All language subtitles for Murdoch Mysteries - 16x05 - Murdoch Rides Easy.BAE.

- Synced and corrected by chamallow -
- www.addic7ed.com -

What about here?

Perhaps a spot with more shade?

Ah. A little bit of sun
is good for the body.

At least for the soul.

What if Susannah gets too warm?

Well, then we'll move her!

This is a perfect spot.

Wherever is he?

I want to put my eyes
on that machine of his.

The infamous Falcon.

Well, that blasted thing
has taken him so long,

- it better have wings.
- If you want wings,

go play with Aubrey Welford-Crossley

and his flying machine.

Ah! DeeDee.

DeeDee, where's your husband?

We want to see this motorcycle already.

Patience, gentlemen. The
Falcon will be worth the wait.

Wowee! What did I tell you?

Let's go! Let's go see what it can do!

Ooh.

I received a letter
from Harry this morning.

Oh? And how is he faring
at boarding school?

Quite well. According to him.

The accompanying letter from his mother

says that he was almost expelled

for sneaking out to see girls.

Ah!

A Lothario like his father.

Did we forget the melon?

No, no! It's right here in the ice box.

Ah!

What on earth was that?

- Where did he go?
- I haven't the foggiest.

Look.

Ellsworth?

Ellie?

No.

It can't be.

Dear God.

He's dead.

Oh!

He must have gone
straight off the cliff!

Well, it's sooner than
I would have hoped,

but Susannah was bound to
see a dead body eventually.

Well, Mrs. Hart will have
her work cut out for her.

Significant injuries to the body.

Yes. It's almost as
if he fell off a cliff.

His motorcycle's in a shambles.

It's a horrific accident.
I wonder what happened?

I suppose we'll have to
chat with his compatriots.

Ellsworth Drummond.
The man was a legend.

In what sense?

In every sense.

He locked himself in his garage

building that motorcycle
these last two years.

A recluse and a genius.

How did you know him?

We know his wife. She's a
member of our motoring club.

We tour about on our motorcycles.

Where do you go?

We don't go anywhere per se. We just go.

- For fun.
- Today, mind you, was a special occasion.

DeeDee called us round
to see the Falcon.

Falcon?

The motorcycle her
husband's been working on.

It was finally ready for
its first demonstration run.

Alas, ready it was not.

I'm sorry.

DeeDee...

I'm so sorry.

- Thank you.
- His wife's overcome.

Her husband rode his
motorcycle off of a cliff.

There were no signs
of braking or swerving.

You think he did it intentionally?

It's certainly a unique
way to take one's life.

Did she say anything that would indicate

he intended to do something like this?

Not at all. It was his great unveiling.

The best day of his life, she said.

If there's anything that we can do...

Just let us know.

So, he rode off the side of a cliff?

Yes. And I need to determine
if it was rider error,

or a failing of the motorcycle itself.

Like the brakes not working?

Or being tampered with.

Bloody nuisance, these.

Too loud, even with these
new exhaust mufflers.

I don't know, Inspector. I like them.

They're rather fast.

- Oh, no.
- What?

Julia, you aren't thinking
of riding a motorcycle?

Not very ladylike, Doctor.

- Are you two telling me what to do?
- Damn right we are!

N... no. No!

No, it's just they are very dangerous;

our current case proves that.

Well, yes, if you ride them off a cliff!

So, what about the brakes?

Unfortunately, the damage is significant

and there are mechanisms
that I am not familiar with.

Well, by all accounts,
it's a revolutionary design.

Which I need to learn more about.

My husband had been working
on the Falcon for years.

It was perfect, he was sure of it.

Who besides Mr. Drummond
knew of the Falcon's designs?

Well, there was an article about it

in Popular Mechanics.

Oh! What did the article say?

It was only a photograph
and an announcement.

Ellsworth wouldn't let the writer

so much as lay eyes on the Falcon.

He was so careful about
his designs being stolen.

Mm. Well, surely he trusted
you with his secrets.

Ah, he trusted me, yes.

But I'm hardly a motorcycle builder.

I know nothing about
the Falcon's designs.

His motorcycle was everything to him.

It was his whole world and now...

Yes, I'm terribly sorry for your loss.

Thank you.

With your permission, I would like
to have a look in his workshop.

Of course.

What are you hoping to find?

Parts, drawings.

Anything that will help me understand

how the motorcycle worked

in the hopes of understanding
what may have gone wrong.

When did this happen, Mrs. Drummond?

Ah, I haven't the slightest.

This blood appears to be fresh.

It seems as though
someone has broken in.

We should have called before we came.

- And have him duck us again?
- It's only polite.

Oh, Artie, you're such a bore.

You there. Are you Ellsworth Drummond?

- I am not.
- You see? This is why we don't call.

The man tries to duck us again.

- Now, look here, Drummond...
- Billy, look at this!

An injection line behind the intake.

Mamma Mia!

You're a clever sort,
aren't you, Drummond?

But who cares about this,
anyway? Where's the Falcon?

Gentlemen, I... I truly
am not Mr. Drummond.

This morning, both he and the Falcon

met their unfortunate end
at the bottom of a cliff.

He rode it off a cliff?

Oh dear.

Motorcycle man riding his
own motorcycle off a cliff?

We'd be lucky to die so poetically.

Did the two of you know Mr. Drummond?

Uh, only by reputation.

And quite the reputation it was.

We travelled all the way from
Wisconsin just to meet the feller.

Anyhow, if you're not
Drummond, then who are you?

Detective William Murdoch,
Toronto Constabulary.

- And you?
- Arthur Davidson.

William S. Harley.

Mr. Davidson. Mr. Harley.

Harley-Davidson.

"The Silent Gray Fellow," fellows.

That's right! The
quietest bike on the road.

"Bike."

Oh! That's an amusing way
to refer to a motorcycle.

- Bike.
- Sure thing.

Anyhow, dead old Drummond here

supposedly was running his
Falcon up to 75 miles per hour

and we want to figure out
how in the heck he did it.

We can't seem to
crack 60 on our V-twin.

And anything bigger's too
expensive, or too bulky.

So, where is it?

We sure would like a gander.

I may be able to arrange that.

- Oh! Why, it's beautiful.
- It's a mess.

I need your help.

I need to determine
exactly what happened

when Mr. Drummond and the
Falcon went off of that cliff.

What do you need from us?

Well, I don't know enough about

a motorcycle's inner workings
to put it back together

and discern what might have transpired.

You need a... a doctor to do
an autopsy on the motorcycle?

Precisely. Now, my first
suspicion, of course, is the brakes,

but whether they failed outright,

or were tampered with...

- How dastardly.
- Say no more, Detective.

We're the men for the job.

Henry! I need you to
sort through these papers.

What are they?

Well, some, presumably,
are... are plans and designs

for a motorcycle called the Falcon.

And the others are,

well, meaningless
scribblings and doodles.

So you want me to look for the designs?

Yes. I need you to sort them into piles:

pertinent and non-pertinent.

Ah, pertinent being any, uh, schematics

and... and motorcycle-related
drawings and such.

And non-pertinent, everything else.

All right.

Oh! Sir, I got a postcard
from George. They're in London.

Oh! He must be enjoying that
tremendously, as is Effie.

Does he say where they're off to next?

Uh...

Oh! They're going to 'Broo-gess.'

What?

- Bruges.
- Bruges.

- What's Bruges?
- Bloody hell, Higgins!

- For once in your life look at a map.
- It's in...

Belgium.

You don't pay me enough to travel, sir.

You're not missing much.

I wouldn't be seen
dead in bloody Belgium.

Murdoch, my office.

Sir.

- Murdoch, this is Mr...
- Van Der Wyck.

Reginald van Der Wyck.

I'm here about the death
of Ellsworth Drummond.

I came as soon as I heard.

What did you hear?

Well, I telephoned
Drummond to see how he fared

after his morning test run.

His wife answered and
told me the dire news.

- What's your interest?
- He's the dead man's partner.

Yes, I look after the
financials of our endeavour.

As you can understand,
I'm beyond dismayed.

I was set to make a mint
once the Falcon was ready.

Is that so?

A mass production
motorcycle that can hit

75 miles an hour on a standard V-twin?

Our competition would have been ruined.

Now I must start again.

That's why I'm here.

I understand you have the
designs and the Falcon itself.

The motorcycle is being
examined as we speak.

After all, it is evidence.

Why is it being considered evidence?

You don't suspect foul play, do you?

Experts are examining
the machine presently

to determine just that.

Experts? What experts?

A Mr. Davidson and a Mr. Harley.

- Uh, motorcycle builders.
- Motorcycle builders? No, no.

You must put a stop to this at once.

Our investigation requires...

Your investigation does not
encompass rival engineers

examining patented designs.

I will have my property
returned to me forthwith,

or I will see to it that my
lawyers sue this station house...

Mr. van Der Wyck, have a seat!

We will ensure that only
members of my station house

are looking at your motorcycle.
Isn't that right, Murdoch?

Yes, sir.

Thank you.

You don't have any scotch, do you?

Excellent idea.

- Gentlemen, I'm afraid...
- Ah, Detective, there you are.

Now, look here, the brakes.

Not a thing wrong with them.

Except they've been smashed to
pieces along with everything else.

- No sign of tampering?
- Not at all.

But there is something else.

The accelerator. It's a
simple design, but there's a...

a rather ingenious little
latch freshly welded on here.

What does it do?

Well, so far as I can tell,

if the throttle were to reach
a certain point, it would catch,

bypassing the braking system
and... and locking the accelerator.

Locking the accelerator wide open.

That's right.

So the rider would not be
able to slow down at all?

It would keep him riding
at full speed, until, uh...

Until he went flying over a dang cliff.

Mamma Mia.

We...

This latch, is it something simple?

Well, the... the latch itself is simple,

but to install something like this

would require an
intimate knowledge of, uh,

- motorcycle mechanics.
- Hm.

So whoever did this

knew a lot about motorcycles.

- Thank you,
gentlemen. - Mm-hmm.

Oh! Gentlemen, I'm afraid I must ask you

to stop inspecting the Falcon at once.

Wh...

You think whoever meddled
with the accelerator

is one of this lot.

Whoever it was had a detailed knowledge

of motorcycle mechanisms.

From what I understand,

that's a very small
community here in Toronto.

I still can't believe he
didn't so much as swerve.

Maybe he was going so
fast he lost control?

- And do you two ride together?
- Julia?

William! What are you doing here?

Well, we're...

What are you doing here?

Oh! Well, I'm considering
buying a motorcycle.

Are you sure that's wise?

Oh, William, come on.
It's just a bit of fun.

Did you know that Mr. Coulter here

is the fastest man in Canada?

Is that so?

I happen to hold the
current record, yes.

Ah, the Falcon smashed your
record in its first test run.

- Unofficial!
- Not for long.

No one even saw that test run!

It's only a matter of time until
you're completely forgotten, Coulter.

Oi! Sit down, jock.

Mr. Coulter, is it?

Am I to understand that had
the Falcon not met its end,

you might have lost your
national speed record?

- We'll never know.
- 'Course he would have.

Mr. Coulter, would you
please remove your glove?

What's going on, William?

Someone broke into Mr. Drummond's garage

and they cut themselves
on some broken glass.

That someone likely
sabotaged the motorcycle,

which led to his death.

Sabotage?

You can't think I had
anything to do with...

Please remove your glove.

You're coming with us, sunshine.

- I'll see you at dinner.
- Yes.

I broke in, yes.

I cut my hand, yes.

But I didn't kill him.

He was going to break your speed record.

Supposedly.

That's why you broke in;
to sabotage the Falcon.

I put sand in his gas tank, yes.

What? Why?

To clog the intake.

You wouldn't even be
able to start the thing.

You wanted to sabotage the prototype

to preserve your speed record.

I'm not proud of it.

I don't have a wife.

I don't have kids.

I don't even have a job.

But I am the fastest man
in Canada. That's what I am!

You're making our case for us.

So, why didn't it work?

Putting sand in the tank.

By all accounts, the motorcycle
was running in top form

prior to the accident.

Well, he must have
heard me break the glass.

I heard him coming towards
the workshop and ran off.

I imagine he flushed the engine.

Or...

putting sand in the tank wasn't the
only thing you did to the Falcon.

Meaning what?

Meaning you could also have installed
the latch on the accelerator,

which would have been just as effective

in ending his demonstration run.

Well, I suppose I could have!

But I didn't!

I would go to great
lengths to keep my record,

but I wouldn't kill a man.

- Do you believe him?
- Not particularly.

But until we have more
evidence, it's impossible to...

Gentlemen?

Who are you two?

Oh! Uh, William S. Harley
and Arthur Davidson, sir.

Motorcycle builders.

And what are you doing
in my station house?

Sir, these are the two young
men who helped to identify

what had been done to
the Falcon's accelerator.

They appear to be going
through Mr. Drummond's papers.

Uh, we just wanted to have a look.

You can't blame us for trying.

When it comes to motorcycles, we
really are bad boys, Detective.

Wild ones, they call us.

Well, now you've had a
good shufti, off you trot.

Yeah.

Higgins, what are you doing
leaving these papers lying around?

The detective told me
to sort through them.

- And this is your sorting, is it?
- Uh, yes. I'm finished.

Uh, you're the one who
told me to get a map.

Henry!

You've sorted this into three piles.

Yes, sir. Pertinent, non-pertinent

and very non-pertinent.

What's very non-pertinent?

Duplicates. There's a dozen
copies of the same letter, sir.

- What's in the letter?
- I don't know.

I was looking for designs
and schematics, not reading.

Oh.

Oh! This is very good, Henry!

Oh!

It's a letter from a lawyer

accusing your husband
of stealing the designs

of the Falcon from another
motorcycle manufacturer.

Well, that's ridiculous.

What manufacturer?

The attorney does not disclose
the identity of his client.

However, he does demand that
your husband cease all work

on the Falcon effective immediately.

This is the first I've heard of it.

You should speak to his
partner, Mr. van Der Wyck.

Yes, I've seen it.

It's poppycock.

You claim the designs for
the Falcon were original?

Of course.

Drummond spent years
building that machine.

It's an incredible achievement.

It was set to revolutionize the market.

Whoever's behind this is
simply jealous and afraid.

So, you were aware of the allegations.

Yes. I responded to the first letter.

What was your response?

Poppycock.

All subsequent letters were ignored.

It was harassment, plain and simple.

Harassment by whom?

By Esterhalt, of course.

Who?

Bertram Esterhalt.

Drummond's partner from years ago.

Drummond strived for perfection,

but Esterhalt liked to cut corners.

The two of them had a falling out.

He was left behind.

I never sent no letter.

- Then who did?
- How should I know?

Where were you at
9:00 A.M. this morning?

At home sleeping.

Can anyone confirm this?

I'm a bachelor. What's
all this about, anyway?

The fool rode himself
off a cliff, didn't he?

We have reason to believe someone
tampered with his motorcycle.

Whoever it was had detailed
knowledge of its inner workings.

I haven't touched a
motorcycle in two years.

Hadn't heard from Drummond in
that time, either, 'til last night.

You spoke to him last night?

He phoned me to crow about
the Falcon being ready.

You know, his dream was made real.

He even invited me to come
see the demonstration run.

I never should've had
that telephone put in.

It is nothing but a nuisance.

Did you attend the demonstration?

No!

Old Ellie just wanted
to shove it in my face.

All I wanted was to
never see the man again.

Seems you may have gotten your wish.

Esterhalt seems convincing.

But who better to sabotage a motorcycle

than the man who claims to
have designed it himself?

And if he didn't write
that letter, then who did?

Precisely.

So, William, ah...

I've decided to buy a motorcycle.

- Julia, are you quite sure?
- Of course.

We...

You'll have to be so careful!

Macadam is terribly unforgiving.

And if you were to fall...

I... if one were to
fall and hit one's head.

People really should consider
protecting themselves.

Perhaps a helmet?

William, one can injure one's
head falling off a horse,

or a bicycle! Imagine
wearing a helmet on a bicycle!

- Well...
- Oh, William,

these motorcycles
don't even go that fast.

I mean, except for this one, of course.

Yes. I still don't
understand how this V-twin

is capable of reaching
75 miles per hour.

It's simple physics.

The energy output is limited
by the size of the engine;

it's only 54 cubic inches.

Perhaps it has something
to do with the fuel?

It's a gasoline engine.
The fuel can only...

- Unless...
- Unless?

Unless the fuel was adulterated.

Julia, you are a genius! Oh!

- Am... am I?
- Yes! Yes.

- Uh, first, I'll have to...
- Sir?

Mrs. Hart is requesting you
in the morgue straight away.

Oh...

It was quite a mess you
left me with, Detective.

Yes. I apologize for
the state of the corpse.

It certainly kept things interesting.

His clothing was the only thing
keeping parts of him intact.

What have you learned?

Well, there's nothing
to suggest cause of death

other than blunt force trauma.

Consistent with a fall
from a great height?

Indeed.

Although evidence of any other trauma

sustained before the fall
could have been obliterated.

The skin ruptured in
several different places

and many internal blood
vessels burst upon impact.

Making your job
difficult, I would imagine.

Beyond difficult. I attempted
to Gauge algor mortis,

but just as a steak and
kidney pie would cool faster

were you to puncture the crust,

a compromised body cools at a
different rate than an intact one.

Why are you trying to
establish algor mortis?

We know when he died.

Well, that's the strange
thing about Mr. Drummond here.

As I worked on the body, I
realized rigor never set in.

Well, that is strange.

There was no time for
it to have come and gone

between him going over the cliff

and the time that he arrived here.

Certainly not.

And calcium levels in the muscles

should not have been
affected by blood loss.

Shouldn't.

I began to believe something was amiss.

So, I took a closer look and I
found something quite interesting.

Putrefaction.

Two spots, at less than six hours.

My estimate is this man died
between eight and 12 hours

earlier than we thought.

So, he was dead before
he went off the cliff.

So, someone killed Drummond earlier

and dropped his body at
the bottom of the cliff.

Yes, sir. Meaning whoever
was riding that motorcycle

- was not Mr. Drummond.
- Then it was the killer.

It seems likely.

But the majority of our
suspects were all there.

They saw the Falcon being
ridden out of the garage

and, eventually, off the cliff.

So, the bike went over,
but the killer didn't.

He must have installed the
latch on the accelerator

so that the motorcycle's
throttle would remain engaged

and allow him to simply send it off.

And no rider at all?

And, whoever it was, did not
want us to find that latch.

So, they killed Drummond
and then set this up

to make it look like it was an accident.

Indeed.

So, the culprit could not have been

any of the members of
the motorcycle club.

- They were all there and accounted for.
- Precisely.

Although, whoever was
riding that motorcycle

could have conspired with one of them.

What makes you think that?

Well, sir, if Drummond was
killed the night before,

how could his wife have been unaware?

Let's speak to the widow.

- Someone killed him hours before?
- That's right.

And you would have known about it.

No! I have no idea what
you're talking about.

He's your husband! You
didn't see him that morning?

No! He was in his workshop.

Surely you saw him the night before?

He spent all night in there preparing
for the demonstration. I swear it.

He did it all the time,
working through the night.

I never questioned it.

The night before his big test run...

It never even occurred to me that...

Mrs. Drummond, you must admit that
this story is difficult to believe.

Story? What story?

You're the ones telling me
something that's absolutely mad!

- You're lying.
- I'm not!

You didn't even recognize your
own husband on that motorcycle?

I... I don't know! I thought it was him!

I don't understand any of this!

When did you last see
your husband alive?

I...

Supper...

I think.

Yes, early that evening.

After that he went to his workshop,

and I didn't see him
until the next morning.

Or, rather,

I suppose I never saw him again.

Whatever happened, I had
nothing to do with it.

You have to believe me.

I don't believe a word she says.

Sir, she was among the spectators
just prior to the incident.

She could not have been the
rider on that motorcycle.

She was in on it with someone else.

Well, sir, there is one
suspect who wasn't there:

the former partner.

Could be him.

Henry!

Uh! Yes?

Contact the lawyer
who wrote those letters

and demand he reveal who his client is.

If it's Mr. Esterhalt,
then we know he was lying

about his relationship with
Mr. Drummond and, likely,

lying about his whereabouts
that morning as well.

Sirs.

Is that something you want to
leave to the likes of Higgins?

Leaning on a lawyer can
be a delicate proposition.

I'm sure he can handle it.

Also, sir,

I believe I know how the Falcon was able

to reach 75 miles per hour
and I intend to replicate it.

You see, the only
limitation is the volume,

or displacement, of an engine.

- I intend to make the eng...
- Murdoch!

You've lost me already.

William, here's your nitrous oxide.

- Oh, good!
- Why on earth do you need laughing gas?

It's quite fascinating, actually.

I realized that the speed at
which fuel gets consumed...

I'm sure it's fascinating,

but I have to get back to the clinic.

Don't have too much fun without me.

I make no promises.

No!

Sir, I found out from the
lawyer who his client is.

I already know, Henry. It
was Harley and Davidson.

Huh. Well, why'd I have
to do all that work then?

As I was examining the Falcon,

I came across something
very interesting.

Along the fuel intake line,
I found a maker's mark: HD.

Harley-Davidson.

And what are you saying?

It's one of your parts!

In fact,

the Falcon is an amalgam
of many of your parts.

And you knew that.

That's why you had your lawyer
send all of those letters.

The Drummond revolutionary motorcycle

is nothing but a reconfigured Harley.

It... it is not a Harley,
it is a Harley-Davidson!

Oh, that's what the man meant!

Should have been Davidson Harley.

Then people would be
shortening it to Davidson!

- That's a mouthful.
- A Davie then!

Gentlemen!

The point is

he was stealing from
you, and you knew it.

Yes, it's true.

We saw a photograph of the
thing in Popular Mechanics.

We could hardly believe our eyes.

He was using your parts to
make a faster motorcycle.

He was going to win
all of your customers.

Oh, supposedly.

We still can't figure out how he did it.

The engine is the same.

There may have been a
minor cosmetic adjustment,

but, inside, it's quite
literally our V-twin.

Even after getting a look at
the thing, it makes no sense.

I disagree.

It is possible for the same
engine to make more power

by altering the fuel.

To what? The engine runs on gasoline.

Yes. But, with an additive,

the same engine can burn
the same fuel faster.

I... I... I suppose, in theory.

Nitrous oxide.

It forces more oxygen into the fuel.

The result is a motorcycle that
runs on highly oxygenated gas.

I call it hog for short.

Hog.

Now that's a good name for a bike.

A "hog" would run faster

while using the same component parts.

Yes, but the... the fuel would
burn in the blink of an eye.

Who is going to buy a motorcycle
when its gas is gone in 60 seconds?

Not to mention the noise.

The Harley-Davidson brand is
synonymous with The Silent Grey Fellow.

We want everyone's grandma
riding Davies, Detective.

- Oh, give it up, Artie.
- And, anyway,

all that fuel igniting at once?
You'd be blown to kingdom come!

We... Yes.

But at the time that
the Falcon was sabotaged,

and Mr. Drummond was killed,

all you knew was that
he had taken your parts

and was about to outdo you.

That's motive for murder.

- We didn't...
- I checked with your hotel.

You arrived in Toronto the day before

I met you in Drummond's workshop.

If you had traveled all
this way to meet the man,

why wait twenty-four hours
before making your first visit?

All right, we... we...

- We did go there the day before.
- Artie!

What? We didn't do anything wrong.

Look, Drummond wasn't even there.

Maybe he was.

And maybe you're lying.

Perhaps you met up with
him, confronted him,

argued and one or
both of you killed him.

- We didn't!
- We... we didn't come to confront him.

We already had an arrangement.

What kind of arrangement?

To buy the device that was
making his bike go so fast.

He was going to sell it to you?

- Not him. His partner.
- Mr. van Der Wyck.

He said he was tired
of the production delays

and he wanted to recoup
on his investments.

We can show you the
correspondence that proves it.

He wanted to sell us the device,
the designs, the whole shebang.

If Harley and Davidson
are to be believed,

Drummond's partner was about to
sell the business out from under him.

This van Der Wyck was in
Buffalo when the murder happened.

So he says. He's just at the hotel.

Well, if he's lying about that, he
could be the man on the motorcycle.

He sent the thing over the edge and
then flung Drummond over after it.

Or perhaps threw Drummond's body
over the cliff ahead of time.

There he is, sir.

Look who he's with.

DeeDee Drummond.

They're in it together.

You were having an affair.

Your husband was obsessed
with his motorcycle.

He was ignoring his marriage.

Yes, that part's true.

The Falcon was a bust.

It was built with
another company's parts

and unless you sold whatever technology

Mr. Drummond had already
developed prior to going to market,

you would have been
sued out of existence.

Yes, that's true as well.

I had to do it.

But when you told Drummond, he refused.

Is that what happened the night he died?

An argument that got out of hand?

Dear God, no. I never told him.

- I swear.
- You've got it all wrong.

We were having an affair, obviously.

But that impropriety is the reason

for any mistruths we may have spoken.

Mistruths? You lied. You killed him.

No! You don't understand.

- We didn't kill him.
- You killed him and you covered it up.

You got all of your friends
together who knew about the Falcon,

but what you were really
doing was staging an accident

in order to cover up
the real cause of death.

You dressed up like him,
got on his motorcycle

and sent it sailing over the cliff.

Where, presumably, Mr. Drummond's
body had already been thrown.

How could you do that
to your own husband?

- I didn't!
- What you propose is simply not possible.

DeeDee was there when it happened,

there's no question, so
she couldn't have done it.

She wasn't the one on the motorcycle.

- You were.
- Wasn't me, either.

I was in Buffalo until I heard the news.

- Why should we believe you?
- Believe me?

I'm telling you. I
still have the ticket.

Surely I...

Blast...

Mr. Van Der Wyck!

Ah! Here it is.

See?

Timed, dated and punched.

I checked with Union Station
and the 10:40 got in on time.

Could he have posed as Drummond

and gotten to Buffalo in
time to get on that train?

There's no express service
on a Saturday morning, sir.

Maybe he drove?

To make up that distance,
without stopping,

even if the roads were
paved right through,

- would be impossible.
- What if he rode?

A horse isn't capable of
reaching anywhere near that speed.

I meant a bike, Murdoch. A motorcycle.

They're not fast enough, either.

He would have to have
been riding the Falcon.

And it was in pieces at the
bottom of a cliff by then.

Well, those two are guilty as sin.

- Sir, it's just not possible.
- I'm sure of it!

If those two weren't on the motorcycle,

then someone else was.
The only question is

who was in on it with them.

A third conspirator?

There is one suspect without an alibi.

And we know he's lied to us.

You have stated that
you were home the morning

that Mr. Drummond was found dead.

Can anyone attest to this?

Just myself.

You also claim that Mr.
Drummond telephoned you

the night before his test run.

I don't claim anything. He
phoned, we spoke, end of story.

- What time was this?
- Ah, late. Ten o'clock, maybe.

Unfortunately, Mr. Esterhalt,
we know this to be a lie.

It is no such thing.

- Mr. Drummond was dead by 10:00 P.M.
- Says who?

The Coroner for the City of Toronto.

Well, he's wrong and you're wrong.

The man telephoned me at ten o'clock.

Is it possible that someone
was posing as Mr. Drummond?

I've worked alongside Ellsworth
Drummond for four years

and knew him for even longer.

Be that as it may,
it is possible that...

Imagine someone telephoned you

pretending to be your inspector.

How long could they keep that ruse up?

Maybe five seconds? I spoke to
old Ellie for a good 10 minutes.

- It was him.
- Mr. Esterhalt,

there is no point in
continuing with this lie.

It's not a damn lie!

Ah, sir, I noticed something unusual.

Not now, Henry.

I suppose you figured it
out on your own already.

Honestly, why do I bother?

- Figured what out?
- It doesn't matter, sir.

Henry.

Well, I thought there was
something not quite right

about the ticket stub you gave me.

- Mr. van Der Wyck's ticket?
- Yes. You see, this one is his.

But I took the same train with
Ruthie and Jordan a week ago and look.

Same ticket, different date.

The hole, sir. They're different shapes.

I suppose it's possible they
changed their ticket taking...

thing.

Or it's possible he purchased
the ticket in advance,

punched it himself and
was never on that train.

Did I...

did I just solve the case?

- No.
- Oh.

It still doesn't
explain how Mr. Esterhalt

spoke to Mr. Drummond
after he was killed.

Henry, have we released Mr.
van Der Wyck and Mrs. Drummond?

Yes, sir. Just a moment ago.

Mr. Esterhalt!

We need to stop them.

Sir, I need your help for just a moment.

Mrs. Drummond!

Ellsworth?

I thought you were dead.

William, what's going on?

This is Ellsworth Drummond.

The dead man? What on earth?

He faked his own death after
killing his business partner.

Let's go!

William!

Oh!

Woah!

Stop!

Stop!

- William, come on!
- Julia, what are you doing?

Going after them!

Excuse me, gentlemen.

- Oh, hey!
- What in the blazes?

Oh! Ouch! Good Lord, that's loud.

- I love it.
- Look at him go.

He's a natural on a bike.

That Detective Murdoch
is one easy rider.

Stop! Stop!

Mr. and Mrs. Drummond,

you are under arrest for the
murder of Reginald van Der Wyck.

Yes,

van Der Wyck wanted to
sell to Harley and Davidson.

- You refused.
- Of course I did.

The Falcon's my life.

But you couldn't bring it to market

because you were using their designs.

You would have been sued.

And you couldn't sell the idea, either,

because you'd never figured it out.

It's true.

There's no device. There's...

no special fuel.

And if anyone had ever gotten
their hands on the Falcon,

they would've known straight away
that it couldn't reach anywhere

near 75 miles per hour.

You're nothing but a fraud.

How did you do it?

How did you make it go so fast?

I had a need for speed.

You really did it.

75 miles per hour!

Yes.

But, as you two rightly pointed out,

such a device is hardly
fit for the market.

No, but perhaps we'll install
these nitrous injectors

on our own motorcycles.

It certainly would make a race more fun.

And... and that sound!

How did you make it sound like that?

This... Oh! Well, I had
to remove the muffler

- for the nitrous to work.
- Hm.

I want Harley-Davidson machines
to sound exactly like that.

- Are you mad?
- I'm afraid I have to agree.

No one's going to buy a
motorcycle that sounds like that.

Well? What do you think?

What's this?

Well, I realized that
leather is the most durable

and effective material to prevent injury

if one had an accident
on the motorcycle.

Oh! Certainly is interesting.

Interesting?

- Nice. It's...
- Nice?! William!

I look positively devilish.

Oh, I don't know about a devil.

Angel, perhaps?

One of hell's angels?

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