The Mousetrap and Other Plays

by Agatha Christie

  GRETA. I think that’s rather funny, too. (She giggles.)

  CARTER. Counsel’s Chambers are no place to be funny in. The Law, Greta, is a serious business and should be treated accordingly.

  GRETA. You wouldn’t think so—to hear some of the jokes Judges make.

  CARTER. That kind of joke is the prerogative of the Bench.

  GRETA. And I’m always reading in the paper about “laughter in Court.”

  CARTER. If that’s not caused by one of the Judge’s remarks you’ll find he’ll soon threaten to have the Court cleared.

  GRETA. (Crossing to the door) Mean old thing. (She turns and crosses to L. of the desk.) Do you know what I read the other day, Mr. Carter. (Sententiously.) “The Law’s an Ass.” I’m not being rude. It’s a quotation.

  CARTER. (Coldly.) A quotation of a facetious nature. Not meant to be taken seriously. (He looks at his watch.) You can make the tea—(He pauses, waiting for the exact second.)—now, Greta.

  GRETA. (Gladly.) Oh, thank you, Mr. Carter. (She crosses quickly to the door.)

  CARTER. Mr. Mayhew, of Mayhew and Brinskill, will be here shortly. A Mr. Leonard Vole is also expected. They may come together or separately.

  GRETA. (Excitedly.) Leonard Vole? (She crosses to the desk.) Why, that’s the name—it was in the paper . . .

  CARTER. (Repressively.) The tea, Greta.

  GRETA. Asked to communicate with the police as he might be able to give them useful information.

  CARTER. (Raising his voice) Tea!

  GRETA. (Crossing to the door and turning) It was only last . . .

  (CARTER glowers at GRETA.)

  The tea, Mr. Carter. (GRETA, abashed but unsatisfied, exits.)

  CARTER. (Continues his arrangement of the papers, muttering to himself.) These girls. Sensational—inaccurate—I don’t know what the Temple’s coming to. (He examines a typewritten document, makes an angry sound, picks up a pen and makes a correction.)

  GRETA. (Enters. Announcing) Mr. Mayhew.

  (MR. MAYHEW and LEONARD VOLE enter. MAYHEW is a typical middle-aged solicitor, shrewd and rather dry and precise in manner. LEONARD is a likeable, friendly young man, about twenty seven. He is looking faintly worried. MAYHEW carries a brief-case.)

  MAYHEW. (Giving his hat to GRETA) Sit down, Mr. Vole. (He crosses and stands above the desk.) Good afternoon, Carter. (He puts his brief-case on the desk.)

  (GRETA takes LEONARD’s hat and hangs both on the pegs above the door. She then exits, staring at LEONARD over her shoulder.)

  CARTER. Good afternoon, Mr. Mayhew. Sir Wilfrid shouldn’t be long, sir, although you never can tell with Mr. Justice Banter. I’ll go straight over to the Robing Room and tell him that you’re here! (He hesitates.) with . . . (He crosses below the desk to R. of LEONARD.)

  MAYHEW. With Mr. Leonard Vole. Thank you, Carter. I’m afraid our appointment was at rather short notice. But in this case time is—er—rather urgent.

  (CARTER crosses to the door.)

  How’s the lumbago?

  CARTER. (Turning) I only feel it when the wind is in the East. Thank you for remembering, Mr. Mayhew. (CARTER exits hurriedly.)

  (MAYHEW sits L. of the desk. LEONARD prowls uneasily.)

  MAYHEW. Sit down, Mr. Vole.

  LEONARD. Thanks—I’d rather walk about. I—this sort of thing makes you feel a bit jumpy. (He crosses down L.)

  MAYHEW. Yes, yes, very probably . . .

  GRETA. (Enters. She speaks to MAYHEW, but stares with fascinated interest at LEONARD.) Would you care for a cup of tea, Mr. Mayhew? I’ve just made it.

  LEONARD. (Appreciatively.) Thanks, I don’t mind if I . . .

  MAYHEW. (Interrupting; decisively.) No, thank you.

  (GRETA turns to exit.)

  LEONARD. (To GRETA.) Sorry. (He smiles at her.)

  (GRETA smiles at LEONARD and exits. There is a pause.)

  (He crosses up R. Abruptly and with a rather likeable air of bewilderment.) What I mean is, I can’t believe it’s me this is happening to. I keep thinking—perhaps it’s all a dream and I’ll wake up presently.

  MAYHEW. Yes, I suppose one might feel like that.

  LEONARD. (Moving to R. of the desk) What I mean is—well, it seems so silly.

  MAYHEW. (Sharply.) Silly, Mr. Vole?

  LEONARD. Well, yes. I mean I’ve always been a friendly sort of chap—get on with people and all that. I mean, I’m not the sort of fellow that does—well, anything violent. (He pauses.) But I suppose it will be—all right, won’t it? I mean you don’t get convicted for things you haven’t done in this country, do you?

  MAYHEW. Our English judicial system is, in my opinion, the finest in the world.

  LEONARD. (Is not much comforted. Crossing above the desk to L.) Of course there was that case of—what was his name—Adolf Beck. I read about it only the other day. After he’d been in prison for years, they found out it was another chap called Smith. They gave him a free pardon then. That’s a thing that seems odd to me—giving you a “pardon” for something you haven’t done.

  MAYHEW. It is the necessary legal term.

  LEONARD. (Bringing the chair from L. of the fireplace and setting it C.) Well, it doesn’t seem right to me.

  MAYHEW. The important thing was that Beck was set at liberty.

  LEONARD. Yes, it was all right for him. But if it had been murder now—(He sits astride the chair C.) if it had been murder it would have been too late. He would have been hanged.

  MAYHEW. (Dry but kindly.) Now, Mr. Vole, there is really no need to take a—er—morbid point of view.

  LEONARD. (Rather pathetically.) I’m sorry, sir. But you see, in a way, I’m rather getting the wind up.

  MAYHEW. Well, try and keep calm. Sir Wilfrid Robarts will be here presently and I want you to tell your story to him exactly as you told it to me.

  LEONARD. Yes, sir.

  MAYHEW. But meantime perhaps we might fill out a little more of the detail—er—background. You are at present, I understand, out of a job?

  LEONARD. (Embarrassed.) Yes, but I’ve got a few pounds put by. It’s not much, but if you can see your way . . .

  MAYHEW. (Upset.) Oh, I’m not thinking of—er—legal fees. It’s just the—er—pictures I’m trying to get clear. Your surroundings and—er—circumstances. How long have you been unemployed?

  LEONARD. (Answers everything readily, with an engaging friendliness.) About a couple of months.

  MAYHEW. What were you doing before that?

  LEONARD. I was in a motor servicing firm—kind of mechanic, that’s what I was.

  MAYHEW. How long had you worked there?

  LEONARD. Oh, about three months.

  MAYHEW. (Sharply.) Were you discharged?

  LEONARD. No, I quit. Had words with the foreman. Proper old b— (He breaks off.) That is, he was a mean sort of chap, always picking on you.

  MAYHEW. Hm! And before that?

  LEONARD. I worked in a petrol station, but things got a bit awkward and I left.

  MAYHEW. Awkward? In what way?

  LEONARD. (Embarrassed.) Well—the boss’s daughter—she was only a kid, but she took a—well, a sort of fancy to me—and there was nothing there shouldn’t have been between us, but the old man got a bit fed up and said I’d better go. He was quite nice about it and gave me a good chit. (He rises and suddenly grins.) Before that, I was selling egg beaters on commission. (He replaces the chair L. of the fireplace.)

  MAYHEW. Indeed.

  LEONARD. (Crossing and standing above the desk; boyishly.) And a rotten job they were, too. I could have invented a better egg beater myself. (Catching MAYHEW’s mood) You’re thinking I’m a bit of a drifter, sir. It’s true in a way—but I’m not really like that. Doing my army service unsettled me a bit—that and being abroad. I was in Germany. It was fine there. That’s where I met my wife. She’s an actress. Since I’ve come back to this country I can’t seem somehow to settle down properly. I don’t know really just what I want to do—I like working on cars best
and thinking out new gadgets for them. That’s interesting, that is. And you see . . .

  (SIR WILFRID ROBARTS, Q.C., enters. He is followed on by CARTER. SIR WILFRID is wearing his Q.C.’s jacket and bands and carries his wig and gown. CARTER carries SIR WILFRID’s ordinary jacket and bow tie.)

  SIR WILFRID. Hullo, John.

  MAYHEW. (Rising) Ah, Wilfrid.

  SIR WILFRID. (Handing the wig and gown to) CARTER) Carter told you I was in Court? Banter really surpassed himself. (He looks at LEONARD.) And this is Mr.—er—Vole? (He crosses to L. of LEONARD.)

  MAYHEW. This is Leonard Vole.

  LEONARD. How do you do, sir?

  (MAYHEW moves to the fireplace.)

  SIR WILFRID. How do you do, Vole? Won’t you sit down?

  (LEONARD sits L. of the desk.)

  How’s the family, John? (He crosses to CARTER.)

  (CARTER assists SIR WILFRID to change his jacket and remove his bands.)

  MAYHEW. Molly’s got a touch of this twenty-four-hour flu.

  SIR WILFRID. Too bad!

  MAYHEW. Yes, damnable. Did you win your case, Wilfrid?

  SIR WILFRID. Yes, I’m glad to say.

  MAYHEW. It always gives you satisfaction to beat Myers, doesn’t it?

  SIR WILFRID. It gives me satisfaction to beat anyone.

  MAYHEW. But especially Myers.

  SIR WILFRID. (Taking the bow tie from CARTER) Especially Myers. (He crosses to the mirror R.) He’s an irritating—gentleman. (He puts on his bow tie.) He always seems to bring out the worst in me.

  MAYHEW. That would appear to be mutual. You irritate him because you hardly ever let him finish a sentence.

  (CARTER exits, taking the wig, gown, jacket and bands with him.)

  SIR WILFRID. He irritates me because of that mannerism of his. (He turns and stands R. of the desk.) It’s this—(He clears his throat and adjusts an imaginary wig.) that drives me to distraction, and he will call me Ro-barts—Ro-barts. But he’s a very able advocate, if only he’d remember not to ask leading questions when he knows damn well he shouldn’t. But let’s get down to business.

  MAYHEW. (Moving above the desk) Yes. I brought Vole here, because I am anxious for you to hear his story exactly as he told it to me. (He takes some typewritten papers from his brief-case.) There is some urgency in the matter, it seems. (He hands the papers to SIR WILFRID.)

  SIR WILFRID. Oh?

  LEONARD. My wife thinks I’m going to be arrested. (He looks embarrassed.) She’s much cleverer than I am—so she may be right.

  SIR WILFRID. Arrested for what?

  LEONARD. (Still more embarrassed.) Well—for murder.

  (SIR WILFRID perches himself on the down R. corner of the desk.)

  MAYHEW. (Crossing to C.) It’s the case of Miss Emily French. You’ve probably seen the reports in the Press?

  (SIR WILFRID nods.)

  She was a maiden lady, living alone but for an elderly housekeeper, in a house at Hampstead. On the night of October the fourteenth her housekeeper returned at eleven o’clock to find that apparently the place had been broken into, and that her mistress had been coshed on the back of the head and killed. (To LEONARD.) That is right?

  LEONARD. That’s right. It’s quite an ordinary sort of thing to happen nowadays. And then, the other day, the papers said that the police were anxious to interview a Mr. Leonard Vole, who had visited Miss French earlier on the evening in question, as they thought he might be able to give them useful information. So of course I went along to the police station and they asked me a lot of questions.

  SIR WILFRID. (Sharply.) Did they caution you?

  LEONARD. (Vaguely.) I don’t quite know. I mean they said would I like to make a statement and they’d write it down, and it might be used in Court. Is that cautioning me?

  (SIR WILFRID exchanges a glance with MAYHEW, and speaks more to him than to LEONARD.)

  SIR WILFRID. (Rising) Oh well, can’t be helped now. (He crosses above the desk to L.)

  LEONARD. Anyway, it sounded damned silly to me. I told them all I could and they were very polite and seemed quite satisfied and all that. When I got home and told Romaine about it—my wife that is—well, she got the wind up. She seemed to think that they—well—that they’d got hold of the idea that I might have done it.

  (SIR WILFRID moves the chair from L. of the fireplace to C. for MAYHEW, who sits.)

  So I thought perhaps I ought to get hold of a solicitor—(To MAYHEW.) so I came along to you. I thought you’d be able to tell me what I ought to do about it. (He looks anxiously from one to the other.)

  SIR WILFRID. (Moving down L.) You knew Miss French well?

  (LEONARD rises, but SIR WILFRID motions him to sit.)

  LEONARD. Oh yes, she’d been frightfully kind to me. (He resumes his seat.) Actually it was a bit of a bore sometimes—she positively fussed over me, but she meant it very well, and when I saw in the paper that she’d been killed I was awfully upset, because, you see, I’d really got fond of her.

  MAYHEW. Tell Sir Wilfrid, just as you told me, how it was you came to make Miss French’s acquaintance.

  LEONARD. (Turning obediently to SIR WILFRID) Well, it was one day in Oxford Street. I saw an old lady crossing the road carrying a lot of parcels and in the middle of the street she dropped them, tried to get hold of them again and found a bus was almost on top of her.

  (SIR WILFRID crosses slowly below the others to R. of desk.)

  Just managed to get to the curb safely. Well, I recovered her parcels from the street, wiped some of the mud off them as best I could, tied up one again that had burst open with string and generally soothed the old dear down. You know the sort of thing.

  SIR WILFRID. And she was grateful?

  LEONARD. Oh yes, she seemed very grateful. Thanked me a lot and all that. Anyone would think I’d saved her life instead of her parcels.

  SIR WILFRID. There was actually no question of your having saved her life? (He takes a packet of cigarettes from the desk drawer.)

  LEONARD. Oh, no. Nothing heroic. I never expected to see her again.

  SIR WILFRID. Cigarette?

  LEONARD. No, thanks, sir, never do. But by an extraordinary coincidence, two days later I happened to be sitting behind her in the theatre. She looked round and recognized me and we began to talk, and in the end she asked me to come and see her.

  SIR WILFRID. And you went?

  LEONARD. Yes. She’d urged me to name a day specially and it seemed rather churlish to refuse. So I said I’d go on the following Saturday.

  SIR WILFRID. And you went to her house at. . . (He looks at one of the papers.)

  MAYHEW. Hampstead.

  LEONARD. Yes.

  SIR WILFRID. What did you know about her when you first went to the house? (He perches himself on the down R. corner of the desk.)

  LEONARD. Well, nothing really but what she’d told me, that she lived alone and hadn’t very many friends. Something of that kind.

  SIR WILFRID. She lived with only a housekeeper?

  LEONARD. That’s right. She had eight cats, though. Eight of them. The house was beautifully furnished and all that, but it smelt a bit of cat.

  SIR WILFRID. (Rising and moving above the desk) Had you reason to believe she was well off?

  LEONARD. Well, she talked as though she was.

  SIR WILFRID. And you yourself? (He crosses and stands up L. of LEONARD.)

  LEONARD. (Cheerfully.) Oh, I’m practically stony broke and have been for a long time.

  SIR WILFRID. Unfortunate.

  LEONARD. Yes, it is rather. Oh, you mean people will say I was sucking up to her for her money?

  SIR WILFRID. (Disarmed.) I shouldn’t have put it quite like that, but in essence, yes, that is possibly what people might say.

  LEONARD. It isn’t really true, you know. As a matter of fact, I was sorry for her. I thought she was lonely. I was brought up by an old aunt, my Aunt Betsy, and I like old ladies.

  SIR WILFRID. You say old ladies. Do you know w
hat age Miss French was?

  LEONARD. Well, I didn’t know, but I read it in the paper after she was murdered. She was fifty-six.

  SIR WILFRID. Fifty-six. You consider that old, Mr. Vole, but I should doubt if Miss Emily French considered herself old.

  LEONARD. But you can’t call it a chicken, can you?

  SIR WILFRID. (Crossing above the desk and sitting R. of it) Well, let us get on. You went to see Miss French fairly frequently?

  LEONARD. Yes, I should say once, twice a week perhaps.

  SIR WILFRID. Did you take your wife with you?

  LEONARD. (Slightly embarrassed.) No, no, I didn’t.

  SIR WILFRID. Why didn’t you?

  LEONARD. Well—well, frankly, I don’t think it would have gone down very well if I had.

  SIR WILFRID. Do you mean with your wife or with Miss French?

  LEONARD. Oh, with Miss French. (He hesitates.)

  MAYHEW. Go on, go on.

  LEONARD. You see, she got rather fond of me.

  SIR WILFRID. You mean, she fell in love with you?

  LEONARD. (Horrified.) Oh, good Lord, no, nothing of that kind. Just sort of pampered me and spoiled me, that sort of thing.

  SIR WILFRID. (After a short pause.) You see, Mr. Vole, I have no doubt part of the police case against you, if there is a case against you which as yet we have no definite reason to suppose, will be why did you, young, good-looking, married, devote so much of your time to an elderly woman with whom you could hardly have very much in common?

  LEONARD. (Gloomily.) Yes, I know they’ll say I was after her for her money. And in a way perhaps that’s true. But only in a way.

  SIR WILFRID. (Slightly disarmed.) Well, at least you’re frank, Mr. Vole. Can you explain a little more clearly?

  LEONARD. (Rising and moving to the fireplace) Well, she made no secret of the fact that she was rolling in money. As I told you, Romaine and I—that’s my wife—are pretty hard up. (He moves and stands above his chair.) I’ll admit that I did hope that if I was really in a tight place she’d lend me some money. I’m being honest about it.

  SIR WILFRID. Did you ask her for a loan?

  LEONARD. No, I didn’t. I mean, things weren’t desperate. (He becomes suddenly rather more serious as though he realized the gravity of that.) Of course I can see—it does look rather bad for me. (He resumes his seat.)