by Ira Levin
Sidney: Hmm. That is a shocker. Put aside . . . The Drowning Wife?
Clifford: I thought it was “frowning.”
Sidney: Frowning? No. What kind of title would that be? The Drowning Wife is what I’m calling it, at the moment. It has these Women’s Lib overtones, plus the ESP . . . (Looking doubtfully at Myra,) It’s such a play . . .timely
Myra: It will keep, Sidney. People are always interested in psychics who can point at someone (Points to him) and say . . . (Swings her finger to Clifford,) “This man—murdered that man.” (Pointing at Sidney again. She lowers her hand) Put it aside. Please. Do for Mr. Anderson . . . what George S. Kaufman did for you.
Sidney: (Gives her a look, then thinks) That’s awfully persuasive, Myra. (To Clifford,) How does it grab you?
Clifford: Oh wow. I suddenly feel as if I’m on the spot.
Sidney: You are, really. Myra’s put you there, put us both there.
Myra: I felt it should be brought up now, before— anything was done. .
Sidney: Yes, yes, you were quite right. Quite right. (Clifford is thinking) What’s your reaction, Clifford?
Clifford: (Rises) Well, first of all, I’m overwhelmed, really honored and—staggered, that Sidney Bruhl would even consider the idea of putting aside one of his own plays to work with me on mine. I mean, there I was, sitting in that theater when I was twelve years old, and who would think that someday I’d be standing here, weighing the chance to—
Sidney: (Interrupting him) We get the gist of this passage.
Clifford: It’s a golden opportunity that I’m sure I ought to seize with both hands.
Myra: You should. Yes.
Clifford: But . . . the thing is . . . it’s as if I went to a doctor, one of the world’s leading specialists, and he recommended surgery. Well, even with my respect for his eminence and his experience, I would still want to get a second opinion, wouldn’t I? I’m sure your ideas are terrific, but you’re right, Mrs. Bruhl, it wouldn’t be . . . fair for me to hear them now, without some sort of an understanding or arrangement. And to be perfectly honest, right now, without having heard them, I feel that Deathtrap is very good as it is. Not perfect, certainly; I guess it could still use a little fine-tuning. But—I’m not sure it needs surgery . . . What I ought to do, I think, is Xerox a few copies tomorrow morning and send them off to some of those agents you recommended to us. If they say too that it needs major rewriting, then I’ll be coming back here begging you to do what Mrs. Bruhl suggested, and I’ll be willing to make whatever arrangement you think is right. The same one you had with Mr. Kaufman, I guess ... I hope I haven’t offended you.
Sidney: Not at all.
Myra: Mr. Anderson, please. Agents know about contracts; they don’t know—
Sidney: (Interrupting her, gathering the two manuscripts together) Don’t, Myra. Don’t beg him. He’ll think he has the wealth of the Indies here, and we’re Mr. and Mrs. Jean Lafitte.
Clifford: I’d never think anything like that, Mr. Bruhl. I’m grateful that you’re willing to go out of your way to help me.
Sidney: But I’m not, really. Now that I’ve had a moment to consider the matter, I would never put aside a play as timely and inventive as The Drowning Wife to do wet-nurse work on one as speculative as Deathtrap. (Hands the manuscripts over) Sit down, Myra. You’re making me nervous, standing there hyperventilating. ( Myra withdraws a bit, warily) Do as you said—show it to a few agents. And if you decide that major rewrites are in order, get in touch. Who knows, I might hit a snag; it’s happened once or twice.
Clifford: (Fitting the two manuscripts into the envelope) Thank you, I will.
( Myra withdraws farther)
Sidney: Though I doubt I shall; I have it completely outlined and I’m more than halfway done. And I have another play ready to go next, based on the life of Harry Houdini.
Clifford: Oh?
Sidney: (Rising) Yes, magic is very in now. Look at the success of The Magic Show. Houdini’s always been an idol of mine. (Taking handcuffs from the wall) These are a pair of his handcuffs . . .
Myra: (On edge again) Sidney . . .
Sidney: Relax, darling; Clifford isn’t the type of person who would steal someone else’s idea. (To Clifford,) You wouldn’t do that, would you?
Clifford: Of course not.
Sidney: See? No cause for alarm. “His heart as far from fraud as heaven from earth.” A remarkable man, Houdini. Made all his own magical apparatus, did you know that?
Clifford: No, I didn’t.
Sidney: Magnificent craftsmanship. Have a look.
(Tosses the open handcuffs to Clifford,)
Myra: Sidney, please!
Sidney: Sit down, Myra.
Myra: Don’t! I beg you! For God’s sake, think!
Sidney: He’s an honest young man! Now, will you sit down and stop being so all-fired suspicious of everyone who comes through that door? (To Clifford,) We had a very nasty experience a few years back involving a plagiaristic playwright whose name I won’t mention, since he’s gone to his Maker, recalled for repairs. Ever since, Myra has gotten alarmed if I so much as tell a fellow writer the language I’m working in. Don’t take it personally. Have a good look at those; they’re quite remarkable.
(Myra has turned away in anxiety. Sidney glances uneasily at her while Clifford, who has rested his envelope and bound manuscript against the leg of his chair, examines the antique handcuffs, Myra sits, facing away from them)
Clifford: They look so old . . .
Sidney: They were made to. And apparently solid and escape-proof.
Clifford: They certainly seem that way.
Sidney: Be my guest.
Clifford: You mean put them on?
Sidney: Yes. That’s what I mean when you’re holding my prize pair of twelve-hundred-dollar Houdini handcuffs and I say, “Be my guest”: “Put them on.”
Clifford: Twelve hundred dollars . . . Whew!
(Impressed, he locks the handcuffs onto his wrists. Myra sits wincing)
Sidney: Now turn your wrists like this, press, and pull. (Clifford follows the directions—and is still handcuffed) You didn’t do it right; it’s got to be a single quick motion. Try again. (Clifford does; no dice) Turn, press, pull; all in one.
( Clifford makes several more tries)
Clifford: No, they’re not opening.
Sidney: Hmm. They did for me yesterday morning; it’s not a question of their not being oiled.
Clifford: (Still trying) I guess I’m just not Houdini...
Sidney: It’s all right, I’ve got the key here. Somewhere. (Begins rummaging nervously about the desktop) Don’t go on fussing with them; you’re liable to ruin them.
Clifford: Sorry.
(He sits still, Myra turns around, slowly, fearfully. Clifford smiles sheepishly at her; she tries to smile back. Sidney goes on searching)
Sidney: Key, key, key, key. Where are you, little brass key?
(He begins looking in drawers, Clifford looks at his handcuffed wrists, and at Myra, a nd at Sidney, and gets an idea)
Clifford: Do you know, this could be a good thriller! (Sidney looks at him) It could! I mean it!
Sidney: HOW SO?
Clifford: Well... a young playwright sends his first play to an older playwright who conducted a seminar that the young playwright attended. Nobody else has read it, and then he comes to visit the older playwright, to get some ideas for rewrites, and he brings along the original and all his notes and everything. Of course, you’d have to have the Xerox breaking down, to explain why there are only the two copies, and the play would have to be a very good one—the one the young playwright wrote, I mean—and the older playwright would have to have nothing much going for him at the time . . .
Sidney: An enormous concatenation of unlikely circumstances, don’t you think?
Clifford: Yes, maybe ... But we’ve almost got it here, haven’t we? The only difference is that you’ve got The Drowning Wife and the Houdini play, and Deathtrap probably
isn’t worth killing for . . . I’ll bet nobody even saw me getting into your car . . .
Sidney: Well, there you are: You’ve licked the second-play problem.
(He resumes searching)
Clifford: I think it could be turned into something fairly interesting . . . What do you think, Mrs. Bruhl?
Myra: I—don’t like it. It frightens me.
Sidney: (Turning to the weapons on the wall) I wonder if I could have put it up here somewhere.
(Clifford looks curiously at Myra, and at Sidney nervously touching the various weapons, and at his handcuffed wrists. He thinks a bit. And a bit more. And a lot more. He thinks very hard)
Clifford: Oh, I forgot to mention—I should be getting a phone call any minute now. (Sidney turns and looks at him) There’s a girl who’s coming to see me at eight-thirty—that’s around what it is now, isn’t it?—and I couldn’t reach her before I left, so I left a note on the hall mirror telling her where I am and giving the number (Rising and backing away) so she can call and find out what train I’ll be taking back. So she can pick me up at the station. One two-hour walk per day is just about enough for me. (Turns and smiles) So I hope you find the key soon, or else you’re going to have to hold the phone for me.
Sidney: (Stands looking at him for a moment) How is she going to get in to read the note?
Clifford: She has a key.
Sidney: You’re not a very conscientious house-sitter.
Clifford: She’s honest.
Sidney: You said in the car that you don’t know anyone in Milford except a few tradespeople.
Clifford: She’s from Hartford. Her name is Marietta Klenofski and she teaches at Quirk Middle School. Phys Ed.
Sidney: Where did you get the number? It’s not listed.
Clifford: They gave it to me at the university, along with your address. I’m friendly with Mrs. Beecham there.
Sidney: Beecham?
Clifford: The short red-haired lady. With the eyeshade.
Sidney: I hope she gave you the right number. I had it changed a few weeks ago—an obscene caller was boring us—and I don’t think I notified old U. of Conn. What number did you leave for Ms. Klenofski?
Clifford: I don’t remember it.
Sidney: Two-two-six, three-oh-four-nine? Or two-two-six, five-four-five-seven?
Clifford: The first one. Three-oh-four-nine.
Sidney: The new number. Hmm. I must have notified the university and clean forgot about it. How strange, and how untypical of me.
Clifford: Would you go on looking for the key,
Sidney: Certainly.
(Turns, considers, reaches to the wall)
Myra: My heart won't take it!
Sidney: (Plucking something from a ledge) Won’t take what, dear? (Turning, showing a key) My finding the key? (Looks at Myra, and at Clifford,) I do believe the two of you thought I was going to grab the mace and do a Dr. Mannheim ... Clifford? Is that why you’ve withdrawn so far upstage?
Clifford: (Shrugs uncomfortably, points toward his chair) You can’t write a play like that and not have a mind that . . . envisions possibilities.
Sidney: True, very true. I’m slightly paranoid myself. (Coming around the desk) What’s your excuse, oh loyal and trusting wife? ( Myra looks at him—as he puts the key on a table by Clifford's chair—and turns away) Eleven years of marriage and she thinks I’m capable of a flesh-and-blood murder. There’s a lesson for you in that, Clifford. Come uncuff yourself. Deathtrap is promising, but it’s not that promising.
(He moves back around the desk)
Clifford: (Going toward the chair) I’m glad it isn’t.
Sidney: No, I think your best invention so far is the name “Marietta Klenofski.” That’s lovely. I congratulate you.
Clifford: Thanks.
(Sitting in the chair, he picks up the key and leans his hands into the lamplight)
Sidney: I can see the sweat on her forearms after the basketball game . . . Mrs. Beecham’s eyeshade, I thought, was a bit much.
Clifford: I thought it was the kind of convincing detail you told us to try for. Are you sure this is the right key?
Sidney: (Coming around to him) Ye gods, Houdini opened them inside a milk can under ten feet of water; do you mean to say you can’t do it in—
(He whips a garrotte around Clifford's throat, and pulling at its two handles, hauls him upward from the chair, Clifford, choking, tries to get his fingers under the wire but can 't. Myra whirls, screaming)
Myra: My God, Sidney! Stop! Stop it!
Sidney: Stay back! Stay away!
Myra: Oh my God! My God!
( Clifford has thrust his manacled hands back over his head, trying to find Sidney's head, while Sidney, grimly determined, strains at the garrotte handles. The chair tumbles, Myra turns away, her hands over her face, moaning and crying. Sidney hauls Clifford about by the garrotte, evading his groping hands, his kicking legs. A lamp falls, Clifford catches one of Sidney's hands and wrenches at it. Blood trickles down Clifford’s wire-bound throat. Myra turns and looks and turns away again, never stopping her moaning and lamentation, Clifford, pop-eyed and hawking, falls forward before the fireplace, his shackled arms out-flung; Sidney goes down with bim and kneels astride him, keeping his fierce bold on the bandies. When Clifford is finally and surely dead, Sidney relaxes his grip, lets go, sits for a moment on Clifford ’s back, then reaches forward and feels at a wrist within its , Myra sits, weeping, moaning. Sidney gets up, breathing hard, trembling a little. He gets out his handkerchief, wipes his bands and his face, looks at Myra. He rights the chair, picks up the lamp, puts it in its place and straightens its shade—not very successfully because his bands are shaking badly now. He clasps them a moment, then turns to the desk, picks up a key, and crouching beside Clifford, unlocks and removes the handcuffs. He rises, wiping the cuffs with the handkerchief and goes and replaces them on the wall, then returns to Clifford's body, maha is staring at bim)
Sidney: Right on the rug. One point for neatness. (He crouches again and unwinds the garrotte from Clifford's throat, then turns the ends of the hearthrug over Clifford body. Rising, be wipes the garrotte with the handkerchief and meets Myra wondering stare) Your heart seems to have taken it.
Myra: (Keeps staring at bim awhile) Barely.
Sidney: (Looks away, wiping at the garrotte) Well give it a rest on the Riviera, after the opening. And well have a housekeeper again, so you can take things easy. Another car too, a goddamn Rolls.
(Looks at the blood-streaked handkerchief, wipes the garrotte some more)
Myra: We’re going to be in prison!
Sidney: (Throws the handkerchief into the fireplace and crosses the room) A young would-be playwright walks away from his house-sitting job. The police won’t even bother to yawn.
(He puts the garrotte in its place)
Myra: Leaving his clothes? And his typewriter?
Sidney: Why not? Who can figure these young people nowadays? Especially the would-be writers. Maybe he realized he wouldn’t be—(Picking up the envelope and the bound manuscript)—and went off to preach ecology. (Going back behind the desk) Or to join the Reverend Sun Myung Moon. (Puts the envelope and manuscript down, opens the manuscript) Who knows? The place might be broken into, and poor little Smith-Corona stolen.
(He tears out thefirst page and puts it aside; unfastens the envelope and takes out the two unbound manuscripts; removes their first pages)
Myra: What are you—going to do with him?
Sidney: (Examining other papers that were in the envelope) Bury him. Behind the garage. No, in the vegetable patch—easier digging. (He examines the last scraps of paper and puts them down; opens the desk’s center drawer and puts the three manuscripts into it; closes and locks it. Myra puts her face into her hands, overcome by grief and shock again. Sidney gathers the papers and loose pages, the envelope, the letter that came .with the play) Take a brandy or something. (He goes to the fireplace, and crouching by Clifford 's body, tosses everything i
n; takes a match from a holder, strikes it, and sets the papers afire. He tosses the match in, rises, watches, then moves away and faces Myra, who is studying him) I’m going to be a winner again! All our dear friends are going to see you living on my money! Picture their confusion. ( Myra looks into her lap. Sidney goes and throws open the draperies, unbolts and opens the French doors. He looks toward the treetops) Full moon, all right. (He comes back to the hearth, and crouching, rearranges Clifford's body for carrying) I hope this isn’t going to become a monthly practice. (He straightens up, takes his jacket off and puts it on a chair, rubs his hands and readies himself meets Myra’j gaze) Would you mind helping me carry him? ( Myra looks at him for a moment, and looks away) It’s been done, Myra. I don’t see the point in my getting a hernia. ( Myra looks at him again, and after a moment, rises and comes over. The lights begin dimming as Sidney lifts Clifford's rug-wrapped shoulders. Myra lifts his feet. They heft him up between them and carry him toward the French doors, Sidney going backwards) Thank God he wasn’t the fat one.
(The lights fade to darkness)
Scene Three:
Two Hours Later
When the lights come up, Myra is sitting and thinking, an empty brandy glass in her hand. The moonlight outside the French doors is stronger now and coming from directly overhead.
Myra looks at her glass, and after a moment, rises, goes to the buffet, and pours herself a small amount of brandy. Sidney comes to the French doors, wipes his feet, brushes dirt from his trouser legs, and enters. He looks at Myra—who has turned and is looking at him—and enters, closes the doors, and pulls the draperies over them. He comes farther into the room.
Sidney: Make mine a double. I've got myself a bit of a chill. (Takes the breast-pocket handkerchief from his jacket on the chair; wipes his hands) Along with incipient blisters, aching arms, and small devils poking pitchforks into what I believe is my lumbago. (Picks up the jacket, puts it on) In Murderer's Child I had Dr. Mannheim bury Teddy in forty-five minutes. In future I’ll know better. (Myra goes and resumes her seat while Sidney puts the handkerchief back in his breast pocket and picks up the wrong handcuff key from the floor) We’re out one hearthrug, but I saw some nice ones in the Yield House the other day. (He pockets the key, puts the chair in its exact place; sees Myra sitting and no sign of his brandy. He considers this, then picks up the ginger-ale glasses and heads for the buffet) I have a feeling you’re about to deliver a speech. Would you mind holding off until I’ve poured my own brandy and sat down?
