down the other. The margin was studded with tiny color pictures of spaces Gregor recognized from his quick look at the first floor. Across the top, in sedately sized but boldly inked letters, were the words Welcome To Great Expectations.
Gregor tapped his finger against the page and shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense, does it? I wonder why she had this made.”
“It was probably lots of them. It costs a lot of money to get things printed, especially on heavy slick stock like this. The smaller the printing, the higher the price per piece. Wait’ll you read the copy. It’s like one of those stockholders’ reports where the management doesn’t want to let anyone know what it’s doing.”
“Why don’t you just give me the gist.”
“All right. There’s a section on the architect, Philip Track, and how wonderful and significant he was. There’s a section on Victoria Harte, and how she had tremendous aesthetic vision back in the days when modern architecture wasn’t an accepted thing. Then there’s a section on the construction, and all the industrial techniques they applied when they were building. And a section on the materials—”
“Wait,” Gregor said. He flipped through a couple of pages himself, and found more wide margins and more small color pictures and more boldface section heads, but he didn’t find what he wanted. There was no neatly overwritten paragraph on what a wonderful house this would be to live in. There was no sly line about how this house would not be for everyone. There was nothing at all to indicate that this folder had been produced for anything but to inform Victoria Harte’s guests about the building they were being allowed to inhabit for a very limited length of time.
He pushed the folder away from him again and said, “I thought you had it there for a minute. I thought Victoria Harte was trying to sell this house. But if she were, there’d be a come-on at the end, and there isn’t.”
“Well, I can’t believe Victoria Harte had these things made up just for fun. It would have been too expensive. And they’re new, too. You can still smell the ink on them.”
“New,” Gregor said thoughtfully.
“There’s a whole section in the middle somewhere about the pillows they use, if you can believe that. All about the special fiber they’re made of that was developed by the space program and how they hold your head up or mold to your body or something. Contouring, I think they call it. And then—”
“How new?” Gregor asked her.
Bennis stopped in midsentence, rolled over on her back, and looked at him. “What do you mean exactly, how new? ”
“You said you could smell the ink on them. How long would that last? Days? Weeks? Months?”
“It would depend on how often they were handled. If they weren’t handled at all and the ink was good, you could get traces of the smell for a year or more.”
“Is what you smell just traces?”
“No. It’s stronger than that.”
“So?”
Bennis shrugged. “If you want my guess, I’d say this one isn’t more than a couple of months old. If that. But it’s not evidence you could take to court, Gregor. There are a lot of factors and my nose isn’t exactly licensed as a weapon, if you know what I mean.”
“I’m surprised you can smell anything with all the cigarettes you smoke. But maybe we should take the easy way out of this. Maybe we should just ask somebody when they were done and what they were for.”
“Brilliant,” Bennis said. “I’d never have thought of it. Is all this important? I know it’s weird, but I can’t see it’s sinister.”
“I didn’t say it was. It just bothers me. And I was wondering if we’d gotten it all backward when we were talking about it in the beginning.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning it doesn’t make much sense for Victoria Harte to have had this printed, unless she was trying to sell the house. But it would make sense if Stephen Fox or Dan Chester had had it
Gregor tapped his finger against the page and shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense, does it? I wonder why she had this made.”
“It was probably lots of them. It costs a lot of money to get things printed, especially on heavy slick stock like this. The smaller the printing, the higher the price per piece. Wait’ll you read the copy. It’s like one of those stockholders’ reports where the management doesn’t want to let anyone know what it’s doing.”
“Why don’t you just give me the gist.”
“All right. There’s a section on the architect, Philip Track, and how wonderful and significant he was. There’s a section on Victoria Harte, and how she had tremendous aesthetic vision back in the days when modern architecture wasn’t an accepted thing. Then there’s a section on the construction, and all the industrial techniques they applied when they were building. And a section on the materials—”
“Wait,” Gregor said. He flipped through a couple of pages himself, and found more wide margins and more small color pictures and more boldface section heads, but he didn’t find what he wanted. There was no neatly overwritten paragraph on what a wonderful house this would be to live in. There was no sly line about how this house would not be for everyone. There was nothing at all to indicate that this folder had been produced for anything but to inform Victoria Harte’s guests about the building they were being allowed to inhabit for a very limited length of time.
He pushed the folder away from him again and said, “I thought you had it there for a minute. I thought Victoria Harte was trying to sell this house. But if she were, there’d be a come-on at the end, and there isn’t.”
“Well, I can’t believe Victoria Harte had these things made up just for fun. It would have been too expensive. And they’re new, too. You can still smell the ink on them.”
“New,” Gregor said thoughtfully.
“There’s a whole section in the middle somewhere about the pillows they use, if you can believe that. All about the special fiber they’re made of that was developed by the space program and how they hold your head up or mold to your body or something. Contouring, I think they call it. And then—”
“How new?” Gregor asked her.
Bennis stopped in midsentence, rolled over on her back, and looked at him. “What do you mean exactly, how new? ”
“You said you could smell the ink on them. How long would that last? Days? Weeks? Months?”
“It would depend on how often they were handled. If they weren’t handled at all and the ink was good, you could get traces of the smell for a year or more.”
“Is what you smell just traces?”
“No. It’s stronger than that.”
“So?”
Bennis shrugged. “If you want my guess, I’d say this one isn’t more than a couple of months old. If that. But it’s not evidence you could take to court, Gregor. There are a lot of factors and my nose isn’t exactly licensed as a weapon, if you know what I mean.”
“I’m surprised you can smell anything with all the cigarettes you smoke. But maybe we should take the easy way out of this. Maybe we should just ask somebody when they were done and what they were for.”
“Brilliant,” Bennis said. “I’d never have thought of it. Is all this important? I know it’s weird, but I can’t see it’s sinister.”
“I didn’t say it was. It just bothers me. And I was wondering if we’d gotten it all backward when we were talking about it in the beginning.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning it doesn’t make much sense for Victoria Harte to have had this printed, unless she was trying to sell the house. But it would make sense if Stephen Fox or Dan Chester had had it
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