LOMBARD. Where the devil did that voice come from? (They stare all round. LOMBARD goes into study up Right.) Here we are.
VOICE. You are charged with these indictments—
VERA. Turn it off! Turn it off! It’s horrible!
(LOMBARD switches it off. MRS. ROGERS groans.)
ARMSTRONG. A disgraceful and heartless practical joke.
WARGRAVE. (With significance) So you think it’s a joke, do you?
ARMSTRONG. What else could it be?
(EMILY sits down Right.)
WARGRAVE. (With significance) At the moment I’m not prepared to give an opinion.
(ROGERS enters Left 2 with brandy and glass on tray. Puts it on table up Left.)
MARSTON. Who the devil turned it on, though? And set it going?
WARGRAVE. We must enquire into that. (He looks significantly at ROGERS.)
(LOMBARD enters up Right with record; puts it on chair Right Centre. MRS. ROGERS begins to move and twist.)
MRS. ROGERS. Oh, dear me! Oh, dear me!
(The OTHERS move nearer, obscuring table where the brandy is. Attention is focused on MRS. ROGERS.)
ROGERS. (Above sofa) Allow me, Madam. (To ARMSTRONG) Allow me, sir. If I speak to her—Ethel—Ethel—(His tone is urgent and nervous) It’s all right. All right, do you hear? Pull yourself together.
(MRS. ROGERS begins to gasp and moan. She tries to pull herself up. Her frightened eyes stare round the room.)
ARMSTRONG. (Taking wrist) You’ll be all right now, Mrs. Rogers. Just a nasty turn.
(BLORE pours out brandy up Left.)
MRS. ROGERS. Did I faint, sir?
ARMSTRONG. Yes.
MRS. ROGERS. It was the voice—the awful voice—like a judgement—
(ROGERS makes anxious movement. MRS. ROGERS’s eyelids flutter. She seems about to collapse again.)
ARMSTRONG. Where’s the brandy? (They draw back a little, disclosing it. BLORE gives glass to VERA, who gives it to ARMSTRONG. VERA sits Left edge of sofa, holding cushion under MRS. ROGERS’s head) Drink this, Mrs. Rogers.
MRS. ROGERS. (She gulps a little. Revives. She sits up again.) I’m all right now. I just—gave me a turn.
ROGERS. (Quickly) Of course it did. Gave me a turn too. Wicked lies it was! I’d like to know—
(WARGRAVE at Centre deliberately clears his throat. It stops ROGERS, who stares at him nervously. WARGRAVE clears his throat again, looking hard at ROGERS.)
WARGRAVE. Who was it put that record on the gramophone? Was it you, Rogers?
ROGERS. I was just obeying orders, sir, that’s all.
WARGRAVE. Whose orders?
ROGERS. Mr. Owen’s.
WARGRAVE. Let me get this quite clear. Mr. Owen’s orders were—what exactly?
ROGERS. I was to put on a record on the gramophone in the study. I’d find the records in the drawer in there. I was to start with that one, sir. I thought it was just to give you all some music.
WARGRAVE. (Sceptically) A very remarkable story.
ROGERS. (Hysterically) It’s the truth, sir. Before Heaven, it’s the truth. I didn’t know what it was—not for a moment. It had a name on it. I thought it was just a piece of music.
(WARGRAVE looks towards LOMBARD, who examines record.)
WARGRAVE. Is there a title?
LOMBARD. (Grinning) A title? Yes, sir. It’s entitled “Swan Song.”
(It amuses him, but some of the OTHERS react nervously.)
MACKENZIE. The whole thing is preposterous—preposterous! Slinging accusations about like this. Something must be done about it. This fellow Owen, whoever he is—(Moves up Left.)
EMILY. That’s just it. Who is he?
WARGRAVE. (With authority) That is exactly what we must go into very carefully. I should suggest that you get your wife to bed, Rogers. Then come back here.
ROGERS. Yes, sir.
ARMSTRONG. I’ll give you a hand.
VERA. (Rising) Will she be all right, Doctor?
ARMSTRONG. Yes, quite all right.
(ARMSTRONG and ROGERS help MRS. ROGERS up and take her out Left 1.)
MARSTON. (To WARGRAVE) Don’t know about you, sir, but I feel I need another drink.
WARGRAVE. I agree.
MARSTON. I’ll get them. (Goes down Right.)
MACKENZIE. (Muttering angrily) Preposterous—that’s what it is—preposterous. (Sits up Left.)
MARSTON. Whisky for you, Sir Lawrence?
EMILY. (Sits Right sofa) I should like a glass of water, please.
VERA. Yes, I’ll get it. I’ll have a little whisky too. (Crosses down Right.)
(VERA takes glass of water to EMILY, then sits Right Centre with her own drink. They sip drinks without speaking, but they eye each other. ARMSTRONG enters Left 1.)
ARMSTRONG. She’ll be all right. I’ve given her a sedative.
BLORE. (Crosses down Left) Now then, Doctor, you’ll want a drink after all this.
ARMSTRONG. No, thank you. I never touch it. (Sits down Left.)
BLORE. Oh, so you said. You have this one, General? (Up Left to MACKENZIE.)
(MARSTON and LOMBARD refill their glasses. ROGERS stands near door Left 1. He is nervous. EVERYONE focuses attention on him.)
WARGRAVE. (Centre above sofas) Now then, Rogers, we must get to the bottom of this. Tell us what you know about Mr. Owen.
ROGERS. He owns this place, sir.
WARGRAVE. I am aware of that fact. What I want you to tell me is what you yourself know about the man.
ROGERS. I can’t say, sir. You see, I’ve never seen him.
(Faint stir of interest.)
MACKENZIE. What d’you mean, you’ve never seen him?
ROGERS. We’ve only been here just under a week, sir, my wife and I. We were engaged by letter through a registry office. The Regina, in Plymouth.
BLORE. That’s a high-class firm. We can check on that.
WARGRAVE. Have you got the letter?
ROGERS. The letter engaging us? Yes, sir.
(Hunts for it and hands it to WARGRAVE, who runs through it.)
WARGRAVE. Go on with your story.
ROGERS. We arrived here like the letter said, on the 4th. Everything was in order, plenty of food in stock and everything very nice. Just needed dusting and that.
WARGRAVE. What next?
ROGERS. Nothing, sir. That is, we got orders to prepare the room for a house party—eight. Then yesterday, by the morning post, I received another letter saying Mr. and Mrs. Owen might be detained and, if so, we was to do the best we could, and it gave the instructions about dinner and putting on the gramophone record. Here it is, sir. (Crosses to Centre. Hands over letter. Retires up Centre.)
WARGRAVE. H’mm. Headed Ritz Hotel and typewritten.
(BLORE steps up to him and takes letter out of his hands. MARSTON to Left of BLORE. MACKENZIE rises; looks over WARGRAVE’s shoulder.)
BLORE. Coronation machine Number 5. Quite new. No defects. Ensign paper—most common make. We shan’t get much out of this. We might try it for fingerprints, but it’s been handled too much.
LOMBARD. Quite the little detective.
(WARGRAVE turns and looks at him sharply. BLORE’S manner has completely changed, so has his voice. MACKENZIE sits up Left again. LOMBARD sits Left sofa.)
MARSTON. (Taking letter, moving down Right) Got some fancy Christian names, hasn’t he? Ulick Norman Owen. Quite a mouthful.
WARGRAVE. (Takes letter from MARSTON; crosses Left below sofa) I am obliged to you, Mr. Marston. You have drawn my attention to a curious and suggestive point. (He looks around in his court manner) I think the time has come for all of us to pool our information. It would be well for everybody to come forward with all the information they have regarding our unknown host. We are all his guests. I think it would be profitable if each one of us were to explain exactly how that came about.
(There is a pause.)
EMILY. (Rising) There’s something very peculiar about all this. I received a letter with a signature that was not
very easy to read. It purported to be from a woman whom I had met at a certain summer resort two or three years ago. I took the name to be Ogden. I am quite certain that I have never met or become friendly with anyone of the name of Owen.
WARGRAVE. Have you got that letter, Miss Brent?
EMILY. Yes. I will fetch it for you. (Goes out Left 1.)
WARGRAVE. (To Left of VERA) Miss Claythorne?
VERA. (Rises) I never actually met Mrs. Owen. I wanted a holiday post and I applied to a Secretarial Agency, Miss Grenfell’s in London. I was offered this post and accepted.
WARGRAVE. And you were never interviewed by your prospective employer?
VERA. No. This is the letter. (Hands it to him. Sits again chair Right Centre.)
WARGRAVE. (Reading) “Indian Island, Sticklehaven, Devon. I have received your name from Miss Grenfell’s Agency. I understand she knows you personally. I shall be glad to pay you the salary you ask, and shall expect you to take up your duties on August 8th. The train is the 12:10 from Paddington and you will be met at Oakbridge Station. I enclose five pounds for expenses.
Yours truly,
Una Nancy Owen.”
(MARSTON starts to go up Right) Mr. Marston?
MARSTON. Don’t actually know the Owens. Got a wire from a pal of mine, Badger Berkeley. Told me to roll up here. Surprised me a bit because I had an idea the old horse had gone to Norway. I haven’t got the wire. (To Right window.)
WARGRAVE. Thank you. Doctor Armstrong?
ARMSTRONG. (After a pause, rising and coming Left Centre) In the circumstances, I think I may admit that my visit here was professional. Mr. Owen wrote me that he was worried about his wife’s health—her nerves, to be precise. He wanted a report without her being alarmed. He therefore suggested that my visit should be regarded as that of an ordinary guest.
WARGRAVE. You had no previous acquaintance with the family?
ARMSTRONG. No.
WARGRAVE. But you had no hesitation in obeying the summons?
ARMSTRONG. A colleague of mine was mentioned and a very handsome fee suggested. I was due for a holiday, anyway. (Rises; crosses to Right to mantelpiece for cigarette.)
WARGRAVE. (EMILY reenters and hands letter to WARGRAVE, who unfolds it and reads. EMILY sits down Left.) “Dear Miss Brent: I do hope you remember me. We were together at Bell Haven guest house in August some years ago and we seemed to have so much in common. I am starting a guest house of my own on an island off the coast of Devon. I think there is really an opening for a place where there is good plain English cooking, and a nice old-fashioned type of person. None of this nudity and gramophones half the night. I shall be very glad if you could see your way to spending your summer holiday on Indian Island—as my guest, of course. I suggest August 8th, 12:40 from Paddington to Oakbridge.
Yours sincerely,
U.N.”
H’m, yes, the signature is slightly ambiguous.
LOMBARD. (Rises; crosses to VERA. Aside to her) I like the nudity touch!
WARGRAVE. (To above sofas. Takes letter from pocket.) Here is my own decoy letter. From an old friend of mine, Lady Constance Culmington. She writes in her usual vague, incoherent way, urges me to join her here and refers to her host and hostess in the vaguest of terms.
(ARMSTRONG Right of WARGRAVE, MARSTON to Right of ARMSTRONG to look at letter. MACKENZIE to Left of WARGRAVE.)
LOMBARD. (With sudden excitement, staring at BLORE) Look here, I’ve just thought of something—
WARGRAVE. In a minute.
LOMBARD. But I—
WARGRAVE. We will take one thing at a time, if you don’t mind, Captain Lombard. General MacKenzie?
(BLORE sits Right end of Left sofa.)
MACKENZIE. (Rather incoherently, pulling at moustache) Got a letter—from this fellow Owen—thought I must have met sometime at the Club—mentioned some old cronies of mine who were to be here—hoped I’d excuse informal invitation. Haven’t kept the letter, I’m afraid. (Sits up Left.)
WARGRAVE. And you, Captain Lombard?
LOMBARD. Same sort of thing. Invitation mentioning mutual friends. I haven’t kept the letter either.
(Pause. WARGRAVE turns his attention to BLORE. He looks at him for some minutes. When he speaks, his voice is silky and dangerous.)
WARGRAVE. Just now we had a somewhat disturbing experience. An apparently disembodied voice spoke to us all by name, uttering certain definite accusations against us. We will deal with those accusations presently. At the moment I am interested in a minor point. Amongst the names received was that of William Henry Blore. But as far as we know, there is no one named Blore amongst us. The name of Davis was not mentioned. What have you to say about that, Mr. Davis?
BLORE. (Rises) Cat’s out of the bag, it seems. I suppose I’d better admit my name isn’t Davis.
WARGRAVE. You are William Henry Blore?
BLORE. That’s right.
LOMBARD. (To Right of BLORE.) I will add something to that. Not only are you here under a false name, Mr. Blore, but in addition I’ve noticed this evening that you’re a first-class liar. You claim to have come from Natal, South Africa. I know South Africa and Natal well, and I’m prepared to swear that you’ve never set foot there in your life.
(ALL turn towards BLORE. ARMSTRONG goes up to Right window.)
BLORE. You gentlemen have got me wrong. I’m an ex-CID man.
LOMBARD. Oh, a copper!
BLORE. I’ve got my credentials and I can prove it. I run a detective agency in Plymouth. I was put on to this job.
WARGRAVE. By whom?
BLORE. Why, Mr. Owen. Sent a very nice money order for expenses, and said I was to join the house party, posing as a guest. He also sent a list of all your names and said I was to keep an eye on you all.
WARGRAVE. Any reason given?
BLORE. Said Mrs. Owen had got some valuable jewels. (Pause) Mrs. Owen, my foot! I don’t believe there’s any such person. (Goes down Right to cabinet.)
WARGRAVE. (Sits Left sofa.) Your conclusions are, I think, justified. (Looks down at letters.) Ulick Norman Owen. Una Nancy Owen. Each time, that is to say, U.N. Owen. Or, by a slight stretch of fancy, Unknown.
VERA. But it’s fantastic! Mad!
WARGRAVE. (Rises. Quietly) Oh, yes, I’ve no doubt in my own mind that we have been invited here by a madman—probably a dangerous homicidal lunatic.
(There is an appalled silence.)
ROGERS. Oh, my gawd!
WARGRAVE. (To back of Left sofa) Whoever it is who has enticed us here, that person has taken the trouble to find out a great deal about us. (Pause) A very great deal. And out of his knowledge concerning us, he has made certain definite accusations.
BLORE. It’s all very well to make accusations.
MACKENZIE. A pack of damn lies! Slander!
VERA. It’s iniquitous! Wicked!
ROGERS. A lie—a wicked lie—we never did, neither of us—
MARSTON. Don’t know what the damned fool was getting at—
(EVERYBODY more or less speaks at once)
WARGRAVE. (Raises a hand for silence. Sits Left sofa.) I wish to say this. Our unknown friend accuses me of the murder of one Edward Seton. I remember Seton perfectly well. He came up before me for trial in June 1930. He was charged with the murder of an elderly woman. He was very ably defended and made a good impression on the jury in the witness box. Nevertheless, on the evidence he was certainly guilty. I summed up accordingly and the jury brought in a verdict of Guilty. In passing sentence of death, I fully concurred with this verdict. The appeal was lodged on the grounds of misdirection. The appeal was dismissed and the man was duly executed. (Pause) I wish to say before you all that my conscience is perfectly clear on the matter. I did my duty and nothing more. I passed sentence on a rightly convicted murderer.
(There is a pause.)
ARMSTRONG. (To above WARGRAVE) Did you know Seton at all? I mean, personally.
WARGRAVE. (Looks at him. He hesitates a moment.) I knew nothing of Seton previ
ous to the trial.
LOMBARD. (Low to VERA) The old boy’s lying. I’ll swear he’s lying.
(ARMSTRONG to down Right.)
MACKENZIE. (Rises) Fellow’s a madman. Absolute madman. Got a bee in his bonnet. Got hold of the wrong end of the stick all round. (To WARGRAVE) Best really to leave this sort of thing unanswered. However, feel I ought to say—no truth—no truth whatever in what he said about—er—young Arthur Richmond. Richmond was one of my officers. I sent him on reconnaisance in 1917. He was killed. Also like to say—resent very much—slur on my wife. Been dead a long time. Best woman in the world. Absolutely—Caesar’s wife. (He sits down again.)
MARSTON. (Right Centre) I’ve just been thinking—John and Lucy Combes. Must have been a couple of kids I ran over near Cambridge. Beastly bad luck.
WARGRAVE. (Acidly) For them or for you?
MARSTON. Well, I was thinking—for me—but, of course, you’re right, sir. It was damned bad luck for them too. Of course, it was pure accident. They rushed out of some cottage or other. I had my licence suspended for a year. Beastly nuisance.
ARMSTRONG. This speeding’s all wrong—all wrong. Young men like you are a danger to the community.
MARSTON. (Wanders to Right window; picks up his glass, which is half-full.) Well, I couldn’t help it. Just an accident.
ROGERS. Might I say a word, sir?
LOMBARD. Go ahead, Rogers.
ROGERS. There was a mention, sir, of me and Mrs. Rogers, and of Miss Jennifer Brady. There isn’t a word of truth in it. We were with Miss Brady when she died. She was always in poor health, sir, always from the time we came to her. There was a storm, sir, the night she died. The telephone was out of order. We couldn’t get the doctor to her. I went for him, sir, on foot. But he got there too late. We’d done everything possible for her, sir. Devoted to her, we were. Anyone will tell you the same. There was never a word said against us. Never a word.
BLORE. (In a bullying manner) Came into a nice little something at her death, I suppose. Didn’t you?
ROGERS. (Crosses down Right to BLORE. Stiffly) Miss Brady left us a legacy in recognition of our faithful service. And why not, I’d like to know?
LOMBARD. (Right Centre. With meaning) What about yourself, Mr. Blore?
BLORE. What about me?
The Mousetrap and Other Plays Page 3