The Mousetrap

GERDA. But what shall I do? What can I do without John?

HENRIETTA. There are the children.

GERDA. I know, I know. But John always decided everything.

HENRIETTA. I know. (She hesitates a moment, then moves above the sofa, puts her hands onGERDA’s shoulders, and draws her back on the sofa.) There’s just one thing, Gerda. (She pauses.) What did you do with the holster?

GERDA. (Staring front) Holster?

HENRIETTA. The second revolver, the one you took from Henry’s study, was in a holster. What have you done with the holster?

GERDA. (Repeating the word with an appearance of stupidity) Holster?

HENRIETTA. (Urgently) You must tell me. Apart from that everything’s all right. There’s nothing else that can possibly give you away. They may suspect—but they can’t prove anything. But that holster’s dangerous. Have you still got it?

(GERDA slowly nods her head.)

Where is it?

GERDA. I cut it up in pieces and put it in my leathercraft bag.

HENRIETTA. (Moving to the drinks table and picking up the leathercraft bag) In this?

(GERDA turns and nods.)

(She moves to the writing table, switches on the table lamp, then takes some pieces of brown leather out of the leathercraft bag.) Quite a clever idea of yours.

(GERDA, for the first time, speaks in a high, excited voice and shows that she is not quite sane.)

GERDA. I’m not so stupid as people think. When did you know that I shot John?

HENRIETTA. (Putting the bag on the writing table) I’ve always known. (She moves to Right of the sofa.) When John said “Henrietta” to me just before he died, I knew what he meant. I always knew what John wanted. He wanted me to protect you—to keep you out of it somehow. He loved you very much. He loved you better than he knew.

GERDA. (Weeping) Oh, John—John.

HENRIETTA. (Sitting Right ofGERDAon the sofa) I know, my dear. I know. (She puts her arm aroundGERDA.)

GERDA. But you can’t know. It was all a lie—everything. I had to kill him. I’d adored him so. I worshipped him. I thought he was everything that was noble and fine. He wasn’t any of those things.

HENRIETTA. He was a man—not a god.

GERDA. (Fiercely) It was all a lie. The night when that woman came here—that film woman. I saw his face as he looked at her. And after dinner he went over to see her. He didn’t come back. I went up to bed, but I couldn’t sleep. Hour after hour—he didn’t come. At last I got up and put on a coat and my shoes and I crept downstairs and through the side door. I went along the lane to her cottage. The curtains were drawn at the front but I went round to the back. They weren’t drawn there because I crept up to the window and looked in. (Her voice rises hysterically.) I looked in.

(There is a flash of lightning and a distant peal of thunder.)

HENRIETTA. (Rising) Gerda!

GERDA. I saw them—that woman and John. (She pauses.) I saw them. (She pauses.) I’d believed in John—completely—utterly—and it was all a lie. I was left with nothing—nothing. (She suddenly resumes a quiet conversational tone.) You do see, don’t you, Henrietta, that I had to kill him? (She pauses.) Is that tea coming? I do so want a cup of tea.

HENRIETTA. (Moving above the Right end of the sofa) In a moment. Go on telling me, Gerda.

GERDA. (Cunningly) They always said I was stupid when I was a child—stupid and slow. They used to say, “Don’t let Gerda do it, Gerda will take all day.” And sometimes, “Gerda never seems to take in anything you say to her.” Didn’t they see, all of them, that that made me more stupid and slower still? And then you know—I found a way. I used to pretend to be stupider than I was. I’d stare as though I didn’t understand. But inside, sometimes, I laughed. Because often I knew more than they thought.

HENRIETTA. (Moving to Left of the sofa) I see—yes, I see.