The Mousetrap and Other Plays Page 6

  EMILY. (Opens Bible again) “Then all the princes of the sea shall come down from their thrones, and lay away their robes, and put of their ’broidered garments.” (Enter BLORE up Right) “They shall clothe themselves with trembling, they shall sit upon the ground, and shall tremble at every moment, and be astonished at thee.” (Looks up and sees BLORE, but her eyes are almost unseeing.)

  BLORE. (Speaks readily, but watches her with a new interest) Reading aloud, Miss Brent?

  EMILY. It is my custom to read a portion of the Bible every day.

  BLORE. Very good habit, I’m sure. (To down Right.)

  (ARMSTRONG comes Right along balcony and in.)

  VERA. What luck did you have?

  ARMSTRONG. There’s no cover on the island. No caves. No one could hide anywhere.

  (WARN Curtain.)

  BLORE. That’s right. (LOMBARD enters Left 2.) What about the house, Lombard?

  LOMBARD. No one. I’ll stake my life there’s no one in the house but ourselves. I’ve been over it from attic to cellar.

  (ROGERS enters from balcony. WARGRAVE comes Right along balcony, slowly, and in to Right of window.)

  ROGERS. Breakfast is getting cold.

  (EMILY is still reading.)

  LOMBARD. (Boisterously) Breakfast! Come on, Blore, you’ve been yelping for breakfast ever since you got up. Let’s eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die. Or who knows, perhaps even today!

  (VERA and ARMSTRONG cross to Left 2 door.)

  EMILY. (Rises; drops knitting. BLORE picks it up.) You ought to be ashamed of such levity, Captain Lombard. (Crosses Right.)

  LOMBARD. (Still in the same vein, with determination) Come on, General, can’t have this. (Calls) Breakfast, I say, sir—(Goes out on balcony to MACKENZIE. Stops—stoops—comes slowly back and stands in window. His face is stern and dangerous.) Good God! One got left behind—There’s a knife in MacKenzie’s back.

  ARMSTRONG. (Goes to him) He’s dead—he’s dead.

  BLORE. But he can’t be—Who could have done it? There’s only us on the island.

  WARGRAVE. Exactly, my dear sir. Don’t you realize that this clever and cunning criminal is always comfortably one stage ahead of us? That he knows exactly what we are going to do next, and makes his plans accordingly? There’s only one place, you know, where a successful murderer could hide and have a reasonable chance of getting away with it.

  BLORE. One place—where?

  WARGRAVE. Here in this room—Mr. Owen is one of us!

  CURTAIN

  Scene II

  There is a storm; the room is much darker—the windows closed and beating rain and wind.

  WARGRAVE comes in from Left 2, followed by BLORE.

  BLORE. Sir Lawrence?

  WARGRAVE. (Centre) Well, Mr. Blore?

  BLORE. I wanted to get you alone. (Looks over shoulder at dining room) You were right in what you said this morning. This damned murderer is one of us. And I think I know which one.

  WARGRAVE. Really?

  BLORE. Ever hear of the Lizzie Borden case? In America. Old couple killed with an axe in the middle of the morning. Only person who could have done it was the daughter, a respectable, middle-aged spinster. Incredible. So incredible that they acquitted her. But they never found any other explanation.

  WARGRAVE. Then your answer to the problem is Miss Emily Brent?

  BLORE. I tell you that woman is as mad as a hatter. Religious mad, I tell you—she’s the one. And we must watch her.

  WARGRAVE. Really? I had formed the impression that your suspicions were in a different quarter.

  BLORE. Yes—But I’ve changed my mind, and I’ll tell you for why—she’s not scared and she’s the only one who isn’t. Why? Because she knows quite well she’s in no danger—hush—

  (WARGRAVE goes up Right. VERA and EMILY enter from Left 2. VERA is carrying coffee tray. EMILY up Centre.)

  VERA. We’ve made some coffee. (She puts tray on tabouret Right Centre. BLORE moves up to tabouret) Brr—it’s cold in here.

  BLORE. You’d hardly believe it when you think what a beautiful day it was this morning.

  VERA. Are Captain Lombard and Rogers still out?

  BLORE. Yes. No boat will put out in this—and it couldn’t land, anyway.

  VERA. Miss Brent’s. (Hands coffee cup to BLORE.)

  (EMILY comes down; sits Left sofa.)

  WARGRAVE. Allow me. (Takes cup and hands it to EMILY.)

  VERA. (To WARGRAVE) You were right to insist on our going to lunch—and drinking some brandy with it. I feel better.

  WARGRAVE. (Returns to coffee tray—takes his own coffee; stands by mantelpiece) The Court always adjourns for lunch.

  VERA. All the same, it’s a nightmare. It seems as though it can’t be true. What—what are we going to do about it?

  (BLORE sits chair Right Centre.)

  WARGRAVE. We must hold an informal Court of Enquiry. We may at least be able to eliminate some innocent people.

  BLORE. You haven’t got a hunch of any kind, have you, Miss Claythorne?

  WARGRAVE. If Miss Claythorne suspects one of us three, that is rather an awkward question.

  VERA. I’m sure it isn’t any of you. If you ask me who I suspected, I’d say Doctor Armstrong.

  BLORE. Armstrong.

  VERA. Yes. Because, don’t you see, he’s had far and away the best chance to kill Mrs. Rogers. Terribly easy for him, as a doctor, to give her an overdose of sleeping stuff.

  BLORE. That’s true. But someone else gave her brandy, remember.

  (EMILY goes up Left and sits.)

  WARGRAVE. Her husband had a good opportunity of administering a drug.

  BLORE. It isn’t Rogers. He wouldn’t have the brains to fix all this stunt—nor the money. Besides, you can see he’s scared stiff.

  (ROGERS and LOMBARD, in mackintoshes, come up Right on balcony and appear at window. BLORE goes and lets them in. As he opens the window, a swirl of loud wind and rain comes in. EMILY half screams and turns round.)

  LOMBARD. My God, it’s something like a storm.

  EMILY. Oh, it’s only you—

  VERA. Who did you think it was? (Pause) Beatrice Taylor?

  EMILY. (Angrily) Eh?

  LOMBARD. Not a hope of rescue until this dies down. Is that coffee? Good. (To VERA) I’m taking to coffee now, you see.

  VERA. (Takes him a cup) Such restraint in the face of danger is nothing short of heroic.

  WARGRAVE. (Crosses to down Left; sits) I do not, of course, profess to be a weather prophet. But I should say that it is very unlikely that a boat could reach us, even if it knew of our plight, under twenty-four hours. Even if the wind drops, the sea has still to go down.

  (LOMBARD sits Left sofa. ROGERS pulls off his shoes.)

  VERA. You’re awfully wet.

  BLORE. Is anyone a swimmer? Would it be possible to swim to the mainland?

  VERA. It’s over a mile—and in this sea you’d be dashed on the rocks and drowned.

  EMILY. (Speaking like one in a trance) Drowned—drowned—in the pond—(Drops knitting.)

  WARGRAVE. (Rising; startled, moves up to her) I beg your pardon, Miss Brent. (He picks it up for her.)

  BLORE. After-dinner nap.

  (Another furious gust of wind and rain.)

  VERA. It’s terribly cold in here. (To Right; sits on fender.)

  ROGERS. I could light the fire if you like, Miss?

  VERA. That would be a good idea.

  LOMBARD. (Crossing Right) Very sound scheme, Rogers. (He sits on fender; puts on shoes.)

  ROGERS. (Goes towards Left 1 door—is going through, but comes back and asks) Excuse me, but does anybody know what’s become of the top bathroom curtain?

  LOMBARD. Really, Rogers, are you going bats too?

  BLORE. (Blankly) The bathroom curtain?

  ROGERS. Yes, sir. Scarlet oilsilk. It’s missing.

  (They look at each other.)

  LOMBARD. Anybody seen a scarlet oilsilk curtain? No good, I’m afraid,
Rogers.

  ROGERS. It doesn’t matter, sir, only I just thought as it was odd.

  LOMBARD. Everything on this island is odd.

  ROGERS. I’ll get some sticks and a few knobs of coal and get a nice fire going. (Goes out Left 2.)

  VERA. I wonder if he would like some hot coffee. He’s very wet. (Runs out after him, calling “Rogers.”)

  LOMBARD. What’s become of Armstrong?

  WARGRAVE. He went to his room to rest.

  LOMBARD. Somebody’s probably batted him one by now!

  WARGRAVE. I expect he had the good sense to bolt his door.

  BLORE. It won’t be so easy now that we’re all on our guard. (Lights cigarette at mantelpiece.)

  (A rather unpleasant silence.)

  WARGRAVE. I advise you, Mr. Blore, not to be too confident. I should like shortly to propose certain measures of safety, which I think we should all adopt.

  LOMBARD. Against whom?

  WARGRAVE. (Up Centre) Against each other. We are all in grave danger. Of the ten people who came to this island, three are definitely cleared. There are seven of us left—seven little Indian boys.

  LOMBARD. One of whom is a bogus little Indian boy.

  WARGRAVE. Exactly.

  BLORE. (To Right Centre) Well, in spite of what Miss Claythorne said just now, I’d say that you, Sir Lawrence, and Doctor Armstrong are above suspicion. He’s a well-known doctor, and you’re known all over England.

  WARGRAVE. (Interrupts him) Mr. Blore, that proves nothing at all. Judges have gone mad before now. So have doctors. (Pause) So have policemen.

  LOMBARD. Hear, hear. (VERA enters Left 2) Well, does he want some coffee?

  VERA. (Crossing Right to tabouret Right Centre; lightly) He’d rather make himself a nice cup of tea! What about Doctor Armstrong? Do you think we ought to take him up a cup?

  WARGRAVE. I will take it up if you like.

  LOMBARD. I’ll take it. I want to change.

  VERA. Yes, you ought to. You’ll catch cold.

  WARGRAVE. (Smiling ironically) I think Doctor Armstrong might prefer to see me. He might not admit you, Captain Lombard. He might be afraid of your revolver.

  BLORE. Ah, that revolver. (Meaningly) I want a word with you about that—

  VERA. (To LOMBARD) Do go and change.

  (WARGRAVE takes cup from her and, passing behind, goes out Left 2.)

  LOMBARD. (Up Right Centre to BLORE) What were you going to say?

  BLORE. I’d like to know why you brought a revolver down here on what’s supposed to be a little social visit.

  LOMBARD. You would, would you? (After a momentary pause) I’ve led a rather adventurous life. I’ve got into the habit of taking a revolver about with me. I’ve been in a bit of a jam once or twice. (Smiles) It’s a pleasant feeling to have a gun handy. (To BLORE) Don’t you agree?

  (Enter ARMSTRONG Left 1; stands down Left.)

  BLORE. We don’t carry them. Now then, I want the truth about this gun—

  LOMBARD. What a damned suspicious fellow you are, Blore!

  BLORE. I know a fishy story when I hear one.

  ARMSTRONG. If it’s about that revolver, I’d like to hear what you’ve got to say.

  LOMBARD. (Crossing down Left) Oh, well, I got a letter, asking me to come here as the guest of Mr. and Mrs. Owen—It would be worth my while. The writer said that he had heard I’d got a reputation for being a good man in a tight place. There might be some danger, but I’d be all right if I kept my eyes open.

  BLORE. I’d never have fallen for that.

  LOMBARD. Well, I did. I was bored. God, how I was bored back in this tame country. It was an intriguing proposition, you must admit.

  BLORE. Too vague for my liking.

  LOMBARD. That was the whole charm. It aroused my curiosity.

  BLORE. Curiosity killed the cat.

  LOMBARD. (Smiling) Yes, quite.

  VERA. Oh, do go and change, please!

  LOMBARD. I’m going my sweet, I’m going. The maternal instinct I think it’s called.

  VERA. Don’t be ridiculous—

  (VERA, up Left, collects EMILY’s cup; goes down Right with it. LOMBARD exits Left 1.)

  BLORE. (Crosses down Left) That’s a tall story. If it’s true, why didn’t he tell it to us last night?

  ARMSTRONG. He might have thought that this was exactly the emergency for which he had been prepared.

  VERA. Perhaps it is.

  ARMSTRONG. (Crosses Right Centre; puts down cup on tabouret and goes Right.) I hardly think so. It was just Mr. Owen’s little bit of cheese to get him into the trap with the rest of us. He must have known him enough to rely on his curiosity.

  BLORE. If it’s true, he’s a wrong ’un, that man. I wouldn’t trust him a yard.

  VERA. (Up Centre) Are you such a good judge of truth?

  (WARGRAVE enters Left 1.)

  ARMSTRONG. (With a sudden outburst) We must get out of here—we must, before it is too late. (He is shaking violently.)

  (BLORE sits down Left.)

  WARGRAVE. The one thing we must not do is to give way to nerves. (Crosses Right above Left sofa.)

  ARMSTRONG. (Sits on fender) I’m sorry. (Tries to smile) Rather a case of “Physician, heal thyself.” But I’ve been overworked lately and run down.

  WARGRAVE. Sleeping badly?

  ARMSTRONG. Yes. I keep dreaming—Hospital—operations—A knife at my throat—(Shivers.)

  WARGRAVE. Real nightmares.

  ARMSTRONG. Yes. (Curiously) Do you ever dream you’re in Court—sentencing a man to death?

  WARGRAVE. (Sits Left sofa; smiling) Are you by any chance referring to a man called Edward Seton? I can assure you I should not lose any sleep over the death of Edward Seton. A particularly brutal and cold-blooded murderer. The jury liked him. They were inclined to let him off. I could see. However—(With quiet ferocity) I cooked Seton’s goose.

  (EVERYONE gives a little shiver.)

  BLORE. Brr! Cold in here, isn’t it? (Rises; to Centre.)

  VERA. (Up Right of window) I wish Rogers would hurry up.

  BLORE. Yes, where is Rogers? He’s been a long time.

  VERA. He said he’d got to get some sticks.

  BLORE. (Struck by the word) Sticks? Sticks? My God, sticks!

  ARMSTRONG. My God! (Rises, looking at mantelpiece.)

  BLORE. Is another one gone? Are there only six?

  ARMSTRONG. (Bewildered) There are only five.

  VERA. Five?

  (They stare at each other.)

  WARGRAVE. Rogers and Lombard? (Rises.)

  VERA. (With a cry) Oh, no, not Philip!

  (LOMBARD enters Left 1; meets BLORE rushing out Left 1, calling “Rogers.”)

  LOMBARD. Where the hell is Blore off to like a madman?

  VERA. (Running to him at Left Centre) Oh, Philip, I—

  (WARN Curtain.)

  WARGRAVE. (Up Right) Have you seen Rogers?

  LOMBARD. No, why should I?

  ARMSTRONG. Two more Indians have gone.

  LOMBARD. Two?

  VERA. I thought it was you—

  (BLORE enters Left 1 looking pretty awful.)

  ARMSTRONG. Well, what is it?

  BLORE. (Only just able to speak. His voice quite unlike itself) In the—scullery.

  VERA. Is he—?

  BLORE. Oh, yes, he’s dead all right—

  VERA. How?

  BLORE. With an axe. Somebody must have come up behind him whilst he was bent over the wood box.

  VERA. (Wildly) “One chopped himself in half—then there were six.” (She begins laughing hysterically.)

  LOMBARD. Stop it, Vera—Stop it! (Sits her on Left sofa. Slaps her face. To the OTHERS) She’ll be all right. What next, boys? Bees? Do they keep bees on the island? (They stare at him as if not understanding. He keeps his nonchalant manner up with a trace of effort. Down to Centre) Well, that’s the next verse, isn’t it?

  “Six little Indian boys playing with a hive;

  A bumble bee s
tung one, and then there were five.” (He moves around the room.)

  ARMSTRONG. My God! He’s right. There are only five.

  LOMBARD. A bumble bee stung one—We all look pretty spry, nothing wrong with any of us. (His glance rests on EMILY) My God, you don’t think—(He goes slowly over to her, bends down, touches her. He then picks up a hypodermic syringe, and turns to face the others) A hypodermic syringe.

  WARGRAVE. The modern beesting.

  VERA. (Stammering) While she was sitting there—one of us—

  WARGRAVE. One of us.

  (They look at each other.)

  ARMSTRONG. Which of us?

  CURTAIN

  ACT THREE

  Scene I

  Some hours later, the same night.

  The curtains are drawn and the room is lit by three candles. WARGRAVE, VERA, BLORE, LOMBARD and ARMSTRONG, who is dirty and unshaven, are sitting in silence. LOMBARD sits chair Right Centre, ARMSTRONG on Right sofa, WARGRAVE Left sofa, VERA on fender, BLORE down Left. From time to time they shoot quick, covert glances at each other. VERA watches ARMSTRONG; BLORE watches LOMBARD; LOMBARD watches WARGRAVE; ARMSTRONG watches BLORE and LOMBARD alternately. WARGRAVE watches each in turn, but most often VERA with a long, speculative glance. There is silence for some few minutes. Then LOMBARD speaks suddenly in a loud, jeering voice that makes them all jump.

  LOMBARD.

  “Five little Indian boys sitting in a row,

  Watching each other and waiting for the blow.”

  New version up to date! (He laughs discordantly.)

  ARMSTRONG. I hardly think this is a moment for facetiousness.

  LOMBARD. Have to relieve the gloom. (Rises to above Right sofa) Damn that electric plant running down. Let’s play a nice round game. What about inventing one called “Suspicions?” A. suspects B., B. suspects C.—and so on. Let’s start with Blore. It’s not hard to guess whom Blore suspects. It sticks out a mile. I’m your fancy, aren’t I, Blore?

  BLORE. I wouldn’t say no to that.

  LOMBARD. (Crosses to Left a few steps) You’re quite wrong, you know. Abstract justice isn’t my line. If I committed murder, there would have to be something in it for me.

  BLORE. All I say is that you’ve acted suspiciously from the start. You’ve told two different stories. You came here with a revolver. Now you say you’ve lost it.

  LOMBARD. I have lost it.