The Mousetrap and Other Plays

  MOLLIE. What do you mean by between us? I’m sorry for him—that’s all.

  GILES. Perhaps you’d met him before. Perhaps you suggested to him to come here and that you’d both pretend to meet for the first time. All cooked up between you, was it?

  MOLLIE. Giles, have you gone out of your mind? How dare you suggest these things?

  GILES. (Moving up to Centre of the refectory table) Rather odd, isn’t it, that he should come and stay at an out-of-the-way place like this?

  MOLLIE. No odder than that Miss Casewell and Major Metcalf and Mrs. Boyle should.

  GILES. I read once in a paper that these homicidal cases were able to attract women. Looks as though it were true. (He moves down Centre.) Where did you first know him? How long has this been going on?

  MOLLIE. You’re being absolutely ridiculous. (She moves Right slightly.) I never set cyes on Christopher Wren until he arrived yesterday.

  GILES. That’s what you say. Perhaps you’ve been running up to London to meet him on the sly.

  MOLLIE. You know perfectly well that I haven’t been up to London for weeks.

  GILES. (In a peculiar tone) You haven’t been up to London for weeks. Is—that—so?

  MOLLIE. What on earth do you mean? It’s quite true.

  GILES. Is it? Then what’s this? (He takes out MOLLIE’s glove from his pocket and draws out of it the bus ticket.)

  (MOLLIE starts.)

  This is one of the gloves you were wearing yesterday. You dropped it. I picked it up this afternoon when I was talking to Sergeant Trotter. You see what’s inside it—a London bus ticket!

  MOLLIE. (Looking guilty) Oh—that . . .

  GILES. (Turning away Right Centre) So it seems that you didn’t only go to the village yesterday, you went to London as well.

  MOLLIE. All right, I went to . . .

  GILES. Whilst I was safely away racing round the countryside.

  MOLLIE. (With emphasis) Whilst you were racing round the countryside . . .

  GILES. Come on now—admit it. You went to London.

  MOLLIE. All right. (She moves Centre below the sofa.) I went to London. So did you!

  GILES. What?

  MOLLIE. So did you. You brought back an evening paper. (She picks up the paper from the sofa.)

  GILES. Where did you get hold of that?

  MOLLIE. It was in your overcoat pocket.

  GILES. Anyone could have put it in there.

  MOLLIE. Did they? No, you were in London.

  GILES. All right. Yes, I was in London. I didn’t go to meet a woman there.

  MOLLIE. (In horror; whispering) Didn’t you—are you sure you didn’t?

  GILE. Eh? What d’you mean? (He comes nearer to her.)

  (MOLLIE recoils, backing away down Left.)

  MOLLIE. Go away. Don’t come near me.

  GILES. (Following her) What’s the matter?

  MOLLIE. Don’t touch me.

  GILES. Did you go to London yesterday to meet Christopher Wren.

  MOLLIE. Don’t be a fool. Of course I didn’t.

  GILES. Then why did you go?

  (MOLLIE changes her manner. She smiles in a dreamy fashion.)

  MOLLIE. I—shan’t tell you that. Perhaps—now—I’ve forgotten why I went . . . (She crosses towards the archway up Right.)

  GILES. (Moving to Left of MOLLIE) Mollie, what’s come over you? You’re different all of a sudden. I feel as though I don’t know you any more.

  MOLLIE. Perhaps you never did know me. We’ve been married how long—a year? But you don’t really know anything about me. What I’d done or thought or felt or suffered before you knew me.

  GILES. Mollie, you’re crazy . . .

  MOLLIE. All right then, I’m crazy! Why not? Perhaps it’s fun to be crazy!

  GILES. (Angrily) What the hell are you . . .?

  (MR. PARAVICINI enters from the archway up Right. He moves between them.)

  PARAVICINI. Now, now. I do hope you young people are not both saying a little more than you mean. One is so apt to in these lovers’ quarrels.

  GILES. “Lovers’ quarrels!” That’s good. (He moves to Left of the refectory table.)

  PARAVICINI. (Moving down to the small armchair Right) Quite so. Quite so. I know just how you feel. I have been through all this myself when I was a younger man. Jeunesse—jeunesse—as the poet says. Not been married long, I imagine?

  GILES. (Crossing to the fire) It’s no business of yours, Mr. Paravicini . . .

  PARAVICINI. (Moving down Centre) No, no, no business at all. But I just came in to say that the Sergeant cannot find his skis and I’m afraid he is very annoyed.

  MOLLIE. (Moving to Right of the sofa table) Christopher!

  GILES. What’s that?

  PARAVICINI. (Moving to face GILES) He wants to know if you have by any chance moved them, Mr. Ralston.

  GILES. No, of course not.

  (SERGEANT TROTTER enters from the archway up Right, looking red and annoyed.)

  TROTTER. Mr. Ralston—Mrs. Ralston—have you removed my skis from the cupboard back there where we put them?

  GILES. Certainly not.

  TROTTER. Somebody’s taken them.

  PARAVICINI. (Moving to Right of TROTTER) What made you happen to look for them?

  TROTTER. The snow is still lying. I need help here, reinforcements. I was going to ski over to the police station at Market Hampton to report on the situation.

  PARAVICINI. And now you can’t—dear, dear . . . Somebody’s seen to it that you certainly shan’t do that. But there could be another reason, couldn’t there?

  TROTTER. Yes, what?

  PARAVICINI. Somebody may want to get away.

  GILES. (Moving to Right of MOLLIE; to her) What did you mean when you said “Christopher” just now?

  MOLLIE. Nothing.

  PARAVICINI. (Chuckling) So our young architect has hooked it, has he? Very, very interesting.

  TROTTER. Is this true, Mrs. Ralston? (He moves to Centre of the refectory table.)

  (CHRISTOPHER enters from the stairs Left and comes to Left of the sofa.)

  MOLLIE. (Moving slightly Left) Oh, thank goodness. You haven’t gone, after all.

  TROTTER. (Crossing to Right of CHRISTOPHER) Did you take my skis, Mr. Wren?

  CHRISTOPHER. (Surprised) Your skis, Sergeant? No, why should I?

  TROTTER. Mrs. Ralston seemed to think . . . (He looks at MOLLIE.)

  MOLLIE. Mr. Wren is very fond of skiing. I thought he might have taken them just to—get a little exercise.

  GILES. Exercise? (He moves up to Centre of the refectory table.)

  TROTTER. Now, listen, you people. This is a serious matter. Somebody has removed my only chance of communication with the outside world. I want everybody here—at once.

  PARAVICINI. I think Miss Casewell has gone upstairs.

  MOLLIE. I’ll get her.

  (MOLLIE exits up the stairs. TROTTER moves to Left of the arch up Left.)

  PARAVICINI. (Moving down Right) I left Major Metcalf in the dining room. (He opens the door down Right and looks in.) Major Metcalf! He’s not there now.

  GILES. I’ll try and find him.

  (GILES exits up Right. MOLLIE and MISS CASEWELL enter from the stairs. MOLLIE moves to Right of the refectory table and MISS CASEWELL to Left of it. MAJOR METCALF enters up Left from the library.)

  MAJOR METCALF. Hullo, wanting me?

  TROTTER. It’s a question of my skis.

  MAJOR METCALF. Skis? (He moves to Left of the sofa.)

  PARAVICINI. (Moving to the archway up Right and calling) Mr. Ralston!

  (GILES enters up Right and stands below the arch. PARAVICINI returns and sits in the small armchair down Right.)

  TROTTER. Did either of you two remove a pair of skis from the cupboard near the kitchen door?

  MISS CASEWELL. Good Lord, no. Why should I?

  MAJOR METCALF. And I didn’t touch ’em.

  TROTTER. Nevertheless, they are gone. (To MISS CASEWELL) Which way did you go to
your room?

  MISS CASEWELL. By the back stairs.

  TROTTER. Then you passed the cupboard door.

  MISS CASEWELL. If you say so—I’ve no idea where your skis are.

  TROTTER. (To MAJOR METCALF) You were actually in that cupboard today.

  MAJOR METCALF. Yes, I was.

  TROTTER. At the time Mrs. Boyle was killed.

  MAJOR METCALF. At the time Mrs. Boyle was killed I’d gone down to the cellar.

  TROTTER. Were the skis in the cupboard when you passed through?

  MAJOR METCALF. I haven’t the least idea.

  TROTTER. Didn’t you see them there?

  MAJOR METCALF. Can’t remember.

  TROTTER. You must remember if those skis were there then?

  MAJOR METCALF. No good shouting at me, young fellow. I wasn’t thinking about any damned skis. I was interested in the cellars. (He moves to the sofa and sits.) Architecture of this place is very interesting. I opened the other door and I went on down. So I can’t tell you whether the skis were there or not.

  TROTTER. (Moving down to Left of the sofa) You realize that you, yourself, had an excellent opportunity of taking them?

  MAJOR METCALF. Yes, yes, I grant you that. If I wanted to, that is.

  TROTTER. The question is, where are they now?

  MAJOR METCALF. Ought to be able to find them if we all set to. Not a case of “Hunt the Thimble.” Whacking great things, skis. Supposing we all set to. (He rises and crosses Right towards the door.)

  TROTTER. Not quite so fast, Major Metcalf. That may be, you know, what we are meant to do.

  MAJOR METCALF. Eh? I don’t get you.

  TROTTER. I’m in the position now where I’ve got to put myself in the place of a crazy cunning brain. I’ve got to ask myself what he wants us to do and what he, himself, is planning to do next. I’ve got to try and keep just one step ahead of him. Because if I don’t, there’s going to be another death.

  MISS CASEWELL. You still don’t believe that?

  TROTTER. Yes, Miss Casewell. I do. Three blind mice. Two mice cancelled out—a third mouse still to be dealt with. (Moving down Centre, with his back to the audience) There are six of you here listening to me. One of you’s a killer!

  (There is a pause. They are all affected and look uneasily at one another.)

  One of you’s a killer. (He moves to the fire.) I don’t know which yet, but I shall. And another of you is the killer’s prospective victim. That’s the person I’m speaking to. (He crosses to MOLLIE.) Mrs. Boyle held out on me—Mrs. Boyle is dead. (He moves up Centre.) You—whoever you are—are holding out on me. Well—don’t. Because you’re in danger. Nobody who’s killed twice is going to hesitate to kill a third time. (He moves to Right of MAJOR METCALF.) And as it is, I don’t know which of you it is who needs protection.

  (There is a pause.)

  (Crossing down Centre and turning his back to the audience) Come on, now, anybody here who has anything, however slight, to reproach themselves for in that bygone business, had better come out with it.

  (There is a pause.)

  All right—you won’t. I’ll get the killer—I’ve no doubt of that—but it may be too late for one of you. (He moves up to Centre of the refectory table.) And I’ll tell you another thing. The killer’s enjoying this. Yes, he’s enjoying himself a good deal . . .

  (There is a pause.)

  (He moves round the Right end of the refectory table to behind it. He opens the Right curtain, looks out and then sits at the Right end of the window-seat) All right—you can go.

  (MAJOR METCALF exits into the dining room down Right. CHRISTOPHER exits up the stairs Left. MISS CASEWELL crosses to the fire and leans on the mantelpiece. GILES moves Centre and MOLLIE follows; GILES stops and turns Right. MOLLIE turns her back on him and moves behind the armchair Centre. PARAVICINI rises and moves to Right of MOLLIE.)

  PARAVICINI. Talking of chicken, dear lady, have you ever tried chickens’ livers served on toast that has been thickly smeared with foie gras, with a very thin rasher of bacon just touched with a soupçon of fresh mustard? I will come with you to the kitchen and we will see what we can concoct together. A charming occupation.

  (PARAVICINI takes MOLLIE’s right arm and starts to move up Right.)

  GILES. (Taking MOLLIE’s left arm) I’m helping my wife, Paravicini.

  (MOLLIE throws off GILES’s arm.)

  PARAVICINI. Your husband is afraid for you. Quite natural under the circumstances. He doesn’t fancy your being alone with me.

  (MOLLIE throws off PARAVICINI’s arm.)

  It is my sadistic tendencies he fears—not my dishonourable ones. (He leers.) Alas, what an inconvenience the husband always is. (He kisses her fingers.) Arrivederlà . . .

  MOLLIE. I’m sure Giles doesn’t think . . .

  PARAVICINI. He is very wise. Take no chances. (He moves down to Right of the armchair centre.) Can I prove to you or to him or to our dogged Sergeant that I am not a homicidal maniac? So difficult to prove a negative. And suppose that instead I am really . . . (He hums the tune of “Three Blind Mice.”)

  MOLLIE. Oh, don’t. (She moves to the back of the armchair Centre.)

  PARAVICINI. But such a gay little tune? Don’t you think? She cut off their tails with a carving knife—snick, snick, snick—delicious. Just what a child would adore. Cruel little things, children. (Leaning forward) Some of them never grow up.

  (MOLLIE gives a frightened cry.)

  GILES. (Moving to Right of the refectory table) Stop frightening my wife at once.

  MOLLIE. It’s silly of me. But you see—I found her. Her face was all purple. I can’t forget it . . .

  PARAVICINI. I know. It’s difficult to forget things, isn’t it? You aren’t really the forgetting kind.

  MOLLIE. (Incoherently) I must go—the food—dinner—prepare the spinach—and the potatoes all going to pieces—please, Giles.

  (GILES and MOLLIE exit through the archway up Right. PARAVICINI leans on the Left side of the arch and looks after them, grinning. MISS CASEWELL stands by the fireplace, lost in thought.)

  TROTTER. (Rising and crossing to Left of PARAVICINI) What did you say to the lady to upset her, sir?

  PARAVICINI. Me, Sergeant? Oh, just a little innocent fun. I’ve always been fond of a little joke.

  TROTTER. There’s nice fun—and there’s fun that’s not so nice.

  PARAVICINI. (Moving down Centre) Now I do wonder what you mean by that, Sergeant?

  TROTTER. I’ve been doing a little wondering about you, sir.

  PARAVICINI. Indeed?

  TROTTER. I’ve been wondering about that car of yours, and how it happened to overturn in a snowdrift (He pauses and draws the Right curtain.) so conveniently.

  PARAVICINI. Inconveniently, you mean, don’t you, Sergeant?

  TROTTER. (Moving down to Right of PARAVICINI) That rather depends on the way you’re looking at it. Just where were you bound for, by the way, when you had this—accident?

  PARAVICINI. Oh—I was on my way to see a friend.

  TROTTER. In this neighbourhood?

  PARAVICINI. Not so very far from here.

  TROTTER. And what was the name and address of this friend?

  PARAVICINI. Now really, Sergeant Trotter, does that matter now? I mean, it has nothing to do with this predicament, has it? (He sits at the Left end of the sofa.)

  TROTTER. We always like the fullest information. What did you say this friend’s name was?

  PARAVICINI. I didn’t say. (He takes a cigar from a case in his pocket.)

  TROTTER. No, you didn’t say. And it seems you’re not going to say. (He sits on the Right arm of the sofa.) Now that’s very interesting.

  PARAVICINI. But there might be—so many reasons. An amour—discretion. These jealous husbands. (He pierces the cigar.)

  TROTTER. Rather old to be running around with the ladies at your time of life, aren’t you?

  PARAVICINI. My dear Sergeant, I am not, perhaps, quite so old as I look.

/>   TROTTER. That’s just what I’ve been thinking, sir.

  PARAVICINI. What? (He lights the cigar.)

  TROTTER. That you may not be as old as you—try to look. There’s a lot of people trying to look younger than they are. If somebody goes about trying to look older—well, it does make one ask oneself why.

  PARAVICINI. Having asked questions of so many people—you ask questions of yourself as well? Isn’t that overdoing things?

  TROTTER. I might get an answer from myself—I don’t get many from you.

  PARAVICINI. Well, well—try again—that is, if you have any more questions to ask.

  TROTTER. One or two. Where were you coming from last night?

  PARAVICINI. That is simple—from London.

  TROTTER. What address in London?

  PARAVICINI. I always stay at the Ritz Hotel.

  TROTTER. Very nice, too, I’m sure. What is your permanent address?

  PARAVICINI. I dislike permanency.

  TROTTER. What’s your business or profession?

  PARAVICINI. I play the markets.

  TROTTER. Stockbroker?

  PARAVICINI. No, no, you misunderstand me.

  TROTTER. Enjoying this little game, aren’t you? Sure of yourself, too. But I shouldn’t be too sure. You’re mixed up in a murder case, and don’t you forget it. Murder isn’t just fun and games.

  PARAVICINI. Not even this murder? (He gives a little giggle, and looks sideways at TROTTER.) Dear me, you’re very serious, Sergeant Trotter. I always have thought policemen have no sense of humour. (He rises and moves to Left of the sofa.) Is the inquisition over—for the moment?

  TROTTER. For the moment—yes.

  PARAVICINI. Thank you so much. I shall go and look for your skis in the drawing room. Just in case someone has hidden them in the grand piano.

  (PARAVICINI exits down Left. TROTTER looks after him, frowning, moves down to the door and opens it. MISS CASEWELL crosses quietly towards the stairs Left. TROTTER shuts the door.)

  TROTTER. (Without turning his head) Just a minute, please.

  MISS CASEWELL. (Pausing at the stairs) Were you speaking to me?

  TROTTER. Yes. (Crossing to the armchair Centre.) Perhaps you’d come and sit down. (He arranges the armchair for her.)

  (MISS CASEWELL looks at him warily and crosses below the sofa.)

  MISS CASEWELL. Well, what do you want?