Which Way to Die? by Ellery Queen

shoes must have been size twelve or thirteen, Corrigan thought.
    On top of the wall, immediately above the prints, imperfectly outlined in ridges from soil which had adhered to the shoes, were two fainter footprints. Beside the right print lay the smeary impression of a bloody hand, where the killer had evidently grabbed the outer edge of the wall to pull himself up.
    The conclusion was as unavoidable as it was beyond belief. The killer had darted from the bedroom, made straight for the wall, climbed up on it, and stepped off into space.
    â€œWhat the hell?” Corrigan muttered.
    â€œI don’t believe it,” Baer said.
    â€œNeither do I, Chuck. But here it is.”
    Corrigan placed his foot precisely into the footprint he had made, leaned forward, and peered over the parapet. Baer moved a dozen feet to the right, set his huge right foot in the middle of the flower bed, and looked, too.
    A mile down, it seemed, a taxi drove by; it looked like a hurrying ant. A mile down and a block away two men were strolling across the street.
    Otherwise there was nothing alive or dead in sight.
    â€œNot a damned thing,” Baer said. “You see anything, Tim?”
    â€œYou know I don’t,” Corrigan snarled. But then he sucked in his breath. Baer looked at him and followed the direction of his glance. Corrigan was staring across the street at the roof of the nine-story building.
    â€œWhat is it, Tim?”
    â€œSomething on the roof over there,” Corrigan muttered. “I can’t make it out, but whatever it is it wasn’t there a short while ago. I checked that roof while you were out having a drink.”
    The object lay almost exactly halfway between the edge of the opposite roof and the roof exit through which the Acid Kid had made his getaway the previous week. The moonlight was just tricky enough to distort its shape. But they could make out a pair of what looked like motorcycle handlebars emerging from a substantial central blob.
    â€œBy God,” Baer said softly. “The hump and antennae the kid saw.”
    â€œYes.” Corrigan shoved himself back. “Chuck, you wait here. Don’t take your eye off that thing. I’ll be right back.”
    He ran back inside, sped down the hall, and dashed into the bedroom shared by Norma and Mrs. Grant. The rhinestone-studded opera glasses were lying on one of the dressers. He took a shortcut back through the French door of the bedroom.
    Baer had not moved from his uncomfortable leaning position. Corrigan again carefully placed his foot in his personal footprint in the flower bed, leaned his elbows on the parapet, and raised the opera glasses to his good eye. Time had worked its miracle; he could see perfectly in spite of monocular vision.
    â€œWhat is it, Tim?” Baer demanded. “Can you make it out?”
    â€œLooks like some kind of scuba-diving equipment,” Corrigan mumbled. “Except that it seems to have three tanks instead of one.”
    He pushed away from the wall and tossed the glasses over to Baer.
    â€œKeep your eye on that thing in case anybody tries to lift it before I get there,” he said. “I’m going across the street.”
    Passing through the apartment, he learned that Elizabeth Grant had taken it upon herself to telephone John M. Alstrom’s apartment on the eleventh floor. Alstrom and Andy Betz were dressing and should be right up.
    â€œI wish you hadn’t done that, Mrs. Grant. I didn’t want anyone else tramping around here until the Homicide people arrived.”
    â€œBut Gerard was his son! If it had been Frank …” Mrs. Grant clutched her son’s neck and pulled him to her. For once he did not reject her. He had graduated from coffee to brandy and had a big snifter to his lips; his mother’s clutch made him splutter, but he said nothing.
    â€œMrs. Grant is right, Tim,” Norma said. “It’s Daddy’s right. I … couldn’t