I can answer that with certainty because I often timed myself. Five minutes was the maximum until last night. Then last night the car . . . What a nightmare!”
“The car wouldn’t start?”
“It started all right, but before I got it down the ramp and out onto the street, at the first turn in fact, the steering gear failed. I knew right away that it would take some time to repair and that I had no hope of finding a mechanic between two and three in the morning. The thing to do was to call a cab and get my father home. So I made for a public telephone.”
“There was no one downstairs in the garage, no night watchman?”
“No. The only security at night is provided by a padlocked chain across the ramp. People who rent parking space by the month are given a key.”
“Which phone did you use, the one at Adelaide and Sheppard?”
“I knew the closest booth was just south of the garage, on King, so that’s where I went, even though it took me farther afield. That was wrong. I should have gone back and told my father first. Then maybe . . .”
“You might only have got yourself shot too, sir. Did you in fact call a cab?”
“Yes, to meet me at 96 Adelaide West. And then I hurried back there.”
“Last night the weather was good, so I presume you had left your father standing on the sidewalk.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“And do you know what time it was when you left him to get the car?”
“Not precisely. It must have been about two o’clock.”
“Two?” Here was a surprise. If Ivan and Morris were both telling the truth, the journalist had been tipped off about the murder at least fifteen minutes before it happened. “Are you sure, Mr. Watt?”
“It must have been two. I had glanced at my watch at twenty to, and at that time we were still working on the annual report. I’d guess it took us twenty minutes from then to put away our papers and get downstairs.”
“How long would you say it was then from the time you left your father until the time when you got back to the front entrance of the office building?”
“I checked my watch while phoning Platinum Taxi. It was eleven minutes past two then. I’d say I got back to where I’d left my father at two fifteen or a little later.”
Morris used a fine old pocket watch rather than a wrist model. As I had with Ivan MacAllister, I checked the time currently indicated and got the owner’s assurance that it hadn’t been reset since the night before. My watch was running just under two minutes faster. I had no idea yet how crucial these stray minutes would turn out to be, but I was taking phone company time, which agreed with Danforth Dollar Taxi time, as the most reliable. Compared to that standard, Ivan’s Bulova was a minute fast, my Waterbury a minute slow, and bringing up the rear at three minutes slow was Morris Watt’s Heuer—which I noticed was engraved with his father’s name: To our dear son Digby on his 21st birthday. A hand-me-down, in short.
“Mr. Watt,” it occurred to me to ask, “what is your position at Dominion Consolidated Holdings?”
A new look of pain clouded the other man’s face.
“I was being trained. You might say my position was ‘the boss’s son.’ ”
“And how long was this training period?”
“Until 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?”