As soon as dinner was over, Nancy dialed the famed photographer’s home number. When he answered, she told him about her trip to Manhattan and asked if she might drop over that evening to discuss the outcome.
“By all means!” Curry responded and gave her precise directions for finding his house.
Nancy was about to leave a few minutes later when the doorbell rang. Bess Marvin and George Fayne were standing outside under the porch light. She could see from a mere glance at their faces that both were upset, especially Bess.
“Did you hear the news tonight on TV?” her blonde friend blurted indignantly before she had even stepped inside.
“No, why?” said Nancy. “Is something wrong?”
“You bet there is! You know that Marcy Keech creature we bumped into this morning when you went to see Pamela Kane?”
“Of course. What’s she done now?”
“She’s taking all the credit for finding the truck that made those tracks in the woods— that’s what!”
11. Telephone Reports
Nancy felt mildly irritated by the young woman reporter’s boastful fib. But compared to her frustrating trip to New York that afternoon, the whole thing seemed too unimportant to get upset about.
“Never mind, Bess,” she said with a rueful smile. “When and if any of those TV news people go out to interview that gas-station attendant and photograph his service truck, I’m sure he’ll put them right.”
“Of course he will,” Bess realized aloud, looking suddenly more cheerful. “I never thought of that!”
“I’d ask you two to sit down,” Nancy explained as her two friends came into the living room, “but I was just about to take off.”
“Where to?” George inquired breezily.
“To see Dad’s client—that photographer, Dallas Curry. Want to come along?”
“Hey, yes! He should be an interesting guy to meet. ... If you’re sure he won’t mind?”
“I’m sure. Just wait a second till I slip on a sweater and get my bag.”
Dallas Curry’s home was an imposing, modernistic house built of redwood and cement blocks. Nancy reached it by following a long, winding drive that led from the main road into the very heart of his sprawling, wooded estate.
A white-coated Japanese houseman opened the door to the girls’ ring, but Curry himself came promptly to greet his guests and escort them into his comfortable, fire lit living room. He seemed happy to have visitors and delighted that Nancy had brought along her two friends.
“The more the merrier!” he declared, his handsome, deeply tanned face creasing into a jovial smile. He insisted on having his houseman serve the girls refreshments. Nancy and George settled for iced tea while Bess—dimpling guiltily—accepted a marshmallow fudge sundae.
“Now then, tell us about your agency talks in New York, Nancy,” said the host. “Did you turn up any clues?”
“Not really—at least nothing that gives me any definite leads to follow.” She reported what had occurred at each of the three advertising agencies she had visited. Dallas Curry listened with keen interest.
When she was through, Nancy asked, “This Rick Hyatt—who’s so eager to get a picture story on the lawsuit—do you know him?”
Curry shook his head. “Never met the chap so far as I know.”
“He seemed awfully down on you.”
The photographer shrugged. “He’s entitled to his opinion.”
“If you ask me, he sounds jealous,” put in Bess with a spoonful of fudge sundae poised in midair.
“Could be,” Dallas Curry agreed. “I suppose he feels big assignments come my way too easily. He doesn’t realize how much hard work it took to make a name for myself in the first place.”
With a crooked grin, Curry added, “Not that I’ll have much reputation left if I lose this lawsuit!”
“One thing did strike me,” Nancy mused aloud. “There was the definite break-in at the Stratton Agency—which they discovered the morning after it happened—and a copy of their Round Table layout was missing. But the other two firms don’t even have any theory as to how you could have gotten hold of their layouts in order to copy them.”
“That’s not surprising, since I didn’t.”
“But in each case, the layouts are very much alike,” Nancy pointed out. “I mean they look very much alike. Stealing an idea is one thing. But here the appearance is so similar that it almost seems as though you would have had to see the other layouts in order to copy them so closely.”
“What are you suggesting?” said George with a puzzled expression. “Some form of ESP, like mental telepathy?”
Nancy smiled helplessly and shook her red- gold hair. “Somehow, to get to the bottom of this mystery, we’re going to have to find out how two different people, who photograph an advertising layout, could have the same mental image of how they want it to look. After all, the similarity is in the picture, not in the wording or arrangement of the advertising copy.”
“It sounds pretty weird when you put it like that,” Curry commented ruefully. “It almost seems as though there’d either have to be an out-and-out theft of a sketch or layout beforehand, or else some kind of mental telepathy like George just mentioned.”
“Did you yourself have a sketch of each layout to work from before you took the actual pictures?” Nancy inquired.
“No, that’s one advantage of having a well- known name and reputation in this business. The agencies who hire me generally give me a free hand.” Dallas Curry chuckled dryly. “Of course, they or their clients may not like what I come up with, but I get my fee just the same. After all, that’s what they’re paying me for—to be, shall we say, creative.”
He gave the word a comical emphasis that made the girls laugh.
“Well, never mind—that’s enough shop talk for one evening. How would you young ladies like to see and hear some music . . . and while we’re at it, I’ll give Nancy another little mystery to solve.”
Curry rose from his chair, inserted a tape cassette into his video recorder, and proceeded to play the tape over his television set. It proved to be a series of colorful videos filmed and recorded by various rock bands. Nancy and her chums sat back to enjoy their performance.
“Are you a rock fan, Mr. Curry?” asked Bess, who by now had finished her sundae.
“Very much so.” He chuckled again, this time more lightheartedly. “I guess some of my friends think I’m too old for such nonsense, but like it or not, I’m hooked. I think rock music is a genuine form of artistic expression.”
The famed photographer explained that one of his early assignments for Glance magazine had been to photograph a popular rock group on concert tour. Hearing them perform had gradually turned him into an enthusiast. Later, he had photographed other groups and singers, and eventually had published a book of these pictures, which had become a worldwide bestseller.
“You said something about a mystery,” put in George.
Dallas Curry nodded. “Right. The mystery is who sent me this tape cassette.”
Nancy was startled by his words. “You mean it came by mail—^anonymously?”
“Yes, and not just this one. I’ve received several during the past year, I guess. No names on the packages, no notes enclosed—nothing. I’ve never been able to find out who sent them.” “That’s strange,” Nancy murmured. “I got one, too. It just came yesterday—by special delivery.”
It was Dallas Curry’s turn to be surprised. “Same way mine came!” he said. “Then you’ve already been confronted with this particular mystery.”
“Yes, though I must confess I haven’t really made any attempt to solve it yet. But now that I
know the same thing’s happened to you, I certainly intend to try.”
Curry laughed. “Well, no rush—I’m not complaining. Matter of fact, I’ve photographed all these groups. Whoever sent these videos must know just who my favorite bands are. I’ve played the tapes over and over again.”
Curry’s m
ention of the rock groups he had photographed led to amusing stories and anecdotes about other experiences during his career as a news, magazine, and advertising photographer. It was clear that he was putting himself out to entertain his guests. Nancy suspected that he had probably been feeling somewhat depressed over the pending lawsuit and the threat to his professional reputation, and that this evening’s visit by her and her friends had provided a welcome diversion.
The talk ranged far and wide, with the girls contributing as much to the lively chatter as their host. Later, the houseman served a tasty snack to top off the evening, and by the time the three visitors drove away, it was past eleven o’clock.
“He’s really fun to be around!” Bess exclaimed. “I like him.”
“So do I,” said George. “I think those charges of his stealing anyone else’s ideas are a lot of
hot air, don’t you, Nancy? He seems too talented to stoop to such a thing!”
Nancy was a bit embarrassed and shamefaced to admit that her own opinion of Dallas Curry was less favorable. But she also admitted that her feelings about him were gradually, it seemed, becoming less negative than before.
The next morning, Nancy slept in later than usual. As she was eating breakfast, Chief McGinnis called from police headquarters. “We’ve got some feedback from the taxicab companies,” he reported.
“Oh, yes,” Nancy said eagerly. “Did any of the drivers remember a passenger who resembled Clare Grant?”
“No. You remember you asked about a woman being picked up either on Possum Road or somewhere on the outskirts of River Heights? The only one who cones close to that is a young woman who boarded a cab at the bus station around five-thirty in the morning and was driven from there to the airport. But, of course, the bus depot is eight or ten blocks from the edge of town, and her description didn’t match Clare Grant’s at all.”
Nancy was disappointed, but said good- naturedly, “Well, thinks anyway, Chief. It seemed like a possibility worth following up, even if it didn’t pay off.”
“You bet. That’s the way most crimes get solved, Nancy, as you well know—by patiently checking out all possibilities.”
Only a few minutes after she had hung up, the telephone rang again. This time the caller was Carson Drew. “My private investigators have just phoned me a report on Pamela Kane, Nancy,” he said.
“Gee, fast work, Dad! Did they have any trouble?”
“None at all. They located the airline she flew on and found out that her flight reservation
had been made at a certain travel agency in Los Angeles. Apparently the travel agency gave them her address.”
“Did your investigators check it out?”
“Yes. Remember, you told me that she and Clare Grant used to be roommates? Well, since Clare moved East, Pamela apparently has been sharing an apartment with two other young women. One of them’s still in Los Angeles, but the other also recently came East. She’s a dancer named Sylvia Salmo. She went to New York to try to get a job on Broadway.”
“I see.” Nancy digested this news in silence for a moment, then said, “Well, so at any rate your investigators turned up nothing suspicious about Pamela?”
“No, apparently she’s just what she claims to be—a friend of Clare Grant’s who came here from California to visit her.”
“Okay, Dad. Thanks for your help. See you at dinner.” Putting down the phone, Nancy debated her next move. Perhaps it might be worthwhile to return to the scene of Clare’s disappearance to see if any fresh clues had turned up.
After a word to Hannah, she backed her blue sports car out of the garage and started out toward Possum Road. A short while later, when she rang the bell at the Fyfes’ house, Pamela Kane herself opened the door.
“Oh, Nancy! I’m so glad you’re here,” she exclaimed and led the way into the spacious living room. “I have something to show you!” “What is it?”
“Well, I was searching through Clare’s personal things, hoping that I might discover something that would give us a hint of what’s happened to her, and I found this piece of paper with a phone number on it.” Pamela picked up a slip of paper from a table and held it out with an eagerly hopeful expression. Nancy glanced at the number. “Hmm, a 212 area code. That means it’s a New York City number.”
“Do you think it’s important?”
“There’s one way to find out. Mind if I use the phone?”
“Please do!” Pam gestured toward a white phone on a side table near an easy chair.
Nancy went over, picked up the handset, and dialed the number. There was only a single ring. Then her eyes widened in surprise as a man’s voice answered: “Oliver Snell here.”
12. The Elusive Clue
Oliver Snell! It took an instant for the name and the voice to register, then her pulse quickened. Quietly Nancy put down the receiver, a frown clouding her face.
What was Clare Grant’s connection with the art director of the Marc Joplin advertising agency? True, the Statue of Liberty layout that Clare had posed for was one that Dallas Curry was accused of stealing, but that ad had nothing to do with Oliver Snell’s firm.
Her thoughts were interrupted by Pamela Kane’s voice. “Who was it, Nancy?” she repeated insistently. “Why did you hang up?” “Because the man who answered is involved in another case I’m working on,” Nancy said. “His name is Oliver Snell. He’s employed by an ad agency in New York.” Briefly she filled Pamela in on the lawsuit that had been filed against Dallas Curry for allegedly pirating three magazine ad layouts.
“But don’t you want to question him about Clare and find out if he knows anything about her disappearance?” Pamela protested emotionally.
“Yes, indeed I do,” said Nancy, “and I intend to—but not over the phone, and not until I’ve thought this thing through a bit more. It might also help to dig up a little more background information before I approach Mr. Snell again.” She explained that, when investigating mysteries, she usually found it better to question witnesses face to face, in order to observe their reactions and thus have more to go on in judging whether or not they were telling the truth.
“Also,” Nancy added with a wry grin, “sometimes it’s wiser not to tip one’s hand in advance. If Oliver Snell doesn’t know that his phone number was found among Clare Grant’s effects, he won’t be on his guard—and perhaps he’ll talk a little more freely.”
Pamela Kane nodded anxiously. “Yes, I see what you mean, and that does make sense, all right. But do, please, talk to him soon, Nancy! Somehow I have a feeling that this lead may be very important!”
“Don’t worry,” Nancy said, squeezing the blonde woman’s hand reassuringly, “I promise I’ll check it out thoroughly and find out if Snell had anything to do with Clare’s disappearance. When I learn anything, I’ll let you know as soon as possible, Pam.”
Nancy left the Fyfes’ house soon afterward, with an inward sigh of relief. She found Pamela’s nervous, nagging manner anything but conducive to serious thinking about the mysteries she was trying to solve. Also, she was eager to pursue a fresh line of investigation that had occurred to her.
Instead of returning home, Nancy drove to Ashton University, which was located in a small community of the same name not far from River Heights. Last night, while puzzling over Dallas Curry’s plight, she had remembered reading that the Ashton faculty included a well-known psychology professor, Dr. Hugh Jaffee, who was spending part of the summer conducting experiments with interested and willing students.
Jaffee had published a number of papers on some obscure quirks of the mind that seemed to defy scientific explanation. Because of this and his fame as a research psychologist, Nancy had decided to seek his opinion on the Curry case. Although the chance that he could shed any light on the mystery seemed slim, still she felt that no avenue of inquiry should be overlooked.
When she inquired at the university office, Nancy found that he was in and would be happy to see her. Following the clerk’s instructions, she wal
ked the short distance to the ivy- covered brick building that housed the psychology department.
There, a student in the entrance hallway directed her to a large room. Inside it, a dozen or more young men and women of college age, in casual summer dress, were sitting in individual, three-sided booths. They wore earphones, and their lips were moving as they read aloud from books.
v Dr. Hugh Jaffee turned out to be a small, thin, gray-haired man with boundless energy and enthusiasm for his work. He was pacing up and down the room, obviously deep in thought and paying no attention to the babble as he jotted down notes from time to time on a memo pad.
It was a few moments before he noticed Nancy. Then his eyes lit up and he came striding over to greet her with a brisk handshake. “Ah, Miss Drew! How nice to meet you in person. I’ve read a great deal about this interesting talent you have for solving mysteries.”
“I’ve read about you, too, Dr. Jaffee,” Nancy replied with a smile. “That’s why I came. I’m hoping you can help me solve a mystery.” “Indeed? Well, I’m a psychologist, not a detective, Miss Drew, but I’ll be delighted to help you in any way I can.” With a glance and a gesture toward the students in the booths, he went on, “Perhaps we’d better go to my private office, where we can hear ourselves think.”
As they walked toward a doorway at the other end of the room, Nancy asked curiously, “What are they listening to?”
“A recording of a voice reading from a history textbook, though the subject doesn’t really matter. The object of the experiment is to see how much—if anything—that’s said over the earphones will be retained in the student’s subconscious mind.”
As he held open the door for Nancy to go through, Dr. Jaffee continued, “I might add, the tonal quality of the voice is soft and low. Anything strident would get their total attention . . . which, of course, would spoil the whole purpose of the experiment.”
When they were seated comfortably in his private office, Nancy explained the trouble that Dallas Curry was in. “He’s very worried, Dr. Jaffee, and swears he’s innocent,” she concluded. “Even if one doesn’t believe him, there’s no reason why he should do such a thing. His own work is too highly regarded and too much in demand for him to have to copy anyone else’s. Can you think of any other explanation of what happened?”