The Mousetrap

GILES. (Crossing to the fire) I can’t believe it. It’s so fantastic.

TROTTER. It isn’t fantastic. It’s just facts.

MOLLIE. You’ve got a description of what this—man looked like in London?

TROTTER. Medium height, indeterminate build, darkish overcoat, soft felt hat, face hidden by a muffler. Spoke in a whisper. (He crosses to Left of the armchair Centre. He pauses.) There are three darkish overcoats hanging up in the hall now. One of them is yours, Mr. Ralston . . . There are three lightish felt hats . . .

(GILES starts to move towards the arch up Right but he stops when MOLLIE speaks.)

MOLLIE. I still can’t believe it.

TROTTER. You see? It’s this telephone wire that worries me. If it’s been cut . . . (He crosses to the phone, bends down and studies the wire.)

MOLLIE. I must go and get on with the vegetables.

(MOLLIE exits through the archway up Right. GILES picks up MOLLIE’s glove from the armchair Centre and holds it absently, smoothing it out. He extracts a London bus ticket from the glove—stares at it—then after MOLLIE—then back to the ticket.)

TROTTER. Is there an extension?

(GILES frowns at the bus ticket, and does not answer.)

GILES. I beg your pardon. Did you say something?

TROTTER. Yes, Mr. Ralston, I said “Is there an extension?” (He crosses to Centre.)

GILES. Yes, up in our bedroom.

TROTTER. Go and try it up there for me, will you?

(GILES exits to the stairs, carrying the glove and bus ticket and looking dazed. TROTTER continues to trace the wire to the window. He pulls back the curtain and opens the window, trying to follow the wire. He crosses to the arch up Right, goes out and returns with a torch. He moves to the window, jumps out and bends down, looking, then disappears out of sight. It is practically dark. MRS. BOYLE enters from the library up Left, shivers and notices the open window.)

MRS. BOYLE. (Moving to the window) Who’s left this window open? (She shuts the window and closes the curtain, then moves to the fire and puts another log on it. She crosses to the radio and turns it on. She moves up to the refectory table, picks up a magazine and looks at it.)

(There is a music programme on the radio. MRS. BOYLE frowns, moves to the radio and tunes in to a different programme.)

VOICE ON THE RADIO . . . to understand what I may term as the mechanics of fear, you have to study the precise effect produced on the human mind. Imagine, for instance, that you are alone in a room. It is late in the afternoon. A door opens softly behind you . . .

(The door down Right opens. The tune of “Three Blind Mice” is heard whistled. MRS. BOYLE turns with a start.)

MRS. BOYLE. (With relief) Oh, it’s you. I can’t find any programme worth listening to. (She moves to the radio and tunes in to the music programme.)

(A hand shows through the open doorway and clicks the light switch. The lights suddenly go out.)

Here—what are you doing? Why did you turn out the light?

(The radio is at full volume, and through it are heard gurgles and a scuffle. MRS. BOYLE’s body falls. MOLLIE enters by the archway up Right and stands perplexed.)

MOLLIE. Why is it all dark? What a noise!