my father thought I was ready for a more formal place in one of his concerns. Yesterday, he said he thought he’d have a place for me by September.”
“Had he ever said something like that before, named a month?”
“Yes, but then he took his companies public, and all the work involved caused delays. He wanted to make sure I wasn’t pushed ahead too fast only to fall on my face. I had to be able to go into a position and earn respect on my own, not just be tolerated because of my name.”
This was gilding your fetters with a vengeance. In Morris’s place, I’d have done a bunk for Australia—if only to keep from throttling dear old dad.
“And just when did this training position begin, Mr. Watt?” I asked.
“When I got discharged from the army in July 1919.”
“A long apprenticeship.” It wasn’t a question.
“Does this have a bearing on your investigation, sergeant?”
I shrugged. My mouth was dry, and the sun was now well over the yard-arm. I debated with myself whether Morris might have a bottle somewhere for the entertainment of visitors. Digby Watt had been an unwavering prohibitionist. Was there enough rebel spirit or enough cunning in the son to conceal a rum ration under the old man’s nose?
“Let’s go back to last night. You returned to the entrance of 96 Adelaide West about two fifteen. What did you see there?”
“It was awful. My father was on his back on the sidewalk, and another man was crouching over him. I asked what had happened. He said, ‘Someone’s bumped off Digby Watt.’ ”
“His exact words?”
“Yes, ‘bumped off’.”
“And how did you react?”
“I was upset, naturally. I couldn’t tell you exactly what I said. I do recall his suggesting one of us call the police. I asked him to do it as I didn’t want to leave my father’s side.”
“Can you describe this man?”
“Tall, thin, with a moustache. Neither dark nor fair. He wore slacks and a windbreaker. He had a rucksack on the ground beside him. He looked like he might have been on his way out of town for a spot of hiking or fishing, but I gather he’s a journalist. He gave me this card.” Morris took his billfold from an inside jacket pocket and from it extracted Ivan MacAllister’s card.
“I don’t need that right now,” I said after looking it over. “But could you hang on to it, please. What was in this rucksack?”
“I didn’t see. Is it important?”
“Did you see a gun anywhere?”
“Definitely not.”
“While he was away phoning, were you alone with your father?”
“Yes, the street was quite deserted. There may have been a car drive by, but I couldn’t swear to it.”
“What did you do during that period?”
“Naturally, I checked first to see if there had been a mistake, to see if my father might still be alive. That is, I checked for a pulse.”
“And . . .?”
“None. It still seems incredible. Gunned down in the streets, as if by rumrunners—and right outside his own office.”
“Apart from checking for a pulse, did you touch your father’s clothes or body?”
“No.”
“I’m sorry to have to raise this subject,” I said. And I was sorry. Morris seemed such a gentle soul. “When you first saw your father lying on the sidewalk, was his fly open?”
Morris wiped his nose, and his voice became quieter. “Believe it or not, sergeant, I didn’t see. It was only when the other man came back and drew my attention to what had been done . . . there . . . that I noticed.”
“And what exactly did you notice?”
“That my father’s member was outside his trousers. At that point, I took off my topcoat and covered him up with it until the police came and asked me to remove it.”
“Ah.” I cleared my throat. “Can you think of any explanation for your father’s state of undress?”
Morris shook his head miserably.
“Forgive my asking, but might he have been about to relieve himself?”
“Good God, sergeant. I wouldn’t want your job on any terms—not if you have to ask questions like that. The last place he would have relieved himself, even in an emergency, would have been against his own front door. He was proud of this building and all the businesses he conducted from here.”
I didn’t think I could shock him more, so I pressed on. “Was he sexually active?”
“A widower of my father’s age?”
“Look here, Mr. Watt, either your father exposed himself or someone interfered with him. I can’t ignore that. His condition may tell us something about the motive for the murder. I ask you again: did your father have a sex life at the time of his death?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“Since he was widowed?”
“I don’t know.”
“You sound less sure. Have you had any suspicions?”
“Sergeant, I refuse to speculate further, and if you wish this conversation to continue, it will have to be on other topics.”
I wondered if he had ever used the words “I refuse” with his father. I helped myself to a couple of mints wrapped in cellophane from a dish on his desk and changed course.
“Let’s go back to last night,” I said. “When did your cab arrive?”
“I didn’t notice the time, but it was just before the constable went to phone the doctor. I asked the driver to wait. I wanted to stay at the scene until a proper medical man had pronounced my father dead. But when the constable got back from phoning, he convinced me that that was already beyond question.” Morris made a visible effort to pull himself together and spoke the next words briskly. “I saw I could do nothing more there, so I went home. That must have been shortly before three, say five minutes of.”
It struck me that Morris’s cab had been a long time coming. He had phoned at 2:09, and the car had pulled up just before 2:45, which was when the constable said he had called for the medical examiner. But then I seemed to remember Platinum was an uptown outfit, handy to the mansions of Rosedale but with no stand in the Bay-Adelaide neighbourhood.
“To your knowledge,” I said, moving on, “had your father received any threats?”
“No.”
“Can
