Deathtrap Read online

  Myra: Do you . . . think he’ll be open to the idea of collaborating?

  Sidney: (Thinks—about several things) Yes, I think he might. . . Was George S. Kaufman still alive when The Murder—(Uncovers the mouthpiece) Yes? . . . That’s a bit early; when’s the next one? . . . That’s too late; let’s make it the seven-twenty-nine. (Jotting it down) And there’s an eleven-oh-something from New York that I’m sure stops at Milford; you won’t have any problem at all about getting back home. Would you bring the original with you? The carbon’s a bit hard on these weary old eyes . . . Good. I’ll see you at seven-twenty-nine then. Oh, Terence? Do you mind if I call you Terence? . . . Why? . . . Oh God, I’m sorry—Clifford! Clifford. I may be a few minutes late, Clifford; I have some errands to run. So just wait by the station and I’ll be along eventually. In a navy-blue Mercedes . . . Right. Good-bye. (He hangs up, sips his drink. Myra is more than ever uneasy) I think he’s the one without obvious defects . . .

  Myra: What errands do you have to run?

  Sidney: Didn’t you say something about library books? Picking them up or dropping them off?

  Myra: No, I didn’t.

  Sidney: Oh. I thought you did. (Considers his drink a moment, and looks at Myra again) The Xerox machine has been fixed, but he decided to wait a day or two longer in case I had any small suggestions to make. No one else has read it. No one even knows he’s been working on it.

  Myra: And no one will see you picking him up . . .

  Sidney: The thought did cross my mind. I’m so in the habit of planning crimes on paper . . .

  Myra: Why did you tell him to bring the original copy?

  Sidney: You heard me. The carbon is a strain, and we should have two copies to go through. I don’t want him leaning over my shoulder for two hours, exhaling cheeseburger.

  Myra: He probably has another carbon copy filed away somewhere.

  Sidney: More than likely. And all his notes and outlines, early drafts .. . Opening night of my dazzling triumph his gray-haired mother comes down the aisle accompanied by the Milford and Westport police departments . . . (Thephone rings; Sidney takes it) Hello?... How are you, Lottie?... No, I don’t think so. I—have an idea I’m working on and I don’t want to lose touch with it; it’s in the embryo stage. But Myra might want to. Hold on a second. (Covers the mouthpiece) They’re going to see the French thing at Fine Arts Two. ( Myra shakes her head) I could drop you off on the way ...

  Myra: No. I don’t want to see it, not tonight.

  Sidney: Lottie? . . . Myra will pass too; she’s a bit under the weather. Give us a report on it tomorrow, will you? Have fun. Good-bye. (Hangsup) You don’t have to stand guard over me. I only kill when the moon is full.

  Myra: Why did you lie just now? Why didn’t you tell her someone’s coming to see you?

  Sidney: Is it their business? I don’t know why I lied; I’m just a liar.

  Myra: The moon was full last night, except for a sliver down near the bottom.

  Sidney: Really? ( Myra nods) Well, I shall simply have to exercise massive self-control. And remind myself of that other carbon copy, which almost certainly exists.

  Myra: If not for that, Sidney—would you? Could you?

  Sidney: Probably not. Probably I would chicken out. Even if he’s the tiny one . . . They say that committing murder on paper siphons off the hostile impulses, and I’m sure it does. At the same time though, it opens one to the idea of committing real murder, gives it the familiar feel of a possibility worth considering—just as. owning a weapon, and handling it . . . (Takes an ornate dagger from its place) opens one, however slightly, to the idea of using it. (Toys with the dagger, hefts it) But there’s a world of difference between a paper victim and a real one. (Replacing the dagger) No, I’m sure Clifford Anderson will go home tonight in the same state of health in which he arrives, manuscript clutched in tiny or huge or relatively normal hand.

  ( Myra goes to him and hugs him. He puts an arm around her, kisses her forehead)

  Myra: He’ll jump at the chance to collaborate with you, and afterwards you’ll do a play that’s all your own.

  Sidney: I’m sure I shall, sooner or later.

  Myra: Maybe you could do something based on Helga ten Dorp. But not called The Frowning Wife.

  Sidney: The Smiling Wife, a cheerful up kind of thriller. (He gives Myra another kiss and they separate) You know, there could be an idea in this. A playwright who’s . . . undergoing a dry period is sent a newly hatched play by a twerp who attended his seminar . . . ( Myra has stopped by the door) It’s a possible opening, isn’t it? If the play is obviously commercial and the playwright has a roomful of weapons?

  Myra: Put it in your notebook.

  Sidney: I will. (Taps at the manuscript, frowns) Pity he’s got the title Deathtrap . . .

  ( Myra stands uncertainly for a moment, then goes out into the foyer and exits. Sidney stands tapping at the manuscript, contemplating distasteful possibilities as the lights fade to darkness)

  Scene Two:

  That Evening.

  As the lights come up, Sidney has unlocked the front door from the outside and is showing Clifford Anderson into the foyer, while Myra, who has been fretting in the study, hurries to greet them. The draperies are drawn over the French doors, and all the room's lamps are lighted. Sidney has replaced his sweater with a jacket; Myra has freshened up and changed into a simple dress, Clifford is in his mid-twenties and free of obvious defects: an attractive young man in jeans, boots, and a heavy sweater. He carries a bulging Manila envelope.

  Sidney: Actually it was built in seventeen-ninety-four, but they were out of nines at the hardware store, so I backdated it ten years.

  Clifford: It’s a beautiful house.

  Sidney: (Closing the door) Historical Society had kittens.

  Myra: Hello!

  (She offers her hand; Clifford shakes it warmly)

  Sidney: This is Clifford Anderson, dear. My wife Myra.

  Clifford: Hello. It’s a pleasure to meet you.

  Myra: Come in. I was be- Sidney Watch out for ginning to worry . . . the beam.

  (Ducking, Clifford comes into the study. Sidney follows)

  Sidney: You can always tell an authentic Colonial by the visitors’ bruised foreheads, ( Myra smiles nervously. Clifford looks about, a bit awed)

  Clifford: The room you work in?

  Sidney: How did you guess.

  Clifford: The typewriter, and all these posters . . . (He moves about, studying the window cards. Sidney watches him; Myra glances at Sidney, Clifford touches the Master's covered typewriter, then points at the wall) Is that the mace that was used in Murderer's Child?

  Sidney: Yes. And the dagger is from The Murder Game. (Clifford goes closer, touches the dagger blade) Careful, it’s sharp. The trick one was substituted in Act Two.

  Clifford: (Moves his hand to an ax handle) In for the Kill?

  Sidney: Yes.

  Clifford: I can’t understand why that play didn’t run . . .

  Sidney: Critics peeing on it might be the answer.

  (Clifford goes on with his inspection)

  Myra: The train must have been late. (Sidney pays no notice) Was it?

  Clifford: (Turning) No, Mr. Bruhl was. The train was on time.

  Sidney: I had to get gas, and Frank insisted on fondling the spark plugs. .

  (Clifford points at a window card)

  Clifford: Do you know that Gunpoint was the first play I ever saw? I had an aunt in New York, and I came in on the train one Saturday—by myself, another first—from Hartford. She took me to the matinee. I was twelve years old.

  Sidney: If you’re trying to depress me, you’ve made it.

  Clifford: How? Oh. I’m sorry. But that’s how I got hooked on thrillers.

  Sidney: Angel Street did it to me. “Bella, where is that grocery bill? Eh? What have you done with it, you poor wretched creature?” I was fifteen.

  Myra: It sounds like a disease, being passed from generation to gener
ation.

  Sidney: It is a disease: thrilleritis malignis, the fevered pursuit of the one-set five-character moneymaker.

  Clifford: I’m not pursuing money. Not that I wouldn’t like to have some, so I could have a place like this to work in; but that isn’t the reason I wrote Deathtrap.

  Sidney: You’re still an early case.

  Clifford: It’s not a disease, it’s a tradition: a superbly challenging theatrical framework in which every possible variation seems to have been played. Can I conjure up a few new ones? Can I startle an audience that’s been on Angel Street, that’s dialed “M” for murder, that’s witnessed the prosecution, that’s played the murder game—

  Sidney: Lovely speech! And thanks for saving me for last.

  Clifford: I was coming to Sleuth.

  Sidney: I’m glad I stopped you.

  Clifford: So am I. I’m a little . . . euphoric about all that’s happening.

  Sidney: As well you should be.

  Myra: Would you like something to drink?

  Clifford: Yes, please. Do you have some ginger ale?

  Myra: Yes. Sidney? Scotch?

  Sidney: No, dear, I believe I’ll have ginger ale too. (This gives Myra a moment's pause, after which she goes to the buffet)

  Clifford: These aren’t all from your plays, are they?

  Sidney: God no, I haven’t written that many. Friends give me things now, and I prowl the antique shops.

  Myra: There's a disease.

  Sidney: (Taking his keys out) Yes, and a super excuse for not working. (Indicating a pistol while en route to the desk) I found this in Ridgefield just the other day —eighteenth-century German.

  Clifford: It’s beautiful . . .

  Sidney: (Unlocking the desk's center drawer) As you can see, I’m taking very good care of my “spiritual child.” Lock and key . . .

  Clifford: (Unfastening his envelope) I’ve got the original.

  Sidney: (Taking the manuscript from the drawer) Thank God. I should really be wearing glasses but my doctor told me the longer I can do without them, the better off I am. (Offering the manuscript in the wrong direction) Here you are. Oh, there you are.

  (Clifford smiles; Myra turns to look and turns back to her ice and glasses, Clifford takes a rubber-banded manuscript from the envelope)

  Clifford: It’s not in a binder. For the Xeroxing . . .

  Sidney: Makes no never-mind.

  (They exchange manuscripts)

  Clifford: I’ve got the first draft here too. (Sits near the desk) There’s a scene between Diane and Carlo in Act One that I may have been wrong to cut, and the Diane-and-Richard scene starts earlier, before they know Carlo is back.

  Sidney: (Sitting behind the desk) Did you do several drafts?

  Clifford: Just the one. It’s a mess, but I think you’ll be able to decipher it, if you’d like to see those two scenes.

  Sidney: I would. By all means. (Clifford extracts a less tidy manuscript from the envelope) I had a feeling there was a Diane-and-Carlo scene I wasn’t seeing . . . Before the murder?

  Clifford: Yes. I was afraid the act would run too long.

  (He hands the second manuscript over)

  Sidney: Thanks. What else do you have in there?

  Clifford: Oh, the outline, which I departed from considerably. I made it the way you suggested, a page per scene, loose-leaf. And some lines I jotted down and never got to use.

  Sidney: Threw away the ones you did use as you used them?

  Clifford: Yes.

  Sidney: Same way I work . . .

  ( Myra comes over with glasses of ginger ale)

  Clifford: Everything was in the one envelope, so I just grabbed it. (Taking a glass) Thank you.

  Myra: You’re welcome.

  (She gives Sidney his glass, along with an intent look)

  Sidney: Thanks.

  Clifford: It’s a two-hour walk to the station, so I had to leave right after we talked.

  ( Myra withdraws)

  Sidney: Two hours?

  Clifford: I walk longer than that; I'm one writer who’s not going to get flabby. I work out with weights every morning. I came this close (Fingers slightly apart) to making the Olympic decathlon team.

  Sidney: Really?

  Clifford: (Hands wide apart) Well, this close.

  Sidney: I’ll be careful not to argue with you. I'm on the Olympic sloth team. Gold medal. Fall asleep in any position. (Raises his glass, pretends to fall asleep and wake up) Deathtrap.

  Clifford: Deathtrap.

  Myra: Deathtrap. (Sidney turns, Myra is now seated, glass in hand, needlework in her lap) It’ll be toasted with more than ginger ale someday, if Sidney is right about it, and I'm sure he is.

  Clifford: I hope so. I toasted it with beer the other night.

  Myra: We have some. Would you rather?

  Clifford: No, no, this is fine, thanks.

  Sidney: (To Myra,) Are you planning to stay in here?

  Myra: Yes.

  Clifford: (Manuscript open on his lap) Do you think I overdid the set description? All the exact locations for each piece of furniture?

  Sidney: The set description? (Looking in the original manuscript) I don’t remember anything wrong with it . . . No, this is perfect, couldn’t be better. (Turns pages) You certainly type beautifully . . . Electric?

  Clifford: No. I can’t see electric typewriters; if there’s a power failure you can’t work.

  Sidney: That’s the whole point in owning one. (Turning another page) No, the real trouble with them, I find—with Zenobia here, at any rate—is that you can make only one decent carbon. The second carbon is so muddy as to be almost illegible. (Clifford turns a page, Myra leans forward nervously) You don’t have that problem with—

  Myra: (Interrupting the question) Sidney has some wonderful ideas for improving the play, Mr. Anderson!

  Clifford: I’m—sure he does. I’m looking forward to hearing them.

  Sidney: Couldn’t you do that in the living room, dear?

  Myra: There’s no good work light in there.

  Sidney: I seem to recall a paisley chair with a light beside it bright enough for the engraving of Bibles on pinheads.

  Myra: It’s too bright, and the chair is too low. I’ll be quiet.

  Sidney: Darling, this is Clifford’s first play and I’m the first person to read it. I’m sure he’d prefer our discussion to be private. (To Clifford,) Wouldn’t you? Don’t be embarrassed to say so.

  Clifford: No, I don’t mind Mrs. Bruhl being here. In fact, I like it. It makes me feel a little less as if I’ve been summoned to the principal’s office.

  Sidney: Oh. ( Myra settles in) I’m sorry if I awe you.

  Clifford: You do. All those plays, and the things you say ... I never thought of calling my typewriter anything but Smith-Corona.

  Sidney: As long as it answers . . .

  Clifford: You're welcome to read the play too, Mrs. Bruhl, if you’d like to.

  Myra: I would.

  Clifford: (To Sidney,) I’m curious to know how women are going to react to Diane’s decision. About the gun.

  Myra: Sidney told me a little about it at dinner, but he stopped at the surprises. I don’t even know who kills whom.

  Clifford: Good. You shouldn’t. (To Sidney,) I think that was the trouble with Murderer's Child, if you’ll forgive me for saying so. From the opening curtain it was so obvious that Dr. Mannheim was going to bash poor Teddy. You didn’t leave any room for doubt. I mean, the audience should suspect, yes, but they shouldn’t be absolutely certain, should they? Doesn’t that tend to diminish the suspense?

  Sidney: Hmm . . . You may have a point there. I wish you had mentioned on the phone that you wanted Myra to read it. I’d have told you to bring another carbon, and she could be reading right now while we have our talk.

  Clifford: I didn’t know she’d be interested, and anyway, I don’t have one.

  ( Myra is sitting forward again)

  Sidney: You don’t have another carbo
n?

  Clifford: I only made the one. I thought I’d be Xeroxing the original as soon as I was through.

  Sidney: Of course. There’s no need for two or three any more in the age of Xerox.

  (His eyes meet Myra's and glance away, Clifford gestures with his manuscript toward Myra,)

  Clifford: She could read this one, and we could pass the pages back and forth. Or I could sit next to you.

  Sidney: Wait. Let me think. I want to think for a moment.

  (Sidney thinks—hard, Myra tries to contain her growing anxiety but can ’t)

  Myra: Mr. Anderson, Sidney is bursting with creative ideas about your play! I’ve never seen him so enthusiastic! He gets plays in the mail very often, finished plays that are ready for production supposedly—from his agent, from producers, from aspiring playwrights; and usually he just laughs and sneers and says the most disparaging things you could possibly imagine! I know he could improve your play tremendously! He could turn it into a hit that would run for years and years and make more than enough money for everyone concerned!

  (She stops, Clifford stares. Sidney studies her)

  Sidney: Is that what you meant by “I’ll be quiet”?

  Myra: (Putting her needlework aside) I won 't be quiet. I’m going to say something that’s been on my mind ever since your phone conversation. (Rising, advancing on Clifford,) It’s very wrong of you to expect Sidney to give you the fruit of his years of experience, his hard-won knowledge, without any quid pro quo, as if the seminar were still in session!

  Clifford: He offered to give me—

  Myra: (Turning on Sidney,) And it’s very wrong of you to have offered to give it to him! I am the one in this household whose feet are on the ground, and whose eye is on the checkbook! Now, I’m going to make a suggestion to you, Sidney. It’s going to come as a shock to you, but I want you to give it your grave and thoughtful and earnest consideration. Will you do that? Will you promise to do that for me? (Sidney, staring, nods) Put aside the play you're working on. Yes, put aside the play about Helga ten Dorp and how she finds murderers, and keys under clothes dryers; put it aside, Sidney, and help Mr. Anderson with his play. Collaborate with him. That's what I’m suggesting. That's what I think is the fair and sensible and rational thing to do in this situation. Deathtrap, by Clifford Anderson and Sidney Bruhl. Unless Mr. Anderson feels that, in deference to your age and reputation, it should be the other way around.