The Mysterious Image Page 7

  The professor had listened with keen interest to Nancy’s story. He proceeded to ask her several questions. Then he sat for a while with his head bowed in thought and his forefingers steepled under his chin.

  “I’m not at all sure I can be of much help, Miss Drew,” he commented at last. “I’m bound to say that, despite all you’ve told me, this sounds more like a leak in security somewhere along the line than any unusual process of thought transference.”

  “Then you believe Dallas Curry must be lying?”

  Jaffee frowned and shook his head. “Not at all. But I do think he may have seen or been exposed to a glimpse of those rival layouts at some time or other and just doesn’t remember it. Oh, there have been cases on record—well- known cases, in fact—of two or more people thinking along the same lines, each unaware of the other”—Dr. Jaffee waved his hand in the air—“like Darwin and Wallace, for instance, both coming up with the theory of evolution at the same time. But I doubt very much that that was what happened with Mr. Curry.”

  Nancy nodded, a little discouraged.

  “Also, of course,” the professor went on, “in the field of parapsychology—which is the study of extrasensory perception, such as mental telepathy and so on—researchers are trying to explain a number of odd ‘coincidences’ that keep turning up. But so far nothing definite has been proven. Let me think about this some more, Miss Drew, and I’ll call you if I get any ideas.” Nancy thanked him, gave him her phone number, and left. On the drive home, she decided to relax and enjoy the sunny day and put both of her vexing mystery cases out of her mind. But another idea soon occurred to her that seemed worth following up.

  While Hannah was fixing lunch, she called the film and theater critic of the River Heights newspaper. With the information that he provided, she was able to phone and talk to the producer of Perfect Strangers in New York. This was the Broadway play in which Clare Grant had expected to receive the leading role.

  The producer, Barry Coe, was good-humored and accommodating. “Sure thing, Miss Drew. I’ll be happy to see you this afternoon, if you can make it.”

  “Thank you, that’s very kind. I’ll be there,” Nancy replied, elated.

  As she was putting the phone down, Bess and George called to her from the front porch. “Hi, Nancy! We’ve come to take you to lunch!” Nancy laughed as she unlocked the screen door. “Sorry, Hannah’s already got it on the stove. So come on in and join me.”

  “Okay, you’ve persuaded us,” Bess said, wrinkling her nose and sniffing at the appetizing smell wafting from the kitchen.

  George chuckled. “Me, too. I’ll go along with that. Thanks, Nancy.”

  “Tell you what, let me put on that mysterious video cassette I told you about. You two can watch it while I’m setting the table.”

  Both girls wanted to help her, but Nancy overrode their protests. So while she set the table in the pleasant, sunny dining room and helped Hannah with the last-minute preparations, George and Bess watched the taped rock videos on the living room TV set.

  Afterwards, over the hamburgers and salad at lunch, all three girls discussed the tape. But her two friends were as baffled as Nancy over why the cassette had been sent to her.

  “It must have something to do with the lawsuit against Dallas Curry,” Nancy mused aloud. “Otherwise, why was he sent all those video cassettes anonymously, too?”

  “Speaking of Dallas Curry,” George said, leaning forward, “what do you think, Nancy? Is he guilty or not?”

  “I’m wondering the same thing,” Bess murmured, taking a sip of her iced tea.

  “Wow, that’s a change in attitude!” Nancy remarked in surprise. “I thought you two were convinced of his innocence.”

  “Well, I guess we were,” Bess admitted. “But today I’m not so sure.”

  “Neither am I,” George chimed in. “He’s certainly charming to listen to, but facts are facts. If he didn’t copy those other people’s ideas, how can you possibly explain his coming up with the same ideas?”

  Nancy’s two friends wanted her to come swimming with them at the country-club pool after lunch, but she begged off. “I’ve got an appointment in New York this afternoon with a Broadway producer,” she told them with a smile.

  “Nancy! Does this mean you’ve decided to go on the stage?” Bess squealed.

  “Good heavens, no. I just want to talk to him about Clare Grant,” Nancy replied.

  “Oh,” Bess said, deflated, at which George chuckled loudly.

  “Any chance you two might care to join me?” Nancy went on with a hopeful glance from one girl to the other.

  George shook her head regretfully and explained that she had promised to help out with the lighting at a local rock concert that evening at Riverview College. Bess, however, was strongly tempted by Nancy’s invitation.

  “The only problem is,” Bess said, gazing at her shorts and beach bag, “I’ll have to change first.”

  “No problem,” Nancy said and smiled. “We can stop at your house on the way to the airport.”

  With lunch over and the table cleared, the two girls picked up their tote bags of swimming gear and went out to the car with Nancy. Minutes later, she dropped George off at the country club, then headed for the Marvin house. It took Bess less time than usual to change clothes, an achievement she noted proudly.

  Nancy grinned, but then an uneasy feeling settled over her, telling her that an important clue was staring her right in the face.

  But what was it?

  13. A Cute Cartoon

  On landing in New York, the girls took a taxi to the theater where Nancy was to meet Broadway producer Barry Coe.

  He proved to be as genial in person as he had sounded on the phone. He was in the midst of casting tryouts for his fall play, and was relaxing in a center-aisle seat when Nancy was escorted to him by one of his assistants. Much to her surprise, she learned that he had known nothing about Clare Grant’s disappearance prior to her phone call.

  “It’s been on the television news, and I suppose in all the New York papers,” said Nancy.

  Barry Coe shrugged humorously and flung out his hands. “Just goes to show how ignorant I am. I took time out to get some sun down in the West Indies and just flew back the night before last. Since then, it’s been nothing but conferences, phone calls, and tryouts. Anyhow, I’m intrigued. So tell me about it.”

  Nancy related the details of Clare’s disappearance.

  “That’s certainly odd!” Coe frowned and shook his head. “I hardly know what to make of it.”

  “Do you know her well?” Nancy asked. “Very well. I’ve known her ever since she appeared in The Mandrake Root. I directed that play, you know. Clare was fresh out of college then, a really talented young actress.”

  “I understand you were planning to give her the lead in your new play, Perfect Strangers.” Barry Coe looked surprised. “Where did you hear that?”

  “From a friend of hers. Isn’t it true?”

  “Well, it’s certainly not definite—in fact, I’d say it’s not even probable. Clare’s a fine actress, all right, but. . .” Coe broke off and rubbed his chin reflectively. “Well, I’m just not sure she’s right for the part. Right now I’d have to say she only ranks as second or third choice for the leading role.”

  “Oh ...” Nancy suddenly realized that this might account for Clare Grant’s worried, anxious frame of mind that Pamela Kane sensed during their phone conversations. On the other hand, this would hardly explain the threats she had mentioned to Pamela.

  When Nancy mentioned these to Barry Coe, he had no idea what Clare might have been referring to. On a sudden impulse, Nancy asked him if he was acquainted with Sylvia Salmo, Pamela’s roommate who had recently come to New York.

  “Sure, she and Clare came here together to break into show business,” Coe recalled. “They were close friends—both stagestruck. But Sylvia was more into song and dance than acting. Her goal was musical comedy.”

  “Have you heard fro
m her recently?”

  “No, didn’t even know she was here in New York. But if she is, and you’re trying to find her, I can suggest a good place to look.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” said Nancy.

  “There’s a new musical called Moonglow that’s being cast right now,” Barry Coe informed her. “If Sylvia’s in town, it’s, a cinch she’ll show up for the cattle call—you know, I mean the casting call, where dancers try out for the chorus line.”

  “How exactly could I find out?”

  “Talk to Duane Weiss. He’s the casting director for Moonglow.” Coe took out a notepad and a pen and jotted something down, which he handed to Nancy. “There’s his name and number. Give him a call and tell him I suggested you get in touch.”

  “I’ll do that,” Nancy said gratefully. “Thanks ever so much for your help, Mr. Coe.”

  “My pleasure, believe me.”

  As she was about to leave, the theatrical producer suddenly remarked, “By the way, did you ever see Clare Grant on stage?”

  “No, I wish I had,” Nancy replied. “I’ve just seen her photo a couple of times.”

  “Well, if you want to know what she’s like, there’s a caricature of her in Lilly’s Restaurant. The walls there are covered with caricatures of actors and show-biz personalities. They put up one of Clare when she starred in The Mandrake Root. She had a cute way of tossing her head, something like this ...” Barry Coe struck a comical pose, which made Nancy and Bess laugh. “Take a look at that cartoon in Lilly’s and you’ll see what I mean.”

  “I will! And thanks again, Mr. Coe.”

  After leaving the theater, Nancy found a public phone in the lobby of a nearby office building. She tried to call Duane Weiss’s number, but only got an answering service, whose operator was unable to tell her when Weiss might be available or where she might reach him.

  Frustrated, Nancy hung up and debated her next move. The thought occurred to her that if Sylvia Salmo had come to New York looking for work in show business, she would very likely have talked to a theatrical agent. Rather than waste the afternoon, she decided to go right down the list of such agents in the Yellow Pages telephone directory.

  But after two calls, Nancy heaved a sigh. Each call was answered by a secretary who promptly lost all interest on learning that Nancy was neither a client nor producer. It was obvious that neither had the slightest intention of troubling herself to check out the name of Sylvia Salmo in the office files.

  “Looks like I’ll have to do this the hard way,” she told Bess. After writing down a number of agents’ names and addresses, whose offices were located within walking distance, she grinned. “How are your feet?” she asked her companion. “We have a lot of hiking to do.”

  “We do?” Bess said, wrinkling her nose in mock dismay. “Oh well, that’s the price we have to pay for being good detectives.” She giggled.

  By the third fruitless office visit, however, Nancy had started to lose heart. So the girls stopped in a drugstore and Nancy made another try to reach Duane Weiss by phone—again with no luck.

  Although the last thing on Nancy’s mind was dinner, she couldn’t sidestep Bess’s sudden cheery reminder. “I’m getting hungry,” she said. “Let’s go somewhere really exciting to eat.”

  Nancy’s face lit up immediately. “And I know just the place—Lilly’s Restaurant!”

  After finishing her round of visits to various theatrical agents, Nancy suggested the girls head for the restaurant. It was only a few minutes past six o’clock when they arrived. There were few diners at this early hour, but the visitors from River Heights found plenty to occupy their attention as they tried to identify the theatrical greats whose caricatures lined the walls.

  Among them was the one of Clare Grant. It showed her with a big smile, tossing her head just as Barry Coe had described and mimicked, with one hand on her hip and the other hand fluffing up her hair at the nape of her neck.

  “You know, Bess, it’s funny,” Nancy mused, “but I’ve a feeling I’ve seen her before—in person, I mean.”

  “Maybe you’ve seen her around somewhere, after she came to River Heights, but just didn’t recognize her at the time,” Bess suggested.

  “That must be it.”

  After a delicious dinner and rich dessert, the girls took time for a leisurely window-shopping stroll up Fifth Avenue. Then they took a taxi to the airport for the flight home.

  As they got into Nancy’s car, after landing in River Heights, Bess looked at her wristwatch. “We can still catch part of that rock concert, if you’re interested, Nancy.”

  “Why not? . . . But let me call Dad first so he’ll know where I am.”

  Although the group that was performing blared their music at a level that endangered the eardrums, the concert was lively and colorful, and Nancy enjoyed it thoroughly. From time to time, they caught glimpses of George. She was helping another girl manipulate the stage lighting for the benefit of the latter’s boyfriend, who was video taping the concert.

  Afterward Nancy and Bess met all three, and the young man who had done the video taping introduced them, in turn, to the members of the college rock group.

  It was close to midnight when Nancy and Bess returned to Nancy’s car in the parking lot. The teenage sleuth unlocked the passenger door for Bess, who then leaned over and unlocked the driver’s door from the inside.

  As Nancy opened it, there was a loud explosion!

  14. Twinkling of an Eye

  Both Nancy and Bess were shaken and stunned by the sudden blasting noise. A light had sparked inside the car when the door opened, and as Nancy recovered from the shock, she could see that her friend was still trembling with fright.

  “Oh my g-g-goodness! Wh-What happened, Nancy?” she quavered. “D-Did the car blow up?”

  “No, of course not, silly!” Nancy said, laughing in spite of her own fright. “If it had, we wouldn’t be here talking to each other. But I guess we’re okay, aren’t we?”

  Bess nodded, reduced to momentary speechlessness while she gulped and pulled herself together. “Y-Yes. At least we seem to be.”

  The explosion had brought people rushing to check on the cause, not only from elsewhere in the parking lot, but even from inside the college auditorium. Among the onlookers who gathered were George and the girl she had helped with the lighting and the latter’s boyfriend, Peter Domek.

  “What in the world happened, Nancy?” George inquired anxiously.

  “There was a loud noise when I opened the door—that’s all I can tell you. Oh, oh! Wait a second.” Nancy stooped down for a closer look as her keen eyes noticed something in the overhead light illuminating the parking lot. “There are some wires attached to the bottom of the door!”

  Pete Domek came forward and got down to peer and grope under the car. A moment later he held up some shredded fragments of a firecracker. “There’s your answer. Some wise guy planted a cherry bomb under your car, along with a spark coil and battery. The way it was rigged, when you opened your door, the firecracker went off.”

  There was a ripple of nervous laughter and several joking remarks from the onlookers.

  Nancy was not so amused but managed a good-humored smile. “Thanks, Pete. It’s a relief to know that nobody was really trying to harm us.”

  As she drove out of the parking lot with Bess soon afterward, Nancy recalled the gas-station attendant’s remark about how easy it was for an expert crook to break into a locked car. Perhaps a college prankster had just picked a car in the lot at random and planted a cherry bomb underneath to scare its owner after the concert. On the other hand, a more sinister plotter could have taken the opportunity to rig a much more deadly booby trap!

  Was this someone’s way of warning her not to go on investigating Clare Grant’s disappearance or the mystery that had brought about the lawsuit against Dallas Curry?

  Bess Marvin seemed to sense what was going on in the teenage sleuth’s mind. “Was that firecracker just meant as a joke, Nanc
y?” she asked with a wide-eyed, anxious expression on her pretty face.

  “That’s exactly what I’m wondering, Bess.” Then Nancy chuckled. “Whatever it was, I’d call it a lucky break!”

  Bess stared in surprise. “Are you serious?” “Yes, indeed. It’s just given me the answer to a question that’s been bothering me all day!” When Nancy started off for New York after lunch, she had been troubled by the feeling that an important clue was staring her in the face, which she couldn’t quite identify. Now she knew what it was. The notion of a firecracker going off unexpectedly, when she was totally unaware that one had been planted under her car, had given her the idea of a different sort of booby trap altogether—this one mental!

  For the moment, however, Nancy evaded Bess’s further queries, preferring to wait until she had checked out her theory.

  After breakfast the next morning, Nancy drove back to Ashton University for another interview with Professor Jaffee. He received her cordially in his private office.

  “As I understand that experiment you were conducting yesterday,” Nancy began, “you were trying to find out how much the students would remember of what they heard over their earphones while their conscious attention was aimed at the book they were reading.”

  Jaffee nodded. “That’s right.”

  “And how much did they remember?”

  “A surprising amount. The results of the experiment aren’t all in yet, but when they were given a series of test questions about what they had heard, they all made high scores.”

  “That’s amazing!” said Nancy, her eyes sparkling with interest. “Now tell me, Dr. Jaffee—is it possible to do the same thing by sight, rather than by sound? In other words, can an impression be made on a person’s subconscious mind by what he takes in through his eyes, instead of through his ears?”