The Mousetrap

BLORE. (Sits Left sofa.) Well—they know there’s no immediate danger to them. Then, last night, some lunatic goes and spills the beans. What happens? It’s the woman who cracks. Goes to pieces. Did you see him hanging round her when she was coming to? Not all husbandly solicitude? Not on your sweet life. He was like a cat on hot bricks. And that’s the position. They’ve done a murder and got away with it. But if it’s all going to be raked up again now, it’s the woman will give the show away. She hadn’t got the nerve to brazen it out. She’s a living danger to her husband, that’s what she is, and him—he’s all right. He’ll go on lying till the cows come home, but he can’t be sure of her. So what does he do? He drops a nice little dollop of something into a nice cup of tea, and when she’s had it, he washes up the cup and saucer and tells the doctor she ain’t had nothing.

VERA. Oh, no. That’s impossible. A man wouldn’t do that—not to his wife. (Rises; goes up Left.)

BLORE. You’d be surprised, Miss Claythorne, what some husbands would do. (Rises.)

ROGERS. (Enters Left 2. He is dead white and speaks like an automaton. Just the mask of the trained servant. ToVERA) Excuse me, Miss. I’m getting on with breakfast. I’m not much of a hand as a cook, I’m afraid. It’s lunch that’s worrying me. Would cold tongue and gelatine be satisfactory? And I could manage some fried potatoes. And then there’s tinned fruit and cheese and biscuits.

VERA. That will be fine, Rogers.

BLORE. Lunch? Lunch? We shan’t be here for lunch! And when the hell’s that boat coming?

EMILY. Mr. Blore! (Picks up her case and marches up to Right windowseat—sits.)

BLORE. What?

ROGERS. (Fatalistically) You’ll pardon me, sir, but the boat won’t be coming.

BLORE. What?

ROGERS. Fred Narracott’s always here before eight. (Pause) Is there anything else you require, Miss?

VERA. No, thank you, Rogers.

(ROGERS goes out Left 2.)

BLORE. And it’s not Rogers! His wife lying dead upstairs and there he’s cooking breakfast and calmly talking about lunch! Now he says the boat won’t be coming. How the ’ell does he know?

EMILY. Mr. Blore!

BLORE. What?

VERA. (Crossing down Left) Oh, don’t you see? He’s dazed. He’s just carrying on automatically as a good servant would. It’s—it’s pathetic, really.

BLORE. He’s pulling a fast one, if you ask me.

WARGRAVE. The really significant thing is the failure of the boat to arrive. It means that we are being deliberately cut off from help.

MACKENZIE. (Rising) Very little time. We mustn’t waste it talking about things that don’t matter.

(He turns to window. ALL look at him dubiously before resuming.)

LOMBARD. (Down Right toWARGRAVE) Why do you think Narracott hasn’t turned up?

WARGRAVE. I think the ubiquitous Mr. Owen has given orders.

LOMBARD. You mean, told him it’s a practical joke or something of that kind?

BLORE. He’d never fall for that, would he?

LOMBARD. Why not? Indian Island’s got a reputation for people having crazy parties. This is just one more crazy idea, that’s all. Narracott knows there’s plenty of food and drink on the island. Probably thinks it’s all a huge joke.

VERA. Couldn’t we light a bonfire up on the top of the island? So that they’d see it?

LOMBARD. That’s probably been provided against. All signals are to be ignored. We’re cut off all right.

VERA. (Impatiently) But can’t we do something?

LOMBARD. Oh, yes, we can do something. We can find the funny gentleman who’s staged this little joke, Mr. Unknown Owen. I’ll bet anything you like he’s somewhere on the island, and the sooner we get hold of him the better. Because, in my opinion, he’s mad as a hatter. And as dangerous as a rattlesnake.

WARGRAVE. Hardly a very good simile, Captain Lombard. The rattlesnake at least gives warning of its approach.

LOMBARD. Warning? My God, yes! (Indicating nursery rhyme) That’s our warning. (Reading)

“Ten little Indian boys—”

There were ten of us after Narracott went, weren’t there?

“Ten little Indian boys going out to dine;

One went and choked himself—”

Marston choked himself, didn’t he? And then—

“Nine little Indians sat up very late.

One overslept himself”—overslept himself—

The last part fits Mrs. Rogers rather well, doesn’t it?

VERA. You don’t think—Do you mean that he wants to kill us all?

LOMBARD. Yes, I think he does.

VERA. And each one fits with the rhyme!

ARMSTRONG. No, no, it’s impossible. It’s coincidence. It must be coincidence.