The Mousetrap and Other Plays

  BLORE. That’s a likely story!

  LOMBARD. What do you think I’ve done with it? I suggested myself that you should search me.

  BLORE. Oh! You haven’t got it on you. You’re too clever for that. But you know where it is.

  LOMBARD. You mean I’ve cached it ready for the next time?

  BLORE. I shouldn’t be surprised.

  LOMBARD. (Crosses Right) Why don’t you use your brains, Blore? If I’d wanted to, I could have shot the lot of you by this time, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop.

  BLORE. Yes, but that’s not the big idea. (Points to rhyme.)

  LOMBARD. (Sits chair Right Centre) The crazy touch? My God, man, I’m sane enough!

  BLORE. The doctor says there are some lunatics you’d never know were lunatics. (Looks around at EVERYONE) That’s true enough, I’d say.

  ARMSTRONG. (Breaking out) We—we shouldn’t just sit here, doing nothing! There must be something—surely, surely, there is something that we can do? If we lit a bonfire—

  BLORE. In this weather? (Jerks his head towards window.)

  WARGRAVE. It is, I am afraid, a question of time and patience. The weather will clear. Then we can do something. Light a bonfire, heliograph, signal.

  ARMSTRONG. (Rises to up Right) A question of time—time? (Laughs in an unbalanced way) We can’t afford time. We shall all be dead.

  WARGRAVE. I think the precautions we have now adopted will be adequate.

  ARMSTRONG. I tell you—we shall all be dead. All but one—He’ll think up something else—he’s thinking now—(Sits Right sofa again.)

  LOMBARD. Poor Louise—what was her name—Clees? Was it nerves that made you do her in, Doctor?

  ARMSTRONG. (Almost mechanically) No, drink. I used to be a heavy drinker. God help me, I was drunk when I operated—Quite a simple operation. My hand shaking all over the place—(Buries his face in his hands) I can remember her now—a big, heavy, countrified woman. And I killed her!

  LOMBARD. (Rises; to Right above VERA) So I was right—that’s how it was?

  ARMSTRONG. Sister knew, of course, but she was loyal to me—or to the Hospital. I gave up drink—gave it up altogether. I went in for a study of nervous diseases.

  WARGRAVE. Very successfully. (Rises; to up Centre.)

  ARMSTRONG. One or two lucky shots. Good results with one or two important women. They talked to their friends. For the last year or two, I’ve been so busy I’ve hardly known which way to turn. I’d got to the top of the tree.

  LOMBARD. Until Mr. Unknown Owen—and down will come cradle and doctor and all.

  ARMSTRONG. (Rises) Will you stop your damnable sneering and joking?

  WARGRAVE. (Comes down Right between ARMSTRONG and LOMBARD) Gentlemen, gentlemen, please. We can’t afford to quarrel.

  LOMBARD. That’s okay by me. I apologize.

  ARMSTRONG. It’s this terrible inactivity that gets on my nerves. (Sits Right sofa.)

  WARGRAVE. (To Left sofa; sits) We are adopting, I feel convinced, the only measures possible. So long as we remain together, all within sight of each other, a repetition of the tragedies that have occurred is—must be—impossible. We have all submitted to a search. Therefore, we know that no man is armed either with firearms or a knife. Nor has any man got cyanide or any drug about his person. If we remain, as I say, within sight of each other, nothing can happen.

  ARMSTRONG. But we can’t go on like this—we shall need food—sleep—

  BLORE. That’s what I say.

  WARGRAVE. Obviously, the murderer’s only chance is to get one of us detached from the rest. So long as we prevent that we are safe.

  ARMSTRONG. Safe—?

  LOMBARD. You’re very silent, Vera?

  VERA. There isn’t anything to say—(Pause. WARGRAVE rises; to up Centre) I wonder what the time is. It’s this awful waiting—waiting for the hours to go by and yet feeling that they may be the last. What is the time?

  LOMBARD. Half past eight.

  VERA. Is that all?

  LOMBARD. Pretty awful light, this. How are the candles holding out?

  BLORE. There’s a whole packet. Storm’s dying down a bit, what do you think, sir? (Rises; goes up to window.)

  WARGRAVE. Perhaps. We mustn’t get too optimistic.

  ARMSTRONG. The murderer’s got everything on his side. Even the weather seems to be falling in with his plans.

  (WARGRAVE sits Left sofa. Long pause.)

  BLORE. (Rising) What about something to eat?

  VERA. (Rises. Crossing up Left) If you like, I’ll go out and open some tongue and make some coffee. But you four stay here. (To WARGRAVE) That’s right, isn’t it?

  WARGRAVE. Not quite. You see, Miss Claythorne, it might be inadvisable to eat or drink something that you had prepared out of our sight.

  VERA. Oh! (Slowly) You don’t like me, do you?

  WARGRAVE. It’s not a question of likes or dislikes.

  (VERA sits down Left.)

  LOMBARD. There are very few tricks that will get past you, Sir Lawrence. You know, if you won’t be offended at my saying so, you’re my fancy.

  WARGRAVE. (Rises to Left, looking at him coldly through his spectacles in the best court manner) This is hardly the moment, Captain Lombard, for any of us to indulge in the luxury of taking offence.

  LOMBARD. (Up Right Centre) I don’t think it’s Blore. (To BLORE) I may be wrong, but I can’t feel you’ve got enough imagination for this job. All I can say is, if you are the criminal, I take my hat off to you for a damned fine actor.

  BLORE. Thank you—for nothing. (Sits Left sofa.)

  LOMBARD. (Pause. Looks at ARMSTRONG) I don’t think it’s the doctor. I don’t believe he’s got the nerve. (Looks at VERA down Left) You’ve got plenty of nerve, Vera. On the other hand, you strike me as eminently sane. Therefore, you’d only do murder if you had a thoroughly good motive.

  VERA. (Sarcastically) Thank you.

  ARMSTRONG. (Rises) I’ve thought of something.

  LOMBARD. Splendid. Animal, vegetable or mineral?

  ARMSTRONG. That man (Points to BLORE) says he’s a police officer. But we’ve no proof of that. He only said so after the gramophone record, when his name had been given. Before that he was pretending to be a South African millionaire. Perhaps the police officer is another impersonation. What do we know about him? Nothing at all.

  LOMBARD. He’s a policeman all right. Look at his feet.

  BLORE. (Rises and sits again) That’s enough from you, Mr. Lombard.

  LOMBARD. (ARMSTRONG sits chair Right Centre) Well, now we know where we are. By the way, Miss Claythorne suspects you, Doctor. Oh, yes, she does. Haven’t you seen her shoot a dirty look from time to time? It all works out quite prettily. I suspect Sir Lawrence. Blore suspects me. Armstrong suspects Blore. (To WARGRAVE) What about you, sir?

  WARGRAVE. Quite early in the day, I formed a certain conclusion. It seemed to me that everything that had occurred pointed quite unmistakably to one person. (Pause. He looks straight ahead.) I am still of the same opinion. (Above Left sofa)

  VERA. Which one?

  WARGRAVE. Well—no, I think it would be inadvisable to mention that person’s name at the present time.

  LOMBARD. Inadvisable in the public interest?

  WARGRAVE. Exactly.

  (EVERYONE looks at each other.)

  BLORE. What about the food idea?

  ARMSTRONG. No, no, let’s stay here. We’re safe here.

  VERA. I can’t say I’m hungry.

  LOMBARD. I’m not ravenous myself. You can go out and have a guzzle by yourself, Blore.

  BLORE. Tell you what. Suppose I go and bring in a tin of biscuits? (Rises to Left 2 door.)

  LOMBARD. Good idea.

  (BLORE starts to go.)

  LOMBARD. Oh, Blore.

  BLORE. Eh?

  LOMBARD. An unopened tin, Blore.

  (BLORE goes out; takes candle from bookcase. A pause EVERYBODY watches door. A gust of wind—the curtains rattle. VERA rises. WARGRAVE sits Left sofa.
)

  LOMBARD. It’s only the wind—making the curtains rattle.

  VERA. (Up Centre) I wonder what happened to the bathroom curtain? The one that Rogers missed.

  LOMBARD. By the wildest stretch of imagination, I cannot see what any homicidal maniac wants with a scarlet oilsilk curtain.

  VERA. Things seem to have been disappearing. Miss Brent lost a skein of knitting wool.

  LOMBARD. So the murderer, whoever he or she is, is a kleptomaniac too.

  VERA. How does it go? “Five little Indian boys—”

  LOMBARD.

  “Going in for law,

  One got in Chancery—”

  VERA. In Chancery, but how could that apply? Unless, of course—(She looks at WARGRAVE.)

  WARGRAVE. Precisely, my dear young lady. That’s why I’m sitting right here.

  LOMBARD. Ah! But I’m casting you for the role of murderer—not victim.

  WARGRAVE. The term can apply to a boxer.

  LOMBARD. (To VERA) Maybe we’ll start a free fight. That seems to let you out, my dear.

  VERA. That awful rhyme. It keeps going round and round in my head. I think I’ll remember it till I die. (She realizes what she has said and looks around at the OTHERS. Pause) Mr. Blore’s a long time.

  LOMBARD. I expect the big bad wolf has got him.

  WARGRAVE. I have asked you once before to try and restrain your rather peculiar sense of humour, Captain Lombard.

  LOMBARD. Sorry, sir. It must be a form of nervousness.

  (BLORE enters Left 2 with a tin of biscuits. VERA to behind chair Right Centre. WARGRAVE rises to Left Centre, takes tin and opens it.)

  WARGRAVE. Put your hands up. Search him.

  (ARMSTRONG and LOMBARD cross to Left Centre; search BLORE. ARMSTRONG offers biscuits to VERA.)

  VERA. (Sits Right Centre) No, thank you.

  (BLORE sits down Left.)

  LOMBARD. Come now—you’ve had no dinner. (To above VERA, Right Centre.)

  VERA. I couldn’t eat anything.

  LOMBARD. I warn you—Blore will wolf the lot.

  BLORE. I don’t see why you need be so funny about it. Starving ourselves won’t do us any good. (Sadly) How are we off for cigarettes?

  LOMBARD. (Takes out his case and opens it; sighs ruefully) I haven’t got any.

  ARMSTRONG. I’ve run out too.

  WARGRAVE. Fortunately, I’m a pipe smoker.

  VERA. (Rousing herself. Crossing down Left) I’ve got a whole box upstairs in my suitcase. I’ll get them. I could do with a cigarette myself. (Pauses at door) See that you all stay where you are. (Goes out Left 1 carrying a candle from bookcase.)

  (WARGRAVE to door, looking after her, leaving tin on sofa.)

  BLORE. (Rises; fetches tin from sofa—eating solidly, up Left Centre) Not bad, these biscuits.

  LOMBARD. What are they, cheese?

  BLORE. Cheese and celery.

  LOMBARD. That girl ought to have had some. (To Left.)

  ARMSTRONG. Her nerves are in a bad state.

  WARGRAVE. (To above Left sofa) I don’t know that I’d agree with you there, Doctor. Miss Claythorne strikes me as a very cool and resourceful young lady—quite remarkably so.

  LOMBARD. (Up Left Centre—looking curiously at WARGRAVE) So that’s your idea, is it? That she’s the snake in the grass?

  ARMSTRONG. Hardly likely—a woman!

  WARGRAVE. You and I, Doctor, see women from slightly different angles.

  BLORE. (Crossing down Right) What does anyone say to a spot of whisky?

  LOMBARD. Good idea, providing we tackle an unopened bottle.

  (An appalling and bloodcurdling shriek of utter terror comes from overhead, and a heavy thud. All four men start up. LOMBARD and BLORE catch up candles. BLORE takes candle from mantelpiece. All four rush to door Left 1 and out in this order: LOMBARD, BLORE, ARMSTRONG and WARGRAVE—the latter is slow getting under way, owing to age. Stage is quite dark as soon as LOMBARD and BLORE have gone through door and before WARGRAVE reaches door. Confused noises off. Then, on stage, WARGRAVE’s voice calls out, “Who’s that?” Sound of a shot. A confused moving about on the stage; voices off also; off faint—then come nearer. Left 2 door opens. Then door Left 1. BLORE heard swearing off. Also ARMSTRONG’s voice.)

  VERA. (Coming in Left 2, stumbling about) Philip, Philip, where are you? I’ve lost you.

  LOMBARD. (Coming in Left 1) Here I am.

  VERA. Why can’t we have some light? It’s awful in the dark. You don’t know where you are. You don’t know where anyone is. (Sits Left sofa.)

  LOMBARD. It’s that damned draught on the stairs—blowing all the candles out. Here, I’ve got a lighter. (Lights his and her candle. Sits Left sofa.)

  VERA. Where’s Doctor Armstrong?

  ARMSTRONG. (From hall) I’m hunting for the matches.

  LOMBARD. Never mind matches—get some more candles.

  VERA. I was horrified to death—it went right around my throat—

  LOMBARD. What did?

  VERA. The window was open in my room. It blew out the candle as I opened the door. And then a long strand of seaweed touched my throat. I thought, in the dark, that I was being strangled by a wet hand—

  (Murmur off Left.)

  LOMBARD. I don’t wonder you yelled.

  VERA. Who hung that seaweed there?

  LOMBARD. I don’t know. But when I find out, he’ll be sorry he was ever born.

  (ARMSTRONG comes quietly in from Left 1.)

  VERA. (Sharply) Who’s that?

  (WARN Curtain.)

  ARMSTRONG. It’s all right, Miss Claythorne. It’s only me.

  BLORE. (In hall) Here we are. (A faint glow through door as he lights candles. He comes in carrying candle. Crosses Right.) Who fired that shot?

  (VERA rises; moves Left Centre, turns and screams. Light reveals WARGRAVE sat upright on windowseat, red oilsilk curtain draped around shoulders. Grey skein of wool plaited into wig on his head. In centre of forehead is round dark mark with red trickling from it. MEN stand paralysed. VERA screams. ARMSTRONG pulls himself together, waves OTHERS to stand back and goes over to WARGRAVE. Bends over him; straightens up.)

  ARMSTRONG. He’s dead—Shot through the head—

  VERA. (Leans against window up Left) One got in Chancery—and then there were four—

  ARMSTRONG. Miss Claythorne.

  LOMBARD. Vera.

  VERA. You got me out of the way. You got me to go upstairs for cigarettes. You put that seaweed there—You did it all so that you could kill that helpless old man in the dark—you’re mad—all of you—crazy. (Her voice is low and full of horror) That’s why you wanted the red curtain and the knitting wool—It was all planned—long ago—for that—Oh, my God, let me get out of here—(She edges to the Left 1 door and rushes out, as—)

  CURTAIN

  Scene II

  The following morning.

  It is brilliant sunshine. The room is as it was the night before.

  BLORE, LOMBARD AND VERA ARE SITTING ON THE LEFT SOFA, BACKS TO THE AUDIENCE, EATING TINNED TONGUE ON TRAY

  LOMBARD.

  Three little Indian boys,

  Sitting in a row.

  Thinking as they guzzle

  Who’s next to go?

  VERA. Oh, Philip!

  BLORE. That’s all right, Miss Claythorne. I don’t mind joking on a full stomach.

  VERA. I must say I was hungry. But all the same, I don’t think I shall ever fancy tinned tongue again.

  BLORE. I was wanting that meal! I feel a new man.

  LOMBARD. We’d been nearly twenty-four hours without food. That does lower the morale.

  VERA. Somehow, in the daylight, everything seems different.

  LOMBARD. You mustn’t forget there’s a dangerous homicidal lunatic somewhere loose on this island.

  VERA. Why is it one doesn’t feel jittery about it any more?

  LOMBARD. Because we know now, beyond any possible doubt, who it is, eh, Blore?

  BLORE. That’s right
.

  LOMBARD. It was the uncertainty before—looking at each other, wondering which.

  VERA. I said all along it was Doctor Armstrong.

  LOMBARD. You did, my sweet, you did. Until, of course, you went completely bats and suspected us all.

  VERA. (Rises to mantelpiece; takes three cigarettes out of box) It seems rather silly in the light of day.

  LOMBARD. Very silly.

  BLORE. Allowing it is Armstrong, what’s happened to him?

  LOMBARD. We know what he wants us to think has happened to him.

  VERA. (Crosses Centre; gives BLORE and LOMBARD cigarette) What exactly did you find?

  LOMBARD. One shoe—just one shoe—sitting prettily on the cliff edge. Inference—Doctor Armstrong has gone completely off his onion and committed suicide.

  BLORE. (Rises) All very circumstantial—even to one little china Indian broken over there in the doorway.

  VERA. I think that was rather overdoing it. A man wouldn’t think of doing that if he was going to drown himself.

  LOMBARD. Quite so. But we’re fairly sure he didn’t drown himself. But he had to make it appear as though he were the seventh victim all according to plan.

  VERA. Supposing he really is dead?

  LOMBARD. I’m a bit suspicious of death without bodies.

  VERA. How extraordinary to think that there are five dead bodies in there, and here we’ve been eating tinned tongue.

  LOMBARD. The delightful feminine disregard for facts—there are six dead bodies and they are not all in there.

  BLORE. Oh, no, no. She’s right. There are only five.

  LOMBARD. What about Mrs. Rogers?

  BLORE. I’ve counted her. She makes the fifth.

  LOMBARD. (Rises. A little exasperated) Now look here: Marston, one. Mrs. Rogers, two. General MacKenzie, three. Rogers, four. Emily Brent, five, and Wargrave, six.

  (VERA takes tray to table up Left.)

  BLORE. (Counting themselves) Seven, eight, nine—Armstrong, ten. That’s right, old man. Sorry. (Sits Left sofa.)

  LOMBARD. (Sits Left sofa) Don’t you think it would be an idea if we brought Mrs. Rogers downstairs and shoved her in the morgue, too?

  BLORE. I’m a detective, not an undertaker.

  VERA. (Sits chair Right Centre) For Heaven’s sake, stop talking about bodies. The point is, Armstrong murdered them.

  LOMBARD. We ought to have realized it was Armstrong straight away.