The Mousetrap and Other Plays

by Agatha Christie

  JUSTIN. Do you find it cold?

  CARLA. I think your central heating’s kind of low.

  JUSTIN. It’s kind of non-existent, I’m afraid. (He smiles) I mean, we haven’t any. Shall I get them to light the fire for you?

  CARLA. No, please.

  (JUSTIN looks at the window, sees it is open, quickly closes it, then leans over the desk to Carla)

  JUSTIN. This Mr—er . . . This Jeff . . . ?

  CARLA. You’ll see him. He’s coming to call for me, if you don’t mind. (She looks at her wrist-watch) Hell, I’m wasting time. I didn’t come to consult you about my love life. (Struck) At least, I suppose I did. I’ve got to find out the truth, you see.

  JUSTIN. I told you just now that there were extenuating circumstances. Your mother was found guilty, but the jury made a strong recommendation to mercy. Her sentence was commuted to imprisonment.

  CARLA. And she died in prison three years later.

  JUSTIN. (sitting at the desk) Yes.

  CARLA. In her letter, my mother wrote that she wanted me to know definitely that she was innocent. (She looks defiantly at Justin)

  JUSTIN. (unimpressed) Yes.

  CARLA. You don’t believe it?

  JUSTIN. (carefully finding his words) I think—a devoted mother—might want to do the best she could for her daughter’s peace of mind.

  CARLA. No, no, no! She wasn’t like that. She never told lies.

  JUSTIN. How can you know? You were a child of five when you saw her last.

  CARLA. (passionately) I do know. My mother didn’t tell lies. When she took a thorn out of my finger once, she said it would hurt. And going to the dentist. All those things. She was never one to sugar the pill. What she said was always true. (She rises quickly, and turns up L) And if she says she was innocent then she was innocent. You don’t believe me—but it’s so. (She takes a handkerchief from her bag and dabs her eyes)

  JUSTIN. (rising) It’s better, always, to face the truth.

  CARLA. (turning to him) That is the truth.

  JUSTIN. (shaking his head; quietly) It isn’t the truth.

  CARLA. How can you be so sure? Does a jury never make a mistake?

  JUSTIN. There are probably several guilty people walking around free, yes; because they’ve been given the benefit of the doubt. But in your mother’s case—there wasn’t any doubt.

  CARLA. You weren’t there. It was your father who attended the case . . .

  JUSTIN. (interrupting) My father was the solicitor in charge of the defence, yes.

  CARLA. Well—he thought her innocent, didn’t he?

  JUSTIN. Yes. (Embarrassed) Yes, of course. You don’t quite understand these things . . .

  CARLA. (cynically) You mean that it was technical only?

  (JUSTIN is slightly at a loss how to explain)

  (She moves C, in front of her chair) But he himself, personally—what did he think?

  JUSTIN. (stiffly) Really, I’ve no idea.

  CARLA. Yes, you have. He thought she was guilty. (She turns and faces L) And you think so, too. (She pauses, then turns to Justin) But how is it that you remember it all so well?

  JUSTIN. (looking steadily at her) I was eighteen—just going up to Oxford—not in the firm, yet—but—interested. (Remembering) I was in court every day.

  CARLA. What did you think? Tell me. (She sits C. Eagerly) I have to know.

  JUSTIN. Your mother loved your father desperately—but he gave her a raw deal—he brought his mistress into the house—subjected your mother to humiliation and insult. Mrs. Crale endured more than any woman could be expected to endure. He drove her too far. The means were to hand—try and understand. Understand and forgive. (He crosses above the desk and stands down L)

  CARLA. I don’t need to forgive. She didn’t do it.

  JUSTIN. (turning to her) Then who the devil did?

  (CARLA, taken aback, looks up at Justin)

  (He crosses below Carla to R) Well, that’s the point, isn’t it? Nobody else had the slightest motive. If you were to read up the reports of the case . . .

  CARLA. I have. I’ve gone to the files. I’ve read up every single detail of the trial.

  (JUSTIN crosses behind the desk and goes through the file he put on it)

  JUSTIN. Well, then, take the facts. Aside from your mother and father, there were five people in the house that day. There were the Blakes—Philip and Meredith, two brothers, two of your father’s closest friends. There was a girl of fourteen, your mother’s half-sister—Angela Warren, and her governess—Miss—something or other, and there was Elsa Greer, your father’s mistress—and there wasn’t the least suspicion against any of them—and besides, if you’d seen . . . (He breaks off)

  CARLA. (eagerly) Yes—go on . . .

  JUSTIN. (turning to the window; with feeling) If you’d seen her standing there in the witness-box. So brave, so polite—bearing it all so patiently, but never—for one moment—fighting. (He looks at Carla) You’re like her, you know, to look at. It might be her sitting there. There’s only one difference. You’re a fighter. (He looks in the file)

  CARLA. (looking out front; puzzled) She didn’t fight—why?

  JUSTIN. (crossing down L) Montagu Depleach led for the defence. I think now that may have been a mistake. He had an enormous reputation, but he was—theatrical. His client had to play up. But your mother didn’t play up.

  CARLA. Why?

  JUSTIN. She answered his questions with all the right answers—but it was like a docile child repeating a lesson—it didn’t give old Monty his chance. He built up to the last question—“I ask you, Mrs. Crale, did you kill your husband?” And she said: “No—er—no, really I d-didn’t.” She stammered. It was a complete anti-climax, utterly unconvincing.

  CARLA. And then what happened?

  JUSTIN. (crossing above Carla to the desk) Then it was Asprey’s turn. He was Attorney-General, later. Quiet, but quite deadly. Logic—after old Monty’s fireworks. He made mincemeat of her. Brought out every damning detail. I—I could hardly bear it . . .

  CARLA. (studying him) You remember it all very well.

  JUSTIN. Yes.

  CARLA. Why?

  JUSTIN. (taken aback) I suppose . . .

  CARLA. Yes?

  JUSTIN. I was young, impressionable.

  CARLA. You fell in love with my mother.

  (JUSTIN forces a laugh and sits at the desk)

  JUSTIN. Something of the kind—she was so lovely—so helpless—she’d been through so much—I—I’d have died for her. (He smiles) Romantic age—eighteen.

  CARLA. (frowning) You’d have died for her—but you thought her guilty.

  JUSTIN. (firmly) Yes, I did.

  (CARLA is really shaken. She bends her head, fighting back her tears. TURNBALL enters and moves to L of the desk)

  TURNBALL. A Mr. Rogers is here, sir, asking for Miss Le Marchant. (He looks at Carla)

  CARLA. Jeff. (To Turnball) Please—ask him to wait.

  TURNBALL. Certainly, Miss Le Marchant.

  (TURNBALL looks closely at Carla for a moment, then exits)

  CARLA. (looking after Turnball) He looked at me . . . (She breaks off)

  JUSTIN. Turnball was at your mother’s trial. He’s been with us for nearly forty years.

  CARLA. Please, ask him back.

  (JUSTIN rises and moves to the arch)

  JUSTIN. (calling) Turnball. (He returns to R of the desk)

  (TURNBALL enters)

  TURNBALL. Yes, sir?

  (JUSTIN motions to Carla. TURNBALL moves down L of Carla)

  CARLA. Mr. Turnball—I’m Carla Crale. I believe you were at my mother’s trial.

  TURNBALL. Yes, Miss Crale, I was. Er—I knew at once who you were.

  CARLA. Because I’m so like my mother?

  TURNBALL. The dead spit of her, if I may put it so.

  CARLA. What did you think—at the trial? Did you think she was guilty?

  (TURNBALL looks at Justin. JUSTIN nods for Turnball to answer)
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  TURNBALL. (kindly) You don’t want to put it that way. She was a sweet, gentle lady—but she’d been pushed too far. As I’ve always seen it, she didn’t rightly know what she was doing.

  CARLA. (to herself; ironically) Extenuating circumstances. (She looks at Justin)

  (JUSTIN sits at the desk. After a while, CARLA looks back at Turnball)

  TURNBALL. (after a pause) That’s right. The other woman—that Elsa Greer—she was a hussy if ever there was one. Sexy, if you’ll excuse the word. And your father was an artist—a really great painter; I understand some of his pictures are in the Tate Gallery—and you know what artists are. That Greer girl got her hooks into him good and proper—a kind of madness it must have been. Got him so he was going to leave his wife and child for her. Don’t ever blame your mother, Miss Crale. Even the gentlest lady can be pushed too far.

  JUSTIN. Thank you, Turnball.

  (TURNBALL looks from Carla to Justin, then exits)

  CARLA. He thinks as you do—guilty.

  JUSTIN. A gentle creature—pushed too far.

  CARLA. (acquiescing) I—suppose so—yes. (With sudden energy) No! I don’t believe it. I won’t believe it. You—you’ve got to help me.

  JUSTIN. To do what?

  CARLA. Go back into the past and find out the truth.

  JUSTIN. You won’t believe the truth when you hear it.

  CARLA. Because it isn’t the truth. The defence was suicide, wasn’t it?

  JUSTIN. Yes.

  CARLA. It could have been suicide. My father could have felt that he’d messed up everything, and that he’d be better out of it all.

  JUSTIN. It was the only defense possible—but it wasn’t convincing. Your father was the last man in the world to take his own life.

  CARLA. (doubtfully) Accident?

  JUSTIN. Conine—a deadly poison, introduced into a glass of beer by accident?

  CARLA. All right, then. There’s only one answer. Someone else.

  (JUSTIN begins to thumb through the file on his desk, which contains separate sheafs of notes on each person connected with the case)

  JUSTIN. One of the five people there in the house. Hardly Elsa Greer. She’d got your father besotted about her, and he was going to get a divorce from his wife and marry her. Philip Blake? He was devoted to your father and always had been.

  CARLA. (weakly) Perhaps he was in love with Elsa Greer, too.

  JUSTIN. He certainly was not. Meredith Blake? He was your father’s friend, too, one of the most amiable men that ever lived. Imagination boggles at the thought of his murdering anyone.

  CARLA. All right. All right. Who else do we have?

  JUSTIN. Angela Warren, a schoolgirl of fourteen? And the governess, Miss Whoever her name is.

  CARLA. (quickly) Well, what about Miss Whoever her name was?

  JUSTIN. (after a slight pause) I see the way your mind is working. Frustration, lonely spinster, repressed love for your father. Let me tell you that Miss—Williams—(he looks in the file) yes, that was her name—Williams—wasn’t like that, at all. She was a tartar, a woman of strong character, and sound commonsense. (He closes the file) Go and see her for yourself if you don’t believe me.

  CARLA. That’s what I’m going to do.

  JUSTIN. (looking up) What?

  CARLA. (stubbing out her cigarette in the ashtray on the desk) I’m going to see them all. (She rises) That’s what I want you to do for me. Find out where they all are. Make appointments for me with them.

  JUSTIN. With what reason?

  CARLA. (crossing to L) So that I can ask them questions, make them remember.

  JUSTIN. What can they remember that could be useful after sixteen years?

  CARLA. (putting on her gloves) Something, perhaps, that they never thought of at the time. Something that wasn’t evidence—not the sort of thing that would come out in court. It will be like patchwork—a little piece of this and a little piece of that. And in the end, who knows, it might add up to something.

  JUSTIN. Wishful thinking. You’ll only give yourself more pain in the end. (He puts the file in the desk drawer)

  CARLA. (defiantly) My mother was innocent. I’m starting from there. And you’re going to help me.

  JUSTIN. (stubbornly) That’s where you’re wrong. (He rises) I’m not going to help you to chase a will-o’-the-wisp.

  (CARLA and JUSTIN stare at each other.)

  JEFF ROGERS suddenly strides in. TURNBALL, indignantly protesting, follows him on. JEFF is a big, slick, self-satisfied man of thirty-five, good-looking and insensitive to others. He wears an overcoat and carries a hat, which he throws on to the desk.

  JEFF. (standing above the desk) Sorry to bust in, but all this sitting around in waiting rooms gives me claustrophobia. (To Carla) Time means nothing to you, honey. (To Justin) I take it you’re Mr. Fogg? Pleased to meet you.

  (JEFF and JUSTIN shake hands)

  TURNBALL. (in the archway; to Justin) I’m extremely sorry, sir. I was—er—quite unable to restrain this—gentleman.

  JEFF. (cheerily) Forget it, Pop. (He slaps Turnball on the back)

  (TURNBALL winces)

  JUSTIN. It’s quite all right, Turnball.

  (TURNBALL exits)

  JEFF. (calling) No hard feelings, Turnball. (To Carla) Well, I suppose you haven’t finished your business, Carla?

  CARLA. But I have. I came to ask Mr. Fogg something—(coldly) and he’s answered me.

  JUSTIN. I’m sorry.

  CARLA. All right, Jeff. Let’s go. (She moves to the arch)

  JEFF. Oh, Carla—

  (CARLA stops and turns)

  —I rather wanted to have a word with Mr. Fogg, myself—about some affairs of mine here. Would you mind? I’ll only be a few minutes.

  (CARLA hesitates)

  CARLA. I’ll go and soothe Mr. Turnball’s feelings. He was absolutely horrified by your behaviour.

  (CARLA exits)

  JEFF. (moving to the arch and calling) That’s right, darling. Tell him I’m an overseas hick who knows no better. (He laughs loudly and turns) That old boy’s like something out of Dickens.

  JUSTIN. (dryly) Come in, Mr.—er . . . (He looks unsuccessfully for Jeff’s name on the band inside his hat)

  JEFF. (not listening) I wanted to have a word with you, Mr. Fogg. (He moves down C) It’s this business about Carla’s mother. The whole thing’s given her a bit of a jolt.

  JUSTIN. (very cold and legal) Not unnaturally.

  JEFF. It’s a shock to learn suddenly that your mother was a cold-blooded poisoner. I don’t mind telling you that it was a bit of a jolt to me, too.

  JUSTIN. Indeed!

  (JEFF moves and sits on the upstage end of the desk)

  JEFF. There I was, all set to marry a nice girl, uncle and aunt some of the nicest people in Montreal, a well-bred girl, money of her own, everything a man could want. And then—out of the blue—this.

  JUSTIN. It must have upset you.

  JEFF. (with feeling) Oh, it did.

  JUSTIN. (quietly) Sit down, Mr.—er . . .

  JEFF. What?

  JUSTIN. (nodding towards the chair C) On the chair.

  (JEFF looks at the chair C, then rises, moves to the chair and sits on it)

  JEFF. Oh, I’ll admit that, just at first, I thought of backing out—you know, kids—things like that?

  JUSTIN. You have strong views about heredity?

  JEFF. You can’t do any cattle breeding without realizing that certain strains repeat themselves. “Still,” I said to myself, “it isn’t the girl’s fault. She’s a fine girl. You can’t let her down. You’ve just got to go through with it.”

  (JUSTIN picks up the box of cigarettes and lighter and crosses above Jeff to L of him)

  JUSTIN. Cattle breeding.

  JEFF. So I told her it made no difference at all. (He takes a packet of American cigarettes and a lighter from his pocket)

  JUSTIN. But it does?

  JEFF. (taking a cigarette from his packet) No, no, I’ve put i
t behind me. But Carla’s got some morbid idea in her head of raking the whole thing up. That’s got to be stopped. (He offers Justin a cigarette)

  JUSTIN. Yes? No. (He puts the cigarette box quickly on the table L)

  JEFF. She’ll only upset herself. Let her down lightly—but let your answer be “No.” See?

  (JEFF lights his cigarette. At the same moment, JUSTIN flicks the lighter he holds, sees Jeff has his own, so extinguishes it quickly, and puts it on the table L)

  JUSTIN. I see.

  JEFF. Of course—I suppose making all these enquiries would be quite—er—good business for your firm. You know, fees, expenses, all that . . .

  JUSTIN. (crossing below Jeff to R) We are a firm of solicitors, you know, not inquiry agents.

  JEFF. Sorry, must have explained myself clumsily.

  JUSTIN. Yes.

  JEFF. What I want to say is—I’ll stump up the necessary—but drop it.

  JUSTIN. (moving behind the desk) You will excuse me, Mr.—er . . . but Miss Le Marchant is my client.

  JEFF. (rising) Yep, well, if you’re acting for Carla, you must agree that it’s best for her not to go harrowing herself raking up the past. Make her give it up. Once we’re married, she’ll never think of it again.

  JUSTIN. And will you never think of it again?

  JEFF. That’s a good question. Yes, I dare say I’ll have one or two nasty moments.

  JUSTIN. If the coffee should taste bitter . . . ?

  JEFF. That sort of thing.

  JUSTIN. Which won’t be very pleasant for her.

  JEFF. (cheerily) Well, what can a man do? You can’t undo the past. Glad to have met you, Fogg. (He offers his hand)

  (JUSTIN looks at Jeff’s hand, then picks up Jeff’s hat from the desk and puts it in the outstretched hand. JEFF exits. JUSTIN turns to the window, opens it wide, then lifts the telephone receiver)

  JUSTIN. (into the telephone) Has Miss Le Marchant left yet? . . . Well, ask her to come back for a minute. I shan’t keep her long. (He replaces the receiver, crosses to the table L, takes a cigarette from the box, lights it, then returns to R of the desk)

  (CARLA enters)

  CARLA. (looking coldly at Justin) Yes?

  JUSTIN. I’ve changed my mind.

  CARLA. (startled) What?

  JUSTIN. That’s all. I’ve changed my mind. I will fix up an appointment for you to see Mr. Philip Blake here. I will let you know when.