Bennis threw the folder down on the bed and herself down after it, and propped her chin up in her hands. Then she flipped the cover open and said, “What does this make you think of?”
They were looking at what Gregor supposed would have to be called the title page, although it contained less than the usual run of information. The words Great Expectations had been printed in green script at the center, and there was a copyright notice in very small type at the bottom, but there was no byline.
He drew the folder closer. “It reminds me of a room-service menu,” he said. “What does it remind you of?”
The prospectuses they give out for brand-new condominium apartments. You know, the kind of thing where a builder puts up a high-rise on spec, and then tries to sell off the units at really ridiculous prices—”
“What are you talking about?”
Bennis sighed. “I know it’s not your kind of thing, Gregor, but you ought to at least read the newspapers. About ten years ago there was this enormous building boom, especially in places like New York, and a lot of builders put up these apartments with one or two bedrooms for single working people. Except, while the building was getting done, the single working people got married and had children. So then—”
“Then the builders couldn’t sell the apartments,” Gregor said. “Yes, I see what you mean. But what does that have to do with this?”
Bennis sighed again. “Think,” she said, ignoring the look Gregor shot at her, which was lethal. Gregor had to smile. He was always telling people to “think.” He supposed he deserved a little return play every once in a while, even from Bennis.
“Nobody,” Bennis said, “puts out one of these things on an apartment building that’s selling well. They only put them out on buildings that aren’t selling at all. Which reminds me of the other thing this reminds me of. Conference centers.”
“Conference centers?”
“You know, those places out in the country that aren’t regular hotels but just big spaces you can rent to hold your convention in. They put out things like this to send to prospects, to help them book their space. Now do you see?”
“No.”
“Well,” Bennis said, “in a way, neither do I. I mean, this is Victoria Harte’s house. She doesn’t rent it out that I’ve ever heard. I don’t even think she’s big on visitors. So what’s she doing with something like this?”
“What’s in ‘this’?”
Bennis flipped the page. On the back of the title page there was nothing. On the facing page there was a column of type, about half as wide as it should have been, running down the right-hand side, and a big white margin running 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.”