The Mousetrap

BLORE. Brr! Cold in here, isn’t it? (Rises; to Centre.)

VERA. (Up Right of window) I wish Rogers would hurry up.

BLORE. Yes, where is Rogers? He’s been a long time.

VERA. He said he’d got to get some sticks.

BLORE. (Struck by the word) Sticks? Sticks? My God, sticks!

ARMSTRONG. My God! (Rises, looking at mantelpiece.)

BLORE. Is another one gone? Are there only six?

ARMSTRONG. (Bewildered) There are only five.

VERA. Five?

(They stare at each other.)

WARGRAVE. Rogers and Lombard? (Rises.)

VERA. (With a cry) Oh, no, not Philip!

(LOMBARD enters Left 1; meets BLORE rushing out Left 1, calling “Rogers.”)

LOMBARD. Where the hell is Blore off to like a madman?

VERA. (Running to him at Left Centre) Oh, Philip, I—

(WARN Curtain.)

WARGRAVE. (Up Right) Have you seen Rogers?

LOMBARD. No, why should I?

ARMSTRONG. Two more Indians have gone.

LOMBARD. Two?

VERA. I thought it was you—

(BLORE enters Left 1 looking pretty awful.)

ARMSTRONG. Well, what is it?

BLORE. (Only just able to speak. His voice quite unlike itself) In the—scullery.

VERA. Is he—?

BLORE. Oh, yes, he’s dead all right—

VERA. How?

BLORE. With an axe. Somebody must have come up behind him whilst he was bent over the wood box.

VERA. (Wildly) “One chopped himself in half—then there were six.” (She begins laughing hysterically.)

LOMBARD. Stop it, Vera—Stop it! (Sits her on Left sofa. Slaps her face. To the OTHERS) She’ll be all right. What next, boys? Bees? Do they keep bees on the island? (They stare at him as if not understanding. He keeps his nonchalant manner up with a trace of effort. Down to Centre) Well, that’s the next verse, isn’t it?

“Six little Indian boys playing with a hive;

A bumble bee stung one, and then there were five.” (He moves around the room.)

ARMSTRONG. My God! He’s right. There are only five.

LOMBARD. A bumble bee stung one—We all look pretty spry, nothing wrong with any of us. (His glance rests on EMILY) My God, you don’t think—(He goes slowly over to her, bends down, touches her. He then picks up a hypodermic syringe, and turns to face the others) A hypodermic syringe.

WARGRAVE. The modern beesting.

VERA. (Stammering) While she was sitting there—one of us—

WARGRAVE. One of us.

(They look at each other.)

ARMSTRONG. Which of us?

CURTAIN

ACT THREE

Scene I

Some hours later, the same night.

The curtains are drawn and the room is lit by three candles.WARGRAVE, VERA, BLORE, LOMBARDandARMSTRONG, who is dirty and unshaven, are sitting in silence.LOMBARDsits chair Right Centre,ARMSTRONGon Right sofa, WARGRAVELeft sofa, VERAon fender, BLOREdown Left. From time to time they shoot quick, covert glances at each other.VERAwatchesARMSTRONG; BLOREwatchesLOMBARD; LOMBARDwatchesWARGRAVE; ARMSTRONGwatchesBLOREandLOMBARDalternately.WARGRAVEwatches each in turn, but most oftenVERAwith a long, speculative glance. There is silence for some few minutes. ThenLOMBARDspeaks suddenly in a loud, jeering voice that makes them all jump.

LOMBARD.

“Five little Indian boys sitting in a row,

Watching each other and waiting for the blow.”

New version up to date! (He laughs discordantly.)

ARMSTRONG. I hardly think this is a moment for facetiousness.