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 you think of anyone that might have killed him?”
“Absolutely not. He didn’t move in that kind of world.”
The first hint of snobbery—but more than I could pass over in silence.
“We all live in the same world, Mr. Watt,” I said. “Like it or not, your father was gunned down. Who would that have made happy?”
“No one,” Morris sighed. “He was a great philanthropist. In the past five years, he gave away more money than he took home.”
“Business rivals?” I suggested. “Former partners or employees?”
“His rivals weren’t his enemies. They knew his success was due to long hours of hard work, and they respected him for it. And for all the hard work, he always was good-humoured and generous towards the people he worked with. You can ask anyone.”
“What about labour disruptions?”
“He treated his workers well. The proof of that is that out of a work force of over eighteen thousand, only one plant felt it necessary to have a union.”
“That would be at Canada Ski and Snowshoe,” I recalled. “There was a strike there two years ago. Some of the plant machinery was destroyed.”
“Communist organizers had turned the workers’ heads. In two and a half weeks, the men were back making sporting goods, and new local leadership had been voted in.”
“What was the name of the strike leader?”
“It was . . . No, I’d better not guess, but I’ll look it up and send it to you if you think it’s important.”
“Could be,” I said. “Was your father involved with rumrunners in any way?”
“None. That’s an absurd question—frankly, uncalled-for.”
“You’re the one who mentioned rumrunners. Why was that?”
“Just because of the shootouts on the street you hear about. There was one in Alberta not many years ago.”
I searched my memory. “The town of Coleman, in 1922, but that was a policeman they killed. His relevance to the liquor trade was obvious. What was your father’s? How outspoken was he on the temperance issue?”
“He gave one or two addresses on the subject. Then again, I don’t see why that should make him enemies: without prohibitionists, there could be no rumrunners.”
“True, sir, but his advocating stricter enforcement of liquor laws could have caused them inconvenience.”
“Well, as I believe he realized to his sorrow, my father—for all his business success—didn’t have that much influence with the law enforcers.”
“Someone must have benefited from Digby Watt’s death,” I observed. “Was he engaged to be married?”
“To Olive? No. No, he enjoyed spending time with her, but I don’t believe he was interested in remarrying.”
“If he had married Olive,” I asked, nudging the limits, “do you think the marriage would have been consummated?”
“I don’t think he would have married Olive Teddington.”
“Or anyone else?”
“There was no one else.”
“Are you aware of the provisions of your father’s will?”
“About that, I suggest you speak to his lawyer.” Morris took a card from his desk drawer and wrote from memory. “Here are his particulars.”
I didn’t press him, as the work day already promised to be long enough. I could get the acting detective to contact the lawyer.
“Anything else I can do for you?”
Morris seemed composed enough to make it safe to return to the subject of the broken-down car. I asked where it could be found at this moment.
“Still on the roof of Braddock’s Garage. Curtis offered to come down and repair it this morning, but I said I preferred him to wait until I knew whether you people wanted to look it over. I asked Cliff Braddock to leave it where it was and make sure it wasn’t disturbed.”
“Exactly right. Could you show me?”
Morris pulled a black-covered agenda towards him across the cherrywood and looked at a page marked by an elastic band.
“Yes,” he said. “I can do that.”
When we stood, I noticed for the first time a loose wire lying on the surface of the desk and ending where one would have expected Morris’s intercom to be. I picked up the unattached wire.
“In for repairs?” I asked.
He nodded. “I just discovered yesterday that when I connect with the reception desk, the switch sometimes sticks in the on position. Don’t know how long it’s been like that. I hope they fix it soon, though. It’s hard on Miss Burgess having always to run in here instead of buzzing.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to suggest he move into his father’s office, but perhaps it was too soon for so bold a move.
As we passed through the fourth-floor reception area, Morris told the woman with the pince-nez that he would be out of the office for half an hour to an hour.
“Would you advise Mr. Tremblay of Beaconsfield Power I’ll see him this afternoon.”
“He’s catching the noon train back to Montreal, Mr. Morris. It would be better if you saw him now.”
“Please