‘Thank you,’ he said, and passed the young man a coin. The porter grinned, thanked him and bowed out of the room, leaving him alone. He settled down at the small breakfast table in his room. Positioned by the bay window, he had a pleasing view out onto Oxford Street below. A very nice hotel suite. As good as the best in New York. His eyes, cold and grey – a demon’s eyes, an Indian had once told him – watched the to-ing and fro-ing of carriages and milk carts, top hats and the fluttering plumes of ostrich feathers. The sounds coming up from the street below reminded him of Manhattan; the cry of street vendors, the clatter of metal cartwheel rims on stone, the hubbub of voices, the endless coconut-shell applause of horse hooves on stone. I am Mr Babbitt. Every job came with a different name. A name usually chosen quite randomly; perhaps one overheard in a conversation, a sign above a business, a name in a newspaper.
