The Mousetrap and Other Plays

  TROTTER. You may have heard some of the questions I was asking Mr. Paravicini?

  MISS CASEWELL. I heard them.

  TROTTER. (Moving to the Right end of the sofa) I’d like to have a little information from you.

  MISS CASEWELL. (Moving to the armchair Centre and sitting) What do you want to know?

  TROTTER. Full name, please.

  MISS CASEWELL. Leslie Margaret (She pauses) Katherine Casewell.

  TROTTER. (With just a nuance of something different) Katherine . . .

  MISS CASEWELL. I spell it with a “K.”

  TROTTER. Quite so. Address?

  MISS CASEWELL. Villa Mariposa, Pine d’or, Majorca.

  TROTTER. That’s in Italy?

  MISS CASEWELL. It’s an island—a Spanish island.

  TROTTER. I see. And your address in England?

  MISS CASEWELL. Care of Morgan’s Bank, Leadenhall Street.

  TROTTER. No other English address?

  MISS CASEWELL. No.

  TROTTER. How long have you been in England?

  MISS CASEWELL. A week.

  TROTTER. And you have been staying since your arrival . . .?

  MISS CASEWELL. At the Ledbury Hotel, Knightsbridge.

  TROTTER. (Sitting at the Right end of the sofa) What brought you to Monkswell Manor, Miss Casewell?

  MISS CASEWELL. I wanted somewhere quiet—in the country.

  TROTTER. How long did you—or do you—propose to remain here? (He starts twirling his hair with his right hand.)

  MISS CASEWELL. Until I’ve finished what I came here to do. (She notices the twirling.)

  (TROTTER looks up, startled by a force in her words. She stares at him.)

  TROTTER. And what was that?

  (There is a pause.)

  And what was that? (He stops twirling his hair.)

  MISS CASEWELL. (With a puzzled frown) Eh?

  TROTTER. What was it you came here to do?

  MISS CASEWELL. I beg your pardon. I was thinking of something else.

  TROTTER. (Rising and moving to Left of MISS CASEWELL) You haven’t answered my question.

  MISS CASEWELL. I really don’t see, you know, why I should. It’s a matter that concerns me alone. A strictly private affair.

  TROTTER. All the same, Miss Casewell . . .

  MISS CASEWELL. (Rising and moving to the fire) No, I don’t think we’ll argue about it.

  TROTTER. (Following her) Would you mind telling me your age?

  MISS CASEWELL. Not in the least. It’s on my passport. I am twenty-four.

  TROTTER. Twenty-four?

  MISS CASEWELL. You were thinking I look older. That is quite true.

  TROTTER. Is there anyone in this country who can—vouch for you?

  MISS CASEWELL. My bank will reassure you as to my financial position. I can also refer you to a solicitor—a very discreet man. I am not in a position to offer you a social reference. I have lived most of my life abroad.

  TROTTER. In Majorca?

  MISS CASEWELL. In Majorca—and other places.

  TROTTER. Were you born abroad?

  MISS CASEWELL. No, I left England when I was thirteen.

  (There is a pause, with a feeling of tension in it.)

  TROTTER. You know, Miss Casewell, I can’t quite make you out. (He backs away Left slightly.)

  MISS CASEWELL. Does it matter?

  TROTTER. I don’t know. (He sits in the armchair Centre.) What are you doing here?

  MISS CASEWELL. It seems to worry you.

  TROTTER. It does worry me . . . (He stares at her.) You went abroad when you were thirteen?

  MISS CASEWELL. Twelve—thirteen—thereabouts.

  TROTTER. Was your name Casewell then?

  MISS CASEWELL. It’s my name now.

  TROTTER. What was your name then? Come on—tell me.

  MISS CASEWELL. What are you trying to prove? (She loses her calm.)

  TROTTER. I want to know what your name was when you left England?

  MISS CASEWELL. It’s a long time ago. I’ve forgotten.

  TROTTER. There are things one doesn’t forget.

  MISS CASEWELL. Possibly.

  TROTTER. Unhappiness—despair . . .

  MISS CASEWELL. I daresay . . .

  TROTTER. What’s your real name?

  MISS CASEWELL. I told you—Leslie Margaret Katherine Casewell. (She sits in the small armchair down Right.)

  TROTTER. (Rising) Katherine . . .? (He stands over her.) What the hell are you doing here?

  MISS CASEWELL. I . . . Oh God . . . (She rises, moves Centre, and drops on the sofa. She cries, rocking herself to and fro.) I wish to God I’d never come here.

  (TROTTER, startled, moves to Right of the sofa. CHRISTOPHER enters from the door down Left.)

  CHRISTOPHER. (Coming Left of the sofa) I always thought the police weren’t allowed to give people the third degree.

  TROTTER. I have merely been interrogating Miss Casewell.

  CHRISTOPHER. You seem to have upset her. (To MISS CASEWELL) What did he do?

  MISS CASEWELL. No, it’s nothing. It’s just—all this—murder—it’s so horrible. (She rises and faces TROTTER.) It came over me suddenly. I’ll go up to my room.

  (MISS CASEWELL exits up the stairs Left.)

  TROTTER. (Moving to the stairs and looking up after her) It’s impossible . . . I can’t believe it . . .

  CHRISTOPHER. (Moving up and leaning over the desk chair) What can’t you believe? Six impossible things before breakfast, like the Red Queen?

  TROTTER. Oh yes. It’s rather like that.

  CHRISTOPHER. Dear me—you look as though you’d seen a ghost.

  TROTTER. (Resuming his usual manner) I’ve seen something I ought to have seen before. (He moves Centre.) Blind as a bat, I’ve been. But I think now we may be able to get somewhere.

  CHRISTOPHER. (Impertinently) The police have a clue.

  TROTTER. (Moving Right of the sofa table; with a hint of menace) Yes, Mr. Wren—at last the police have a clue. I want everyone assembled in here again. Do you know where they are?

  CHRISTOPHER. (Moving to Left of TROTTER) Giles and Mollie are in the kitchen. I have been helping Major Metcalf to look for your skis. We’ve looked in the most entertaining places—but all to no avail. I don’t know where Paravicini is.

  TROTTER. I’ll get him. (He moves down Left to the door.) You get the others.

  (CHRISTOPHER exits up Right.)

  (Opening the door) Mr. Paravicini. (Moving below the sofa) Mr. Paravicini. (Returning to the door and shouting) Paravicini! (He moves up to Centre of the refectory table.)

  (PARAVICINI enters gaily down Left.)

  PARAVICINI. Yes, Sergeant? (He moves to the desk chair.) What can I do for you? Little Bo Policeman has lost his skis and doesn’t know where to find them. Leave them alone, and they’ll come home, dragging a murderer behind them. (He moves down Left.)

  (MAJOR METCALF enters through the arch up Right. GILES and MOLLIE enter up Right, with CHRISTOPHER.)

  MAJOR METCALF. What is all this? (He moves down to the fire.)

  TROTTER. Sit down, Major, Mrs. Ralston . . .

  (No one sits. MOLLIE moves above the armchair Centre, GILES moves to Right of the refectory table and CHRISTOPHER stands between them.)

  MOLLIE. Must I come now? It’s very inconvenient.

  TROTTER. There are more important things than meals, Mrs. Ralston. Mrs. Boyle, for instance, won’t want another meal.

  MAJOR METCALF. That’s a very tactless way of putting things, Sergeant.

  TROTTER. I’m sorry, but I want cooperation and I intend to get it. Mr. Ralston, will you go and ask Miss Casewell to come down again? She went up in her room. Tell her it will only be for a few minutes.

  (GILES exits to the stairs Left.)

  MOLLIE. (Moving to Right of the refectory table) Have your skis been found, Sergeant?

  TROTTER. No, Mrs. Ralston, but I may say I have a very shrewd suspicion of who took them, and of why they were taken. I won’t
say any more at the present moment.

  PARAVICINI. Please don’t. (He moves up to the desk chair.) I always think explanations should be kept to the very end. That exciting last chapter, you know.

  TROTTER. (Reprovingly) This isn’t a game, sir.

  CHRISTOPHER. Isn’t it? Now there I think you are wrong. I think it is a game—to somebody.

  PARAVICINI. You think the murderer is enjoying himself. Maybe—maybe. (He sits in the desk chair.)

  (GILES and MISS CASEWELL, now quite composed, enter from the stairs Left.)

  MISS CASEWELL. What is happening?

  TROTTER. Sit down, Miss Casewell, Mrs. Ralston . . .

  (MISS CASEWELL sits on the Right arm of the sofa, MOLLIE moves down and sits in the armchair Centre. GILES remains standing at the bottom of the stairs.)

  (Officially) Will you all pay attention, please? (He sits Centre on the refectory table.) You may remember that after the murder of Mrs. Boyle, I took statements from you all. Those statements related to your positions at the time the murder was committed. These statements were as follows: (He consults his notebook.) Mrs. Ralston in the kitchen, Mr. Paravicini playing the piano in the drawing room, Mr. Ralston in his bedroom. Mr. Wren ditto. Miss Casewell in the library. Major Metcalf (He pauses and looks at MAJOR METCALF) in the cellar.

  MAJOR METCALF. Correct.

  TROTTER. Those were the statements you made. I had no means of checking these statements. They may be true—they may not. To put it quite clearly, five of those statements are true, but one is false—which one? (He pauses while he looks from one to the other.) Five of you were speaking the truth, one of you was lying. I have a plan that may help me to discover the liar. And if I discover that one of you lied to me—then I know who the murderer is.

  MISS CASEWELL. Not necessarily. Someone may have lied—for some other reason.

  TROTTER. I rather doubt that.

  GILES. But what’s the idea? You’ve just said you had no means of checking these statements.

  TROTTER. No, but supposing everyone was to go through these actions a second time.

  PARAVICINI. (Sighing) Ah, that old chestnut. Reconstruction of the crime.

  GILES. That’s a foreign idea.

  TROTTER. Not a reconstruction of the crime, Mr. Paravicini. A reconstruction of the movements of apparently innocent persons.

  MAJOR METCALF. And what do you expect to learn from that?

  TROTTER. You will forgive me if I don’t make that clear just at the moment.

  GILES. You want—a repeat performance?

  TROTTER. Yes, Mr. Ralston, I do.

  MOLLIE. It’s a trap.

  TROTTER. What do you mean, it’s a trap?

  MOLLIE. It is a trap. I know it is.

  TROTTER. I only want people to do exactly what they did before.

  CHRISTOPHER. (Also suspicious) But I don’t see—I simply can’t see—what you can possibly hope to find out by just making people do the things they did before. I think it’s just nonsense.

  TROTTER. Do you, Mr. Wren?

  MOLLIE. Well, you can count me out. I’m too busy in the kitchen. (She rises and moves up Right.)

  TROTTER. I can’t count anybody out. (He rises and looks round at them.) One might almost believe that you’re all guilty by the looks of you. Why are you all so unwilling?

  GILES. Of course, what you say goes, Sergeant. We’ll all cooperate. Eh, Mollie?

  MOLLIE. (Unwilling) Very well.

  GILES. Wren?

  (CHRISTOPHER nods.)

  Miss Casewell?

  MISS CASEWELL. Yes.

  GILES. Paravicini?

  PARAVICINI. (Throwing up his hands) Oh yes, I consent.

  GILES. Metcalf?

  MAJOR METCALF. (Slowly) Yes.

  GILES. Are we all to do exactly what we did before?

  TROTTER. The same actions will be performed, yes.

  PARAVICINI. (Rising) Then I will return to the piano in the drawing room. Once again I will pick out with one finger the signature tune of a murderer. (He sings, gesturing with his finger.) Tum, dum, dum—dum dum dum . . . (He moves down Left.)

  TROTTER. (Moving down Centre) Not quite so fast, Mr. Paravicini. (To MOLLIE) Do you play the piano, Mrs. Ralston?

  MOLLIE. Yes, I do.

  TROTTER. And you know the tune of Three Blind Mice?

  MOLLIE. Don’t we all know it?

  TROTTER. Then you could pick it out on the piano with one finger just as Mr. Paravicini did.

  (MOLLIE nods.)

  Good. Please go into the drawing room, sit at the piano, and be ready to play when I give you the signal.

  (MOLLIE crosses Left below the sofa.)

  PARAVICINI. But, Sergeant, I understood that we were each to repeat our former roles.

  TROTTER. The same actions will be performed, but not necessarily by the same people. Thank you, Mrs. Ralston.

  (PARAVICINI opens the door down Left. MOLLIE exits.)

  GILES. I don’t see the point.

  TROTTER. (Moving up to Centre of the refectory table) There is a point. It is a means of checking up on the original statements, and maybe one statement in particular. Now then, will you all pay attention, please. I will assign each of you your new stations. Mr. Wren, will you kindly go to the kitchen. Just keep an eye on Mrs. Ralston’s dinner for her. You’re very fond of cooking, I believe.

  (CHRISTOPHER exits up Right.)

  Mr. Paravicini, will you go up to Mr. Wren’s room. By the back stairs is the most convenient way. Major Metcalf, will you go up to Mr. Ralston’s room and examine the telephone there. Miss Casewell, would you mind going down to the cellars? Mr. Wren will show you the way. Unfortunately, I need someone to reproduce my own actions. I am sorry to ask it of you, Mr. Ralston, but would you go out by that window and follow the telephone wire round to near the front door. Rather a chilly job—but you’re probably the toughest person here.

  MAJOR METCALF. And what are you going to do?

  TROTTER. (Crossing to the radio and switching it on and off) I am enacting the part of Mrs. Boyle.

  MAJOR METCALF. Taking a bit of a risk, aren’t you?

  TROTTER. (Reeling against the desk) You will all stay in your places and remain there until you hear me call you.

  (MISS CASEWELL rises and exits up Right. GILES moves behind the refectory table and opens the Right curtain. MAJOR METCALF exits up Left. TROTTER nods to PARAVICINI to leave.)

  PARAVICINI. (Shrugging his shoulders) Parlour games!

  (PARAVICINI exits up Right.)

  GILES. No objection to my wearing a coat?

  TROTTER. I should advise it, sir.

  (GILES fetches his overcoat from the front hall, puts it on and returns to the window. TROTTER moves Centre below the refectory table and writes in his notebook.)

  Take my torch, sir. It’s behind the curtain.

  (GILES climbs out through the window and exits. TROTTER crosses to the library door up Left and exits. After a short pause he reenters, switches off the library light, goes up to the window, shuts it and closes the curtain. He crosses to the fire and sinks into the large armchair. After a pause he rises and goes to the door down Left.)

  (Calling) Mrs. Ralston, count twenty and then begin to play.

  (TROTTER shuts the door down Left, moves to the stairs and looks off. “Three Blind Mice” is heard being played on the piano. After a pause, he moves down Right and switches off the Right wall brackets, then moves up Right and switches off the Left wall brackets. He moves quickly down to the table lamp and switches it on, then crosses down Left to the door.)

  (Calling) Mrs. Ralston! Mrs. Ralston!

  (MOLLIE enters down Left and moves below the sofa.)

  MOLLIE. Yes, what is it?

  (TROTTER shuts the door down Left and leans against the downstage side of the door reveal.)

  You’re looking very pleased with yourself. Have you got what you wanted?

  TROTTER. I’ve got exactly what I wanted.

  MOLLIE. You know
who the murderer is?

  TROTTER. Yes, I know.

  MOLLIE. Which of them?

  TROTTER. You ought to know, Mrs. Ralston.

  MOLLIE. I?

  TROTTER. Yes, you’ve been extraordinary foolish, you know. You’ve run a very good chance of being killed by holding out on me. As a result, you’ve been in serious danger more than once.

  MOLLIE. I don’t know what you mean.

  TROTTER. (Moving slowly above the sofa table to Right of the sofa; still quite natural and friendly) Come now, Mrs. Ralston. We policemen aren’t quite so dumb as you think. All along I’ve realized that you had first-hand knowledge of the Longridge Farm affair. You knew Mrs. Boyle was the magistrate concerned. In fact, you knew all about it. Why didn’t you speak up and say so?

  MOLLIE. (Very much affected) I don’t understand. I wanted to forget-forget. (She sits at the Left end of the sofa.)

  TROTTER. Your maiden name was Waring?

  MOLLIE. Yes.

  TROTTER. Miss Waring. You taught school—in the school where those children went.

  MOLLIE. Yes.

  TROTTER. It’s true, isn’t it, that Jimmy, the child who died, managed to get a letter posted to you? (He sits at the Right end of the sofa.) The letter begged for help—help from his kind young teacher. You never answered that letter.

  MOLLIE. I couldn’t. I never got it.

  TROTTER. You just—didn’t bother.

  MOLLIE. That’s not true. I was ill. I went down with pneumonia that very day. The letter was put aside with others. It was weeks afterwards that I found it with a lot of other letters. And by then that poor child was dead . . . (Her eyes close.) Dead—dead . . . Waiting for me to do something—hoping—gradually losing hope . . . Oh, it’s haunted me ever since . . . If only I hadn’t been ill—if only I’d known . . . Oh, it’s monstrous that such things should happen.

  TROTTER. (His voice suddenly thick) Yes, it’s monstrous. (He takes a revolver out of his pocket.)

  MOLLIE. I thought the police didn’t carry revolvers . . . (She suddenly sees TROTTER’s face, and gasps in horror.)

  TROTTER. The police don’t . . . I’m not a policeman, Mrs. Ralston. You thought I was a policeman because I rang up from a call box and said I was speaking from police headquarters and that Sergeant Trotter was on his way. I cut the telephone wires before I came to the front door. You know who I am, Mrs. Ralston? I’m Georgie—I’m Jimmy’s brother, Georgie.