Deathtrap

by Ira Levin

  Porter: It may simply be his way of doing things. (Sidney drums uneasily on the desktop) I’m sorry if I’ve worried you. The suspicious legal mind. Probably he’s exactly what he seems: an honest and helpful young man, completely trustworthy.

  Sidney: Yes. Probably.

  Porter: Well, I’d better get moving if I’m going to be in New Haven by noon. (He heads for the foyer; Sidney pulls himself away from the desk and goes after him) Trustees’ luncheon at Old Eli. ("Porter removes his coat from the rack; Sidney takes it and holds it for him) Thanks. Has the check from the insurance company come yet?

  Sidney: No, it hasn’t.

  Porter: I’ll write them a letter first thing in the morning.

  Sidney: (Giving him his hat) Thanks. I’d appreciate it.

  Porter: Will you come have dinner with us?

  Sidney: In another week or two I think I’ll be ready to face the world again.

  (He opens the door)

  Porter: Good enough. Take care.

  Sidney: You too. (Porter goes out) Give my love to Elizabeth.

  Porter: (Offstage) I will.

  Sidney: And the girls! (He stands watching for a moment, and then he closes the door and turns. He comes slowly into the study and stands looking at Clifford's side of the desk; picks up something on it, examines it, puts it down; drums on the desktop; frowns. He gets his keys out, chooses a likely one, and tries it; it won't go in. He chooses another, and tries again, more carefully; same result. He pockets the keys, frowning—and then smiles. Going up around the desk, he takes the key from the drawer on his side and continues down and around to Clifford's side. He puts the key in; it won't turn) Shit. (He tries again, without luck. Taking the key out, he goes back to his side and replaces it; thinks a second and moves toward the wall of weapons. He takes down a flat-bladed stiletto; back to the desk. Sitting in Clifford’s chair, he sets to work with the stiletto; inserts it above the drawer and pokes and levers) Come on, you bastard . . . Goddamned Old World craftsmen. (He keeps trying, but it's no use. Defeated, he gets up and puts the stiletto back in its place; looks at the desk and is inspired. Going quickly to his side of it, he moves the chair away, takes out the center drawer, and puts it down across the chair arms. Getting down on his knees, he peers into the drawer-opening, then thrusts his arm into it and reaches as far as he can. He switches arms and tries harder, sweating a bit but apparently near success) Ah, ah, ah, ah . . . Ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh! (It would seem his fingers are caught) Oh my God! Oh Jesus Christmas! (Now he's really sweating, glancing at the door and wincing and straining as he tries to extricate his arm from the desk's maw. After considerable effort he manages to do so. Sucking his injured fingers, he stands up, kicks the desk, examines his fingers, wipes them under his arm. He picks up the drawer and fits it back into the desk, slamming it home with a vengeance. He hears something; hurries to the front door and jumps up to look through the fanlight, then hurries back into the study; anguishes over the desk in last-ditch frustration) Feces! (But then he runs to the French doors, unbolts and opens them a bit; runs back to his side of the desk, opens a drawer and takes out a Manila folder; opens another drawer and takes out a dozen or so sheets of typing paper. He shoves the paper into the folder, puts it down, closes the drawers, partly covers the folder with a loose piece of paper as Clifford unlocks the front door and comes in with a bag of groceries) That was quick!

  Clifford: I only went to Gibson’s.

  (He closes the door. Sidney goes briskly and cheerfully to him)

  Sidney: Here, give me; I’ll put them away.

  Clifford: It’s all right, I don’t mind.

  Sidney: (Taking the bag) No, no, come on. You shopped; I’ll put away. Get back to the welfare office.

  Clifford: God forbid. ( Sidney goes off to the right, Clifford takes some bills and coins from his jacket pocket, puts them down) The change is in the bowl. (Takes his jacket off, hangs it on the rack; looks off to the right) The avocado is supposed to be organic.

  (Sidney says something unintelligible but affirmative-sounding. Clifford comes into the study, tucking his shirt down into his chinos and taking a key from his pocket. He sits at the desk, puts the key into the lock, unlocks and opens the drawer; takes out his folder, closes the drawer. He leafs through the folder, takes out the bottom partly done page, and scanning it, puts the folder down at his left. He scans the page for another moment, then rolls it into the typewriter and positions it with care so that the new typing will be aligned with the old. He studies the page, thinks a bit, and begins typing. He types several words)

  Sidney: (Offstage) Cliff! ("Clifford stops typing) Would you give me a hand here?

  ("Clifford gets up and heads for the foyer. As he enters it and starts off to the right Sidney comes racing through the French doors. He switches the two folders)

  Clifford: (Offstage) Where are you?

  ( Sidney pulls a bottle of beer from his hip pocket)

  Sidney: Where are you?

  (He ambles on toward the foyer, Clifford comes in through the French doors)

  Clifford: Hey, wait!

  Sidney: (Turning) Oh, there you are. I didn’t think you heard, so I came around. (They head toward each other, Sidney holding out the beer) Need those Olympic fingers.

  Clifford: Beer now?

  (He takes the bottle)

  Sidney: Got a sudden mad craving, as in the commercials. Shook it a bit—sorry.

  Clifford: (Opens the beer, hands him the bottle and cap) You can use an opener on these.

  Sidney: Really?

  Clifford: (Getting a handkerchief from his pocket) Sure. Doesn’t it say so?

  Sidney: (Trying to focus on the cap) Who do they expect to read this, roaches? (Still trying to read the cap, he goes to the foyer and off to the right, Clifford, wiping his hands, sits down again, pockets the handkerchief, studies the page, and resumes typing. After a few moments Sidney comes strolling in through the foyer, carefully pouring beer into a pilsner glass, Clifford types away at full speed. Sidney, getting the head just right, sits in his chair, sets the bottle on the desk, and admires the beer 's color and effervescence. He tries a sip, gives it tentative approval; leans back and takes a longer sip. Yes, definitely good stujf. Casually he reaches out and takes the folder from the desk, puts it on his lap. Another sip. He opens the folder. His eyes bulge. He almost chokes but manages somehow to get the beer down. He turns to the next page. Worse news here! He glances incredulously at Clifford, who's typing, typing, typing. Sidney turns to the next page: still worse and more of it. He reads, aghast and aghaster. He puts the glass on the desk, with another shocked glance at Clifford, and looks through the remaining dozen pages, reading bits here and there and mouthing “Oh my God!" and such. He closes the folder, closes his eyes, sits motionless for a moment; opens his eyes, puts the folder on the desk, and sits staring at Clifford as at Judas Iscariot or worse, Clifford whips the finished page from the typewriter, scans it, puts it down on the folder beside him and begins penning revisions. Sidney watches him, picks up the beer glass, sips) So you’ve lost your interest in thrillers, eh?

  Clifford: Mmm.

  Sidney: (Another sip) No taste for the intricate plotting and the glib superficial characters . . .

  Clifford: Mm-hmm.

  Sidney: Want to do something real and meaningful, socially relevant.

  Clifford: (Turning, smiling understandingly) Hey, cut it out, will you? Your idea’ll start coming.

  Sidney: Possibly . . .

  Clifford: Just relax, and don’t try to bug me. It’ll come.

  (He returns to his revising. Sidney puts the glass down and picks up the folder; puts it on his lap, opens it, reads)

  Sidney: “Deathtrap: A Thriller in Two Acts.” (Clifford looks up, wide-eyed. He turns; Sidney smiles at him and turns to the next page) “Characters: Julian Crane, Doris Crane, Willard Peterson, Inga van Bronk.” (Clifford whips his folder open; and closes it) “The action takes place in Julian Crane’s study, in the Crane home
in Westport, Connecticut.”

  (He turns the page)

  Clifford: You have one hell of a nerve stealing—

  Sidney: (Cutting him offfortissimo) “SETTING! Julian Crane’s study is a handsomely converted stable grafted onto an authentically Colonial house! Sliding doors upstage center (Pointing at them) open on a foyer in which are the house’s front door, entrances to the living room and kitchen, and the stairway to the second floor! French doors upstage right (Pointing) open out to a shrubbery-flanked patio! Downstage left (And pointing again) is a fieldstone fireplace, practical to the extent that PAPER CAN BE BURNED IN IT! (He rises, Clifford is resignedly riding out the storm. Sidney gives a guided tour of the room, folder in hand) “The room’s furnishings are tastefully chosen antiques: a few chairs and occasional pieces, a buffet downstage right, with liquor decanters, and—the focus of the room—Julian’s desk.” You remember Julian’s desk, don’t you? The one he worked at before he took Crazy Willard Peterson into his home? “Patterned draperies hang at the French doors. The room is decorated with framed theatrical posters”—unlike these, which are window cards, not posters!—“and a collection of guns, handcuffs, maces, broadswords, and battle-axes”— several of which I’m going to make use of any minute now.

  (He closes the folder, stands glaring at Clifford,)

  Clifford: That’s it? You’re not going to act out the eleven pages? Would you like me to explain?

  Sidney: What’s to explain? You’re a lunatic with a death wish; Freud covered it thoroughly.

  Clifford: I have exactly the same wish you have: a success wish.

  Sidney: This is going to bring you success?

  Clifford: It hit me that night. Remember, I put in that extra speech when you were looking for the key? It can be a terrific thriller.

  Sidney: In which someone like me and someone like you give someone like Myra a fatal heart attack?

  Clifford: Yes. At the end of Act One.

  Sidney: What, pray tell, is your definition of success? Being gang-banged in the shower room at the state penitentiary?

  Clifford: I knew you would have reservations about it; that’s why my first instinct was to say it wasn’t even a thriller. I haven’t enjoyed putting you on, Sidney. I’m glad it’s out in the open.

  Sidney: You knew I would have reservations . . .

  Clifford: Well, you do, don’t you?

  Sidney: The house madman is writing a play that’ll send both of us to prison—

  Clifford: It won’t!

  Sidney: —I’m standing here terrified, petrified, horrified, stupefied, crapping my pants—and he calls that “having reservations.” I’m not going to use one of those on you; I’m going to beat you to death with Roget's Thesaurus !

  Clifford: There is no possible way for anyone to prove what did or did not cause Myra’s heart attack. Look, if I could change things I would, but I can’t; it has to be a playwright. Who else can pretend to receive a finished work that could make tons of money?

  Sidney: A novelist! A composer! Why am I discussing this?

  Clifford: A sure-fire smash-hit symphony? No. And would a novelist or a composer know where to get a garrotte that squirts blood, and how to stage a convincing murder? And it has to be a playwright who writes thrillers, because Arthur Miller probably has old sample cases hanging on his wall... I suppose I could make it Wilton instead of Westport . . .

  Sidney: Why make it anywhere? Why make it?

  Clifford: It’s there, Sidney!

  Sidney: That’s mountains, not plays! Plays aren’t there till some asshole writes them!

  Clifford: Stop and think for a minute, will you? Think. About that night. Try to see it all from an audience’s viewpoint. Everything we did to convince Myra that she was seeing a real murder would have exactly the same effect on them. Weren’t we giving a play? Didn’t we write it, rehearse it? Wasn’t she our audience? (He rises. Sidney is listening as one fascinated by a lunatic's raving) Scene One: Julian tells Doris about this terrific play that’s come in the mail. He jokes about killing for it, then calls Willard and invites him over, getting him to bring the original copy. Audience thinks exactly what Doris thinks: Julian might kill Willard. Scene Two: everything that happened from the moment we came through that door. All the little ups and downs we put in to make it ring true: the I’m-expecting-a-phone-call bit, everything. Tightened up a little, naturally. And then the strangling, which scares the audience as much as it does Doris.

  Sidney: No wonder you didn’t need an outline.

  Clifford: (Tapping his temple) It’s all up here, every bit of it. Scene Three: “Inga van Bronk.” A few laughs, right? Can’t hurt. Then Julian and Doris get ready to go upstairs—it looks as if the act is drawing to a kind of so-so close—and pow, in comes Willard, out of the grave and seeking vengeance. Shock? Surprise? Doris has her heart attack, Julian gets up from the fake beating—and the audience realizes that Julian and Willard are in cahoots, that there isn’t any sure-fire thriller, that Willard is moving in. The curtain is Julian burning the manuscripts. Or calling the doctor—I’m not sure which. Now be honest about it: isn’t that a sure-fire first act?

  Sidney: Yes. And what an intermission. Twenty years to life.

  Clifford: No one can prove it really happened. They can't. How can they?

  Sidney: And what do you say to the man from the Times, when he says, “Don’t you work for Sidney Bruhl, and didn’t his wife have a heart attack just around the time you came there?”

  Clifford: (Turning out his hands for the obvious answer) “No comment.”

  Sidney: Oh my God . . .

  (Moves about in futility)

  Clifford: I know it’s going to be a little sticky, but— well, everybody’s opening up about everything these days, aren’t they? In print, on TV; why not on stage, as long as it can’t be proved? I’ve given it some serious thought, Sidney, and I honestly believe it’ll help the play, give it an added dimension of . . . intriguing gossip.

  Sidney: I’m sure you’re right. I can see the little box in New York magazine now: “Tongues are wagging about interesting similarities between events in the new play Deathtrap and the private lives of its author Clifford Anderson and his employer Sidney Bruhl, who committed suicide on opening night. When queried, Mr. Anderson said, ‘No comment.’ ” I have a comment, Cliff. No. Absolutely, definitely no. I have a name and a reputation—tattered, perhaps, but still valid for dinner invitations, house seats, and the conducting of summer seminars. I want to live out my years as “author of The Murder Game, ” not “fag who knocked off his wife.” (Turns to the right) Why, look—a fieldstone fireplace! (Heading for it, folder at the ready) Let’s see if it’s practical to the extent that paper—

  Clifford: (Interrupting him) DON'T YOU DARE! (Sidney stops) You burn that—and I go out of here and write it again somewhere else. I’ll . . . get a house-sitting job. (Goes to Sidney and puts out his hand) Give it to me. Give it, Sidney. (Sidney turns and hands the folder to Clifford,) I helped you kill for the chance to become what I want to be. You’re not going to take it away from me. (He goes to the desk. Sidney watches him) I had hoped that when I showed you the finished draft, you would be impressed enough to ... get over your Angel Street up-tightness and pitch in, but I guess we can forget about that.

  Sidney: (Smiles faintly) A collaboration?

  Clifford: It’s mostly your idea, isn’t it? I’m not pretending it’s all my baby. And I know that Scene One is coming out a little . . . heavy and stilted. I hoped we could be a team, Bruhl and Anderson.

  Sidney: Rodgers and Heartless.

  Clifford: Now you see, I could never come up with something like that.

  Sidney: I’m sorry, but I really don’t feel like collaborating on my public humiliation.

  Clifford: Next season’s hit. Don’t say I didn’t ask. ( Sidney moves away, perturbed, Clifford, standing by the desk playing with the folder, glances at him, and at the folder again) I think maybe I’d better move out anyway
. . .

  Sidney: Why?

  Clifford: When Helga ten Dorp said a woman was going to use the dagger because of a play—maybe she really wasn’t that far off target.

  ( Sidney stands silently for a moment, Clifford toys with the folder)

  Sidney: Don’t be silly. I ... I love you; I wouldn’t think of... trying to harm you. Besides, you’d break my neck.

  Clifford: Goddamn right I would.

  Sidney: So don’t talk about leaving.

  Clifford: I don’t know . . . I’m not going to feel comfortable with you being unhappy about this.

  Sidney: I’ll whistle a lot. (He comes to the desk, Clifford riffles through the pages in the folder. Sidney throws a quick worried glance at him, then looks thoughtfully into space) Maybe I am being—old-fashioned and uptight.

  Clifford: You are. These days, jeez, who cares about anything?

  Sidney: I certainly could use half the royalties of a good solid hit . . .

  Clifford: I think there’s a movie in it too.

  Sidney: Porter just gave me the figures on Myra’s estate. It’s even smaller than I thought. Twenty-two thousand dollars, half of which goes in taxes. There’s the house and land, of course, but I can’t sell any acreage until the will goes through probate, and he says that’s going to take two or three years.

  Clifford: Whew.

  Sidney: The insurance money isn’t all that much.

  Clifford: (Moving to his chair) The offer is still open. (He sits)

  Sidney: You know, it crossed my mind that afternoon that the play-in-the-mail thing would make a good first scene . . . Really.

  Clifford: It’s your idea, Sidney. All 1 did was help with some of the details, (Sidney, wrestling visibly with a difficult decision, sits at his side of the desk, Clifford hands across the folder of blank papers. Sidney takes it, smiles) Pretty neat, the way you managed it.

  Sidney: I tried breaking in; the damn thing’s a fortress Porter noticed you locking up. I was afraid you were doing something on ESP.

  Clifford: And I thought I was being so inconspicuous.