The Mousetrap

MRS. BOYLE. You may believe it or not, but the man is a policeman. A policeman—skiing!

(GILES and TROTTER enter from the front door. TROTTER has removed his skis and is carrying them.)

GILES. (Moving Right of the arch up Right) Er—this is Detective Sergeant Trotter.

TROTTER. (Moving to Left of the large armchair) Good afternoon.

MRS. BOYLE. You can’t be a sergeant. You’re too young.

TROTTER. I’m not quite as young as I look, madam.

CHRISTOPHER. But terribly hearty.

GILES. We’ll stow your skis away under the stairs.

(GILES and TROTTER exit through the archway up Right.)

MAJOR METCALF. Excuse me, Mrs. Ralston, but may I use your telephone?

MOLLIE. Of course, Major Metcalf.

(MAJOR METCALF goes to the telephone and dials.)

CHRISTOPHER. (Sitting at the Right end of the sofa) He’s very attractive, don’t you think so? I always think that policemen are very attractive.

MRS. BOYLE. No brains. You can see that at a glance.

MAJOR METCALF. (Into the telephone) Hullo! Hullo! . . . (To MOLLIE) Mrs. Ralston, this telephone is dead—quite dead.

MOLLIE. It was all right about half an hour ago.

MAJOR METCALF. The line’s gone with the weight of the snow, I suppose.

CHRISTOPHER. (Laughing hysterically) So we’re quite cut off now. Quite cut off. That’s funny, isn’t it?

MAJOR METCALF. (Moving to Left of sofa) I don’t see anything to laugh at.

MRS. BOYLE. No, indeed.

CHRISTOPHER. Ah, it’s a private joke of my own. Hist, the sleuth is returning.

(TROTTER enters from the archway up Right, followed by GILES. TROTTER moves down Centre while GILES crosses to Left of the sofa table.)

TROTTER. (Taking out his notebook) Now we can get to business, Mr. Ralston. Mrs. Ralston?

(MOLLIE moves down Centre.)

GILES. Do you want to see us alone? If so, we can go into the library. (He points towards the library door up Left.)

TROTTER. (Turning his back to the audience) It’s not necessary, sir. It’ll save time if everybody’s present. If I might sit at this table? (He moves up to the Right end of the refectory table.)

PARAVICINI. I beg your pardon. (He moves behind the table to the Left end.)

TROTTER. Thank you. (He settles himself in a judicial manner Centre behind the refectory table.)

MOLLIE. Oh, do hurry up and tell us. (She moves up the Right end of the refectory table.) What have we done?

TROTTER. (Surprised) Done? Oh, it’s nothing of that kind, Mrs. Ralston. It’s something quite different. It’s more a matter of police protection, if you understand me.

MOLLIE. Police protection?

TROTTER. It relates to the death of Mrs. Lyon—Mrs. Maureen Lyon of twenty-four Culver Street, London, West two, who was murdered yesterday, the fifteenth instant. You may have heard or read about the case?

MOLLIE. Yes. I heard it on the wireless. The woman who was strangled?

TROTTER. That’s right, madam. (To GILES) The first thing I want to know is if you were acquainted with this Mrs. Lyon.

GILES. Never heard of her.

(MOLLIE shakes her head.)

TROTTER. You mayn’t have known of her under the name of Lyon. Lyon wasn’t her real name. She had a police record and her fingerprints were on file, so we were able to identify her without difficulty. Her real name was Maureen Stanning. Her husband was a farmer, John Stanning, who resided at Longridge Farm not very far from here.

GILES. Longridge Farm! Wasn’t that where those children . . . ?

TROTTER. Yes, the Longridge Farm case.

(MISS CASEWELL enters from the stairs Left.)

MISS CASEWELL. Three children . . . (She crosses to the armchair down Right and sits.)

(EVERYONE watches her.)