The Mousetrap

In connection with the murder, the police are anxious to interview a man seen in the vicinity, wearing a dark overcoat, light scarf and a soft felt hat.

But I do so like knowing all about people. I mean, I think people are so madly interesting […] They’re all interesting, because you never really know what anyone is like—or what they are really thinking.

I adore nursery rhymes, don’t you? Always so tragic and macabre. That’s why children like them.

Yes—the unexpected guest. The guest that you did not invite. The guest who just arrived—from nowhere‚ out of the storm. It sounds quite dramatic, does it not? Who am I? You do not know. Where do I come from? You do not know. Me, I am the man of mystery.

CHRISTOPHER: Snow’s rather lovely, isn’t it? So peaceful—and pure…It makes one forget things.

CASEWELL: It doesn’t make me forget […] Ice on a bedroom jug, chilblains, raw and bleeding—one thin, ragged blanket—a child shivering with cold and fear.

The Corrigans. Two boys and a girl. Brought before the court as in need of care and protection. A home was found for them with Mr and Mrs Stanning at Longridge Farm. One of the children subsequently died as the result of criminal neglect and persistent ill-treatment.

Really, Major Metcalf. I can hardly be held responsible. We had reports from welfare workers. The farm people seemed very nice and were most anxious to have the children. It seemed most satisfactory.

MOLLIE: But sometimes things happen—to make you remember…

CASEWELL: Don’t give in. Turn your back on them.

MOLLIE: Is that really the right way? I wonder. Perhaps that’s all wrong. Perhaps one ought really to…face them.

Nothing from the past is going to affect me—except in the way I want it to.

Listen, Christopher, you can’t go on—running away from things—all your life. […] You’ve got to grow up some time, Chris.

Considering that I never saw you until yesterday, we seem to know each other rather well […] I suppose there’s a sort of—sympathy between us.

That’s what happens in a nightmare. You’re somewhere in the middle of friends and then you suddenly look at their faces and they’re not your friends any longer—they’re different people—just pretending. Perhaps you can’t trust anybody—perhaps everybody’s a stranger.

GILES: You’ve only got to look at him to see he’s barmy.

MOLLIE: He isn’t. He’s just unhappy. I tell you, Giles, he isn’t dangerous.

GILES: Mollie, what’s come over you? You’re different all of a sudden. I feel as though I don’t know you any more.

MOLLIE: Perhaps you never did know me. We’ve been married how long—a year? But you don’t really know anything about me. What I’d done or thought or felt or suffered before you knew me.

Three blind mice. Two mice cancelled out—a third mouse still to be dealt with.

But such a gay little tune? Don’t you think? She cut off their tails with a carving knife—snick, snick, snick—delicious. Just what a child would adore. Cruel little things, children. (Leaning forward) Some of them never grow up.

That nasty, cruel woman killed him. They put her in prison. Prison wasn’t bad enough for her. I said I’d kill her one day . . . I did, too, in the fog. It was great fun. I hope Jimmy knows. “I’ll kill them all when I’ve grown up.” That’s what I said to myself.

It’s all right, Georgie. I’m taking you somewhere where they will look after you, and see that you won’t do any more harm.

It wasn’t my fault—but he thought I could have saved that child.

GILES: Darling, you should have told me.

MOLLIE: I wanted to forget.