by Ira Levin
Clifford: What if Madam ten Dorp comes back?
Sidney: (Replacing the garrotte on the wall with one similar to it) I can’t think why she should. The pain has stopped, hasn’t it?
Clifford: Yes. I hadn’t thought of that.
Sidney: (Putting the garrotte from the wall into the drawer) Don’t move around too much; you’re shedding dirt. (Opens another drawer, takes out the dagger) I’ll bet you were glad to hear my “Exit dagger” line.
Clifford: Was that for my benefit?
Sidney: (Putting the dagger in its place) Of course. I was going to suggest putting it away myself if she didn’t. I was afraid the prediction might have made you uneasy. (Unlocking the center drawer) I had visions of you haring off into the woods, leaving me with a live wife, an imaginary corpse (Taking out the manuscripts) and no sure-fire can’t-miss thriller to justify the one to the other.
Clifford: I’d never have done that.
Sidney: (Heading for the fireplace with the manuscripts) Well, I just thought I’d relieve any possible anxiety. (Stops) I don’t think I’d better burn these now. It’ll take too long.
Clifford: Why burn them at all? They’re just old manuscripts.
Sidney: True. We could cut them up and use the backs for scrap. That’s so chintzy, though. Oh, what the hell. (Throws the manuscripts in the fireplace, crouches, takes a match) I’ll say I was cleaning out my files when the Grim Reaper struck.
(He strikes the match)
Clifford: The closer you can stay to the truth, the better off you are.
Sidney: (Lighting a corner) You’re a fount of homey wisdom, Cliffy-boy. (Lights another corner) Farewell, Deathtrap. Would that you were the genuine article.
Clifford: We can put my desk right here.
Sidney: (Tossing the match in, rising and turning) No, I have a surprise for you.
Clifford: Let me guess. I work in the maid’s room.
Sidney: Would I do that to you? You’re working right here in the handsomely converted stable, as promised.
Clifford: Then what’s the surprise?
Sidney: You’ll see, after the obsequies. (Moving to the front of the desk) I hope you won’t mind Zenobia tearing along at full speed. I really am going to try something on ESP. That was an awfully impressive demonstration she gave, despite the mistakes.
Clifford: I’m ready to get to work too.
Sidney: The thing you mentioned at the seminar?
Clifford: No, I've got a better idea . . . Last week, while I was cleaning out my desk, I suddenly realized that there’s a play there, in a typical urban welfare office.
Sidney: A thriller?
Clifford: No. The truth is, I've begun to lose interest in thrillers. I want to try something... more honest, more relevant.
Sidney: (Reaching into his pocket) Even though you used those words, I’m going to let you stay here. (Giving his car keys to Clifford,) Go get your things; I’ll call the doctor now.
Clifford: Right.
(He starts for the front door. Sidney dials the phone while Clifford tries the door, unbolts it, and goes out, leaving the door open. Sidney sits on the edge of the desk, the phone at his ear. He looks toward Myra's body and grows suitably sober)
Sidney: Is he there? . . . Sidney Bruhl, B-r-u-h-1. Would you have him call me right away, please? It’s urgent... My wife’s had a heart attack ... I’m afraid there’s no use in that . . . Two-two-six, three-oh-four-nine.
(He hangs up, sighs, Clifford comes through the front door with two garment bags, a tennis racket, and a large plaid suitcase. He knees the door closed and comes to the doorway, puts down the suitcase and racket)
Clifford: I left the weights for tomorrow. And the typewriter.
(He tosses the keys)
Sidney: (Catching them) Ah yes, little Mr. Colonna.
Clifford: That was funny, wasn’t it? (Sidney nods, pocketing the keys) On his way?
Sidney: Answering service.
Clifford: Wouldn’t you know. (Picks up the suitcase and racket) Well, see you later. How long do you think it’ll be?
Sidney: A couple of hours at least. I may have to—go with her; I don’t know.
Clifford: Mmm. Well, ciao.
Sidney: Ciao. (Clifford moves away) Oh, Cliff? (Clifford comes back) The floor up there creaks badly. So do a quick wash-up and get into bed and stay there.
Clifford: (Considers, smiles) I’ll buy that.
(He moves away and exits up the stairs. The phone rings. Sidney picks it up, holds it a moment while he gets into the right frame of mind, then raises it)
Sidney: Hello? . . . Yes, a bad one. I gave her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation for ten or fifteen minutes but . . . (The grief of a bereaved husband begins to overwhelm him) . . . it’s no use, there’s—nothing. She’s been under the weather the past few days. I wanted to call you but she wouldn’t let me; she said it was only . . .
(The curtain has fallen)
ACT: TWO
Scene One:
Two Weeks Later, Morning.
When the curtain rises, Clifford is hard at work and Sidney isn 't. They sit facing each other across a handsome old partners' desk, Sidney at its right side, Clifford at its left. (The desk from Act One is gone.) The draperies are open to bright morning sunlight, Clifford, typing away like sixty on an old black Smith-Corona, is in chinos, a shirt, and boots. Sidney, lolling in his chair and feigning unconcern, is in his cardigan and another turtleneck. There's a sheet of paper in “Zenobia, " but it's probably blank.
God, how Clifford types! On and on, speech after speech. Occasionally he backtracks to X out a few words; occasionally he pauses for an instant of intense thought. But then it's on and on, fast and expert and clattering. Sidney finds it harder and harder to hide his irritation. He squirms, frets, grits his teeth. Eventually he pecks out a word, mouthing the letters— s-h-i-t—and sits back and glares at it.
Clifford whips out the finished page, scans it, puts it down on a Manila folder beside him and begins revising with a pen.
Sidney: That must have been quite a welfare office.
Clifford: It was. Everyone had a poignant story. They’re creating the play of their own accord.
Sidney: No notes? No outline?
Clifford: This isn’t a thriller, Sidney. It’s not dependent on intricate plotting and contrived theatrics. These are real people. All I’m doing is bringing them on and letting them spill out their dreams and frustrations, their anger at .the bureaucracy.
Sidney: Joe Papp will have a messenger at the door any minute.
Clifford: I was thinking of him as a possible producer. Do you know him?
Sidney: Slightly. Let me see a few pages.
Clifford: Sure, if you’d like to. But I’d really rather wait till the draft is done—give you the whole thing in one glorious bundle. Would you mind?
Sidney: Of course not. What’s another hour or so?
Clifford: (Putting a fresh sheet of paper into his typewriter) It’s going to take three or four weeks, I think.
Sidney: At the rate you’re going you’ll have a trilogy by then.
Clifford: (Looks sympathetically at him) Nothing doing?
Sidney: I’m thinking . . .
Clifford: Why don’t you invite her over? Ten Dorp. Talking with her might spark something.
Sidney: Do you think we should risk having her on the premises?
Clifford: Maybe not when the moon is full, but any other time, why not? Look at the egg she laid on the Griffin show.
Sidney: Well, she got rattled by Peter Hurkos when he described all her husbands in such detail.
Clifford: Oh, Belle Forrester called before you came down. (Resumes typing) Wanted to know if she could bring over a casserole or come sew a button. I told her we were managing just fine.
(The doorbell chimes, Clifford starts to rise but Sidney puts up a hand)
Sidney: Don’t. We don’t want to break the flow, do we? (He heads for the foyer, Clifford resumes typing. Sidney opens t
he front door, Porter Milgrim is there, a man of substance in his mid-fifties; in hat, topcoat, and business suit, carrying a briefcase) Porter! It’s good to see you! Come on in.
(They shake hands)
Porter: How are you, Sidney?
Sidney: Doing fairly well, thanks.
Porter: (Entering the foyer) There are a couple of things I want to talk to you about. Am I disturbing you?
Sidney: (Closing the door) Not at all. Glad of the chance to take a break. (Porter has put his briefcase down and is taking his hat and coat off) How come you’re not in the city?
Porter: I have to be in New Haven this afternoon. The secretary?
Sidney: (Taking the hat and coat) Yes.
Porter My, what a fast typist.
(He picks up his briefcase while Sidney hangs the hat and coat on a wall rack)
Sidney: He is, isn’t he? Come meet him. Clifford? (Clifford stops typing; turns and rises as Porter and Sidney come into the study) This is Clifford Anderson. And this is my friend Porter Milgrim.
Porter: (Shaking hands with Clifford,) How do you do.
Clifford: How do you do, sir.
Sidney: I would say “my attorney,” but then he would bill me.
Porter: I’m going to, anyway; this is a business call. Partly, at least.
Sidney: Clifford was at the seminar I conducted last July. He asked me then about a secretarial position, and . .. when Myra passed on ... I realized I would need someone to lend a hand, so I called him. The next day, here he was.
Clifford: Have typewriter, will travel.
Porter: That was very good of you.
Clifford: It’s a privilege to be of help to someone like Mr. Bruhl.
Porter: (Noticing the desk) Oh, look at that. Isn’t this a beauty!
Sidney: Partners’ desk.
Porter: Mmm! Where did you find it?
Sidney: In Wilton. Just happened on it last week. Makes more sense than cluttering the room with two single ones.
Porter: Cost a pretty penny, I’ll bet.
Sidney: Well, it’s deductible.
Porter: Yes, they can’t very well quibble about a writer’s desk, can they? Wait till Elizabeth sees this . . .
Sidney: How is she?
Porter: Fine.
Sidney: And the girls?
Porter: Couldn’t be better. Cathy loves Vassar.
Sidney: And Vassar versa, I’m sure. Sit down.
Clifford: Shall I go get the groceries now? Then you and Mr. Milgrim can talk in private.
(Sidney looks to Porter, who nods infinitesimally)
Sidney: Would you mind?
Clifford: I have to do it sometime before dinner; might as well.
Sidney: All right. (Heading for the foyer) Be with you in a second, Porter.
Porter: Take your time. I haven’t started the clock yet! (Sidney is out and on his way upstairs, Clifford smiles as he rolls the paper from his typewriter, Porter sits and puts his briefcase down) I love this room.
Clifford: Isn’t it nice? It’s a pleasure working here. (Puts the paper and the page he finished earlier into the folder, behind other sheets in it)
Porter: He’s looking well.
Clifford: Yes, he’s picked up quite a bit in the past few days. (Putting the folder into the desk) It was pretty bad the first week. He cried every night; I could hear him plainly. And he was drinking heavily.
Porter: Ah.
Clifford: (Standing against the desk) But he’ll pull through. His work is a great solace to him.
Porter: I’m sure it must be. I’ve always envied my writer clients on that account. I tried a play once.
Clifford: Oh?
Porter: About the Supreme Court Justice I most admire. But even the title was a problem. Frankfurter . . .
(He shakes his head ruefully, Clifford moves toward the doorway as Sidney comes in, wallet in hand)
Sidney: Twenty enough?
Clifford: Too much; we only need salad things and milk. I’m going to Gibson’s.
(He goes into the foyer)
Sidney: (Pocketing his wallet) Pick up some yoghurt too. Anything but prune.
Clifford: (Taking a jacket from the rack) Okay. (Putting the jacket on; to Porter,) You aren’t in the driveway, are you?
Porter: No, I pulled over on the side.
Clifford: See you later or nice meeting you, whichever it turns out to be.
(He takes car keys from his pocket)
Porter: I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again. (Clifford nods to Sidney and goes out, closing the door behind him) Pleasant young fellow. Good-looking too.
Sidney: Yes . . . (Turns to Porter,) Do you think he’s gay? Homosexual?
Porter: I know what “gay” means, Sidney. Elizabeth told me long ago. No, he didn’t strike me that way.
Sidney: I have a sneaking suspicion he might be. But as long as he does his job well, I suppose it’s none of my business, is it?
Porter: Well, in essence he’s a domestic employee, and I think that in such circumstances his sexual preference could be a legitimate matter of concern.
Sidney: I wasn’t asking for a legal opinion; I was just saying that it’s really not my business.
Porter: Oh. In that case, no, it isn’t.
Sidney: (Turning his desk chair to face Porter and sitting) Besides, people would talk if I took in a female secretary, wouldn’t they?
Porter: If she were under eighty.
Sidney: That’s what I thought. So I called Clifford.
Porter: I’m glad to see you looking so well. That’s the main reason I’ve come. I was delegated, by Elizabeth and the Wessons and the Harveys. That young man has been discouraging all callers, and we were afraid you might be in worse shape than he was letting on. But obviously that’s not the case.
Sidney: No. I’m not up to socializing yet but. . . I’m coming through. (Touching the typewriter) The work is a great solace to me.
Porter: What are you onto now?
Sidney: A play about ESP. Helga ten Dorp is in the McBain cottage, you know.
Porter: Yes, I do. Tell me, is it true what everyone’s saying, that . . . Do you mind talking about this?
Sidney: No, no, not at all. Go ahead.
Porter: Is it true she actually pointed to the spot on the floor where Myra was going to fall?
Sidney: No, no, no, no, no, no, no. Nothing like that, nothing at all like that. All she did was come in here and say, “There is pain, there is great pain. In this lady’s chest.” And Myra said, “There’s slight pain,” and she said, “Still, with your history you should see your doctor.” Which is what I’d been telling Myra for days.
Porter: (Picking up his briefcase) It’s uncanny being able to sense things that way. I would think you’d be able to write a very fine thriller on the subject.
Sidney: It’s coming along. (Porter glances at his watch and starts opening the briefcase. Sidney smiles) Business time.
Porter: Yes. The first item on the agenda is your will. Now that Myra’s gone you ought to look it over. As it stands, if anything should happen to you, your cousins in Vancouver would inherit. Do you want to leave it that way?
(He takes a couple of sheets of typewritten paper from his briefcase)
Sidney: I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it.
Porter: Do. Don’t put it off. And this is the second item. (Hands him the papers) It’s only approximate, because I don’t have up-to-date appraisals on the real estate yet, but that’s roughly what you can anticipate, give or take a few thousand dollars.
Sidney: (Looks over the pages, and is somewhat surprised) I didn’t know there was this much . . .
Porter: Then Myra must have been keeping a few secrets. She knew; her records were in apple-pie order.
Sidney: How much of this is the government going to grab?
Porter: Not too much, really. The first two hundred and fifty thousand of that is exempt from federal taxes, and the state tax, which starts at fifty thousand, is on
ly a few percent.
Sidney: Hmm!
Porter: (Closing his briefcase) There’s one more point, Sidney. I was talking to Maury Escher at the Planning Board meeting last night, and he told me you spoke to him about selling off a few acres.
Sidney: (Looking at the papers) I’m not sure that I will now.
Porter: You can’t; not yet, anyway. You’ll have to wait till the will goes through probate.
Sidney: I know that. I just asked him what he thought I could get.
Porter: Oh. Then he was jumping the gun, not you. I wanted to make sure you were clear on the point. (Sidney folds the papers thoughtfully and puts them into the desk, Porter looks at his watch) End of business. You’ve gotten off cheap.
Sidney: (Turns, smiles) Yes. I’m lucky.
( Porter rises; Sidney does too)
Porter: What’s the procedure? You dictate and he types?
Sidney: No, no, I do my own typing. I’ll have him retype the finished product, of course. And he does the letters.
Porter: (Has paused by the desk) Is that what he was doing before? Letters?
Sidney: No, a play of his own.
Porter: Oh, the seminar—of course.
Sidney: Started it yesterday and will probably finish it tomorrow.
(He expects Porter to move on, but Porter stays studying the desk)
Porter: I hope he’s not stealing your ESP idea . . . Have you discussed it with him?
Sidney: (Looks at him for a moment) What makes you say that?
Porter: He locked what he was working on into the drawer. Unobtrusively, but I noticed.
(Sidney looks at him for another moment, and frowning, goes to Clifford's side of the desk. He tries the center drawer; it's locked)
Sidney: Hmm.
Porter: Then again, he might be afraid you 'll steal his idea.
Sidney: Hardly. Life at a welfare office: the dreams and frustrations of half a dozen people you’d just as soon not spend an evening with.
Porter: He’s worked in a welfare office?
Sidney: Yes, that’s what he was doing.
(He tries the drawer again)
Porter: It might only be force of habit, then. People in large offices often lock their desks.
Sidney: Unobtrusively? Just the reverse, I’d think. “Hey, everybody, look, I’m locking my desk!”
