by Ira Levin
Sidney: No Scene Three?
Clifford: About what? They’re both dead. The play is over.
Sidney: Sounds a little unsatisfying. I’ll be glad to think some more.
Clifford: (Coming closer to Sidney, gun aimed) No, thanks. I’ll manage to fill in the holes. (Tucks the gun in his belt and reaches into Sidney's jacket on the desk-chair back) And now I’m going to pack and call a taxi. (Taking bills from Sidney's wallet) I’m taking whatever money I can find. (Pockets the bills, puts the wallet on the desk, takes the handcuff key from its place on the wall and pockets it) Before I leave, when the cab is at the door, I’ll give you the key. You’ll tell people that you gave me my notice and I accepted it with grace and charm. If you say I stole anything, or hassle me in any way, you’ll be opening up a very messy can of peas. (Vivid lightning, loud thunder. The lights flicker, dim, and come up again) How about that? You’ve got a bit of Angel Street to keep you company. Maybe I’ll find some rubies upstairs. See you anon.
(He heads for the foyer, enters it, and starts up the stairs. The instant he 's out of sight, Sidney shucks off the cuffs, rises, takes a small armed crossbow from over the mantel, and ratcheting it, hurries to the foyer. He aims the bow up the stairs)
Sidney: Cliff? . . . Those were Houdini’s. (He fires the bow. A gunshot sounds, and then the gun is heard falling on the stairs. And then Clifford falls, part of him coming into view. Sidney, who has retreated from the gunshot, returns and stands looking down at Clifford, then reaches past him to pick something up. Coming back into the study, he puts the gun Clifford used in its place. The lights dim and come up, but not quite to full. Sidney puts the crossbow where he sat, picks up the handcuffs and puts them where they belong, picks up the gun he himself used and puts it in its place on the wall, his hand shaking. Wiping his brow, he thinks for a harried moment, then goes back to Clifford, takes hold of him, and drags him down off the stairs and into the study, to where the axe lies. The crossbow bolt protrudes from Clifford's chest, off-center. The lights dim further as Sidney moves Clifford into the right position; Sidney glances anxiously at the nearest lamp) Hang in there, Connecticut Light and Power . . . (The lights come up a bit) Attagirl. (Leaving Clifford, Sidney goes to the desk, takes the stack of paper, and heads for the fireplace. The lights dim further as Sidney dumps the papers into the fireplace. He crouches, takes a match, strikes it; as he lights the papers, the lights go out) Damn. (Now there's only the firelight as Sidney stands straight and looks around. Lightning flashes, thunder rolls. Sidney goes to Clifford, crouches by him. The firelight grows stronger as Sidney returns to the desk and stuffs bills into his wallet and puts the wallet into his jacket. He holds the key to the handcuffs for a moment, and throws it in their general direction. Another look around, and he picks up the phone and dials Operator. He waits in the growing firelight) Come on, come on ... Jesus ... Police Department. (He waits again, silently; tears his shirt a bit more; waits, waits; then) My name is Bruhl. I live out on Rabbit Hill Road. I just killed my secretary. He was coming at me with an ax . . . That’s right. And wait till you hear this part. You’re going to think I’m drunk but I’m stone-cold sober. I shot him with a medieval crossbow. It was the only thing I could get my hands on . . . (Sits in his desk chair) I assure you it isn’t. Come on out and see. But you’d better bring some flash-lights . . . B-r-u-h-1, Sidney . . . (Smiles) How nice of you to know: His name was Cli—
(The hand clutching his throat stops him; it pulls him backward as Clifford comes up from behind the chair, stabbing again and again into Sidney's chest with the crossbow bolt, Clifford stops stabbing and hauls himself erect, glassy-eyed, the bolt in his hand, his chest bloody. He crumples to the floor. Sidney, his hands to his own bloody chest, gasps and twitches and dies. Thunder, and blackout)
Scene Three:
A Week Later, Afternoon.
The lights come up. The draperies are open; it's an overcast afternoon. The axe, the crossbow, and Sidney's jacket are gone, as well as the two bodies. The fireplace is empty. Otherwise everything is as it was.
Helga, in mid-trance, stands by the chair where Myra died, Porter stands nearby, watching Helga intently.
Helga: They kill Mrs. Bruhl.
Porter: What? She died of a heart attack!
Helga: They . . . make it to happen. (Holding the chair with both hands, eyes closed) Pain she feels—is that she sees Bruhl kill boy.
Porter: Now, hold on a minute; the boy didn’t—
Helga: (Interrupting him) Quiet! (Stays in her trance) Bruhl shows her play from boy, good play. Boy comes, Bruhl kills—around neck, tight—to take play. She helps him carry boy out. Pain brings me, but now I am gone—and boy is from grave! Comes with log! No! No! Please! I tried to stop—Eiiii! (Winces, and lets out breath) She dies.
(Comes out of the trance, blinks)
Porter: My God! A fake murder to bring about a real one! Are you sure that’s what happened? (Helga nods, leaves the chair, is drawn to the desk) I thought it was strange, the boy stepping in on such short notice . . .
Helga: (At Clifford's; side of the desk) Was no play.
Porter: There wasn’t?
Helga: But now boy writes it. . . All they have done . . . (Moving to Sidney's side) Bruhl discovers . . .
Porter: I saw the boy locking his drawer!
Helga: Is afraid, Bruhl. Play will bring shame.
Porter: A play about them? Killing Myra?(Helga nods) I’ll bet he was afraid!
Helga: Pretends to help, but . . . tricks boy to take ax . . . for play . . . and—shoots with gun? Ja, but is no bullet! Boy has tricked him, to use to make more of play! Chains him, will go! But chains come apart!
Porter: The Houdini set!
Helga: Shoots boy with arrow! On stairs!
Porter: And drags him in and puts him by the ax!
Helga: Burns play . . .
Porter: The ashes in the fireplace!
Helga: (Her hand on Sidney's; chair) Calls police.
Porter: And while he was speaking—
Helga: Boy pulls arrow from chest and—(A stabbing gesture)—attacks. Just as I saw four weeks ago . . .
(She draws a deep, spent breath)
Porter: My God, what a story! It’s—it’s better than The Murder Game!
(A thought strikes him; he ponders it, moving near Clifford's chair, Helga looks across the desk at him)
Helga: You are thinking—it could be play?
Porter: It has the feel of one, doesn’t it? (Looks around) Everything happening in the one room . . . (Thinks, finger-counts) Five characters . . .
Helga: (Looks into the distance) Deathtrap . . .
Porter: Say, that's a catchy title. (Thinks, wonders) I couldn’t write Frankfurter—but maybe I could write Deathtrap.
Helga: Ja, ja, I see theatre! Inside, much applause! Outside, long line of ticket-buyers, shivering in cold!
Porter: My goodness, that’s encouraging!
Helga: (Turns to him) But—(Taps her chest)—is my idea.
Porter: Your idea? How can you say that? It’s—it was Sidney's idea, and the boy’s! They lived it!
Helga: But if I not tell, you not know.
Porter: (Considers the point) That’s true; I can’t deny that. And you’ve supplied me with a title—which I may or may not use . . .
Helga: We share money half and half.
Porter: Are you serious? I’m going to go home and work nights and weekends, for months, maybe even give up my vacation. All you’ve done is come in here and touch the furniture for two minutes. If I do in fact—
Helga: (Interrupting him) If you not share money—I tell about telephone.
Porter: Telephone?
Helga: (Looking into the distance again) You speak through handkerchief, in high voice. Say dirty words to all your friends, (Porter blanches, Helga turns to him) For shame, a man like you, important lawyer with wife and two daughters—no, three daughters—to make such telephonings! Tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk!
Po
rter: (Starts menacingly toward her) You interfering busybody . . .
(Helga runs to the wall; grabs up and brandishes the dagger)
Helga: Be careful, knife is sharp. Amsterdam police have taught me self-defence. I warn you, I am strong and unafraid!
Porter: Bitch! Whore! Foreign slut. Dutch pervert!
(The curtain falls as they circle the desk)
About the Author
Ira Levin was twenty-two when he wrote his first novel, the award-winning thriller A Kiss Before Dying, and twenty-five when, fresh from military service, he wrote his first play, the smash-hit adaptation of Mac Hyman’s No Time for Sergeants.
In the years since, he has continued to work both sides of the literary street. His plays include the comedy hit Critic's Choice, the musical Drat! The Cat! and the thriller Veronica's Room. Among his novels are Rosemary's Baby, generally credited or blamed for having sparked the current revival of occultism, The Stepford Wives, and the international best seller The Boys from Brazil.
A native-born New Yorker, Mr. Levin is an alumnus of New York University and has three sons.