The Mysterious Image, Page 2

  Nancy nodded. “Yes, I remember.”

  Pamela’s smile faded as she went on, “Since then, Clare hasn’t been quite so lucky. After The Mandrake Root, she got a part in another play, but it flopped—opened and closed in one week, in fact! Then she tried the movies and got a couple of small film roles out in Hollywood. That’s where I met her.”

  “You’re an actress, too?” Nancy asked. “Well, hopefully—but not very successful yet. Anyway, Clare came back East in order to clinch the lead role in a play called Perfect Strangers. It’s due to open this fall. She's just right for the part, too—and she wants it so badly! That’s why I’m sure she must have been kidnapped, Nancy. Why would she disappear now, just when her career’s about to get another boost?”

  Once again Pamela Kane began to wring her hands nervously as she added, “Oh, there must be something we can do!”

  “You can rest assured that I’ll do my very best to find her, Pam,” Nancy promised. “In the meantime, the best way you can help is by staying here near the phone, in case Clare calls or anyone else has some information about her.”

  Nancy patted Pamela’s hand reassuringly and stood up.

  “Oh, do you mean her kidnapper might call, demanding ransom?” Pamela asked in a quavering voice.

  “Not necessarily. The main thing is to keep calm. Just remember, we haven’t seen any evidence of violence. But I’ll get busy, and I’ll keep you informed,” Nancy added as they started around the house toward her car, parked on the front drive.

  The young detective puzzled over the case of the missing actress as she drove home along tree-shaded Possum Road.

  When Nancy walked into the cool, pleasant hallway of the Drew home, Hannah Gruen emerged from the kitchen. The motherly housekeeper had taken care of Nancy ever since Mrs. Drew had died when her daughter was a tot of three. “Oh, Nancy,” Hannah greeted her with a smile, “your father phoned here just a few minutes ago and wants you to call him at his office.”

  “Okay, Hannah, thanks.” Nancy headed for the telephone. But before she could pick it up, the front doorbell chimed. “I’ll get that,” she added.

  When she opened the door, a mailman was standing on the porch. “Special delivery for Miss Nancy Drew.”

  “I’m Nancy Drew,” she replied.

  He thrust a small, brown-paper-wrapped package into her hands, then turned and hurried back down the porch steps toward his mail truck.

  Nancy examined the package curiously. It bore no return address or sender’s name. Repressing a smile from her own suspicions about it, she held the package up to her ear and listened for a moment, then shook it a little. But neither precaution gave her any clue to its contents.

  Nancy unwrapped the package carefully. Inside was a video cassette, of the kind used on a home video recorder.

  But it, too, bore no title or identifying label!

  3. An Odd Dislike

  Intrigued, Nancy stared at the cassette. Her first impulse was to run to the video recorder and play the tape. But remembering that she was to call her father at his office, she set the cassette down on the hall table, picked up the telephone, and dialed his office number.

  Carson Drew’s efficient, pleasant-voiced secretary, Miss Hanson, answered.

  “Hi! This is Nancy returning Dad’s call,” the teenager told her.

  “Oh, Nancy. I’m sorry, you just missed him. Your father had to go to the courthouse. But he asked me to tell you that he’ll be meeting Dallas Curry for lunch at one-thirty, and he’d like you to join them. The restaurant is the Fisherman’s Net. Do you know where it is?”

  “Yes, I’ve lunched there with Dad before. Thanks for letting me know,” Nancy said and hung up.

  Going into the living room, she eagerly switched on the television set and slipped the cassette into the video recorder. Then she settled herself into an easy chair facing the screen and watched what was on the tape.

  To her surprise, a video scene appeared, accompanied by the throbbing beat of a famous rock group and the voice of their lead singer. The number played for several minutes and was followed, one after another, by a series of similar rock videos. But there was no explanation of the gift.

  Nancy was baffled. Who on earth could have sent it? she wondered. One of her girl friends, perhaps Bess Marvin or George Fayne, or her favorite date, Ned Nickerson? But they would know that while Nancy enjoyed music, both classical and pop, she wasn’t really a great rock fan. So maybe the cassette had been sent to her simply as a joke.

  But if so, by whom?

  Oh well, it’s not really important, Nancy decided with a sigh. She rose from the comfortable wing chair and went upstairs to shower and change into a simple, sleeveless blue linen dress. After brushing her hair, she picked up a white straw handbag, started downstairs again, and, with a called-out good-bye to Hannah, went back out to her car.

  As she drove to the restaurant in the downtown section of River Heights, Nancy found herself thinking of her father’s law client whom she was about to meet. Beyond the basic facts that he was a world-famous photographer, owned a showplace home in River Heights, and was a friend of her father’s, she really knew very little about Dallas Curry.

  Yet, oddly, Nancy realized that her attitude toward him was already faintly tinged with dislike, and that she was not looking forward to lunch. Was it because of the accusations that had been made against Curry? It must be. What other reason was there?

  “But that’s silly,” Nancy chided herself. “I certainly know enough, from all Dad has taught me, never to prejudge a case!”

  Minutes later, Nancy parked her car in a lot near the Fisherman’s Net. Upon entering the restaurant, Nancy looked around and saw her father seated at a table with a casually but well-dressed younger man. Carson Drew waved to her, and as she joined them, they both smiled and rose to greet her.

  “Ah, Nancy, I’d like you to meet Dallas Curry,” said the tall, broad-shouldered attorney. “Dallas, this is my daughter, Nancy.”

  “A pleasure, Nancy. I’ve heard a great deal about you,” Dallas said with a smile.

  “You’re not exactly unknown yourself,” she twinkled back.

  Dallas Curry was a lean, vigorous-looking man in his late thirties, with a handsome, deeply tanned face and a shock of long, dark chestnut hair that was thinning at the temples.

  Sitting down, they studied their menus and ordered from the assortment of seafood specialties, then sat back and began chatting while they waited to be served.

  As the lunch progressed, Nancy had to admit that she was enjoying herself, in spite of her somewhat negative feelings at the outset. The lobster was delicious, and Dallas Curry proved to be an entertaining conversationalist. He was widely traveled and had photographed news and other events in almost every country in the world.

  She learned that he had first made a name as a freelance war photographer. Later he had won acclaim as a staff photographer for Glance magazine, shooting picture stories on everything from chemical plants to rock musicians. His photos had been collected, published, and exhibited in art galleries and museums.

  While he was telling Nancy and Carson Drew amusing stories of his experiences, Nancy remembered her father saying that Dallas Curry was the most talented, highly paid advertising photographer in the business. Once again she wondered, what motive could such a man possibly have for copying someone else’s work?

  In Mr. Drew’s own words, the whole thing just didn’t make sense!

  After coffee, the three left the restaurant and walked to Carson Drew’s law office to discuss the unpleasant charges made against his client.

  “Dallas, you may have read or heard about some of the baffling mysteries Nancy has solved,” the lawyer began.

  “I have, indeed. If she can get to the bottom of this crazy mess I’ve become involved in, I’ll be more grateful than I can say. In fact,” the photographer went on, “now that I’ve met you, Nancy, I really believe that if anyone can help me, you can. I’ve always trusted to
instinct in my own work, you see, and right now—well, don’t ask me why, but somehow I’ve a feeling that your combination of brains and charm may be just what’s needed to clear up this mystery.” “Thank you.” The titian-blonde teenager smiled back at him. “I’ll certainly do my best.” “Now then,” said Mr. Drew, “let’s backtrack a bit for Nancy’s sake and go over some of the information you’ve already given me. These charges against you involve three different photographic assignments and three different advertising agencies, is that right?”

  “Yes, and so help me, the more I think about all this, the weirder it seems! It almost makes me wonder if I’m losing my mind!”

  As he spoke, Curry ran his fingers distractedly through his hair. For a moment, Nancy couldn’t help pitying the famed photographer as his haggard expression betrayed the worry and confusion that were preying on his mind.

  “I believe the first instance was a fashion ad of some sort,” Mr. Drew prompted him.

  Dallas Curry nodded. “Right. I was hired to shoot a high-fashion layout for a department store.” Reaching into his leather portfolio, he pulled out a large, glossy reproduction of the advertisement and laid it on the lawyer’s desk. “This was scheduled to appear in Milady magazine. But less than a week before that particular issue came out, another ad—almost exactly like this—appeared in another magazine.”

  As she looked at the eye-catching layout, Nancy gasped. It featured the same photograph of Clare Grant that she and Detective Hoyt and Pamela Kane had found torn and scattered in the woods that morning!

  4. Picture Snapper

  Though startled, Nancy decided not to interrupt Dallas Curry’s story. He was already taking a magazine called Nightlife out of his portfolio.

  Curry opened the magazine to a full-color advertisement. Pictorially, it was almost an exact duplicate of the layout he had just shown them! Nancy could hardly believe her eyes. This, too, showed a fashion model posed like the Statue of Liberty atop a marble column. The only difference was that she was wearing a beautiful white fur coat rather than a white evening gown.

  “Amazing!” murmured Carson Drew. “Do you know exactly when this one was photographed?”

  Dallas Curry shook his head glumly. “No, I’ve never been able to pin that down. All that mattered was that it got published before mine.”

  “Was there any accusation of copying?” Nancy asked.

  “Not at that time. Of course it caused a lot of talk in advertising circles, and it was mighty embarrassing for me. But I guess most people were willing to put it down to coincidence. But now let me show you what happened next.”

  Again Curry pulled a large, colorful ad layout from his portfolio. This one showed several knights in armor seated with raised flagons at a round dining-room table of lustrous mahogany. The picture was captioned: Styled for the Ages!

  “About ten days before this was published in Modern Life magazine,” Curry went on, “a similar ad appeared in Decor magazine.”

  He took out the latter and opened it to the advertisement in question. This, too, featured a round table and knights, posed almost identically to those in Curry’s layout, and was headed: Our Furniture Never Goes Out of Fashion!

  “This case of duplication,” said Curry, “occurred about two or three months after the first instance that I just showed you concerning the Statue of Liberty layout.”

  “Same photographer?” asked Nancy.

  “No, a different photographer and a different ad agency. But this one didn’t get by so easily. The rival agent went to the Advertising Council and charged the agency I was working for with ethical misconduct. In plain English, they claimed their ad had been copied,” Curry said in a bitter voice. “As it turned out, the dispute was settled quietly—which didn’t help me. By now my reputation was really hurting. Twice in a row seemed a little too much to be called a coincidence. A good many people were ready to believe that I’d deliberately stolen someone else’s idea. And my problems still weren’t over!

  Once again the famed photographer took out an example of his work and an almost identical advertisement that had appeared before his own was published. This was the instance that Mr. Drew had told Nancy about at the breakfast table—a cosmetics ad featuring models’ faces superimposed on flowers.

  “I shot mine early this spring,” said Curry, “but the other was published two weeks before mine, in a different magazine.”

  Nancy and her father exchanged baffled glances.

  “And this is the one that caused the lawsuit?” the girl inquired.

  “Right.” Curry nodded and rose abruptly to begin pacing about the lawyer’s office. “Mind you, I don’t blame the other agency a bit. It does look like outright copying—a plain case of artistic theft.” He punched his fist into his open palm, adding, “And I’m at a total loss to explain it!”

  “Let me just ask this for the record,” said Mr. Drew cautiously. “You’re quite sure you never saw those other ads while they were being prepared?”

  “I’m absolutely certain of it,” declared Curry. “As far as I’m concerned, these layouts of mine are just as original as anything else I’ve ever done. And they were created amid the usual secrecy that surrounds every new advertising campaign.”

  “Did any of the three instances involve the same photographer or the same ad agency?” asked Nancy.

  Again Curry shook his head. “No, each of the other three ads was done by a different agency and a different photographer. So if you’re thinking of some carefully laid plot against me, I’d say it’s out of the question.”

  Nancy sighed and frowned thoughtfully. “You certainly do have a mystery on your hands, Mr. Curry. I’ll do my best to help solve it, but beyond that, I’d better not promise anything.”

  Nancy took out a pen and notebook from her handbag and jotted down the names and addresses of all the parties involved. Then she told Curry about finding the torn-up photo modeled by Clare Grant. Curry was astonished and concerned to learn that the young actress had disappeared.

  “How well did you know her?” Nancy asked. “I met her not long before her Broadway debut,” the photographer replied. “Glance magazine assigned me to shoot a picture story about a typical young Broadway hopeful. A theatrical agent suggested Clare, and she seemed perfect for the kind of story Glance wanted. The editor used one of my shots of her on the cover that week, and it drew a lot of fan mail. As a matter of fact, that exposure helped win Clare her first Broadway role.”

  “In The Mandrake Root,” Nancy recalled. “Yes . . . which turned into a big hit, as you probably know. And ever since then, Clare and I have been friends.”

  “How did you happen to choose her for that Statue of Liberty evening-gown layout?”

  Dallas Curry shrugged. “She’s a beautiful girl. I knew she’d photograph well. Also, I knew she was ‘in between jobs’ at the time, as actors say, so I figured she could use the money.”

  The young sleuth smiled encouragingly. “Let’s hope I can turn up some clues that will help Dad win your case.”

  Curry summoned up a rueful smile. “I’m not only hoping so, Nancy—I’m counting on it!” She crossed her fingers. “In the meantime, I’ll leave you two to discuss the legal angles.” As Nancy left the building in which her father’s law office was located, she glimpsed a tall, lanky young man with bleached blond hair and an expensive-looking camera slung around his neck.

  Nancy raised her brow thoughtfully. Haven’t I seen him somewhere before? she wondered. And quite recently, too, it seemed. Why else would he look so familiar?

  She paused to gaze at a shop window—and suddenly the answer came to her. She had noticed him at the Fisherman’s Net just an hour or so earlier. He had been sitting not far from their table as she lunched with her father and Dallas Curry.

  Curious at seeing the same person again so soon, Nancy turned to glance again at the blond young man. To her amazement, his camera was now raised in front of his face. He was snapping a picture of her!


  Nancy had unraveled too many mysteries and had helped her father in too many lawsuits to be taken by surprise. Her suspicions were instantly aroused.

  “I’d better find out what he’s up to!” she whispered to herself.

  As she headed toward him, her heels tapping sharply on the pavement, the young man turned and sprinted away. Nancy pursued him to the next block, where she saw him jump into a yellow convertible and gun the engine.

  Luckily the parking lot where she’d left her own car was in the same block. As the young man drove out into the stream of traffic, Nancy kept on running. Moments later her blue sports car was heading out of the lot. A distant red traffic light, which had temporarily stopped the fugitive cameraman, was just now turning green.

  Nancy thrust her left hand out the window, handing her parking ticket and money to the lot attendant. Then, without waiting for change, she zoomed out into the street!

  The yellow convertible was no longer in sight. But by stepping on the accelerator as hard as she dared, and by maneuvering deftly from one lane to another, she gradually brought the car into view.

  Nancy permitted herself a faint smile of triumph. The furtive shutter-snapper was not going to get away from her as easily as he thought!

  Her smile faded several blocks later as the avenue ahead took a sharp turn to the right. Within moments her quarry was out of sight again-—which meant if he left Central Avenue before she got him back in view, she would be unable to tell which way he had gone!

  Thinking fast, Nancy turned right to race down a slanting side street. With luck, the shortcut might bring her back to the avenue soon enough to glimpse him again before he disappeared completely.

  But just as she swung her steering wheel, a man stepped out from the curb, waving at her. Nancy caught her breath and jammed on the brakes hard to avoid hitting him!