The Mousetrap

LOMBARD. What a law-abiding lot we seem to be! Myself excepted—

WARGRAVE. We are waiting for your story, Captain Lombard.

LOMBARD. I haven’t got a story.

WARGRAVE. (Sharply) What do you mean?

LOMBARD. (Grinning and apparently enjoying himself) I’m sorry to disappoint all of you. It’s just that I plead guilty. It’s perfectly true. I left those natives alone in the bush. Matter of self-preservation.

(His words cause a sensation. VERA looks at him unbelievingly.)

MACKENZIE. (Rises. Sternly) You abandoned your men?

(EMILY moves to windowseat up Right.)

LOMBARD. (Coolly) Not quite the act of a pukka sahib, I’m afraid. But after all, self-preservation’s a man’s first duty. And natives don’t mind dying, you know. They don’t feel about it as Europeans do—(To Right; sits fireplace fender.)

(There is a pause. LOMBARD looks around at EVERYONE with amusement. WARGRAVE clears throat disapprovingly.)

WARGRAVE. Our enquiry rests there. (ROGERScrosses to Left 1 door) Now, Rogers, who else is there on this island besides ourselves and you and your wife?

ROGERS. Nobody, sir. Nobody at all.

WARGRAVE. You’re sure of that?

ROGERS. Quite sure, sir.

WARGRAVE. Thank you. (ROGERSmoves as if to go) Don’t go, Rogers. (To EVERYBODY) I am not yet clear as to the purpose of our unknown host in getting us to assemble here. But in my opinion he’s not sane in the accepted sense of the word. He may be dangerous. In my opinion, it would be well for us to leave this place as soon as possible. I suggest that we leave tonight.

(General agreement. MACKENZIE sits up Left.)

ROGERS. I beg your pardon, sir, but there’s no boat on the island.

WARGRAVE. No boat at all?

ROGERS. No, sir.

WARGRAVE. Why don’t you telephone to the mainland?

ROGERS. There’s no telephone. Fred Narracott, he comes over every morning, sir. He brings the milk and the bread and the post and the papers, and takes the orders.

(A chorus of “I agree,” “Quite so,” “Only thing to be done.”)

MARSTON. (Picks up drink from windowseat; crosses down Right to front of Right sofa. Raising his voice) A bit unsporting, what? Ought to ferret out the mystery before we go. Whole thing’s like a detective story. Positively thrilling.

WARGRAVE. (Acidly) At my time of life, I have no desire for thrills. (Sits down Left.)

(BLORE to Left end sofa. MARSTON grins; stretches out his legs.)

(WARN Curtain.)

MARSTON. The legal life’s narrowing. I’m all for crime. (Raises his glass) Here’s to it. (Drinks it off at a gulp, appears to choke, gasps, has a violent convulsion and slips on to sofa. Glass falls from his hand.)

ARMSTRONG. (Runs over to him, bends down, feels pulse, raises eyelid) My God, he’s dead!

(MACKENZIE to Left end sofa. The OTHERS can hardly take it in. ARMSTRONG sniffs lips, then sniffs glass. Nods.)

MACKENZIE. Dead? D’you mean the fellow just choked and—died?

ARMSTRONG. You can call it choking if you like. He died of asphyxiation, right enough.

MACKENZIE. Never knew a man could die like that—just a choking fit.

EMILY. (With meaning) In the middle of life we are in death. (She sounds inspired.)

ARMSTRONG. A man doesn’t die of a mere choking fit, General MacKenzie. Marston’s death isn’t what we call a natural death.

VERA. Was there something in the whisky?

ARMSTRONG. Yes. By the smell of it, cyanide. Probably Potassium Cyanide. Acts pretty well instantaneously.

LOMBARD. Then he must have put the stuff in the glass himself.

BLORE. Suicide, eh? That’s a rum go.

VERA. You’d never think he’d commit suicide. He was so alive. He was enjoying himself.

(EMILY comes down and picks up remains of Indian from behind chair Right Centre.)

EMILY. Oh! Look—here’s one of the little Indians off the mantelpiece—broken. (Holds it up.)

CURTAIN

ACT TWO

Scene I