The Mysterious Image Read online

  “Oh yes, of course. They’re both examples of what we psychologists call subliminal perception.”

  The professor explained that the usual way of performing such an experiment visually was to flash an image on a movie screen for a mere split-second. This might be done while the person was watching a movie. The interruption would occur at such lightning speed that the person would not even be aware it had happened. Nevertheless, his subconscious mind would still remember that fleeting image.

  “I must add that the whole subject is very much up in the air,” Jaffee went on with a dry chuckle. “Some psychologists don’t even like to talk about it, because it raises so many troublesome questions. For instance, governments could use subliminal perception for propaganda purposes, to influence public opinion.

  And, of course, advertisers could use it to make people want to buy whatever they’re trying to sell. So advertising agencies get very upset about it, too. They’re afraid if the public starts worrying about subliminal perception, people might get angry and suspicious about all sorts of advertising.”

  Nancy nodded thoughtfully and explained what had brought her to the professor’s office. First she told him about the mysterious video cassette that had been sent to her anonymously.

  After I had watched the tape on our television set, I found myself disliking Dallas Curry before I had even met him . .. and I was willing to believe he was guilty of copying other people’s work without even waiting to hear all the facts.” Her two girl friends’ attitudes, Nancy continued, had been just the opposite. They had started out by liking Dallas Curry and believing he was innocent.

  But after they viewed the tape yesterday, their opinion changed. They, too, began thinking he might be guilty. Could all this be due to subliminal perception, caused by something on the video tape?”

  Dr. Jaffee nodded emphatically. “Yes, from what you tell me, I would say that’s quite possible.”

  “And could Dallas Curry have been . . . well, let’s say, ‘programmed’ to copy someone else’s advertising layouts the same way—I mean, by subliminal perception?”

  Jaffee frowned and tugged at his lower lip. “That’s a bit more difficult to answer. But if skillfully done, I would say yes—that, too, is possible. Why do you ask?”

  “Because some unknown person sent him video cassettes in the mail, too!”

  After leaving the professor’s office, Nancy stopped at a public phone on the campus and called George Fayne. “Do you suppose that friend who video taped the rock concert last night would be willing to do me a favor?” Nancy asked.

  “Don’t be silly, of course he would,” said George. “Why?”

  “I’d like him to slow down that video tape you and Bess saw at my house and examine it, frame by frame. Could he do that?”

  “Sure, I imagine so. He works in the college’s TV studio. They have all kinds of recording equipment there.”

  “Good! And I might ask him to do the same thing with those tapes Dallas Curry received in the mail.”

  “Okay. I’ll call Pete and let him know you’re coming,” George said. “He’s probably at the studio right now, editing that tape he shot of the concert.”

  “Thanks a million,” Nancy said and hung up. As she headed for her car, her spirits were soaring. Before she left Jaffee’s office, the professor had promised to gather some written information about subliminal perception and send it to her to read. And, with luck, she might have the suspicious video tapes analyzed before the end of the day.

  Nancy’s heart beat faster with the elated feeling that the solution to at least one of her two mystery cases was now within reach!

  15. A Question of Dates

  Nancy steered deftly into her driveway, jumped out of her car, and walked into the house with a light step. The sooner she delivered those mystery tapes to Pete Dornek at the college TV studio, the sooner she could hope to find out if her hunch was correct—and right now her hunch felt stronger than ever!

  “Home to stay for a while, dear?” Hannah Gruen said and smiled from the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on her apron.

  “Not really, Hannah. I have a couple of errands to run, so don’t bother fixing me anything to eat . . . thanks just the same.”

  Nancy picked up the music video cassette from a table in the living room and put it in her shoulder bag. Then, going to the hall phone,

  she dialed Dallas Curry’s number.

  “Hi, this is Nancy Drew,” she said when the famed photographer answered in person. “Do you suppose I might borrow those mysterious rock video cassettes you played for my friends and me the other evening?”

  “You most certainly may.”

  “Oh, fine! Would it be convenient if I picked them up right away?”

  “More than convenient. You could do me a big favor by having lunch with me,” Dallas Curry declared. “I’m getting awfully tired of my own company. Takashi’s trying to cheer me up. He tells me he has a special treat for lunch.” Nancy chuckled. “It sounds too good to turn down, so I accept.”

  The tanned, handsome photographer came out to greet her as she parked in the driveway of his spacious, wooded estate fifteen minutes later. He was wearing a silk sports shirt open at the neck and white duck boating slacks. “Nancy, you don’t know how happy I am to see you!”

  Despite, or perhaps because of, his cheery manner, Nancy sensed that her call had caught him in a depressed mood. “It’s nice to be here and see how lovely your place looks in the daylight,” she responded.

  “Yes, it is beautiful, isn’t it,” he murmured proudly, gazing about at the house itself and the surrounding sweep of emerald lawn and trees. “And because it’s such a great day outside, we’re going to eat on the patio.”

  “Wonderful!”

  Offering Nancy his arm, Dallas Curry conducted her along a shady, flagstoned path, which wound among the trees and shrubbery, only to emerge again at the rear of the house into bright sunshine, with banks of flowers on each side of the walk.

  “Oh, how fragrant!” Nancy breathed. “Are you a gardener as well as a photographer?” “Not yet. . . but I may turn into one, if I don’t win this lawsuit and clear my reputation. There might be nothing else for me to do!”

  “Let’s keep our fingers crossed then and hope you do win!” Nancy was tempted to tell him all about her new and promising lead, but cautiously decided to say nothing until she knew whether or not the results would bear out her hunch.

  Meanwhile, Curry opened the door to a screened-in patio, where comfortable chairs and sofas invited one to laze about. In one corner, a table had been set with sparkling silver and glasses. “Goodness, that makes me hungry to look at, even before the food’s been served,” Nancy observed with a smile.

  “You’ll be even hungrier, I trust, when it is. Takashi’s quite a wizard in the kitchen.” Curry helped Nancy to a chair, then sat down himself. “Tak’s as happy as I am that you’ve come to lunch, by the way. He claims I’ve been moping around in solitary too long.”

  The white-jacketed houseman soon appeared, bowing and smiling, and proceeded to serve a delicious Japanese-style meal of steak and seafood. Nancy found herself eating with a hearty appetite and enjoying every morsel.

  It was evident from Dallas Curry’s remarks that the unpleasant accusations of copying, and the lawsuit brought against him by the Marc Joplin agency, had caused a sudden halt to his professional assignments. Not only was he receiving no more phone calls from magazines and ad agencies—even friends and acquaintances, it seemed, had dropped him out of embarrassment over the stolen layout scandal.

  As the meal progressed, however, Curry grew more cheerful, thanks to Nancy’s lively and sympathetic efforts at conversation. Even after lunch was over, he did his best to delay Nancy’s departure by showing her some of his most famous photos, which were mounted on walls all over the house.

  Among them, along with war scenes from his days as a news photographer and glowing fashion shots in full color, were several enla
rged photos from his magazine picture story on Clare Grant when she was a typical, stagestruck youngster who had not yet won Broadway fame. One intriguing photograph showed Clare posed dramatically on what looked like the parapet of a castle tower.

  “Where was that taken?” Nancy asked. “In England?”

  Dallas Curry smiled. “No, in Westchester

  County, New York. It’s what’s called an architectural ‘folly.’ Know what that means?”

  “Well, let me see ... an odd-looking building that’s probably quite useless?”

  “Precisely! Rich people sometimes built them just for fun, a century or two ago—mostly in England or Europe, but there are a few over here, too. Some were designed to look like old Greek or Roman ruins. This one looks like part of a fake medieval castle.”

  “It must be quite a sight,” Nancy commented.

  “Yes, charming place. It was used as a

  straw-hat theater at the time this was taken.” Suddenly Nancy snapped her fingers. “That reminds me of something, Mr. Curry, that I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

  “Sure. And call me Dallas, please, not Mr. Curry,” he said, smiling.

  “Okay,” Nancy said and smiled back. “I assume most of your advertising layouts are photographed in . .. well, sort of in secrecy, aren’t they?”

  The photographer nodded. “As far as possible. Every agency and its clients try to keep their new advertising campaigns confidential before they’re launched.”

  “Then where did that tom-up photograph of your Statue of Liberty layout come from—the one that I told you was found in the woods behind the Fyfe house?”

  Dallas Curry frowned and rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “Wait—yes, I remember now. I sent Clare herself a copy. I thought it might make quite a nice addition to her modeling portfolio.”

  “And did Clare mingle socially with any advertising people at that time?” Nancy went on. “Or perhaps date any advertising executives?” “Oh, sure. She’d often show up at agency parties. She didn’t have any acting jobs just then,

  you see, so she had to rely on modeling assignments for her bread and butter.”

  “Then that could be a way that someone in the advertising business got a look at your Statue of Liberty layout long before it was published,” Nancy exclaimed. “I mean that person might have visited Clare, or come to pick her up for a date, and seen that photograph you sent her!”

  Curry’s eyes widened. He was obviously startled by Nancy’s suggestion. “By George, I never even thought of that!”

  “Can you remember her dating anyone from one of those agencies you’re in trouble with?”

  Nancy asked.

  There was a long silence. Dallas Curry frowned, then shook his head in exasperation. “You know, Nancy, I believe I do recall seeing her with someone like that, but I just can’t remember who he was.”

  Nancy waited hopefully, but in vain. Curry gave up at last with a hopeless shrug. “No use. Whoever it was, his name or face just doesn’t come to me.”

  “Well, keep trying, and if you do remember who he was, please let me know.” She added with a smile, “And now I really must be on my way, Dallas. Thanks ever so much to you and Takashi for that delicious lunch.”

  Dallas Curry proceeded to collect the various video cassettes that he had received anonymously. Nancy put them in her shoulder bag and, after saying good-bye, went out to her car.

  She was just about to drive off when he came hurrying out to join her.

  “I’ve just remembered Clare’s date!” he exclaimed. “I’m sure I saw her once or twice with a fellow named Ted Yates!”

  Nancy felt a surge of excitement as the name registered in her memory. Ted Yates was one of the persons she had met at the Stratton Agency!

  16. A Trio of Suspects

  “Thanks, Dallas,” Nancy said. “That information may be important!”

  With a wave, she started down the drive, hopefully mulling over what she had just learned. When she had visited the Stratton Agency, the firm’s receptionist had first referred her to the account executive who had prepared the Knights of the Round Table ad for their furniture-manufacturer client. This executive, who proved to be a small, dark, fashionably dressed man named Ted Yates, had told Nancy almost at once that it would be best if she talked directly to the firm’s president, Mr. John Stratton.

  Perhaps, Nancy now mused, Yates had been anxious to avoid talking to her for fear she might know about his acquaintance with Clare Grant.

  When Nancy got to Riverview College, she parked in the lot where the cherry bomb had exploded the night before. A student directed her to the college’s TV studio. She found Pete Domek ensconced in a workroom of the studio, surrounded by monitor screens and the optical and electronic equipment that he used in editing his tape of last night’s rock concert.

  “Have any more hidden firecrackers gone off?” he inquired with a grin.

  “None since that one you discovered under my car, thank goodness.” Nancy chuckled. “As a matter of fact, I need your help again, if you can spare the time.”

  “You mean to check out those mysterious video tapes George mentioned on the phone? Sure, I’d be glad to. What exactly am I supposed to look for?”

  “Anything that doesn’t seem to belong on the tapes. They’re a series of music videos—as George may have told you—but I’ve a feeling something else may have been inserted here and there, maybe something that would appear on the screen for a fleeting instant.” Nancy explained what she had just learned about subliminal perception from Professor Jaffee.

  Pete Domek nodded. “Yes, I’ve heard about that sort of thing being done, but I’ve never run across an actual example. What you’re asking me to do should be quite interesting, Nancy. I’ll get on it right away.”

  Nancy thanked him and went back to her car. Her mind was already busy on the next step in her investigation. If the video tapes had indeed been doctored in the way she suspected, it could mean only one thing—that someone had deliberately tried to frame Dallas Curry and ruin his professional reputation. But who . . . ?

  As Nancy drove away from Riverview College, she decided that the best place to search for the culprit might well be one of the three ad agencies that claimed Dallas Curry was guilty of copying layouts.

  And I may as well start by checking out Ted Yates, she mused. If he had dated Clare Grant, he might easily have seen her copy of the Statue of Liberty photo—the layout that had started all the trouble. And as account executive for the Stratton Agency’s furniture client, he must have been involved from the very first in preparing that Knights of the Round Table ad—the second copied layout.

  Almost without pausing to make a conscious decision, Nancy found herself driving out to Possum Road instead of going straight home. There was only one person who might be able to tell her something about Clare Grant’s acquaintance with Ted Yates, and that was Pamela Kane.

  Nancy parked in the driveway of the Fyfes’ white chateau and rang the bell. Pamela Kane, eager for news, opened the door and led her into the living room. But when Nancy brought up the name of Ted Yates, Pamela almost scornfully rejected the notion that he and Clare had ever been romantically involved.

  “But Dallas Curry says he saw them together,” Nancy pointed out.

  “That doesn’t prove they dated. At a party, Clare may have talked to lots of people,” Pam argued. She paused and frowned reminiscently, then shook her head. “No, honestly, Nancy, Clare and I kept in close touch by phone— sometimes we’d have long chats at night—and if she’d been dating this Ted Yates fellow, I’m sure I would have heard about him. But I never once remember her mentioning that name.” “Whom did she date, then?” Nancy asked. “Are there any definite names you remember?” “There certainly is—one at least!” Pamela declared. “In fact, I was going to phone you, if you hadn’t stopped by just now.”

  The blonde, pixie-bespectacled young woman said that ever since finding Oliver Snell’s phone number among Clare Grant’
s personal effects yesterday, she had been racking her brain, trying to remember why Snell’s name seemed so important to her. “And then it came to me, Nancy—that name just suddenly clicked in my memory! They must have been quite close at one time.”

  Nancy gazed keenly at her informant. “What makes you think so, Pamela?”

  “Because they were dating steadily for a while! I definitely remember Clare telling me so and talking about him. Besides, why else would she have his number? It’s the only one I found among Clare’s things.”

  Nancy pinched her lower lip thoughtfully. “You may be right. I certainly intend to follow up and find out more about him, Pam.”

  Nancy left the Fyfes’ house with a definite plan of action in mind. She would begin her search for the guilty party by concentrating, for the time being, on the likeliest suspect at each of the three advertising agencies.

  And I’m going to check up on Ted Yates, no matter what Pam says, Nancy decided. If she had forgotten or overlooked Oliver Snell’s name until his phone number turned up among Clare Grant’s personal effects, how could Pamela be sure that Ted Yates’s name hadn’t also slipped her mind? At any rate, Dallas Curry definitely remembered seeing him with Clare, and that was enough for Nancy to go on at this point.

  Arriving home, she settled herself in a comfortable chair by the living room telephone extension and placed a call to the Stratton Agency in New York. “Mr. John Stratton, please,” she said when the firm’s operator answered.

  The next voice on the line was that of Stratton’s secretary. “May I ask what your call is in reference to?” she inquired loftily.

  “The photographer, Dallas Curry, and the charge that he copied one of your agency’s advertising layouts.”

  Stratton sounded somewhat gruff when Nancy was finally put through to him. “I thought we covered all this ground when you came to see us on Tuesday, Miss Drew.”