The Mousetrap

NEVILE. (Looking at the niblick.) Yes. It’s one of Walter Hudson’s niblicks from St. Egbert’s.

BATTLE. This is the weapon we think was used to kill Lady Tressilian. Have you any explanation for your fingerprints being on the grip?

NEVILE. But—of course they would be—it’s my club. I’ve often handled it.

BATTLE. Any explanation, I mean, for the fact that your fingerprints show that you were the last person to have handled it?

NEVILE. That’s not true. It can’t be. Somebody could have handled it after me—someone wearing gloves.

BATTLE. Nobody could have handled it in the sense you mean—by raising it to strike—without blurring your own marks.

NEVILE. (Staring at the niblick in sudden realization.) It can’t be! (He sits R. of the card table and covers his face with his hands.) Oh, God! (After a pause he takes his hands away and looks up.) It isn’t that! It simply isn’t true. You think I killed her, but I didn’t. I swear I didn’t. There’s some horrible mistake. (Battle replaces the niblick on the chaise.)

TREVES. (Rising and crossing toL. of the card table.) Can’t you think of any explanation to account for those fingerprints, Nevile? (Battle picks up the dinner jacket.)

NEVILE. No—no—I can’t think—of anything. (Treves moves above the card table.)

BATTLE. (Moving toL. of the card table.) Can you explain why the cuffs, and sleeve of this dinner jacket—your dinner jacket—are stained with blood?

NEVILE. (In a horror-stricken whisper.) Blood? It couldn’t be.

TREVES. You didn’t, for instance, cut yourself?

NEVILE. (Rising and pushing his chair violently backwards.) No—no, of course I didn’t. It’s fantastic—simply fantastic. It’s none of it true.

BATTLE. The facts are true enough, Mr. Strange.

NEVILE. But why should I do such a dreadful thing? It’s unthinkable—unbelievable. I’ve known Lady Tressilian all my life. (He moves to R. of Treves.) Mr. Treves—you don’t believe it, do you? You don’t believe that I would do a thing like this? (Battle replaces the jacket on the chaise.)

TREVES. No, Nevile, I can’t believe it.

NEVILE. I didn’t. I swear I didn’t. What reason could I have . . . ?

BATTLE. (Turning and standing on the rostrum.) I believe that you inherit a great deal of money on Lady Tressilian’s death, Mr. Strange.

NEVILE. (Moving downR.) You mean—You think that . . . ? It’s ridiculous! I don’t need money. I’m quite well off. You’ve only to enquire at my bank . . . (Treves sits R. of the card table.)

BATTLE. We shall check up on that. But there may be some reason why you suddenly require a large sum of money—some reason unknown to anyone except yourself.

NEVILE. There’s nothing of the sort.

BATTLE. As to that—we shall see.

NEVILE. (Crossing slowly below the card table toR. of Battle.) Are you going to arrest me?

BATTLE. Not yet—we propose to give you the benefit of the doubt.

NEVILE. (Bitterly.) You mean that you’ve made up your mind I did it, but you want to be sure of my motive so as to clinch the case against me. (He moves above the armchair R. C.) That’s it, isn’t it? (He grips the back of the armchair.) My God! It’s like some awful dream. Like being caught in a trap and you can’t get out. (He pauses.) Do you want me any more now? I’d like to—to get out—by myself—and think over all this. It’s been rather a shock.

BATTLE. We’ve finished with you for the present, sir.

NEVILE. Thank you.

BATTLE. (Moving downL. C.) Don’t go too far away, though, will you, sir?

NEVILE. (Moving to the French windows.) You needn’t worry. I shan’t try and run away—if that’s what you mean. (He glances off R.) I see you’ve taken your precautions, anyway. (Nevile exits by the French windows. Benson sits on the window-seat.)

LEACH. (Moving toL. of Battle.) He did it all right.