by Ira Levin
Praise for " Deathtrap: A Thriller in Two Acts"
“An absolute knock-out of a suspense melodrama and fun straight through.”
—Walter Kerr, New York Times
“A witty and scary thriller! A marvelous evening of theatre!”
—Brendan Gill, The New Yorker
“If you care to assassinate yourself with laughter, try Deathtrap'. A brimming tumbler of arsenic and schweppes, booby-trapped with scarifying surprises!”
—T. E. Kalem, Time
“Deathtrap is like a ride on a good rollercoaster when screams and laughs mingle to form an enjoyable hysteria!”
—Jack Kroll, Newsweek
“Its so nice to hear screams in the theatre again: Ira Levin’s Deathtrap invites ecstatic shrieks of pure terror and laughter! Suspend your disbelief and be delighted; scream a little—it’s good for you!”
—Marilyn Stasio, Cue magazine
“The thriller Broadway has been waiting for! A case of fun and foolery, mingling murder-mystery surprises with savvy show bizz jokes!”
—John Beaufort, Christian Science Monitor
“Deathtrap has more twists and turns than a slalom race on a ski slope! Along with the terror, Mr. Levin leavens his play with a good deal of humor. ”
—Edwin Wilson, Wall Street Journal
Synopsis
Deathtrap is a thriller which takes your breath away with the kind of menace and surprise for which its author, Ira Levin, is famous.
Set in the West port, Connecticut, study of the playwright Sidney Bruhl, the play seems to focus on the loving relationship between Bruhl and his wife Myra. Worried about Sidney’s lack of inspiration for a new work, the two seem to connive to appropriate a play idea from the handsome young student, Clifford Anderson.
“Seem to” ... on those words hinge an experience that has had theater audiences on the edge of their seats—often screaming there. A smash hit all over the United States as well as in London, the play, with this publication, is now available to the reader—who should be prepared for a gloriously amusing and terrifying time.
By Ira Levin
PLAYS
Deathtrap
Veronica V Room Break a Leg Dr. Cook's Garden
Drat! The Cat!
Critic's Choice
General Seeger Interlock No Time for Sergeants
(from the novel by Mac Hyman)
NOVELS
The Boys from Brazil
The Stepford Wives
This Perfect Day Rosemary's Baby A Kiss Before Dying
RANDOM HOUSE NEW YORK
Copyright, as an unpublished work, 1978, by Ira Levin Copyright © 1979 by Ira Levin
Universal Copyright Convention
All rights, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part, in any form, are reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Random House, inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
Precaution: Professionals and amateurs are hereby warned that Deathtrap, being fully protected under the Copyright Laws of the United States of America, the BritishCommonwealth, including the Dominion of Canada, andallothcr countries of the Bcrneand Universal Copyright Conventions, issubject to royalty. All rights, including professional, amateur, recording, motion picture, recitation, lecturing, public reading, radio and television broadcasting, and the rights of translation into foreign languages, arc strictly reserved, permission for which must be secured in writing from the author’s agent: Howard Rosenstone & Company, Inc., 850Seventh Avenue, New York,N.Y. 10019.
Particular emphasis is laid on the question of readings.
The amateur acting rights of Deathtrap are controlled exclusively by the Dramatist Play Service, 440 Park Avenue South, New York, N.Y. 10016.
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Levin, Ira.
Deathtrap : A thriller in two acts.
I. Title.
PS3523.E7993D4 812'.5'4 78-57)28
ISBN 0-394-50727-4
Manufactured in the United States of America 98765432
To Phyllis
Cast
Deathtrap was first presented on February 26, 1978, by Alfred de Liagre, Jr., and Roger L. Stevens at The Music Box Theater in New York City with the following cast:
(In order of appearance)
Sidney Bruhl - John Wood
Myra Bruhl - Marian Seldes
Clifford Anderson - Victor Garber
Helga ten Dorp - Marian Winters
Directed by Robert Moore
Scenery by William Ritman
Costumes by Ruth Morley
Lighting by Marc B. Weiss
The Scene
The action takes place in Sidney Bruhl’s study, in the Bruhl home in Westport, Connecticut.
Act One
Scene one: An afternoon in October.
Scene two: That evening.
Scene three: Two hours later.
Act Two
Scene one: Two weeks later, morning.
Scene two: A week later, night.
Scene three: A week later, afternoon.
ACT: ONE
Scene One:
An Afternoon in October.
Sidney Bruhl's study is a handsomely converted stable grafted onto an authentically Colonial house. Sliding doors upstage center open on a foyer in which are the house 's front door, entrances to the living room and kitchen, and the stairway to the second floor. French doors upstage right open out to a shrubbery-flanked patio. Downstage left is a fieldstone fireplace, practical to the extent that paper can be burned in it.
Except for the bookshelves and some inconspicuous two-drawer file cabinets, the room's furnishings are tastefully chosen antiques: a few chairs and occasional pieces, a buffet downstage right with liquor decanters, and—the focus of the room—Sidney’s desk, which is moderately cluttered with papers, reference books, an electric typewriter, a phone. Patterned draperies hang at the French doors. The room is decorated with framed theatrical window cards and a collection of guns, handcuffs, maces, broadswords, and battle-axes.
When the curtain rises, Sidney Bruhl is seated thoughtfully at his desk. He's about fifty, an impressive and well-tended man, wearing a cardigan sweater over a turtleneck shirt. The typewriter is covered. The draperies are open at the French doors; it's late afternoon of a sunny day in October. The door to the foyer opens partway and Myra Bruhl looks in. She's in her forties, slim and self-effacing, in a sweater and skirt. She enters quietly with an ice bucket, which she places on the buffet. Sidney notices her.
Sidney: Deathtrap. ( Myra turns) A thriller in two acts. One set, five characters. (Lifts a manuscript in a paperboard binder) A juicy murder in Act One, unexpected developments in Act Two. Sound construction, good dialogue, laughs in the right places. Highly commercial.
(He tosses the manuscript on the desk)
Myra: Why, that’s wonderful, darling! I’m so happy for you! For both of us!
Sidney: Happy? Why on earth happy?
Myra: But—it’s yours, isn’t it? The idea you had in August?
Sidney: The idea I had in August has gone the way of the idea I had in June, and the idea I had in whenever it was before then: in the fireplace, up the chimney, and out over Fairfield County—pollution in its most grisly form. This arrived in the mail this morning. It’s the property of one . . . (Finds the covering letter) . . . Clifford Anderson. He was one of the twerps at the seminar. (Reads the letter, twerpishly) “Dear Mr. Bruhl: I hope you don’t mind my sending you my play Deathtrap, which I finished retyping at two o’clock this morning. Since I couldn’t have written it without the inspiration of your own work and the guidance and encouragement you gave me last summer, I thought it only fitting that y
ou should be the first person to read it. If you find it one tenth as good as any of your own thrillers, I’ll consider my time well spent and the fee for the seminar more than adequately recompensed.”
Myra: (Sitting) That's nice.
Sidney: No it isn’t, it’s fulsome. “Please excuse the carbon copy; the local Xerox machine is on the fritz, and I couldn’t stand the thought of waiting a few days to send my first-born child off to its spiritual father. ” My italics, his emetics. “I hope you’ll call or write as soon as you’ve read it and let me know whether you think it’s worthy of submitting to ...” et cetera, et cetera. Son of a bitch even types well. (Tosses the letter on the desk) I think I remember him. Enormously obese. A glandular condition. Four hundred pounds ... I wonder where he got my address.
Myra: From the university?
Sidney: Probably.
(He rises and heads for the buffet)
Myra: Is it really that good? His first play?
Sidney: It can’t miss. A gifted director couldn’t even hurt it. (Fixing something on the rocks) It’ll run for years. The stock and amateur rights will feed and clothe generations of Andersons. It can easily be opened up for a movie. George C. Scott—and Liv Ullmann.
Myra: (Rising) And Trish Van Devere.
Sidney: There’s a part in it for her too. The damn thing is perfect.
Myra: I should think you’d be proud that one of your students has written a salable play.
Sidney: (Considers her) For the first time in eleven years of marriage, darling: Drop dead.
Myra: My goodness . . .
(She puts things right at the buffet as Sidney moves away with his drink)
Sidney: I’m green with envy. I’d like to beat the wretch over the head with the mace there, bury him in a four-hundred-pound hole somewhere, and send the thing off under my own name. To . . . David Merrick ... or Hal Prince. (Thinks a bit, looks at Myra,) Now, there's the best idea I’ve had in ages.
Myra: (Going to him) Ah, my poor Sidney . . .
(She hugs him, kisses his cheek)
Sidney: I mean, what’s the point in owning a mace if you don’t use it once in a while?
Myra: Ah ... You’ll get an idea of your own, any day now, and it’ll turn into a better play than that one.
Sidney: Don’t bet on it. Not that you have any money to bet with.
Myra: We’re doing very nicely in that department: not one creditor beating at the door.
Sidney: But for how long? I’ve just about cleaned you out now, haven’t I?
Myra: We've cleaned me out, and it’s been joy and delight every bit of the way. (Kisses him) Your next play will simply have to be a terrific smash.
Sidney: (Moving away) Thanks. That’s what I need, an easing of the pressure.
(He moves to the desk, toys with the manuscript)
Myra: Why don’t you call it to Merrick’s attention? Maybe you could get... a commission of some kind.
Sidney: A finder’s fee, you mean?
Myra: If that’s what it’s called.
Sidney: A great and glorious one percent. Maybe one and a half.
Myra: Or better yet, why don’t you produce it yourself? You’ve been involved in enough productions to know how to do it. And it might be a beneficial change of pace.
Sidney: Darling, I may be devious and underhanded enough to be a successful murderer, but not, I think, a Broadway producer. One mustn’t overestimate one’s talents.
Myra: Collaborate with him. Isn’t there room for improvement in the play, good as it is? The professional touch, a little reshaping and sharpening?
Sidney: That's a possibility . . .
Myra: I’m sure he’d be thrilled at the chance to work with you.
Sidney: We’d split fifty-fifty . . .
Myra: And you’d get top billing.
Sidney: Naturally. “Reverse alphabetical order, dear boy; it’s done all the time.”
Myra: On the basis of who you are.
Sidney: Sidney Four-Flops Bruhl.
Myra: Sidney Author-of-The Murder Game Bruhl.
Sidney: (A doddering ancient) “Oh yes, The Murder Game! I remember that one. Back in the time of King Arthur, wasn’t it?”
Myra: Not quite that long ago.
Sidney: Eighteen years, love. Eighteen years, each one flying faster than the one before. Nothing recedes like success. Mmm, that is a good one, isn’t it? (Taking up a memo pad and pen) Maybe I can work it in someplace. There’s a has-been actor who could say it. “Recedes” is e-d-e, right?
Myra: Yes. You see, you would improve it.
Sidney: Give it the inimitable Sidney Bruhl flavor. Close in Boston.
(He puts the pad and pen down, picks up the letter)
Myra: Call him now. Where does he live?
Sidney: Up in Milford. (Moves around nearer the phone. Studies the letter awhile, looks at Myra,) You don’t like the mace . . .
Myra: No, definitely not. Blood on the carpet. And the next day Helga ten Dorp would be picking up the psychic vibrations.
Sidney: In Holland? I doubt it very much.
Myra: Sidney, what were you smoking Friday night when the rest of us were smoking grass? She’s taken the McBain cottage for six months. Paul Wyman is doing a book with her. He was impersonating her for fifteen minutes.
Sidney: Oh. I thought he was finally coming out of the closet.
Myra: You see what a fine murderer you’d be? Helga ten Dorp moves in practically on your doorstep, and you manage not to hear about it.
Sidney: That does give one pause.
Myra: It certainly should. Nan and Tom Wesson had her to dinner last week and she told Tom about his backaches, and the money he put into silver, and his father’s thing for tall women. She warned Nan that their au pair girl was going to leave, which she did two days later, and she found a set of keys Nan lost in 1969; they were under the clothes dryer.
Sidney: Hmm. She’s in the McBain cottage?
Myra: (Pointing through the French doors) Right over yonder. Picking up our blips on her radar this minute, most likely.
Sidney: Well! It seems that Mr. Anderson has himself a collaborator. Not that I really believe in ESP . . .
Myra: The police in Europe seem to. That’s half of why she’s here; she’s supposed to be resting. From pointing at murderers.
Sidney: Wait a minute now, the fat one didn’t stay the full week, and his name was . . . Quinn or Quincy. Anderson, Anderson. I wonder if he’s the one with the awful stammer.
Myra: (Indicating the phone) Easy way to find out.
Sidney: Yes. Hmm. (Studies the letter for another moment, then puts it down, and referring to it, dials the phone) This may be a three-hour conversation. (Listens awhile, hangs up) Busy. Probably talking to Merrick. (He frowns, waiting with his hand on the phone; sees Myra watching him with concern) What’s for dinner?
Myra: Salmon.
Sidney: Again?
Myra: Yes ... Sidney? Would you—actually kill someone to have another successful play?
Sidney: (Thinks about it) Don’t be foolish, darling. Of course I would. (Toward the French doors) Spoken in jest, Miss ten Dorp!
Myra: It’s Mrs.; she’s divorced.
Sidney: No wonder. Who could stay married to a woman with ESP? (The implication of this makes him uneasy; he picks up his drink and sips, Myra studies him) Well, don’t fix me with that basilisk stare, whatever a basilisk happens to be. Wouldn’t you like to go into Sardi’s again secure in the knowledge that we’re not going to be seated in the kitchen? . . . Do you know how much this play could net its author in today’s market? Two million dollars, and that’s not including the Deathtrap T-shirts. If that’s not a reasonable motive for murder, I’d like to know what is. I wish you hadn’t told me about her . . . (He picks up the phone and dials again) Ah, here we go . . . Hello. Is this Clifford Anderson? . . . Sidney Bruhl. (Covers the phone and mouths “Not the stammerer" at Myra) ... As a matter of fact I have. I finished it about fifteen minutes ag
o, and I must tell you in all sincerity that you’ve got an enormously promising first draft. I was just saying to my wife Myra that if you give it the reshaping it needs, point it up in the right places and work in some laughs, it’ll be right up there with Sleuth and The Murder Game and Dial “M. ” It has the makings, as we say ... I should think you would be . . . Oh, I know that feeling so well. I thought The Murder Game was finished the first time ’round, and then someone with much more experience in the theater took it in hand and revised it with me; improved it tremendously, I don’t mind admitting . . . George S. Kaufman. He didn’t take credit, though God knows I urged him to, because he was badly in debt at the time and didn’t want it known that he had a share of the royalties. But look, I could be quite wrong about this; what sort of reaction have you had from other people? . . . Oh? No one at all? (Looks at Myra, and away) That’s very flattering. But surely someone has read it: your friends, your wife, some of the twer—uh, people who were at the seminar? . . . Oh. I see. Hmm. That sounds ideal: complete isolation, and all you have to do is check the thermostat and water the plants. I’m surprised you’ve written only one play since July; I’d have tossed off three or four by now . . . ( Myra, uneasy, has withdrawn a bit) I am—a marvelous thriller. It’s about a woman with ESP. Based on Helga ten Dorp; you know, the Dutch psychic? She’s a neighbor of ours. (Facing Myra’j disapproval) It’s called The Frowning Wife, but that’s only a working title; I’ll have to come up with something jazzier than that. I love Deathtrap, incidentally—the title as well as the play. Or the promising first draft, I should say . . . Yes, I do. Far too many of them to give you over the phone. Perhaps we can get together sometime and go through the manuscript scene by scene. I’m free this evening, as a matter of fact; why don’t you drive down? It’s not very far . . . Oh. Hmm. Well, why don’t you take the train down and I’ll pick you up at the Westport station and run you over. It’ll be better that way anyway. You’d have a devil of a time finding us; we’re way off in the woods. Have to send up flares when we’re expecting peo-pie . . . Do; I’ll hold on. (Covers the mouthpiece) His car is in for repairs. He’s house-sitting for a couple who are in Europe. Unmarried.
