy raven, one that was perched on a branch behind the desk and waiting for a chance to peck his eyes out. "Delivery."

"Then I'll go out and look for him myself," he said. "Would you be so kind as to take my luggage to my room in the meantime? It is just the one bag."

He placed the bag on the counter, where the woman eyed it with the same look of slight revulsion as before.

Without waiting for an answer, Thornhill turned and crossed the foyer, spinning his way through the revolving door again, which still struck him like a little adventure each time. On his way out, he saw the receptionist remove his bag from the counter, but he wasn't really worried about it. All it contained were a few pieces of clothing and some of his tools, nothing that could give any indication of his real name or identity.

Back outside, the same stench wafting up from the city struck him again, a mixture of overheated machines, rancid fat, and a pungent rotting smell that immediately turned his stomach.

Thornhill resisted the nausea, but couldn't help wondering if coming here in the first place had been such a good idea. The size and anonymity of cities offered certain advantages, and Chicago in particular seemed especially appealing from afar, with its flourishing economy drawing scores of people to town. It was the eve of the World's Fair, which brought even more people, offering him countless potential victims and invisibility in the masses. Add to that the special reputation of this part of town. On paper, everything lined up.

But that wasn't the case.

For the third time, his hand slid into his pocket and clutched the razor. There was no longing in the motion now, and the only reward he might expect was the simple fact he may remain alive a little longer.

What claptrap! Why was he suddenly thinking like the prey and not like the hunter that he was? Thornhill sternly admonished himself, jerked his hand out of his pocket and turned to the right in the direction he assumed the woman had indicated. The foul-smelling wind blew in his face and brought tears...