The Mousetrap

TROTTER. And you don’t know anything about him?

MOLLIE. That’s not true. I know everything about him! I know exactly the sort of person he is. He’s Giles. (Turning to the fire) And it’s absolutely absurd to suggest that he’s some horrible crazy homicidal maniac. Why, he wasn’t even in London yesterday when the murder took place.

TROTTER. Where was he? Here?

MOLLIE. He went across country to a sale to get some wire netting for our chickens.

TROTTER. Bring it back with him? (He crosses to the desk.)

MOLLIE. No, it turned out to be the wrong kind.

TROTTER. Only thirty miles from London, aren’t you? Oh, you got an ABC? (He picks up the ABC and reads it.) Only an hour by train—a little longer by car.

MOLLIE. (Stamping her foot with temper) I tell you Giles wasn’t in London.

TROTTER. Just a minute, Mrs. Ralston. (He crosses to the front hall, and comes back carrying a darkish overcoat. Moving to Left ofMOLLIE) This your husband’s coat?

(MOLLIE looks at the coat.)

MOLLIE. (Suspiciously) Yes.

(TROTTER takes out a folded evening paper from the pocket.)

TROTTER. Evening News. Yesterday’s. Sold on the streets about three-thirty yesterday afternoon.

MOLLIE. I don’t believe it!

TROTTER. Don’t you? (He moves up Right to the arch with the coat.) Don’t you?

(TROTTER exits through the archway up Right with the overcoat. MOLLIE sits in the small armchair down Right, staring at the evening paper. The door down Right slowly opens. CHRISTOPHER peeps in through the door, sees that MOLLIE is alone, and enters.)

CHRISTOPHER. Mollie!

(MOLLIE jumps up and hides the newspaper under the cushion in the armchair Centre.)

MOLLIE. Oh, you startled me! (She moves Left of the armchair Centre.)

CHRISTOPHER. Where is he? (Moving to Right ofMOLLIE) Where has he gone?

MOLLIE. Who?

CHRISTOPHER. The sergeant.

MOLLIE. Oh, he went out that way.

CHRISTOPHER. If only I could get away. Somehow—some way. Is there anywhere I could hide—in the house?

MOLLIE. Hide?

CHRISTOPHER. Yes—from him.

MOLLIE. Why?

CHRISTOPHER. But, darling, they’re all so frightfully against me. They’re going to say I committed these murders—particularly your husband. (He moves to Right of the sofa.)

MOLLIE. Never mind him. (She moves a step to Right ofCHRISTOPHER.) Listen, Christopher, you can’t go on—running away from things—all your life.

CHRISTOPHER. Why do you say that?

MOLLIE. Well, it’s true, isn’t it?

CHRISTOPHER. (Hopelessly) Oh yes, it’s quite true. (He sits at the Left end of the sofa.)

MOLLIE. (Sitting at the Right end of the sofa; affectionately) You’ve got to grow up some time, Chris.

CHRISTOPHER. I wish I hadn’t.

MOLLIE. Your name isn’t really Christopher Wren, is it?

CHRISTOPHER. No.

MOLLIE. And you’re not really training to be an architect?

CHRISTOPHER. No.

MOLLIE. Why did you . . .?

CHRISTOPHER. Call myself Christopher Wren? It just amused me. And then they used to laugh at me at school and call me little Christopher Robin. Robin—Wren—association of ideas. It was hell being at school.

MOLLIE. What’s your real name?

CHRISTOPHER. We needn’t go into that. I ran away whilst I was doing my Army service. It was all so beastly—I hated it.

(MOLLIE has a sudden wave of unease, which CHRISTOPHER notices. She rises and moves to Right of the sofa.)

(Rising and moving down Left) Yes, I’m just like the unknown murderer.

(MOLLIE moves up to Left of the refectory table, and turns away from him.)

I told you I was the one the specification fitted. You see, my mother my mother . . . (He moves up to Left of the sofa table.)

MOLLIE. Yes, your mother?