The Mousetrap and Other Plays

ACT ONE

SCENE: The Chambers of Sir Wilfrid Robarts, Q.C.

The scene is Sir Wilfrid’s private office. It is a narrow room with the door L. and a window R. The window has a deep built-in window seat and overlooks a tall plain brick wall. There is a fireplace C. of the back wall, flanked by bookcases filled with heavy legal volumes. There is a desk R.C. with a swivel chair R. of it and a leather-covered upright chair L. of it. A second upright chair stands against the bookcases L. of the fireplace. In the corner up R. is a tall reading desk, and in the corner up L. are some coat-hooks attached to the wall. At night the room is lit by electric candle-lamp wall-brackets R. and L. of the fireplace and an angle-poise lamp on the desk. The light switch is below the door L. There is a bell push L. of the fireplace. The desk has a telephone on it and is littered with legal documents. There are the usual deed boxes and there is a litter of documents on the window seat.

When the Curtain rises it is afternoon and there is sunshine streaming in through the window R. The office is empty. GRETA, Sir Wilfrid’s typist, enters immediately. She is an adenoidal girl with a good opinion of herself. She crosses to the fireplace, doing a “square dance” step, and takes a paper from a box-file on the mantelpiece. CARTER, the Chief Clerk, enters. He carries some letters. GRETA turns, sees CARTER, crosses and quietly exits. CARTER crosses to the desk and puts the letters on it. The TELEPHONE rings. CARTER lifts the receiver.

CARTER. (Into the telephone.) Sir Wilfrid Robart’s Chambers . . . Oh, it’s you, Charles . . . No, Sir Wilfrid’s in Court . . . Won’t be back just yet . . . Yes, Shuttleworth Case . . . What—with Myers for the prosecution and Banter trying it? . . . He’s been giving judgment for close on two hours already . . . No, not an earthly this evening. We’re full up. Can give you an appointment tomorrow . . . No, couldn’t possibly. I’m expecting Mayhew, of Mayhew and Brinskill you know, any minute now . . . Well, so long. (He replaces the receiver and sorts the documents on the desk.)

GRETA. (Enters. She is painting her nails.) Shall I make the tea, Mr. Carter?

CARTER. (Looking at his watch) It’s hardly time yet, Greta.

GRETA. It is by my watch.

CARTER. Then your watch is wrong.

GRETA. (Crossing to C.) I put it right by the radio.

CARTER. Then the radio must be wrong.

GRETA. (Shocked.) Oh, not the radio, Mr. Carter. That couldn’t be wrong.

CARTER. This watch was my father’s. It never gains nor loses. They don’t make watches like that nowadays. (He shakes his head, then suddenly changes his manner and picks up one of the typewritten papers.) Really, your typing. Always mistakes. (He crosses to R. of GRETA.) You’ve left out a word.

GRETA. Oh, well—just one word. Anyone might do that.

CARTER. The word you have left out is the word not. The omission of it entirely alters the sense.

GRETA. Oh, does it? That’s rather funny when you come to think of it. (She giggles.)

CARTER. It is not in the least funny. (He tears the letter in half and hands the piece to her.) Do it again. You may remember I told you last week about the celebrated case of Bryant and Horsfall. Case of a will and a trust fund, and entirely owing to a piece of careless copying by a clerk . . .

GRETA. (Interrupting) The wrong wife got the money, I remember.

CARTER. A woman divorced fifteen years previously. Absolutely contrary to the intention of the testrator, as his lordship himself admitted. But the wording had to stand. They couldn’t do anything about it. (He crosses above the desk to R. of it.)

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 what 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.)

SIR WILFRID. Miss French knew you were a married man?

LEONARD. Oh, yes.

SIR WILFRID. But she didn’t suggest that you should bring your wife to see her?

LEONARD. (Slightly embarrassed.) No. She—well, she seemed to take it for granted my wife and I didn’t get on.

SIR WILFRID. Did you deliberately give her that impression?

LEONARD. No, I didn’t. Indeed I didn’t. But she seemed to—well, assume it, and I thought perhaps if I kept dragging Romaine into it she’d, well, lose interest in me. I didn’t want exactly to cadge money from her, but I’d invented a gadget for a car—a really good idea it is—and if I could have persuaded her to finance that, well, I mean it would have been her money, and it might have brought her in a lot. Oh, it’s very difficult to explain—but I wasn’t sponging on her, Sir Wilfrid, really I wasn’t.

SIR WILFRID. What sums of money did you obtain at any time from Miss French?

LEONARD. None. None at all.

SIR WILFRID. Tell me something about the housekeeper.

LEONARD. Janet MacKenzie? She was a regular old tyrant, you know, Janet was. Fairly bullied poor Miss French. Looked after her very well and all that, but the poor old dear couldn’t call her soul her own when Janet was about. (Thoughtfully.) Janet didn’t like me at all.

SIR WILFRID. Why didn’t she like you?

LEONARD. Oh, jealous, I expect. I don’t think she liked my helping Miss French with her business affairs.

SIR WILFRID. Oh, so you helped Miss French with her business affairs?

LEONARD. Yes. She was worried about some of her investments and things, and she found it a bit difficult to fill up forms and all that sort of thing. Yes, I helped her with a lot of things like that.

SIR WILFRID. Now, Mr. Vole, I’m going to ask you a very serious question. And it’s one to which it’s vital I should have a truthful answer. You were in low water financially, you had the handling of this lady’s affairs. Now did you at any time convert to your own use the securities that you handled?

(LEONARD is about to repudiate this hotly.)

Now, wait a minute, Mr. Vole, before you answer. Because, you see, there are two points of view. Either we can make a feature of your probity and honesty or, if you swindled the woman in any way, then we must take the line that you had no motive for murder, since you had already a profitable source of income. You can see that there are advantages in either point of view. What I want is the truth. Take your time if you like before you reply.

LEONARD. I assure you, Sir Wilfrid, that I played dead straight and you won’t find anything to the contrary. Dead straight.

SIR WILFRID. Thank you, Mr. Vole. You relieve my mind very much. I pay you the compliment of believing that you are far too intelligent to lie over such a vital matter. And we now come to October the. . . (He hesitates.)

MAYHEW. The fourteenth.

SIR WILFRID. Fourteenth. (He rises.) Did Miss French ask you to go and see her that night?

LEONARD. No, she didn’t, as a matter of fact. But I’d come across a new kind of gadget and I thought she’d like it. So I slipped up there that evening and got there about a quarter to eight. It was Janet MacKenzie’s night out and I knew she’d be alone and might be rather lonely.

SIR WILFRID. It was Janet MacKenzie’s night out and you knew that fact.

LEONARD. (Cheerfully.) Oh yes, I knew Janet always went out on a Friday.

SIR WILFRID. That’s not quite so good.

LEONARD. Why not? It seems very natural that I should choose that evening to go and see her.

SIR WILFRID. Please go on, Mr. Vole.

LEONARD. Well, I got there at a quarter to eight. She’d finished her supper but I had a cup of coffee with her and we played a game of Double Demon. Then at nine o’clock I said good night to her and went home.

(SIR WILFRID crosses below the OTHERS to L.)

MAYHEW. You told me the housekeeper said she came home that evening earlier than usual.

LEONARD. Yes, the police told me she came back for something she’d forgotten and she heard—or she says she heard—somebody talking with Miss French. Well, whoever it was, it wasn’t me.

SIR WILFRID. Can you prove that, Mr. Vole?

LEONARD. Yes, of course I can prove it. I was at home again with my wife by then. That’s what the police kept asking me. Where I was at nine-thirty. Well, I mean some days one wouldn’t know where one was. As it happens I can remember quite well that I’d gone straight home to Romaine and we hadn’t gone out again.

SIR WILFRID. (Crossing up C.) You live in a flat?

LEONARD. Yes. We’ve got a tiny maisonette over a shop behind Euston Station.

SIR WILFRID. (Standing up L. of LEONARD) Did anybody see you returning to the flat?

LEONARD. I don’t suppose so. Why should they?

SIR WILFRID. It might be an advantage if they had.

LEONARD. But surely you don’t think—I mean if she were really killed at half past nine my wife’s evidence is all I need, isn’t it?

(SIR WILFRID and MAYHEW look at each other. SIR WILFRID crosses and stands L.)

MAYHEW. And your wife will say definitely that you were at home at that time?

LEONARD. Of course she will.

MAYHEW. (Rising and moving to the fireplace) You are very fond of your wife and your wife is very fond of you?

LEONARD. (His face softening) Romaine is absolutely devoted to me. She’s the most devoted wife any man could have.

MAYHEW. I see. You are happily married.

LEONARD. Couldn’t be happier. Romaine’s wonderful, absolutely wonderful. I’d like you to know her, Mr. Mayhew.

(There is a KNOCK at the door.)

SIR WILFRID. (Calling) Come in.

GRETA. (Enters. She carries an evening paper.) The evening paper, Sir Wilfrid. (She points to a paragraph as she hands the paper to him.)

SIR WILFRID. Thank you, Greta.

GRETA. Would you like a cup of tea, sir?

SIR WILFRID. No, thank you. Oh, would you like a cup, Vole?

LEONARD. No thank you, sir.

SIR WILFRID. No, thank you, Greta. (He crosses below the OTHERS to R. of the desk)

(GRETA exits.)

MAYHEW. I think it would be advisable for us to have a meeting with your wife.

LEONARD. You mean have a regular round-table conference?

(SIR WILFRID sits R. of the desk.)

MAYHEW. I wonder, Mr. Vole, if you are taking this business quite seriously enough?

LEONARD. (Nervously.) I am. I am, really, but it seems—well, I mean it seems so much like a bad dream. I mean that it should be happening to me. Murder. It’s a thing you read about in books or newspapers, but you can’t believe it’s a thing that could ever happen to you, or touch you in any way. I suppose that’s why I keep trying to make a joke of it, but it isn’t a joke, really.

MAYHEW. No, I’m afraid it’s not a joke.

LEONARD. But I mean it’s all right, isn’t it? Because I mean if they think Miss French was killed at half past nine and I was at home with Romaine . . .

MAYHEW. How did you go home? By bus or underground?

LEONARD. I walked. It took me about twenty-five minutes, but it was a fine night—a bit windy.

MAYHEW. Did you see anyone you knew on the way?

LEONARD. No, but does it matter? I mean Romaine . . .

SIR WILFRID. The evidence of a devoted wife unsupported by any other evidence may not be completely convincing, Mr. Vole.

LEONARD. You mean, they’d think Romaine would tell a lie on my account?

SIR WILFRID. It has been known, Mr. Vole.

LEONARD. Oh, I’m sure she would, too, only in this case I mean she won’t be telling a lie. I mean it really is so. You do believe me, don’t you?

SIR WILFRID. Yes, I believe you, Mr. Vole, but it’s not me you will have to convince. You are aware, are you not, that Miss French left a will leaving you all her money?

LEONARD. (Absolutely flabbergasted.) Left all her money to me? You’re joking!

(MAYHEW resumes his seat C.)

SIR WILFRID. I’m not joking. It’s in tonight’s evening paper. (He hands the paper across the desk.)

LEONARD. (Reads the paragraph.) Well, I can hardly believe it.

SIR WILFRID. You knew nothing about it?

LEONARD. Absolutely nothing. She never said a word. (He hands the paper to MAYHEW.)

MAYHEW. You’re quite sure of that, Mr. Vole?

LEONARD. Absolutely sure. I’m very grateful to her—yet in a way I rather wish now that she hadn’t. I mean it—it’s a bit unfortunate as things are, isn’t it, sir?

SIR WILFRID. It supplies you with a very adequate motive. That is, if you knew about it, which you say you didn’t. Miss French never talked to you about making a will?

LEONARD. She said to Janet once, “You’re afraid I shall make my will again,” but that was nothing to do with me. I mean, it was just a bit of a dust-up between them. (His manner changes.) Do you really think they’re going to arrest me?

SIR WILFRID. I think you must prepare yourself, Mr. Vole, for that eventuality.

LEONARD. (Rising) You—you will do the best you can for me, won’t you, sir?

SIR WILFRID. (With friendliness.) You may rest assured, my dear Mr. Vole, that I will do everything in my power to help you. Don’t worry. Leave everything in my hands.

LEONARD. You’ll look after Romaine, won’t you? I mean, she’ll be in an awful state—it will be terrible for her.

SIR WILFRID. Don’t worry, my boy. Don’t worry.

LEONARD. (Resuming his seat; to MAYHEW) Then the money side, too. That worries me. I’ve got a few quid, but it’s not much. Perhaps I oughtn’t to have asked you to do anything for me.

MAYHEW. I think we shall be able to put up adequate defence. The Court provides for these cases you know.

LEONARD. (Rising and moving above the desk) I can’t believe it. I can’t believe that I, Leonard Vole, may be standing in a dock saying “Not guilty.” People staring at me. (He shakes himself as though it were a bad dream then turns to MAYHEW.) I can’t see why they don’t think it was a burglar. I mean, apparently the window was forced and smashed and a lot of things were strewn around, so the papers said. (He resumes his seat.) I mean, it seems much more probable.

MAYHEW. The police must have some good reason for not thinking that it was a burglary.

LEONARD. Well, it seems to me . . .

(CARTER enters.)

SIR WILFRID. Yes, Carter?

CARTER. (Crossing above the desk) Excuse me, sir, there are two gentlemen here asking to see Mr. Vole.

SIR WILFRID. The police?

CARTER. Yes, sir.

(MAYHEW rises.)

SIR WILFRID. (Rising and crossing to the door) All right, John, I’ll go and talk to them.

(SIR WILFRID exits and CARTER follows him off.)

LEONARD. My God! Is this—it?

MAYHEW. I’m afraid it may be, my boy. Now take it easy. Don’t lose heart.

(He pats LEONARD on the shoulder.) Make no further statement—leave it all to us. (He replaces his chair L. of the fireplace.)

LEONARD. But how did they know I’m here?

MAYHEW. It seems probable that they have had a man watching you.

LEONARD. (Still unable to believe it.) Then they really do suspect me.

(SIR WILFRID, DETECTIVE INSPECTOR HEARNE and a plain-clothes detective enter. The INSPECTOR is a tall, good-looking officer.)

INSPECTOR. (As he enters; to SIR WILFRID) I’m sorry to trouble you, sir.

SIR WILFRID. (Standing up L.) This is Mr. Vole.

(LEONARD rises.)

INSPECTOR. (Crossing to LEONARD) Is your name Leonard Vole?

LEONARD. Yes.

INSPECTOR. I am Detective Inspector Hearne. I have here a warrant for your arrest on the charge of murdering Emily French on October fourteenth last. I must warn you that anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence.

LEONARD. O.K. (He looks nervously at SIR WILFRID then crosses and takes his hat from the hooks up L.) I’m ready.

MAYHEW. (Moving to L. of the INSPECTOR) Good afternoon, Inspector Hearne. My name is Mayhew. I am representing Mr. Vole.

INSPECTOR. Good afternoon, Mr. Mayhew. That’s quite all right. We’ll take him along and charge him now.

(LEONARD and the DETECTIVE exit.)

(He crosses to SIR WILFRID. To MAYHEW.) Very seasonable weather we’re having just now. Quite a nip of frost last night. We’ll be seeing you later, sir, I expect. (He crosses to the door.) Hope we haven’t inconvenienced you, Sir Wilfrid.

SIR WILFRID. I am never inconvenienced.

(The INSPECTOR laughs politely and exits.)

(He closes the door.) I must say, John, that that young man is in a worse mess than he seems to think.

MAYHEW. He certainly is. How does he strike you?

SIR WILFRID. (Crossing to L. of MAYHEW) Extraordinarily naïve. Yet in some ways quite shrewd. Intelligent, I should say. But he certainly doesn’t realize the danger of his position.

MAYHEW. Do you think he did it?

SIR WILFRID. I’ve no idea. On the whole, I should say not. (Sharply.) You agree?

MAYHEW. (Taking his pipe from his pocket) I agree.

(SIR WILFRID takes the tobacco jar from the mantelpiece and hands it to MAYHEW, who crosses, stands above the desk and fills his pipe.)

SIR WILFRID. Oh well, he seems to have impressed both of us favourably. I can’t think why. I never heard a weaker story. God knows what we’re going to do with it. The only evidence in his favour seems to be his wife’s—and who’s going to believe a wife?

MAYHEW. (With dry humour.) It has been known to happen.

SIR WILFRID. She’s a foreigner, too. Nine out of the twelve in a jury box believe a foreigner is lying anyway. She’ll be emotional and upset, and won’t understand what the prosecuting counsel says to her. Still, we shall have to interview her. You’ll see, she’ll have hysterics all over my Chambers.

MAYHEW. Perhaps you’d prefer not to accept the brief.

SIR WILFRID. Who says I won’t accept it? Just because I point out that the boy has an absolute tomfool story to tell.

MAYHEW. (Crossing and handing the tobacco jar to SIR WILFRID) But a true one.

SIR WILFRID. (Replacing the jar on the mantelpiece) It must be a true one. It couldn’t be so idiotic if it wasn’t true. Put all the facts down in black and white and the whole thing is utterly damning.

(MAYHEW feels in his pockets for matches.)

And yet, when you talk to the boy, and he blurts out these damning facts, you realize that the whole thing could happen just as he said. Damn it, I had the equivalent of an Aunt Betsy myself. I loved her dearly.

MAYHEW. He’s got a good personality, I think. Sympathetic.

SIR WILFRID. (Taking a matchbox from his pocket and handing it to MAYHEW) Yes, he ought to go down well with the jury. That cuts no ice with the Judge, though. And he’s the simple sort of chap who may get rattled easily in the box.

(MAYHEW finds that the box is empty and throws it in the wastepaper basket.)

A lot depends on this girl.

(There is a KNOCK at the door.)

(He calls.) Come in.

(GRETA enters. She is excited and a little scared. She closes the door.)

Yes, Greta, what is it?

GRETA. (In a whisper.) Mrs. Leonard Vole is here.

MAYHEW. Mrs. Vole.

SIR WILFRID. Come here. You saw that young man? He’s been arrested for murder.

GRETA. (Crossing to L. of SIR WILFRID) I know. Isn’t it exciting?

SIR WILFRID. Do you think he did it?

GRETA. Oh no, sir, I’m sure he didn’t.

SIR WILFRID. Oh, why not?

GRETA. He’s far too nice.

SIR WILFRID. (To MAYHEW) That makes three of us. (To GRETA.) Bring Mrs. Vole in.

(GRETA crosses and exits.)

And we’re probably three credulous fools—(He crosses to the chair L. of the desk.) taken in by a young man with a pleasing personality. (He sets the chair in readiness for ROMAINE.)

CARTER. (Enters and stands to one side. Announcing) Mrs. Vole.

(ROMAINE enters. She is a foreign woman of great personality, but very quiet. Her voice has a strangely ironic inflection.)

MAYHEW. (Crossing to R. of ROMAINE) My dear Mrs. Vole. (He goes towards her with a great air of sympathy, but is slightly rebuffed by her personality.)

(CARTER exits, closing the door behind him.)

ROMAINE. Ah! You are Mr. Mayhew.

MAYHEW. Yes. This is Sir Wilfrid Robarts, who has agreed to handle your husband’s case for him.

ROMAINE. (Crossing to C.) How do you do, Sir Wilfrid?

SIR WILFRID. How do you do?

ROMAINE. I have just come from your office, Mr. Mayhew. They told me you were here with my husband.

SIR WILFRID. Quite, quite.

ROMAINE. Just as I arrived I thought I saw Leonard getting into a car. There were two men with him.

SIR WILFRID. Now, my dear Mrs. Vole, you must not upset yourself.

(ROMAINE is not in the least upset.)

(He is slightly disconcerted.) Won’t you sit down, here?

ROMAINE. Thank you. (She sits in the chair L. of the desk.)

SIR WILFRID. (Moving above the desk to R. of it) There is nothing to be alarmed about as yet, and you must not give way. (He moves below the desk.)

ROMAINE. (After a pause.) Oh, no, I shall not give way.

SIR WILFRID. Then let me tell you that, as perhaps you already suspect, your husband has just been arrested.

ROMAINE. For the murder of Miss Emily French?

SIR WILFRID. I’m afraid so, yes. But please don’t be upset.

ROMAINE. You keep saying that, Sir Wilfrid, but I am not upset.

SIR WILFRID. No. No, I see you have great fortitude.

ROMAINE. You can call it that if you like.

SIR WILFRID. The great thing is to be calm and to tackle all this sensibly.

ROMAINE. That suits me very well. But you must not hide anything from me, Sir Wilfrid. You must not try and spare me. I want to know everything. (With a slightly different inflection.) I want to know—the worst.

SIR WILFRID. Splendid. Splendid. That’s the right way to tackle things. (He moves to R. of the desk.) Now, dear lady, we’re not going to give way to alarm or despondency, we’re going to look at things in a sensible and straightforward manner. (He sits R. of the desk.) Your husband became friendly with Miss French about six weeks ago. You were—er—aware of that friendship?

ROMAINE. He told me that he had rescued an old lady and her parcels one day in the middle of a crowded street. He told me that she had asked him to go and see her.

SIR WILFRID. All very natural, I think. And your husband did go and see her.

ROMAINE. Yes.

SIR WILFRID. And they became great friends.

ROMAINE. Evidently.

SIR WILFRID. There was no question of your accompanying your husband on any occasion?

ROMAINE. Leonard thought it better not.

SIR WILFRID. (Shooting a keen glance at her) He thought it better not. Yes. Just between ourselves, why did he think it better not?

ROMAINE. He thought Miss French would prefer it that way.

SIR WILFRID. (A little nervously and sliding off the subject.) Yes, yes, quite. Well, we can go into that some other time. Your husband, then, became friends with Miss French, he did her various little services, she was a lonely old woman with time on her hands and she found your husband’s companionship congenial to her.

ROMAINE. Leonard can be very charming.

SIR WILFRID. Yes, I’m sure he can. He felt, no doubt, it was a kindly action on his part to go and cheer up the old lady.

ROMAINE. I daresay.

SIR WILFRID. You yourself did not object at all to your husband’s friendship with this old lady?

ROMAINE. I do not think I objected, no.

SIR WILFRID. You have, of course, perfect trust in your husband, Mrs. Vole. Knowing him as well as you do . . .

ROMAINE. Yes, I know Leonard very well.

SIR WILFRID. I can’t tell you how much I admire your calm and your courage, Mrs. Vole. Knowing as I do how devoted you are to him . . .

ROMAINE. So you know how devoted I am to him?

SIR WILFRID. Of course.

ROMAINE. But excuse me, I am a foreigner. I do not always know your English terms. But is there not a saying about knowing something of your own knowledge? You do not know that I am devoted to Leonard, of your own knowledge, do you, Sir Wilfrid? (She smiles.)

SIR WILFRID. (Slightly disconcerted.) No, no, that is of course true. But your husband told me.

ROMAINE. Leonard told you how devoted I was to him?

SIR WILFRID. Indeed, he spoke of your devotion in the most moving terms.

ROMAINE. Men, I often think, are very stupid.

SIR WILFRID. I beg your pardon?

ROMAINE. It does not matter. Please go on.

SIR WILFRID. (Rising and crossing above the desk to C.) This Miss French was a woman of some considerable wealth. She had no near relations. Like many eccentric elderly ladies she was fond of making wills. She had made several wills in her lifetime. Shortly after meeting your husband she made a fresh will. After some small bequests she left the whole of her fortune to your husband.

ROMAINE. Yes.

SIR WILFRID. You know that?

ROMAINE. I read it in the paper this evening.

SIR WILFRID. Quite, quite. Before reading it in the paper, you had no idea of the fact? Your husband had no idea of it?

ROMAINE. (After a pause.) Is that what he told you?

SIR WILFRID. Yes. You don’t suggest anything different?

ROMAINE. No. Oh, no. I do not suggest anything.

SIR WILFRID. (Crossing above the desk to R. of it and sitting) There seems to be no doubt that Miss French looked upon your husband rather in the light of a son, or perhaps a very favourite nephew.

ROMAINE. (With distinct irony.) You think Miss French looked upon Leonard as a son?

SIR WILFRID. (Flustered.) Yes, I think so. Definitely I think so. I think that could be regarded as quite natural, quite normal under the circumstances.

ROMAINE. What hypocrites you are in this country.

(MAYHEW sits on the chair L. of the fireplace.)

SIR WILFRID. My dear Mrs. Vole!

ROMAINE. I shock you? I am so sorry.

SIR WILFRID. Of course, of course. You have a continental way of looking at these things. But I assure you, dear Mrs. Vole, that is not the line to take. It would be most unwise to suggest in any way that Miss French had—er—any—er—feelings for Leonard Vole other than those of a—of a mother or—shall we say—an aunt.

ROMAINE. Oh, by all means let us say an aunt, if you think it best.

SIR WILFRID. One has to think of the effect on the jury of all these things, Mrs. Vole.

ROMAINE. Yes. I also wish to do that. I have been thinking of that a good deal.

SIR WILFRID. Quite so. We must work together. Now we come to the evening of October fourteenth. That is just over a week ago. You remember that evening?

ROMAINE. I remember it very well.

SIR WILFRID. Leonard Vole called on Miss French that evening. The housekeeper, Janet MacKenzie, was out. Mr. Vole played a game of Double Demon with Miss French and finally took leave of her about nine o’clock. He returned home on foot, he tells me, arriving at approximately twenty-five minutes past nine. (He looks interrogatively at her.)

(ROMAINE rises and moves to the fireplace. SIR WILFRID and MAYHEW rise.)

ROMAINE. (Without expression; thoughtfully.) Twenty-five past nine.

SIR WILFRID. At half past nine the housekeeper returned to the house to get something she had forgotten. Passing the sitting-room door she heard Miss French’s voice in conversation with a man. She assumed that the man with Miss French was Leonard Vole, and Inspector Hearne says that it is this statement of hers which has led to your husband’s arrest. Mr. Vole, however, tells me that he has an absolute alibi for that time, since he was at home with you at nine-thirty.

(There is a pause. ROMAINE does not speak although SIR WILFRID looks at her.)

That is so, is it not? He was with you at nine-thirty?

(SIR WILFRID and MAYHEW look at ROMAINE.)

ROMAINE. That is what Leonard says? That he was home with me at nine-thirty?

SIR WILFRID. (Sharply) Isn’t it true?

(There is a long silence.)

ROMAINE. (Moving to the chair L. of the desk; presently.) But of course. (She sits.)

SIR WILFRID. (Sighs with relief and resumes his seat R. of the desk.) Possibly the police have already questioned you on that point?

ROMAINE. Oh yes, they came to see me yesterday evening.

SIR WILFRID. And you said . . . ?

ROMAINE. (As though repeating something that she has learned by rote) I said Leonard came in at nine-twenty-five that night and did not go out again.

MAYHEW. (A little uneasily.) You said . . . ? Oh! (He sits on the chair L. of the fireplace.)

ROMAINE. That was right, was it not?

SIR WILFRID. What do you mean by that, Mrs. Vole?

ROMAINE. (Sweetly.) That is what Leonard wants me to say, is it not?

SIR WILFRID. It’s the truth. You said so just now.

ROMAINE. I have to understand—to be sure. If I say yes, it is so, Leonard was with me in the flat at nine-thirty—will they acquit him?

(SIR WILFRID and MAYHEW are puzzled by ROMAINE’s manner.)

Will they let him go?

MAYHEW. (Rising and crossing to L. of her) If you are both speaking the truth then they will—er—have to acquit him.

ROMAINE. But when I said—that—to the police, I do not think they believed me. (She is not distressed; instead she seems faintly satisfied.)

SIR WILFRID. What makes you think they did not believe you?

ROMAINE. (With sudden malice.) Perhaps I did not say it very well?

(SIR WILFRID and MAYHEW exchange glances. MAYHEW resumes his seat. ROMAINE’s cool, impudent glance meets SIR WILFRID’s. There is a definite antagonism between them.)

SIR WILFRID. (Changing his manner) You know, Mrs. Vole, I don’t quite understand your attitude in all this.

ROMAINE. So you don’t understand? Well, perhaps it is difficult.

SIR WILFRID. Perhaps your husband’s position is not quite clear to you?

ROMAINE. I have already said that I want to understand fully just how black the case against—my husband is. I say to the police, Leonard was at home with me at nine-thirty—and they do not believe me. But perhaps there is someone who saw him leave Miss French’s house, or who saw him in the street on his way home? (She looks sharply and rather slyly from one to the other.)

(SIR WILFRID looks enquiringly at MAYHEW.)

MAYHEW. (Rising and moving C.; reluctantly) Your husband cannot think of, or remember, anything helpful of that kind.

ROMAINE. So it will be only his word—and mine. (With intensity.) And mine. (She rises abruptly.) Thank you, that is what I wanted to know. (She crosses to L.)

MAYHEW. But, Mrs. Vole, please don’t go. There is a lot more to be discussed.

ROMAINE. Not by me.

SIR WILFRID. Why not, Mrs. Vole?

ROMAINE. I shall have to swear, shall I not, to speak the truth and all the truth and nothing but the truth? (She seems amused.)

SIR WILFRID. That is the oath you take.

ROMAINE. (Crossing and standing above the chair L. of the desk; now openly mocking) And suppose that then, when you ask me—(She imitates a man’s voice.) “When did Leonard Vole come that night?” I should say . . .

SIR WILFRID. Well?

ROMAINE. There are so many things I could say.

SIR WILFRID. Mrs. Vole, do you love your husband?

ROMAINE. (Shifting her mocking glance to MAYHEW) Leonard says I do.

MAYHEW. Leonard Vole believes so.

ROMAINE. But Leonard is not very clever.

SIR WILFRID. You are aware, Mrs. Vole, that you cannot by law be called to give testimony damaging to your husband?

ROMAINE. How very convenient.

SIR WILFRID. And your husband can . . .

ROMAINE. (Interrupting) He is not my husband.

SIR WILFRID. What?

ROMAINE. Leonard Vole is not my husband. He went through a form of marriage with me in Berlin. He got me out of the Russian zone and brought me to this country. I did not tell him, but I had a husband living at the time.

SIR WILFRID. He got you out of the Russian sector and safely to this country? You should be very grateful to him. (Sharply.) Are you?

ROMAINE. One can get tired of gratitude.

SIR WILFRID. Has Leonard Vole ever injured you in any way?

ROMAINE. (Scornfully) Leonard? Injured me? He worships the ground I walk on.

SIR WILFRID. And you?

(Again there is a duel of eyes between them, then she laughs and turns away.)

ROMAINE. You want to know too much. (She crosses to the door.)

MAYHEW. I think we must be quite clear about this. Your statements have been somewhat ambiguous. What exactly happened on the evening of October fourteenth?

ROMAINE. (In a monotonous voice) Leonard came in at twenty-five minutes past nine and did not go out again. I have given him an alibi, have I not?

SIR WILFRID. (Rising) You have. (He crosses to her.) Mrs. Vole. . . (He catches her eye and pauses.)

ROMAINE. Yes?

SIR WILFRID. You’re a very remarkable woman, Mrs. Vole.

ROMAINE. And you are satisfied, I hope? (ROMAINE exits.)

SIR WILFRID. I’m damned if I’m satisfied.

MAYHEW. Nor I.

SIR WILFRID. She’s up to something, that woman—but what? I don’t like it, John.

MAYHEW. She certainly hasn’t had hysterics all over the place.

SIR WILFRID. Cool as a cucumber.

MAYHEW. (Sitting on the chair L. of the desk) What’s going to happen if we put her into the witness box?

SIR WILFRID. (Crossing to C.) God knows!

MAYHEW. The prosecution would break her down in no time, especially if it were Myers.

SIR WILFRID. If it’s not the Attorney-General, it probably will be.

MAYHEW. Then what’s your line of attack?

SIR WILFRID. The usual. Keep interrupting—as many objections as possible.

MAYHEW. What beats me is that young Vole is convinced of her devotion.

SIR WILFRID. Don’t put your trust in that. Any woman can fool a man if she wants to and if he’s in love with her.

MAYHEW. He’s in love with her all right. And trusts her completely.

SIR WILFRID. More fool he. Never trust a woman.

CURTAIN