The Mousetrap and Other Plays

ACT THREE

Scene I

Some hours later, the same night.

The curtains are drawn and the room is lit by three candles. WARGRAVE, VERA, BLORE, LOMBARD and ARMSTRONG, who is dirty and unshaven, are sitting in silence. LOMBARD sits chair Right Centre, ARMSTRONG on Right sofa, WARGRAVE Left sofa, VERA on fender, BLORE down Left. From time to time they shoot quick, covert glances at each other. VERA watches ARMSTRONG; BLORE watches LOMBARD; LOMBARD watches WARGRAVE; ARMSTRONG watches BLORE and LOMBARD alternately. WARGRAVE watches each in turn, but most often VERA with a long, speculative glance. There is silence for some few minutes. Then LOMBARD speaks suddenly in a loud, jeering voice that makes them all jump.

LOMBARD.

“Five little Indian boys sitting in a row,

Watching each other and waiting for the blow.”

New version up to date! (He laughs discordantly.)

ARMSTRONG. I hardly think this is a moment for facetiousness.

LOMBARD. Have to relieve the gloom. (Rises to above Right sofa) Damn that electric plant running down. Let’s play a nice round game. What about inventing one called “Suspicions?” A. suspects B., B. suspects C.—and so on. Let’s start with Blore. It’s not hard to guess whom Blore suspects. It sticks out a mile. I’m your fancy, aren’t I, Blore?

BLORE. I wouldn’t say no to that.

LOMBARD. (Crosses to Left a few steps) You’re quite wrong, you know. Abstract justice isn’t my line. If I committed murder, there would have to be something in it for me.

BLORE. All I say is that you’ve acted suspiciously from the start. You’ve told two different stories. You came here with a revolver. Now you say you’ve lost it.

LOMBARD. I have lost it.

BLORE. That’s a likely story!

LOMBARD. What do you think I’ve done with it? I suggested myself that you should search me.

BLORE. Oh! You haven’t got it on you. You’re too clever for that. But you know where it is.

LOMBARD. You mean I’ve cached it ready for the next time?

BLORE. I shouldn’t be surprised.

LOMBARD. (Crosses Right) Why don’t you use your brains, Blore? If I’d wanted to, I could have shot the lot of you by this time, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop.

BLORE. Yes, but that’s not the big idea. (Points to rhyme.)

LOMBARD. (Sits chair Right Centre) The crazy touch? My God, man, I’m sane enough!

BLORE. The doctor says there are some lunatics you’d never know were lunatics. (Looks around at EVERYONE) That’s true enough, I’d say.

ARMSTRONG. (Breaking out) We—we shouldn’t just sit here, doing nothing! There must be something—surely, surely, there is something that we can do? If we lit a bonfire—

BLORE. In this weather? (Jerks his head towards window.)

WARGRAVE. It is, I am afraid, a question of time and patience. The weather will clear. Then we can do something. Light a bonfire, heliograph, signal.

ARMSTRONG. (Rises to up Right) A question of time—time? (Laughs in an unbalanced way) We can’t afford time. We shall all be dead.

WARGRAVE. I think the precautions we have now adopted will be adequate.

ARMSTRONG. I tell you—we shall all be dead. All but one—He’ll think up something else—he’s thinking now—(Sits Right sofa again.)

LOMBARD. Poor Louise—what was her name—Clees? Was it nerves that made you do her in, Doctor?

ARMSTRONG. (Almost mechanically) No, drink. I used to be a heavy drinker. God help me, I was drunk when I operated—Quite a simple operation. My hand shaking all over the place—(Buries his face in his hands) I can remember her now—a big, heavy, countrified woman. And I killed her!

LOMBARD. (Rises; to Right above VERA) So I was right—that’s how it was?

ARMSTRONG. Sister knew, of course, but she was loyal to me—or to the Hospital. I gave up drink—gave it up altogether. I went in for a study of nervous diseases.

WARGRAVE. Very successfully. (Rises; to up Centre.)

ARMSTRONG. One or two lucky shots. Good results with one or two important women. They talked to their friends. For the last year or two, I’ve been so busy I’ve hardly known which way to turn. I’d got to the top of the tree.

LOMBARD. Until Mr. Unknown Owen—and down will come cradle and doctor and all.

ARMSTRONG. (Rises) Will you stop your damnable sneering and joking?

WARGRAVE. (Comes down Right between ARMSTRONG and LOMBARD) Gentlemen, gentlemen, please. We can’t afford to quarrel.

LOMBARD. That’s okay by me. I apologize.

ARMSTRONG. It’s this terrible inactivity that gets on my nerves. (Sits Right sofa.)

WARGRAVE. (To Left sofa; sits) We are adopting, I feel convinced, the only measures possible. So long as we remain together, all within sight of each other, a repetition of the tragedies that have occurred is—must be—impossible. We have all submitted to a search. Therefore, we know that no man is armed either with firearms or a knife. Nor has any man got cyanide or any drug about his person. If we remain, as I say, within sight of each other, nothing can happen.

ARMSTRONG. But we can’t go on like this—we shall need food—sleep—

BLORE. That’s what I say.

WARGRAVE. Obviously, the murderer’s only chance is to get one of us detached from the rest. So long as we prevent that we are safe.

ARMSTRONG. Safe—?

LOMBARD. You’re very silent, Vera?

VERA. There isn’t anything to say—(Pause. WARGRAVE rises; to up Centre) I wonder what the time is. It’s this awful waiting—waiting for the hours to go by and yet feeling that they may be the last. What is the time?

LOMBARD. Half past eight.

VERA. Is that all?

LOMBARD. Pretty awful light, this. How are the candles holding out?

BLORE. There’s a whole packet. Storm’s dying down a bit, what do you think, sir? (Rises; goes up to window.)

WARGRAVE. Perhaps. We mustn’t get too optimistic.

ARMSTRONG. The murderer’s got everything on his side. Even the weather seems to be falling in with his plans.

(WARGRAVE sits Left sofa. Long pause.)

BLORE. (Rising) What about something to eat?

VERA. (Rises. Crossing up Left) If you like, I’ll go out and open some tongue and make some coffee. But you four stay here. (To WARGRAVE) That’s right, isn’t it?

WARGRAVE. Not quite. You see, Miss Claythorne, it might be inadvisable to eat or drink something that you had prepared out of our sight.

VERA. Oh! (Slowly) You don’t like me, do you?

WARGRAVE. It’s not a question of likes or dislikes.

(VERA sits down Left.)

LOMBARD. There are very few tricks that will get past you, Sir Lawrence. You know, if you won’t be offended at my saying so, you’re my fancy.

WARGRAVE. (Rises to Left, looking at him coldly through his spectacles in the best court manner) This is hardly the moment, Captain Lombard, for any of us to indulge in the luxury of taking offence.

LOMBARD. (Up Right Centre) I don’t think it’s Blore. (To BLORE) I may be wrong, but I can’t feel you’ve got enough imagination for this job. All I can say is, if you are the criminal, I take my hat off to you for a damned fine actor.

BLORE. Thank you—for nothing. (Sits Left sofa.)

LOMBARD. (Pause. Looks at ARMSTRONG) I don’t think it’s the doctor. I don’t believe he’s got the nerve. (Looks at VERA down Left) You’ve got plenty of nerve, Vera. On the other hand, you strike me as eminently sane. Therefore, you’d only do murder if you had a thoroughly good motive.

VERA. (Sarcastically) Thank you.

ARMSTRONG. (Rises) I’ve thought of something.

LOMBARD. Splendid. Animal, vegetable or mineral?

ARMSTRONG. That man (Points to BLORE) says he’s a police officer. But we’ve no proof of that. He only said so after the gramophone record, when his name had been given. Before that he was pretending to be a South African millionaire. Perhaps the police officer is another impersonation. What do we know about him? Nothing at all.

LOMBARD. He’s a policeman all right. Look at his feet.

BLORE. (Rises and sits again) That’s enough from you, Mr. Lombard.

LOMBARD. (ARMSTRONG sits chair Right Centre) Well, now we know where we are. By the way, Miss Claythorne suspects you, Doctor. Oh, yes, she does. Haven’t you seen her shoot a dirty look from time to time? It all works out quite prettily. I suspect Sir Lawrence. Blore suspects me. Armstrong suspects Blore. (To WARGRAVE) What about you, sir?

WARGRAVE. Quite early in the day, I formed a certain conclusion. It seemed to me that everything that had occurred pointed quite unmistakably to one person. (Pause. He looks straight ahead.) I am still of the same opinion. (Above Left sofa)

VERA. Which one?

WARGRAVE. Well—no, I think it would be inadvisable to mention that person’s name at the present time.

LOMBARD. Inadvisable in the public interest?

WARGRAVE. Exactly.

(EVERYONE looks at each other.)

BLORE. What about the food idea?

ARMSTRONG. No, no, let’s stay here. We’re safe here.

VERA. I can’t say I’m hungry.

LOMBARD. I’m not ravenous myself. You can go out and have a guzzle by yourself, Blore.

BLORE. Tell you what. Suppose I go and bring in a tin of biscuits? (Rises to Left 2 door.)

LOMBARD. Good idea.

(BLORE starts to go.)

LOMBARD. Oh, Blore.

BLORE. Eh?

LOMBARD. An unopened tin, Blore.

(BLORE goes out; takes candle from bookcase. A pause EVERYBODY watches door. A gust of wind—the curtains rattle. VERA rises. WARGRAVE sits Left sofa.)

LOMBARD. It’s only the wind—making the curtains rattle.

VERA. (Up Centre) I wonder what happened to the bathroom curtain? The one that Rogers missed.

LOMBARD. By the wildest stretch of imagination, I cannot see what any homicidal maniac wants with a scarlet oilsilk curtain.

VERA. Things seem to have been disappearing. Miss Brent lost a skein of knitting wool.

LOMBARD. So the murderer, whoever he or she is, is a kleptomaniac too.

VERA. How does it go? “Five little Indian boys—”

LOMBARD.

“Going in for law,

One got in Chancery—”

VERA. In Chancery, but how could that apply? Unless, of course—(She looks at WARGRAVE.)

WARGRAVE. Precisely, my dear young lady. That’s why I’m sitting right here.

LOMBARD. Ah! But I’m casting you for the role of murderer—not victim.

WARGRAVE. The term can apply to a boxer.

LOMBARD. (To VERA) Maybe we’ll start a free fight. That seems to let you out, my dear.

VERA. That awful rhyme. It keeps going round and round in my head. I think I’ll remember it till I die. (She realizes what she has said and looks around at the OTHERS. Pause) Mr. Blore’s a long time.

LOMBARD. I expect the big bad wolf has got him.

WARGRAVE. I have asked you once before to try and restrain your rather peculiar sense of humour, Captain Lombard.

LOMBARD. Sorry, sir. It must be a form of nervousness.

(BLORE enters Left 2 with a tin of biscuits. VERA to behind chair Right Centre. WARGRAVE rises to Left Centre, takes tin and opens it.)

WARGRAVE. Put your hands up. Search him.

(ARMSTRONG and LOMBARD cross to Left Centre; search BLORE. ARMSTRONG offers biscuits to VERA.)

VERA. (Sits Right Centre) No, thank you.

(BLORE sits down Left.)

LOMBARD. Come now—you’ve had no dinner. (To above VERA, Right Centre.)

VERA. I couldn’t eat anything.

LOMBARD. I warn you—Blore will wolf the lot.

BLORE. I don’t see why you need be so funny about it. Starving ourselves won’t do us any good. (Sadly) How are we off for cigarettes?

LOMBARD. (Takes out his case and opens it; sighs ruefully) I haven’t got any.

ARMSTRONG. I’ve run out too.

WARGRAVE. Fortunately, I’m a pipe smoker.

VERA. (Rousing herself. Crossing down Left) I’ve got a whole box upstairs in my suitcase. I’ll get them. I could do with a cigarette myself. (Pauses at door) See that you all stay where you are. (Goes out Left 1 carrying a candle from bookcase.)

(WARGRAVE to door, looking after her, leaving tin on sofa.)

BLORE. (Rises; fetches tin from sofa—eating solidly, up Left Centre) Not bad, these biscuits.

LOMBARD. What are they, cheese?

BLORE. Cheese and celery.

LOMBARD. That girl ought to have had some. (To Left.)

ARMSTRONG. Her nerves are in a bad state.

WARGRAVE. (To above Left sofa) I don’t know that I’d agree with you there, Doctor. Miss Claythorne strikes me as a very cool and resourceful young lady—quite remarkably so.

LOMBARD. (Up Left Centre—looking curiously at WARGRAVE) So that’s your idea, is it? That she’s the snake in the grass?

ARMSTRONG. Hardly likely—a woman!

WARGRAVE. You and I, Doctor, see women from slightly different angles.

BLORE. (Crossing down Right) What does anyone say to a spot of whisky?

LOMBARD. Good idea, providing we tackle an unopened bottle.

(An appalling and bloodcurdling shriek of utter terror comes from overhead, and a heavy thud. All four men start up. LOMBARD and BLORE catch up candles. BLORE takes candle from mantelpiece. All four rush to door Left 1 and out in this order: LOMBARD, BLORE, ARMSTRONG and WARGRAVE—the latter is slow getting under way, owing to age. Stage is quite dark as soon as LOMBARD and BLORE have gone through door and before WARGRAVE reaches door. Confused noises off. Then, on stage, WARGRAVE’s voice calls out, “Who’s that?” Sound of a shot. A confused moving about on the stage; voices off also; off faint—then come nearer. Left 2 door opens. Then door Left 1. BLORE heard swearing off. Also ARMSTRONG’s voice.)

VERA. (Coming in Left 2, stumbling about) Philip, Philip, where are you? I’ve lost you.

LOMBARD. (Coming in Left 1) Here I am.

VERA. Why can’t we have some light? It’s awful in the dark. You don’t know where you are. You don’t know where anyone is. (Sits Left sofa.)

LOMBARD. It’s that damned draught on the stairs—blowing all the candles out. Here, I’ve got a lighter. (Lights his and her candle. Sits Left sofa.)

VERA. Where’s Doctor Armstrong?

ARMSTRONG. (From hall) I’m hunting for the matches.

LOMBARD. Never mind matches—get some more candles.

VERA. I was horrified to death—it went right around my throat—

LOMBARD. What did?

VERA. The window was open in my room. It blew out the candle as I opened the door. And then a long strand of seaweed touched my throat. I thought, in the dark, that I was being strangled by a wet hand—

(Murmur off Left.)

LOMBARD. I don’t wonder you yelled.

VERA. Who hung that seaweed there?

LOMBARD. I don’t know. But when I find out, he’ll be sorry he was ever born.

(ARMSTRONG comes quietly in from Left 1.)

VERA. (Sharply) Who’s that?

(WARN Curtain.)

ARMSTRONG. It’s all right, Miss Claythorne. It’s only me.

BLORE. (In hall) Here we are. (A faint glow through door as he lights candles. He comes in carrying candle. Crosses Right.) Who fired that shot?

(VERA rises; moves Left Centre, turns and screams. Light reveals WARGRAVE sat upright on windowseat, red oilsilk curtain draped around shoulders. Grey skein of wool plaited into wig on his head. In centre of forehead is round dark mark with red trickling from it. MEN stand paralysed. VERA screams. ARMSTRONG pulls himself together, waves OTHERS to stand back and goes over to WARGRAVE. Bends over him; straightens up.)

ARMSTRONG. He’s dead—Shot through the head—

VERA. (Leans against window up Left) One got in Chancery—and then there were four—

ARMSTRONG. Miss Claythorne.

LOMBARD. Vera.

VERA. You got me out of the way. You got me to go upstairs for cigarettes. You put that seaweed there—You did it all so that you could kill that helpless old man in the dark—you’re mad—all of you—crazy. (Her voice is low and full of horror) That’s why you wanted the red curtain and the knitting wool—It was all planned—long ago—for that—Oh, my God, let me get out of here—(She edges to the Left 1 door and rushes out, as—)

CURTAIN

Scene II

The following morning.

It is brilliant sunshine. The room is as it was the night before.

BLORE, LOMBARD AND VERA ARE SITTING ON THE LEFT SOFA, BACKS TO THE AUDIENCE, EATING TINNED TONGUE ON TRAY

LOMBARD.

Three little Indian boys,

Sitting in a row.

Thinking as they guzzle

Who’s next to go?

VERA. Oh, Philip!

BLORE. That’s all right, Miss Claythorne. I don’t mind joking on a full stomach.

VERA. I must say I was hungry. But all the same, I don’t think I shall ever fancy tinned tongue again.

BLORE. I was wanting that meal! I feel a new man.

LOMBARD. We’d been nearly twenty-four hours without food. That does lower the morale.

VERA. Somehow, in the daylight, everything seems different.

LOMBARD. You mustn’t forget there’s a dangerous homicidal lunatic somewhere loose on this island.

VERA. Why is it one doesn’t feel jittery about it any more?

LOMBARD. Because we know now, beyond any possible doubt, who it is, eh, Blore?

BLORE. That’s right.

LOMBARD. It was the uncertainty before—looking at each other, wondering which.

VERA. I said all along it was Doctor Armstrong.

LOMBARD. You did, my sweet, you did. Until, of course, you went completely bats and suspected us all.

VERA. (Rises to mantelpiece; takes three cigarettes out of box) It seems rather silly in the light of day.

LOMBARD. Very silly.

BLORE. Allowing it is Armstrong, what’s happened to him?

LOMBARD. We know what he wants us to think has happened to him.

VERA. (Crosses Centre; gives BLORE and LOMBARD cigarette) What exactly did you find?

LOMBARD. One shoe—just one shoe—sitting prettily on the cliff edge. Inference—Doctor Armstrong has gone completely off his onion and committed suicide.

BLORE. (Rises) All very circumstantial—even to one little china Indian broken over there in the doorway.

VERA. I think that was rather overdoing it. A man wouldn’t think of doing that if he was going to drown himself.

LOMBARD. Quite so. But we’re fairly sure he didn’t drown himself. But he had to make it appear as though he were the seventh victim all according to plan.

VERA. Supposing he really is dead?

LOMBARD. I’m a bit suspicious of death without bodies.

VERA. How extraordinary to think that there are five dead bodies in there, and here we’ve been eating tinned tongue.

LOMBARD. The delightful feminine disregard for facts—there are six dead bodies and they are not all in there.

BLORE. Oh, no, no. She’s right. There are only five.

LOMBARD. What about Mrs. Rogers?

BLORE. I’ve counted her. She makes the fifth.

LOMBARD. (Rises. A little exasperated) Now look here: Marston, one. Mrs. Rogers, two. General MacKenzie, three. Rogers, four. Emily Brent, five, and Wargrave, six.

(VERA takes tray to table up Left.)

BLORE. (Counting themselves) Seven, eight, nine—Armstrong, ten. That’s right, old man. Sorry. (Sits Left sofa.)

LOMBARD. (Sits Left sofa) Don’t you think it would be an idea if we brought Mrs. Rogers downstairs and shoved her in the morgue, too?

BLORE. I’m a detective, not an undertaker.

VERA. (Sits chair Right Centre) For Heaven’s sake, stop talking about bodies. The point is, Armstrong murdered them.

LOMBARD. We ought to have realized it was Armstrong straight away.

BLORE. How do you think Armstrong got hold of your revolver?

LOMBARD. Haven’t the slightest idea.

VERA. Tell me exactly what happened in the night?

LOMBARD. Well, after you threw a fit of hysterics and locked yourself in your room, we all thought we’d better go to bed.

BLORE. So we all went to bed—and locked ourselves in our rooms.

LOMBARD. About an hour later, I heard someone pass my door. I came out and tapped on Blore’s door. He was there all right. Then I went to Armstrong’s room. It was empty. That’s when I tapped on your door and told you to sit tight—whatever happened. Then I came down here. The window on the balcony was open—and my revolver was lying just beside it.

BLORE. But why the devil should Armstrong chuck that revolver away?

LOMBARD. Don’t ask me—either an accident or he’s crazy.

VERA. Where do you think he is?

LOMBARD. Lurking somewhere, waiting to have a crack at one of us.

VERA. We ought to search the house.

BLORE. What—and walk into an ambush?

VERA. (Rises) Oh—I never thought of that.

LOMBARD. Are you quite sure you heard no one moving about after we went out?

VERA. (Above Right sofa) Oh, I imagined all sorts of things—but nothing short of setting the house on fire would have got me to unlock my door.

LOMBARD. I see—just thoroughly suspicious.

BLORE. (Rises to Right) What’s the use of talking? What are we going to do?

LOMBARD. If you ask me—do nothing. Sit tight and take no risks.

BLORE. Look here, I want to go after that fellow.

LOMBARD. What a dog of the bulldog breed you are, Blore. By the way, between friends and without prejudice, you did go in for that little spot of perjury, didn’t you?

(VERA sits Left end Right sofa.)

BLORE. (Sits Right Centre. Hesitating) Well, I don’t suppose it makes any odds now. Landor was innocent, all right. The gang squared me and between us we put him away for a stretch. Mind you, I wouldn’t admit it now if it wasn’t that—

LOMBARD. You think we’re all in the same boat?

BLORE. Well, I couldn’t admit it in front of Mr. Justice Wargrave, could I?

LOMBARD. No, hardly.

BLORE. (Rises) I say, that fellow Seton, do you think he was innocent?

LOMBARD. I’m quite sure of it. Wargrave had a reason for wanting him out of the way. Well, Blore, I’m delighted you’ve come off your virtuous perch. I hope you made a tidy bit out of it?

BLORE. (Injured) Nothing like what I ought to have done. They’re a mean lot, that Benny gang. I got my promotion, though.

LOMBARD. And Landor got penal servitude and died in gaol.

BLORE. I couldn’t tell he was going to die, could I?

LOMBARD. No, that was your bad luck.

BLORE. His, you mean.

LOMBARD. Yours, too. Because as a result of that fact you may get your life cut short unpleasantly soon.

BLORE. What? Me? By Armstrong? I’ll watch it.

LOMBARD. You’ll have to. Remember there are only three Indians there.

BLORE. Well, what about you?

LOMBARD. I shall be quite all right, thank you. I’ve been in tight places before and I’ve got out of them. And I mean to get out of this one. (Pause) Besides, I’ve got a revolver.

BLORE. (Right end Right sofa) Yes—that revolver. Now listen. You said you found it lying down there. What’s to prove you haven’t had it all the time?

LOMBARD. Same old gramophone record! No room in your head for more than one idea at a time, is there?

BLORE. No, but it’s a good idea.

LOMBARD. And you’re sticking to it.

BLORE. And I would have thought up a better story than that, if I were you.

LOMBARD. I only wanted something simple that a policeman could understand.

BLORE. What’s wrong with the police?

LOMBARD. Nothing—now that you’ve left the Force.

BLORE. (Above Right sofa) Now look here, Captain Lombard, if you’re an honest man, as you pretend—

LOMBARD. Oh, come, Blore, we’re neither of us honest.

BLORE. If you’re telling the truth for once, you ought to do the square thing and chuck that revolver down there.

LOMBARD. Don’t be an ass.

BLORE. I’ve said I’ll go through the house looking for Armstrong, haven’t I? If I’m willing to do that, will you lend me that revolver?

LOMBARD. (Rises to down Centre) No, I won’t. That revolver’s mine. It’s my revolver and I’m sticking to it.

BLORE. (Angrily) Then do you know what I’m beginning to think?

LOMBARD. You’re not beginning to think it, you square-headed flattie. You thought it last night, and now you’ve gone back to your original idea. I’m the one and only U.N. Unknown Owen. Is that it?

BLORE. I won’t contradict you.

LOMBARD. Well, think what you damned well please. But I warn you—

VERA. (Incisively) I think you are both behaving like a pair of children.

(They BOTH look at her rather sheepishly.)

LOMBARD. Sorry, Teacher.

VERA. (To BLORE; scornfully) Of course, Captain Lombard isn’t the unknown. The Unknown Owen is Armstrong—and I’ll tell you one very good proof of it.

BLORE. Oh, what?

VERA. Think of the rhyme. “Four little Indian boys—going out to sea. A red herring swallowed one, and then there were three.” Don’t you see the subtlety of it? A red herring? That’s Armstrong’s pretended suicide, but it’s only a red herring—so really he isn’t dead!

BLORE. That’s very ingenious.

VERA. To my mind, it’s absolute proof. You see, it’s all mad because he’s mad. He takes a queer, childish, crazy pleasure in sticking to the rhyme and making everything happen in that way. Dressing up the Judge, killing Rogers when he was chopping sticks; using a hypodermic on Miss Brent, when he might just as well have drugged her. He’s got to make it all fit in.

BLORE. And that might give us a pointer. Where do we go from here? (Goes up to mantelpiece and reads)

“Three little Indian boys walking in the Zoo.

A big bear hugged one and then there were two.”

(He laughs) He’ll have a job with that one. There’s no Zoo on this island! (His laughter is cut short as he sees the big bear rug on which he is standing. He edges off the rug and turns to LOMBARD.)

BLORE. I say, Captain Lombard, what about a nice bottle of beer?

LOMBARD. Do stop thinking about your stomach, Blore. This craving for food and drink will be your undoing.

BLORE. But there’s plenty of beer in the kitchen.

LOMBARD. Yes, and if anyone wanted to get rid of you, the first place they’d think of putting a lethal dose would be in a nice bottle of beer.

(From outside comes the sound of a motorboat hooter.)

BLORE. What’s that? A boat! A boat!

(ALL rush to balcony to Left. BLORE rushes out into balcony. There is a scream, then a crash and thud.)

VERA. Oh, God! (Puts hands over eyes.)

(LOMBARD, revolver in hand, rushes to window, looks out, then returns slowly to room. VERA sits down Left.)

LOMBARD. Blore’s got his.

VERA. How?

LOMBARD. A booby trap—all set—a wire across the door attached to something above.

VERA. Is he . . . ?

LOMBARD. Yes. Crushed. Head stove in. That great bronze bear holding a clock, from the landing.

VERA. A bear? Oh, how ghastly! It’s this awful childishness!

LOMBARD. I know. God, what a fool Blore was!

VERA. And now there are two.

LOMBARD. (To down Left) Yes, and we’ll have to be very careful of ourselves.

VERA. We shan’t do it. He’ll get us. We’ll never get away from this island!

LOMBARD. Oh, yes, we will. I’ve never been beaten yet.

VERA. Don’t you feel—that there’s someone—now—in this room—watching us, watching and waiting?

LOMBARD. That’s just nerves.

VERA. Then you do feel it?

LOMBARD. (Fiercely) No, I don’t.

VERA. (Rises, to Centre) Please, Philip, let’s get out of this house—anywhere. Perhaps if that was a boat, they’ll see us.

LOMBARD. All right. We’ll go to the top of the island and wait for relief to come. It’s sheer cliff on the far side and we can see if anyone approaches from the house.

VERA. Anything is better than staying here.

LOMBARD. Won’t you be rather cold in that dress?

VERA. I’d be colder if I were dead.

LOMBARD. Perhaps you’re right. (Goes to window) A quick reconnaissance.

VERA. Be careful, Philip—please! (Follows him to window.)

LOMBARD. I’m not Blore. There’s no window directly above. (He goes out on balcony and looks down. He is arrested by what he sees.) Hullo, there’s something washed up on the rocks.

VERA. What? (She joins him) It looks like a body.

LOMBARD. (In a strange new voice) You’d better wait in there. I’m going to have a look.

(He exits to Left on balcony. VERA back into room. Her face is full of conflicting emotions.)

VERA. Armstrong—Armstrong’s body—

LOMBARD. (Comes in very slowly) It’s Armstrong drowned—Washed up at high-water mark.

VERA. So there’s no one on the island—no one at all, except us two.

LOMBARD. Yes, Vera. Now we know where we are.

VERA. Now we know where we are?

LOMBARD. A very pretty trick of yours, with that wire. Quite neat. Old Wargrave always knew you were dangerous.

VERA. You—

LOMBARD. So you did drown that kid after all.

VERA. I didn’t! That’s where you’re wrong. Please believe me. Please listen to me!

LOMBARD. (Crossing down Left) I’m listening. You’d better make it a good story.

VERA. (Above Right sofa) It isn’t a story. It’s the truth. I didn’t kill that child. It was someone else.

LOMBARD. Who?

VERA. A man. Peter’s uncle. I was in love with him.

LOMBARD. This is getting quite interesting.

VERA. Don’t sneer. It was hell. Absolute hell. Peter was born after his father’s death. If he’d been a girl, Hugh would have got everything.

LOMBARD. Well-known tale of the wicked uncle.

VERA. Yes—he was wicked—and I didn’t know. He said he loved me, but that he was too poor to marry. There was a rock far out that Peter was always wanting to swim to. Of course, I wouldn’t let him. It was dangerous. One day we were on the beach and I had to go back to the house for something I’d forgotten. When I got back to the rock, I looked down and saw Peter swimming out to the rock. I knew he hadn’t a chance, the current had got him already. I flew towards the beach and Hugh tried to stop me. “Don’t be a fool,” he said. “I told the little ass he could do it.”

LOMBARD. Go on. This is interesting.

VERA. I pushed past him—he tried to stop me, but I got away and rushed down. I plunged into the sea and swam after Peter. He’d gone before I could get to him.

LOMBARD. And everything went off well at the inquest. They called you a plucky girl, and you kept discreetly quiet about Hugh’s part in the business.

VERA. Do you think anyone would have believed me? Besides, I couldn’t! I really was in love with him.

LOMBARD. Well, it’s a pretty story. And then I suppose Hugh let you down?

VERA. Do you think I ever wanted to see him again?

LOMBARD. You certainly are an accomplished liar, Vera.

VERA. Can’t you believe the truth when you hear it?

LOMBARD. Who set the trap that killed Blore? I didn’t—and Armstrong’s dead. I’ve broken most of the Commandments in my time—and I’m no saint. But there’s one thing I won’t stand for and that’s murder.

VERA. You won’t stand for murder. What about those natives you left to die in Africa?

LOMBARD. That’s what’s so damn funny—I didn’t.

VERA. What do you mean?

LOMBARD. For once—just once, mark you—I played the hero. Risked my life to save the lives of my men. Left them my rifle and ammunition and all the food there was—and took a chance through the bush. By the most incredible luck it came off—but it wasn’t in time to save them. And the rumour got around that I’d deliberately abandoned my men. There’s life for you!

VERA. Do you expect me to believe that? Why, you actually admitted the whole thing.

LOMBARD. I know. I got such a kick out of watching their faces.

VERA. You can’t fool me with a stupid lie like that.

LOMBARD. (Completely losing his temper) Blast you!

VERA. (To Right window) Why didn’t I see it before? It’s there in your face—the face of a killer—

LOMBARD. You can’t fool me any longer.

VERA. Oh—(VERA sways forward as if fainting. LOMBARD runs to catch her. She wrests the revolver from him.) Now!

LOMBARD. (Backing away down Left) You cunning little devil!

VERA. If you come on one step nearer, I’ll shoot.

LOMBARD. You—young, lovely, and quite, quite mad.

(LOMBARD makes a movement to VERA. She shoots. He falls down Left. She goes over to him, her eyes full of horror, as she realizes what she has done. The revolver falls from her hand. Suddenly she hears a low laugh coming from the study door. She turns her head slowly in that direction. The laughter grows louder, the Right door slowly opens and WARGRAVE enters. He carries a rope in his hand.)

WARGRAVE. It’s all come true. My Ten Little Indian plan—My rhyme—my rhyme—

VERA. Ah! (Stifted scream.)

WARGRAVE. (Angrily) Silence in Court! (Looks around suspiciously) If there is any more noise, I shall have the Court cleared. (Down Right Centre) It’s all right, my dear. It’s all right. Don’t be frightened. This is a Court of Justice. You’ll get justice here. (Crosses Left; locks doors Left 2 and Left 1. VERA to Right. Confidentially) You thought I was a ghost. You thought I was dead. (Above Right sofa) Armstrong said I was dead. That was the clever part of my plan. Said we’d trap the murderer. We’d fix up my supposed death so I should be free to spy upon the guilty one. He thought it an excellent plan—came out that night to meet me by the cliff without suspicion. I sent him over with a push—so easily. He swallowed my red herring all right. (VERA is petrified with horror. In a confidential manner) You know, Vera Claythorne, all my life I’ve wanted to take life—yes, to take life. I’ve had to get what enjoyment I could out of sentencing the guilty to death. (VERA moves to revolver) I always enjoyed that—but it wasn’t enough. I wanted more—I wanted to do it myself with my own hands—(WARGRAVE follows VERA to Left. VERA leans against Left 1 door. Suddenly curbs excitement and speaks with severe dignity) But I’m a Judge of the High Court. I’ve got a sense of justice. (As if listening to an echo) As between our Sovereign Lord the King and the prisoner at the Bar—will true deliverance make—Guilty, my Lord. Yes. (Nods head) Guilty. You were all guilty, you know, but the Law couldn’t touch you, so I had to take the Law into my own hands. (Holds up hands in a frenzy of delight) Into my own hands! Silence in the Court! (VERA hammers on Left 1 door. WARGRAVE takes her arm and drags her to Right above Left sofa.) Anthony Marston first. Then Mrs. Rogers. Barbitone in the brandy. MacKenzie—stabbed. Got Rogers with an axe when he was chopping sticks. Doped Emily Brent’s coffee so she couldn’t feel the hypodermic. Booby trap for Blore. (Confidentially) Blore was a fool. I always knew it would be easy to get Blore. Returning that revolver was a clever touch. Made the end interesting. I knew you two would suspect each other in the end. The question was, who’d win out? I banked on you, my dear. The female of the species. Besides, it’s always more exciting to have a girl at the end. (He steps on to sofa, and VERA falls to the ground.) Prisoner at the Bar, have you anything to say why sentence should not be passed on you? Vera Elizabeth Claythorne, I sentence you to death—

(WARN Curtain.)

VERA. (With a sudden outcry) Stop! Stop! I’m not guilty! I’m not guilty!

WARGRAVE. Ah, they all say that. Must plead not guilty. Unless, of course, you’re going all out for a verdict of insanity. But you’re not mad. (Very reasonably) I’m mad, but you’re not.

VERA. But I am innocent! I swear it! I never killed that child. I never wanted to kill him. You’re a judge. You know when a person is guilty and when they’re innocent. I swear I’m telling the truth.

WARGRAVE. So you didn’t drown that boy after all? Very interesting. But it doesn’t matter much now, does it?

VERA. What—(Makes inarticulate sounds as the rope swings in front of her.)

WARGRAVE. I can’t spoil my lovely rhyme. My ten little Indian boys. You’re the last one. One little Indian boy left all alone. He went and hanged himself. I must have my hanging—my hanging—

(LOMBARD comes slowly to, picks up revolver and shoots. WARGRAVE falls back off the sofa.)

VERA. Philip—Philip—

(BOTH sit on floor in front of sofa.)

LOMBARD. It’s all right, darling. It’s all right.

VERA. I thought you were dead. I thought I’d killed you.

LOMBARD. Thank God, women can’t shoot straight. At least, not straight enough.

VERA. I shall never forget this.

LOMBARD. Oh, yes, you will. You know there’s another ending to that Ten Little Indian rhyme:

“One little Indian boy left all alone,

We got married—and then there were none!”

(Takes rope and puts his head in noose too. He kisses her.)

(There is the sound of a motor hooter.)

CURTAIN