QED by Ellery Queen

calls—one for an emergency ambulance, the other to his father; and then he tore through the apartment to the service door and began leaping down the eleven flights like a mountain goat.
    If she dies, he was thinking, those parked cars around here ought to be tagged as accessories. The ten minutes he had lost looking for a parking space might have saved what was left of Modesta Ryan’s life.
    He plunged out under the canopy, followed by the astonished doorman. Nothing had changed. The cloudburst continued to swab down the streets. The same three cars were lined up between the Athenia’s entrance and the adjoining building, his own foremost; the same doctor’s car was still double-parked beside the middle car of the three, boxing it in.
    Of course the man in the trench coat was gone.
    â€œThen this is the way it went, Wladeczki?” Inspector Queen said to the doorman in the light of the police torches. “You were on duty since four P . M ., due to go off at midnight, but you stayed on because the storm held up your relief man. You didn’t leave this lobby at any time. Nobody could have sneaked past you. All right.
    â€œMiss Ryan came home from rehearsal in a taxi about seven P . M . She was alone. About eight her maid left for the night. Between eight and a few minutes past eleven only five people entered or left the building. They are all longtime tenants. At eleven-thirty Mr. Trench Coat walks into the lobby. Five minutes later an M.D. on emergency call to an old lady tenant—who’s very sick in 4-G—drives up and complains to you he can’t find space for his car. You let the doctor double-park—”
    â€œAnd he’s still up in 4-G,” said Sergeant Velie. “The other five, the tenants, alibi okay, too.”
    â€œNow about Mr. Trench Coat. He didn’t come by cab, you say. You don’t get a real good look at him by your flash, the way he has his hat pulled down and his collar turned up. He talks in a croaky whisper, as if he has a bad cold. He says he has an appointment with Miss Modesta Ryan, you tell him he’ll have to walk up to the penthouse, he goes up the stairway, and that’s the last you see of him till a few minutes past midnight when he ducks out the stairway door under your nose—and the nose,” added the Inspector gently, “of the eminent Mr. Queen here.”
    Ellery gave his father a wan look. “Did you notice,” he asked the doorman, “how wet his trench coat and hat were when he first came into the lobby?”
    â€œNo wetter than yours was, Mr. Queen,” said the doorman. “Got my name spelled right, Sergeant?”
    â€œTime will tell,” said the Sergeant. “Hey, Goldie. Well?”
    Detective Goldberg came in, shaking himself like a dog. He had found Modesta Ryan’s maid asleep in her Harlem flat, he reported; the maid knew nothing except that on Miss Ryan’s arrival home she had made three phone calls—one to Kid Catt, one to Mr. Shanville, and the last to Mr. Van Olde. But the maid hadn’t listened to the conversations, so she couldn’t say which ones Miss Ryan had given the heave and which one she’d made the happy man.
    â€œAny report from the hospital yet?” muttered the Inspector.
    â€œShe’s this way that way,” said Sergeant Velie.
    â€œBut did she talk?”
    â€œShe’s got all she can do to keep on breathing, Inspector. She’s still unconscious.”
    â€œThen we do it the hard way,” said the old man gloomily. “It’s a cinch Trench Coat was one of Modesta’s two rejects. He didn’t waste any time, did he? As soon as those three are brought in, have ’em taken up to the penthouse. Coming, Ellery?”
    His son sighed. “If I could have found a place to park as soon as I got here …”
    Hollow laughter followed him to the stairway door.
    At twenty minutes after two the Inspector