Deathtrap Act II Scene I

That must have been quite a welfare office…

It was. Everyone had a poignant story. They're creating the play of their own accord.

No notes? No outline?

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.

Joe Papp will have a messenger at the door any minute.

I was thinking of him as a possible producer. Do you know him?

Slightly. Let me see a few pages.

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?

Of course not. What's another hour or so?

(Putting a fresh sheet of paper into his typewriter.) It's going to take three or four weeks, I think.

At the rate you're going you'll have a trilogy by then.

(Looks sympathetically at him.) Nothing doing?

I'm thinking…

Why don't you invite her over? Ten Dorp. Talking with her might spark something.

Do you think we should risk having her on the premises?

Maybe not when the moon is full, but any other time, why not? Look at the egg she laid on the Griffin Show.

Well, she got rattled by the Amazing Kreskin when he described all her husbands in such detail.

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.)

PORTER. (Shaking hands with Clifford.) How do you do.

How do you do, ma'am.

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.

Have typewriter, will travel.

PORTER. That was very good of you.

It's a privilege to be of help to someone like Mr. Bruhl.

And Vassar versa, I'm sure. Sit down.

Shall I go get the groceries now? Then you and Ms. Milgrim can talk in private.

Would you mind?

I have to do it sometime before dinner; might as well.

PORTER. Take your time. I haven't started the clock yet!
(Clifford smiles as he rolls the paper from his typewriter.)
I love this room.

Isn't it nice? It's a pleasure working here.
(Clifford puts the paper and the page he finished earlier into the folder, behind other sheets in it.)

PORTER. He's looking well…

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...

(Standing against the desk.) But hell 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?

Twenty enough?

Too much; we only need salad things and milk. I'm going to Gibson's. (Goes into the foyer.)

(Pocketing his wallet.) Pick up some yogurt too. Anything but prune.

(Taking a jacket from the rack.) Okay. (Getting into it; to Porter.) You aren't in the driveway, are you?

PORTER. No, I pulled over on the side.

See you later or nice meeting you, whichever it turns out to be. (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.)

Feces!
That was quick!

I only went to Gibson's.

Here, give me; I'll put them away.

It's all right, I don't mind.

(Taking the bag.) No, no, come on, you shopped, I'll put away. Get back to the welfare office.

God forbid.
The change is in the bowl.
The avocado is supposed to be organic.

(Off.) Cliff!
Would you give me a hand here?

(Off.) Where are you?

Where are you?

Hey, wait!

(Turning.) Oh, there you are. I didn't think you heard, so I came around. They head toward each other, Sidney holding out the beer.
Need those Olympic fingers.

Beer, now? (Takes the bottle.)

Got a sudden mad craving, as in the commercials. Shook it a bit; sorry.

(Handing him the bottle and cap.) You can use an opener on these.

Really?

(Getting a handkerchief from his pocket.) Sure. Doesn't it say so?

(Trying to focus on the cap.) Who do they expect to read this, roaches?

…
So you've lost your interest in thrillers, eh?

Mm.

(Another sip.) No taste for the intricate plotting and the glib superficial characters…

Mm-mmn.

Want to do something real and meaningful, socially relevant.

(Turning, smiling understandingly.) Hey, cut it out, will you? Your idea'll start coming.

Possibly…

Just relax, and don't try to bug me. It'll come.

"Deathtrap, A Thriller in Two Acts."
Clifford looks up, wide-eyed. He turns; Sidney smiles at him and turns to the next page.
"Characters. Julian Crane. Doris Crane. Willard Peterson. Inga Van Bronk."
"The action takes place in Julian Cranes study, in the Crane home in Westport, Connecticut." (Turns the page.)

You have one hell of a nerve stealing—

(Cutting him off fortissimo.) "SETTING! Julian Crane's study is a handsomely converted stable grafted onto an authentic-

…

-several of which I'm going to make use of any minute now.
(Closes the folder, stands glaring at Clifford.)

That's it? You're not going to act out the eleven pages?
Would you like me to explain?

What's to explain? You're a lunatic with a death wish; Freud covered it thoroughly.

I have exactly the same wish you have: a success wish.

This— is going to bring you success?

It hit me that night. Remember, I put in that extra speech when you were looking for the key? It can be a terrific thriller.

In which someone like me and someone like you give someone like Myra a fatal heart attack?

Yes. At the end of Act One.

What, pray tell, is your definition of success? Being gangbanged in the shower room at the state penitentiary?

I knew you would have reservations about it; that's why my first instinct was to say it wasn't even a thriller. I haven't enjoyed putting you on, Sidney. I'm glad it's out in the open.

You knew I would have reservations…

Well you do, don't you?

The house madman is writing a play that'll send both of us to prison—

It won't!

—I'm standing here terrified, petrified, horrified, stupefied, crapping my pants— and he calls that "having reservations." I'm not going to use one of those on you; I'm going to beat you to death with Roget's Thesaurus!

There is no possible way for anyone to prove what did or did not cause Myra's heart attack. Look, if I could change things I would, but I can't; it has to be a playwright. Who else can pretend to receive a finished work that could make tons of money?

A novelist! A composer! Why am I discussing this?

A surefire smash-hit symphony? No. And would a novelist or a composer know where to get a garrote that squirts blood, and how to stage a convincing murder? And it has to be a playwright who writes thrillers, because Arthur Miller probably has old sample cases hanging on his wall. I suppose I could make it Wilton instead of Westport…

Why make it anywhere? Why make it?

It's there, Sidney!

That's mountains, not plays! Plays aren't there till some asshole writes them!

Stop and think for a minute, will you? Think. About that night. Try to see it all from an audiences viewpoint. Everything we did to convince Myra that she was seeing a real murder-would have exactly the same effect on them. Weren't we giving a play?
Didn't we write it, rehearse it? Wasn't she our audience?
Scene One: Julian tells Doris about this terrific play that's come in the mail. He jokes about killing for it, then calls Willard and invites him over, getting him to bring the original copy. Audience thinks exactly what Doris thinks: Julian might kill Willard. Scene Two: everything that happened from the moment we came through that door. All the little ups and downs we put in to make it ring true: the I'm-expecting-a-phone-call bit, everything. Tightened up a little, naturally. And then the strangling, which scares the audience as much as it does Doris.

No wonder you didn't need an outline…

(Tapping his temple.) It's all up here, every bit of it.
Scene Three: "Inga Van Bronk." A few laughs, right? Pain, Pain, Can't hurt.
Then Julian and Doris get ready to go upstairs-it looks as if the act is drawing to a kind of so-so close— and pow, in comes Willard, out of the grave and seeking vengeance. Shock? Surprise? Doris has her heart attack, Julian gets up from the fake beating-and the audience realizes that Julian and Willard are in cahoots, that there isn't any surefire thriller, and that Willard is moving in. The curtain is Julian burning the manuscripts. Or calling the doctor; I'm not sure which.
Now be honest about it: Isn't that a surefire first act?

Yes. And what an intermission. Twenty years to life.

No one can prove it really happened. They can't. How can they?

And what do you say to the man from the Times, when he says, "Don't you work for Sidney Bruhl, and didn't his wife have a heart attack just around the time you came there?"

(Turning out his hands for the obvious answer.) "No comment."

Oh my God…

I know it's going to be a little sticky, but-well, every body's opening up about everything these days, aren't they? In print, on TV; why not onstage, as long as it can't be proved? I've given it some serious thought, Sidney, and I honestly believe it'll help the play, give it an added dimension of — intriguing gossip.

I'm sure you're right. I can see the little box in New York magazine now:-

…

-Why look, a fieldstone fireplace! (Heading for it, folder at the ready.) Let's see if it's practical to the extent that paper-

(Interrupting him.) DON'T YOU DARE! Sidney stops.
You burn that-and I go out of here and write it again somewhere else. I'll-get a house-sitting job.
Clifford goes to Sidney and puts out his hand.
Give it to me. Give it, Sidney.
I helped you kill for the chance to become what I wanted to be.
not going to take it away from me.
I had hoped that when I showed you the finished draft, you would be impressed enough to—get over your Angel Street uptightness and pitch in, but I guess we can forget about that.

(Smiles faintly.) A collaboration?

It's mostly your idea, isn't it? I'm not pretending its all my baby. And I know that Scene One is coming out a little-heavy and stilted. I hoped we could be a team, Bruhl and Anderson.

Rodgers and Heartless.

Now you see, I could never come up with something like that.

I'm sorry, but I really don't feel like collaborating on my public humiliation.

Next season's hit. Don't say I didn't ask.
I think maybe I'd better move out anyway…

Why?

When Helga ten Dorp said a woman was going to use the dagger because of a play-maybe she really wasn't that far off target.

Don't be silly. I—I love you; I wouldn't think of-trying to harm you. Besides, you'd break my neck.

Damn right I would.

So don't talk about leaving.

I don't know… I'm not going to feel comfortable with you being unhappy about this…

I'll whistle a lot.
Maybe I am being-old-fashioned and uptight.

You are. These days, jeez, who cares about anything?

I certainly could use half the royalties of a good solid hit…

I think there's a movie in it too.

Porter just gave me the figures on Myra's estate.-

…

-and he says that's going to take two or three years.

Whew…

The insurance money isn't all that much…

(Moving to his chair.) The offer is still open… (Sits.)

You know, it crossed my mind that afternoon that the play-in-the-mail thing would make a good first scene… Really.

It's your idea, Sidney. All I did was help with some of the details.
(Hands folder)
Pretty neat, the way you managed it.

I tried breaking in; the damn thing's a fortress. Porter noticed you locking up. I was afraid you were doing something on ESP.

And I thought I was being so inconspicuous…

He's sharp. Dull, but sharp.
I'll do it. Let people talk; I'll blush all the way to the bank.

You mean it?

Bruhl and Anderson.

Great!
(He extends his hand; Sidney shakes it across the desktop.)
We'll make it Wilton, not Westport.

Leave it Westport; the hell with it.

Jeez, just think: me, Clifford Anderson, collaborating with Sidney Bruhl!

That's from Act One.

(Smiles, and then grows sober, sits.) Act Two is going to be a problem…

How so?

Well, we've got the murder in Act One. Two murders, in effect. Act Two is liable to be a letdown.

Not—necessarily…

(Rolling a sheet of paper into his typewriter.) We'll bring in a detective, of course-the fifth character. I was thinking of a Connecticut version of the one in Dial "M."

Inspector Hubbard.

Yeh. And Inga Van Bronk ought to come in again. A good comic character like that, it would be foolish not to make the most of her.

You go on drafting Act One. Let me do a little thinking about Act Two…

End Scene