Original subtitles

- 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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