16x17 - The Ballad of Gentleman Jones

[bunniefuu]

(THEME MUSIC)

(INDISTINCT CHATTER)

(WOMAN COUGHING)

What are you staring at?

I'm looking for one
of our hobo brothers.

His name is Richmond Smithers?

That's not a hobo's name.

I don't know his moniker,

just that Richmond's
missing his left eye.

Don't go round staring at
people while they sleep!

Can you help me?

I don't want to.

If I help you,

what's in it for me?

You'd be helping Richmond
Smithers get an inheritance.

Well, there's a hobo
in camp named Trader.

Patch on his eye.

- Wasn't at the farm today.
- Really?

Do you know where he was?

Didn't eat at chow.

I asked why he wasn't hungry.

He said he'd found a
ghost in his pocket.

Aha.

- Wh... what does that mean?
- I don't know.

Looked spooked, though.

Just walked off; That's
the last I saw of him.

Where was he headed?

Round that way, around the
old storehouse down the way.

Uh-huh.

(MYSTERIOUS MUSIC)

(INDISTINCT CHATTER IN THE DISTANCE)

Oh God.

Single g*nsh*t wound to the chest.

He likely d*ed quickly.

Any idea around what time he was k*lled?

No rigor has set in.

The body is cold, but
this is a cold place.

Best guess would be earlier today.

I'll take him to the morgue
and provide a full report.

Thank you, Miss Hart.

(SOFT, MYSTERIOUS MUSIC)

(DOOR OPENING)

- (DOOR CLOSING)
- Sir?

Say nothing, Detective.

He made me cuff him.

I didn't do anything and
you're not gonna pin this on me!

- Uncuff me!
- All right.

No, no, no, no, no.

You have succeeded in confusing me.

Take me in so we can talk.

Take him in, Henry.

Yes, sir. Come along!

Apologies for the arrest rigmarole.

I couldn't bear those hoboes
thinking I was a fly cop.

Fly cop?

It's what they call an
undercover policeman.

Oh, you... you were
hired to find this man?

Yes. Richmond Smithers,

but he was going by the name Trader.

His aunt d*ed, left him a bit of land.

The man taking care of her
estate hired a few investigators

to seek him out in places
where he might have traveled.

I suppose I was the lucky one.

I see.

Could this inheritance be
the reason he was k*lled?

Uh, don't believe it was of much value.

- And he had no idea it was coming.
- Hm.

Can you tell me anything
else about his death?

I cannot.

It's not how I expected
the case to conclude,

but my work seems to be at an end.

I wish you luck.

Oh! There was one other thing.

Yes?

One of Trader's companions said
he was spooked this morning.

By what?

Apparently, he said he
found a ghost in his pocket.

But there wasn't anything in
his pockets except for this.

Hm.

How curious.

Perhaps this is his ghost?

(CHATTER ON THE STREET)

It's remarkable workmanship.

How much do you want for it?

Uh, that's evidence, Mr. Huxley.

What can you tell us about it?

Well, not so much.

My customers are mostly interested
in ancient and international coins.

We don't see many of these hobo coins.

Hobo coins?

Yes, they trade them for hot
meals, sometimes for money.

I have a few here.

Oh!

They deface perfectly good coins?

Why not simply use them as currency?

It's an art form, I suppose.

They like them, anyway.

A nice one is worth more than
the nickel it's made from.

How much?

Well, these ones are
all less than a dollar,

but yours could be worth more.

It's rather exquisite.

How do they carve them exactly?

Oh, with, uh, nails,
pocketknives, files.

Really? So...

If they carve them in their hands,

would they not sometimes
slip and cut themselves?

All the time, I imagine.

Right. Uh...

One last question:

Are these ever referred to as ghosts?

Ghosts?

No, sir. Can't say I've
ever heard such a thing.

There's a certain
romance to the hobo life.

Oh, is that right?

No paperwork.

Hard labour by day,

the company of friends at
night, a canopy of stars.

Julia Ogden, as long as I've known you,

you have preferred the canopy
of a feather bed in a fine hotel.

Well, yes. Well, the accommodations
may not be ideal, but...

Soot, campfires, the smell
of smoke in your clothes.

The cold.

Yes, but the freedom,

the total freedom of
living life on the rails,

would be quite the compensation.

Planning nothing, answering to no one.

- (PHONE RINGING)
- See?

We could continue to live here,

in this comfortable shelter,

and simply get rid of the phone.

Detective Murdoch.

Yes.

Yes, all right. I'll be right there.

The body's just this way, sir,
and the woman who found him.

There were some hoboes gathered around

when I got here but they scattered.

- And who is the woman?
- Gert Dotson, sir.

She's a waitress at
Arlo's Place, a tavern.

Detective Murdoch.

- Mrs... ?
- Miss. Dotson.

Gert Dotson.

- Um, how did you come to find the victim?
- Ferny.

That's what all the fellows call him.

I was coming back to the tavern
from the bakery when I found him.

Everyone knows the hoboes come here.

- And why do they come here?
- I feed them.

Been doing it for years.

Anything that might get
thrown out from the tavern,

plus leftovers from a few other places.

I can't stand waste, not
when some are going hungry.

Of course.

Did you happen to see this
man earlier this evening?

No. He must have come here and eaten

and then run into whoever k*lled him.

So, he didn't come inside
your tavern earlier...

Mr. Arlo doesn't abide
having the hoboes inside,

so he has me leave the food out back.

Really, I'm supposed to be
at work right now, Detective.

Yes, of course. Thank you, Miss Dotson.

Uh, Henry...

(SIGHS) I'd wager the
b*llet that k*lled this man

will be a match for the one
that k*lled our first victim.

What's that, sir?

Appears to be another ghost.

Henry,

this is the same symbol that we
found carved above Trader's body.

- What's it a symbol of?
- I have no idea. Look.

Another one.

Appears to be an arrow.

Perhaps...

It was to lead someone here?

Constables were searching all night

and into the morning.

They found over a
dozen of these symbols.

- Do we know what they mean?
- No.

They seem to be a language of some sort,

a-a sequence of signs
carved into fences, posts,

leading from the railway camp

to a tavern that serves people food.

So it's a code.

Directions to a-a
meal, or what have you,

- but only the hoboes are aware of it.
- Precisely.

Some of the signs are
newer and drawn in chalk.

And you think those led
the victim to his death?

Well, sir, I found one similar to this

at the first crime scene.

It had been carved into a post
just above the victim's body.

So two men lured to their
deaths with... whatever this is.

Both in possession of the same odd coin

and the b*ll*ts that
k*lled them are a match.

I believe we have a
sequential k*ller on our hands.

One who's targeting these
men who ride the rails.

What on earth for?

Easy to target. No
families to miss them.

But the k*ller used these
symbols known only to hoboes.

Perhaps the k*ller's a hobo himself.

- Yes, George.
- So what do we do now?

We need help.

And I know just the person to ask.

Thought I might find you here.

Uh, the city streets are my true office,

but this is a warmer
place to conduct business.

Of course.

Hobo signs.

Their code. Where did
you come across these?

At both m*rder scenes.

- There's been a second k*lling?
- Another hobo.

(CRINKLING PAPER)

The arrow with the circle, well,
it's obvious: Follow the arrow.

And the circle with the line,
that means "turn left here."

- But this one...
- The sunrise.

I see a sunset.

I haven't come across it.

It was drawn above both victims.

If that's so, then your k*ller
is no interloper like myself.

This man is very familiar
with the patterns of stiffs.

Of what?

Stiffs. Bindlestiffs.

It's another term for hobo.

Though I loath to admit it,

your k*ller may be a hobo himself.

Oh.

And, uh, your hobo name... What is it?

Oh, we say moniker in
the life. Mine was Curly.

Hm.

And that's the only
name you're known by?

No one has guessed yet
that you're not a hobo?

Please!

I played my part perfectly, Detective.

Of course, of course.

So, they likely still believe
that you're one of them.

May even think that...

Henry and I simply tossed you
in jail for a couple of nights.

I suppose. What are you getting at?

Go back to their camp, Watts.

Live among the hoboes,
learn what you can.

While there is a k*ller at large,

murdering hoboes at a rapid pace,

you wish for me to don the guise
of one of his potential victims?

If you don't, more may die.

I'm not a copper anymore.

I'm a private detective
with a full case load.

- I must refuse.
- Watts, we are at a dead end here.

No one will speak to us.

All we have for clues are
these symbols and coins.

If not you, then I'll be forced
to send someone else in undercover,

someone without your expertise.

Yes and I wish him the best of luck.

- I don't like this plan.
- I don't either, sir,

but if we do nothing we could be
allowing a k*ller to strike again.

One of my men in unnecessary danger.

Necessary danger. This
k*ller must be stopped.

If we are diligent, we
can minimize the risk.

Oh my God.

He looks like a lamb to the slaughter.

A pillow, George?

Yes, sir. I need my own pillow to sleep.

And who's to say hoboes
don't travel with pillows?

I'm sure some of them do.

I won't allow this. You'll
be in too much danger.

(WATTS CLEARS THROAT) He's right.

Pillow aside,

the knees of your trousers are unworn,

your boots look like they
were shined this morning,

your hat looks like it was
purchased five minutes ago.

My hat was purchased five minutes ago.

Oh, and George, your hand...

Your hands, George,

- they're smooth as a baby's.
- Don't bite.

I thought you were dead set against
helping our investigation, Watts?

No, I realized the someone
else who you'd send in

to pose as a hobo would
likely be Henry or George.

Henry is already known
to some of the hoboes

from his arrest of yours truly,

meaning George would be sent, alone,

into a world he is not
equipped to navigate.

So you'll do it?

- Yes.
- Oh, thank goodness.

Watts, I was not looking forward to it.

I'm not about to go in alone, George.

There's a hobo k*ller out there.

Good thinking.

Two will be safer than one.

Ooh!

(INDISTINCT CHATTER)

Have you seen all these men?

Hm. Three or four are new to me.

These chaps are nothing if not nomadic.

- Watts...
- It's Curly.

We may be in the company of a m*rder*r.

You slip up at the
wrong moment, George...

In fact, you need a moniker.

Slick. Try calling me Slick.

- An interesting choice.
- I quite like it.

'Course you do. You're
the one who chose it.

Now, follow my lead.

I have an idea of how we
can ask our new compatriots

what this symbol means
without arousing suspicion.

(LOUDER): This one's easy enough.

It means bread.

- Doesn't look much like bread.
- Oh, well, train your eye, man.

This one...

see, a table...

Means sit down feed.

Boy, you don't draw too good.

I... (SIGHS)

Better with chalk, or a Kn*fe.

Cops pinched you, Curly.

Didn't think I would see you again.

They had nothing on me,
so they couldn't hold me.

I'd never laid eyes on Trader until
he was already dead, poor fellow.

Coppers don't need much of an
excuse to put a man in jail.

Most of the ones I've met
are actually quite reasonable.

Well, that's because Slick here
is new to life on the rails.

I'm showing him the
ropes, starting with this

little lesson on the code.

Slick, huh?

You choose that name yourself?

- Yes.
- It's wrong.

You're no Slick.

Scarecrow. It's the name for you.

- Scarecrow?
- Mm.

I'm Pasty, Scarecrow.

This here's Hitch.

And there's Mutt, over
there's Sleepy Joe.

You'll meet everyone if you
stick around long enough.

Now, this sign...

"You can sleep in the loft."

- Huh.
- And this one here means...

"Get out fast."

Say, Scarecrow,

I'd get out of this
life fast if I were you.

You're city-soft,

too old to be getting started.

I'm sure plenty of chaps have
picked up the hobo life at my age.

Mm, no. You are looking
a little soft, though.

- Hm.
- But, then again,

Gentleman Jones was as rich as they come

and he turned out to be a legend.

Toronto boy, too.

I actually know a song about him...

Done gabbing, boys.

Work wagon'll be here in five minutes.

Wait, uh, do you fellows
know the meaning of this sign?

(GROANS WHILE DRAWING)

Where'd you see that?

Can't quite remember.

Some codes only pop up in
little corners of the world.

Might mean something to
a hobo riding down south

or one coming up north,

but in my ten years of b*ating trains,

never seen this one.

Look, you're going to
have to come back later.

No, look, I don't have time for
this. Now please be on your way.

(MAN MOANING)

Sir, get out of the road

or I'll haul you in for
public drunkenness. Ooh!

Oh, now you're
absolutely being arrested.

Come here!

Oh, God!

Give it a rest, Pasty.

We're tired. We just want to eat.

Just a little tune while the
crumb boss gets dinner together.

I promise, you'll love this
one, boys. I promise you.

Crumb boss means the camp cook.

Yes, I guessed as much.

(♪♪♪)

♪ There was a noble hobo Toronto-born ♪

- Cut it out!
- ♪ The free life just like ours ♪

Sounds like pigeons in combat.

He's no Caruso, but the tune's not bad.

- Pasty's still a suspect.
- (MAN, FROM AFAR): Cut it out!

He did know where Trader
went off to be m*rder*d;

- perhaps he did it himself.
- (GEORGE SHUSHES HIM.)

♪ ... his faithful kid broken-hearted ♪

♪ Set off for the gent's home ♪

♪ To be close to his
grave forever more ♪

♪ And to be with Gentleman Jones ♪

(HUMS)

Eh, eh?

You weren't listening
to me at all, were you?

I'm looking at his
hands. Look at his scars.

Those are the kind of cuts a
hobo could get from carving coins.

He could be our man.

If Pasty put those ghost coins
in the pockets of our victims,

that could be.

Another dead man, another coin.

Yes, sir. A Lachlan Murphy, a carpenter.

Opened his own small
concern about two years ago;

mostly worked in the
west end of Toronto.

So, is it the same k*ller?

Well, sir, the b*llet we
recovered from his body

is a match for the other two b*ll*ts

recovered from the two deceased hoboes.

Why would our k*ller switch
from hoboes to carpenters?

There has to be some connection.

Sirs.

Henry, were you able to track
down Mr. Murphy's employees?

I was. They said Mr. Murphy
went into his apron for a ruler,

came out with that coin.

He stared at it, went
pale and then left.

Went pale.

As if he'd seen a ghost.

(SIGHS) Bloody hell.

We liked your song, Pasty.

The other stiffs are tone-deaf.

Couldn't help seeing your hands, Pasty.

Make it hard to play?

- The scars?
- Mm.

- No.
- They look nasty. How d'you get 'em?

You have hobo coins?

I don't just have them, I make 'em.

Scarecrow was first attracted
to the life of a hobo

as a collector of those.

Still have yours, Scarecrow?

I've got one prized piece.

Where did you get this?

Just picked it up.

(SCOFFS)

No one drops a thing of beauty
like this, all this detail.

I need it.

Well, Scarecrow's quite attached to it.

Okay, how about a trade?

You know that symbol
you was asking about?

- The sunset?
- It's no sunset.

It's a tombstone.

Means there's a long, quiet
sleep to be had in a place.

Why didn't you tell
us about that before?

One of the others
told me after you left.

Which one?

Mutt, Hitch, one of them.

They use it all the
time down in Nebraska.

- Nebraska.
- Well, thank you for that.

Thank you?

Gimme the coin. This was a trade.

I didn't agree to any trade.

Pasty, you know there
was no trade, don't you?

(SPITS)

Good gracious.

Why do you think he
wanted that coin so bad?

Because he made it,
perhaps. I don't know.

Just now I'm thinking about Nebraska.

Why?

Nebraska is where Trader,
the first victim, grew up.

Whoever knew that sign was from Nebraska

and taught it to Pasty
has a piece of this puzzle.

Unless Pasty didn't just
learn it from someone else.

- What?
- Maybe he's lying to us.

- Maybe he knew what that meant all along.
- Right.

He's clearly got a bit of a temper

and an ugly way of driving a bargain.

Whether it was Pasty or one of the
other hoboes who knew that symbol,

that person could be our k*ller.

So this latest victim
was writing his memoirs?

Mr. Murphy worked as a
carpenter here in Toronto

for the past ten years, but before that,

traveled the land as a hobo.

This is a record of his adventures.

So, there's your connection.

Why did he decide to settle down?

Mr. Murphy didn't write that far.

But he did insert this article

at the back of the book.

"The death of Gentleman Jones."

A hero in the hobo community.

Wallace Jones was his real name,

- from right here in Toronto.
- Hm.

Turned his back on the family fortune

in favour of a life on the rails.

Now that's romantic, William.

Fell to his death out of a railcar

going through Nebraska ten years ago.

Must you spoil everything?

Well, I'm sorry, but
it's the truth, Julia.

So you say this carpenter
moved to Toronto ten years ago?

Yes.

Around the same time that
Gentleman Jones met his end.

Perhaps he knew the man,

or also read of Mr. Jones'
accident in the newspaper.

In any case, he decided
on a more secure life.

- (BABY FUSSING)
- Oh!

Uh. Ha! (CHUCKLING)

When she starts to walk, I don't
know what we're going to do.

There's always the tether.

We are not putting our
child on a leash, William.

- (BABY BABBLING)
- Oh.

Oh... ?

What is it?

This photograph of Jones.

And look at this coin.

That's him.

Pasty might be our coin maker,

which might make him our k*ller.

We should talk to the other
men about Pasty in the morning,

find out everything we can.

You're right.

But we must be more vigilant than ever.

We'll sleep in shifts.

Agreed.

I can't doze off out here, anyway.

- I'll take first watch.
- All right.

(SNORING)

Hey, hey, get off me!

Watts! Curly! It's him.

You were going to plant
this on me and then plug me.

Aaah!

Get off of me!

These two ain't hoboes,
they're hobo K*llers!

(GROANING)

Wait a minute! He's still got the g*n!

And we still have to get him.

(PANTING)

(GRUNTING IN EFFORT)

Well, we've hopped our first train.

The wrong car of our first train.

Well, Hitch has to be our k*ller.

The b*ll*ts from the victims
will match that g*n of his.

Oh, we can't get to his
car until the train stops.

He may be waiting for us.

With his g*n.

Uh, Watts...

We're not alone.

Pasty, my friend and I
came here to help you.

Doesn't seem that way.

You're in danger. We all are.

Who's to say you two aren't
the one k*lling our kind, huh?

We're here to find the k*ller.

Hitch k*lled Ferny and Trader, not us.

(CHUCKLES) I've known Hitch five years.

Never known him to k*ll anybody.

No hobo around here has
ever seen you two before.

Did you know that Hitch carried a g*n?

Perhaps the same kind of g*n
used to m*rder your friends?

(BOTH): No.

So, what do you want to do
now? Throw us off the train?

Uh, gentlemen don't want or
need suggestions, George. Please.

(TRAIN CREAKING, MEN GRUNTING)

There's no stop here.

The bulls are coming.

Bulls?

What, like the animals?

No, George, not the animals.

This all could have been his.

Gentleman Jones was the
eldest brother, you know.

No, thank you.

You don't refer to him as Wallace?

No, he preferred to
leave his old name behind.

He only came through Toronto a
few times after first leaving.

He loved the wandering life.

I-I still miss him.

Does this symbol mean anything to you?

It looks like a sunrise to me. Why?

Hm. No matter.

Mr. Jones, uh...

... did your brother have
any secrets before he d*ed?

- Was he hiding anything?
- (CHUCKLING): No.

Gentleman Jones was an open book.

Although not everyone believes
that his death was an accident.

How do you mean?

Well, it's hard to believe
that he simply fell off a train

after years of life on the rails.

The papers believed it.

I wanted to.

But his hobo friends didn't.

No.

Well, one in particular, at least.

The gent's partner.

He told me that my
brother had been m*rder*d.

He had a partner?

My brother told me about him.

Called him "The Kid,"

said that they traveled
most places together,

that he was never lonely.

So this partner wasn't
with him when he d*ed?

No, he-he wrote to me.

Said that they had parted
ways for a couple of weeks

and that's when my brother was k*lled.

Oh.

Do you have any idea what might
have motivated someone to m*rder him?

Well, there was a rumour

that he traveled with cash

stitched to the inside of his coat.

And The Kid told me that
the coat had been slit open

when the body was found.

You didn't see the body.

Not the clothes.

He's buried in the family plot.

I had him brought up from
Nebraska in a fresh suit.

Hm.

Did this kid mention anything
else about the m*rder?

The way The Kid put it,

they came up to him while
he was sleeping on the train,

and cut his coat open and when
they couldn't find anything,

they threw him off like he was nothing.

Did he happen to say
who "they" might be?

Said that there were
four men that did it.

That he didn't know their names

but when he did, he'd
do the right thing.

Meaning he would seek revenge.

Has anyone been k*lled, Detective?

I'm sorry to say that
they have, yes. Three men.

It's a terrible thing.

It's the last thing my
brother would have wanted.

(TRAIN WHISTLING)

Ooh! Uh!

Stealing a ride in broad daylight.

Put the foot splitters down!

Let's have a fair fight.

Now why would we want a fair fight?

Now listen, listen!

(ALL GRUNT)

Aaaah!

Watts, we've gotta
get up to Hitch's car!

Going too fast to jump, Scarecrow.

We'll have to wait until
the next stop, George.

Gentlemen, are we... ?

Anyone who will deck a
railway bull is a friend,

as far as I'm concerned.

Oh.

(PHONES RINGING)

Three dead men.

If what Owen Jones says is correct,

four men participated in the
m*rder of Gentleman Jones,

meaning there's still
potentially one victim out there.

And if he is correct,

each of these victims
could be a m*rder*r himself.

Yes, well, sir, their guilt or innocence

is hardly the point at this time.

We need to stop whoever's doing this.

This hobo partner that
Gentleman Jones had,

- you think he's our k*ller?
- Yes.

He went by "The Kid."

But there's no saying he still does now.

Well, ten years is long enough
to be a kid no longer, Murdoch.

- We need to tell Crabtree and Watts.
- Hm.

Let's hope they've discovered
something to help us solve this case

before there's a fourth victim.

- (INDISTINCT CHATTER)
- Get out.

- Watts, are you all right?
- All right.

Should we try to surprise Hitch?

Either he suspects we hopped
the train and is lying in wait,

or he'll be so startled
he'll start sh**ting.

A surprise is a bad idea.

Right.

Uh... (LOUDER): Hitch?

Don't make things worse for yourself!

We mean you no harm, so...

don't sh**t us.

We just want to talk.

And don't...

... sh**t us.

Hitch?

Hitch?

My God, he's dead.

(DRAMATIC MUSIC)

Hitch and another hobo, Sleepy Joe,

got on the train car together.

And yet Sleepy Joe was nowhere
to be seen when we found the body.

You suspect he's the k*ller?

He k*lled Hitch when he boarded,

placed another coin on him

and escaped while we were
fighting off the railroad bulls.

George and I thought we
were chasing the k*ller,

but we were chasing the victim.

His last victim, according
to what you said, sir.

(MURDOCH): So...

Sleepy Joe and The Kid,

uh, the noble hobo
Gentleman Jones's partner...

... could be one and the same.

If I'm right,

The Kid grew up, as it were,

to become Sleepy Joe.

And by now Sleepy Joe could be
halfway to Florida on a train.

Sir, why did you call
Gentleman Jones a noble hobo?

He was referred to as such in
the article about his death.

Noble hobo rings a bell.

Oof. I've made quite a
muddle of this, Detective.

I'm not sure the constabulary
made a very good choice

in their selection of
a private detective.

Nonsense, Watts. You didn't
have enough information, or time.

When Sleepy Joe saw you with that coin,

he knew that we were closing in.

He needed to finish his k*ller's task

and leave town that very night.

- The song!
- What?

Ah, Pasty's song!

That was about a "noble hobo,
Toronto-born!" Weren't you listening?

I was doing everything
in my power not to.

I wonder if I can
remember some of the words.

It went something like, uh...

Had no feather bed, just
a blanket made of stars,

- and he...
- Why does it matter?

The song could be about Jones.

... his faithful kid, broken-hearted...

Went off to the something,
something, something...

To stay by his grave, forevermore

and that's the something of something.

Oh, my goodness, George,

that's about the k*lling
of Gentleman Jones and...

The Kid!

- Well, unless it's just a song.
- No, no, no!

George, the gent's brother

had his body transported back
here to Toronto for burial,

- which means...
- If The Kid - Sleepy Joe -

wanted to be "close to his grave,"

he wouldn't hitch out of town
even with his task finished.

He'd have stayed in Toronto.

- When did Gentleman Jones die?
- Ten years ago.

Then our man may have
lived here ever since,

possibly not riding
the rails much at all.

Perhaps he's been living on the streets?

Or has re-entered society,
much like the late Mr. Murphy.

But still with a strong
connection to the hobo world.

- How do you figure?
- Otherwise, how would he know

his intended victims were in Toronto?

Aside from the carpenter, they
were all just passing through.

In any case, our k*ller, Sleepy Joe,

could still be here in Toronto,

which means we have the
opportunity to capture him.

How on earth will we find him?

We draw him out

using the one thing we know he wants.

(SNAPS FINGERS) Revenge.

If we can get word out that The
Kid's vengeance is incomplete,

- we can trap him.
- (MURDOCH): Yes.

- How do you propose we do that?
- With help.

Pasty, Pasty!

(INDISTINCT CHATTER IN THE BACKGROUND)

I've a proposal for you.

(PASTY SCOFFS)

If it's about anything but
a feather bed or a hot drink,

I'm too tired to be interested.

Mm!

Mm-mm-mm-mm-mm-mm.

This is downright delicious.

Where's the wine?

We need you to be alert
for this, Mr. Pasty.

We must bring this k*ller to justice.

- For that, we'll need you.
- Hm.

I don't help coppers.

You would be helping hoboes.

Letting people know
that they can't simply

k*ll you with impunity.

We just want you to spread a rumour:

That Hitch survived the sh**ting
and is laid up in a clinic.

Hitch is alive?

What? Oh, no. No,

I'm sorry, Pasty, Hitch is indeed dead.

We're asking you to spread a falsehood.

No visitors at the clinic
allowed, you'll say,

but if anyone wants to smuggle
Hitch a bottle of hooch,

leave it on the step at night.

There are code signs leading from
camp to the door of the clinic.

What's the angle?

If the k*ller believes
Hitch is still alive, then...

The k*ller will come back to
finish the job and we'll be waiting.

(INDISTINCT CHATTER IN THE STREETS)

(SOFT MUSIC)

(LOUD CHATTER, INDISTINCT)

It's a sign for "free doctor."

Free doctor. Right then.

Wait, uh, face goes on the other side.

- What?
- You're holding it upside down.

Well, you passed it to me upside down.

I hope this works. It's our only chance.

Do you really think the
face should be smiling?

Oh, for Pete...

No, I suppose not.

- Mm.
- Good enough?

Good enough.

Sir, do you think word has gotten out?

If I'm not mistaken, George,

those clinking sounds
were offerings of alcohol

from other members
of the hobo community.

Word has gotten out.

Did you... ?

(DOOR CREAKING)

- (MURDOCH): Grab him, George!
- Aaah!

(GEORGE): Oh, my goodness.

Oh, gracious, I'm sorry, miss!

Miss Dotson, what are you doing here?

I should ask you what you think
you're doing, manhandling me like that!

And you!

Wearing Hitch's hat
like some sort of ghoul!

You ought to be ashamed.

To repeat the detective's
question, Miss Dotson:

What brings you here?

Well, I-I was bringing
some food to the men

and they said Hitch was laid up here,

so I simply wanted to give
him my best and these vittles.

Uh, that's-that's still edible.

Uh, Miss Dotson, your hands?

Did you get those scars as a
tavern waitress, Miss Dotson?

Or carving hobo coins?

Back away. Not you.

You... stand in front of me.

Come on.

Back up, keep that g*n
pressed right in your spine.

It's you.

You're Sleepy Joe, aren't you?

(STRUGGLE SOUNDS)

These two ain't hoboes,
they're hobo K*llers!

- You followed Hitch and you k*lled him.
- Shut up.

Miss Dotson, this is a police constable.

He had nothing to do
with your partner's death.

My husband.

We might not have been
married in a church,

but Gentleman Jones was my husband.

And I know he wouldn't
want me looking for revenge,

so I did my best all these years
to forget what those men did to him.

Yes, and stop this.

Don't make it worse.

I did what he'd want for years.

I stayed close to his grave
so he'd never get lonely.

And I-I fed every hobo
that ever came asking.

Now back up.

You two keep still!

They k*lled him for nothing, you know.

Those men cut open his
coat and found not a cent.

And then they had the
gall to come into my town,

into his town!?

Was too much.

- (GEORGE GRUNTS)
- Aah!

- (MURDOCH): You all right, George?
- Yes.

(PANTING, GRUNTS)

I'm not going to die
in one of your prisons!

(PANICKED GRUNTS)

Well, least you'll have a warm
place to sleep for the next while.

(GEORGE SIGHS, RELIEVED)

Does the owner keep this
booth for you every day, then?

Oh, certainly not.

I don't even think
he likes me very much,

though I surely pay my table's
rent in coffee and sandwiches.

Must be nice, though, Watts,

not to be tied to the
station house every day.

Has your flirtation with hobo life

caused you to consider
early retirement, George?

No, no. I prefer to sleep
under my own roof with Effie,

but it must feel good to
have that sense of freedom.

What feels good is this.

How so?

George, I've been blown about
like a leaf by my doubts,

my travels and my
heart these past years.

It feels, I must say,

quite wonderful to be right here.

- In the diner?
- In Toronto.

- Oh, well. Yeah.
- With you.

And everyone else.

In a place that I can call home.

Oh, I long to travel again, William.

With my husband.

Do you think we ever will?

I do.

Well, I didn't mean at this very moment.

In the meantime...

Oh, my.

Is that us?

It certainly is.

That's a tiny, little Dr. Ogden

and Susannah and a tiny me.

- You're very tall.
- It's all I could find.

Our days of exploring the
world are not over, Julia.

They've just been delayed.

Oh!

(LAUGHING)