Rope (US 1929)/Act I
ROPE
ACT I
The scene is a room on the first floor of the house in Mayfair shared by Brandon and Granillo. The room is a combination of a study and a drawing-room. It is furnished in a luxurious and faintly bizarre manner and on no discernible model. Nevertheless, there are really many good things about if you care to look for them. At the back, to the right, there are long French windows. To the left of these a fine grandfather clock. Next, against the wall, is a wireless set. Next, a large divan. Door left. Fireplace left.
In the corner, up stage R., is a piano—baby grand. Against wall R., a sideboard, with glasses and drinks on it. Table down R. with a lamp on it. Armchair left of table. Another small table down L., also with armchair. Down stage, in the centre, is a large chest. Red curtains. Red upholstery. The clock, when the curtain rises, stands at eight-forty at night. The action of the play is continuous, and the fall of the curtain at the end of each Act denotes the lapse of no time whatever.
Curtain rises on room completely darkened save for the pallid gleam from lamplight in the street below, which comes through the window. Against this are silhouetted the figures of Granillo and Brandon. They are bending over the chest, intent, working at something—exactly what you cannot discern. The silence is complete. Suddenly the lid of the chest falls with a bang. Brandon goes over to window and draws the heavy curtains to. Complete black out. They continue whatever they are doing. Brandon murmurs “All right, all right,” but there are no other sounds. Pause. Brandon comes down R., and switches on the light at the little table.
Granillo (at chest). Put out that light! Put out that light! [Instantly it goes out.
Brandon (voice from darkness). Steady, Granno.
[No reply from other. Brandon is down right. Granillo is somewhere centre. Pause. Brandon suddenly lights a match and applies it to his cigarette. The cigarette glows in the darkness. He is now seated in the armchair. Pause.
Brandon. Feeling yourself, Granno? [No answer.
Brandon. Feeling yourself again, Granno? [No answer.
Brandon. Granno.
Granillo. Give me some matches.
Brandon. Matches? Here you are. Coming. (He throws the matches over.)
[They can be heard rattling in the air and falling on the floor. Granillo picks them up and lights his own cigarette. The two pin-points of light are all that come from the darkness. Pause.
It’s about time you pulled yourself together, isn’t it, Granno? Sabot will be here in a quarter of an hour.
[Pause.
Granillo. You fully understand, Brandon, what we’ve done?
Brandon. Do I know what I’ve done? . . . Yes. I know quite well what I’ve done. (He speaks in a rich, easy, powerful, elated and yet withal slightly defiant voice.) I have done murder.
Granillo. Yes.
Brandon (continuing in same voice). I have committed murder. I have committed passionless—motiveless—faultless—and clueless murder. Bloodless and noiseless murder.
Granillo. Yes.
Brandon. An immaculate murder. I have killed. I have killed for the sake of danger and for the sake of killing. And I am alive. Truly and wonderfully alive. That is what I have done, Granno. (Long pause.) What’s the matter? Are you getting superstitious?
Granillo. No. I’m not superstitious.
Brandon (suavely). Then I may put on the light?
Granillo. No. You mayn’t. . . .
[Their figures may now be dimly discerned in the faint glow from the fire.
Brandon?
Brandon. Yes?
Granillo. You remember when Ronald came in? . . .
Brandon. What do you mean—“when Ronald came in”?
Granillo. When Ronald came in here . . . when he came in from the car. You were standing at the door.
Brandon. Yes.
Granillo. Did you see anyone standing there? . . . Up the street . . . about seventy yards?
Brandon. No.
Granillo. There was someone. There was a man. I saw him. I’ve remembered.
Brandon. Well, what of it?
Granillo. Oh, nothing. . . . Brandon . . .
Brandon. Yes?
Granillo. When I met Ronald. When I met him—coming out of the Coliseum—when I met him, and got him into the car—why shouldn’t someone have seen us?
Brandon. What do you mean by someone?
Granillo. Oh, someone. Anyone. Did we think of that, Brandon?
Brandon. I did.
[Granillo is now seated in armchair L. Pause.
Granillo. It’s in the room, you know. Do you think we’ll get away with it?
Brandon. When? To-night?
Granillo. Yes.
Brandon. Are you suggesting that some psychic force, emanating from that chest there, is going to advise Sir Johnstone Kentley of the fact that the remains—or shall I say the lifeless entirety—of his twenty-year-old son and heir is contained therein? (Pause.) My dear Granillo, if you are feeling in any way insecure, perhaps I had better fortify you with a brief summary of facts—with mathematics as it were. Let me please give you———
Granillo. Listen! [There is a tense stillness.
Brandon. What are———?
Granillo. Listen, I tell you! (Another pause. Granillo springs up and goes over to window, where he can be seen peeping through the curtains.) It’s all right. I thought it was Sabot. (He comes down to chair again.)
Brandon. Sabot, in the first place, will not be here until five minutes to nine, if then, for Sabot is seldom punctual. Sabot, in the second place, has been deprived by a wily master of his key. He will therefore ring. Let me, I say, give you a cool narration of our transactions. This afternoon, at about two o’clock, young Ronald Kentley, our fellow-undergraduate, left his father’s house with the object of visiting the Coliseum Music Hall. He did so. After the performance he was met in the street by your good self, and invited to this house. He was then given tea, and at six forty-five precisely, done to death by strangulation and rope. He was subsequently deposited in that chest. To-night, at nine o’clock, his father, Sir Johnstone Kentley, his aunt, Mrs. Debenham, and three well-chosen friends of our own will come round here for regalement. They will talk small talk and depart. After the party, at eleven o’clock . . .
Granillo (interrupting). This party isn’t a slip, is it, Brandon?
Brandon. My dear Granno, have we not already agreed that the entire beauty and piquancy of the evening will reside in the party itself? (Pause.) At eleven o’clock to-night, I was saying, you and I will leave by car for Oxford. We will carry our fellow-undergraduate. Our fellow-undergraduate will never be heard of again. Our fellow-undergraduate will not be murdered. He will be missing. That is the complete story, and the perfection of criminality—the complete story of the perfect crime. (Pause.) I am quite lucid—am I not?
Granillo. Yes,
Brandon. The party itself, you see, Granno, so far from being our vulnerable point, is the very apex, as it were, and consummation of our feat. Consider its ingredients. I still don’t think we could have chosen better. There will be, first, and by all means foremost, Sir Johnstone Kentley—the father of the—occupant of the chest. It is he, as the father, who gives the entire macabre quality of the evening. Well chosen, so far. We then, of course, require his wife; but she, being an invalid, is unobtainable, and we have procured, instead, his sister. The same thing applies to her.
[Telephone rings. Granillo springs up and goes over to it in the darkness.
Granillo. Hullo. . . . Hullo. . . . Hullo. What? This is Mayfair X143. . . . What? . . . What? Hullo. (Brandon turns up lamp.) Put out that light! Put out that light, I tell you!
[Light goes promptly out.
Brandon. Steady, Granno.
Granillo. . . . Hullo. . . . Hullo. . . .
Brandon. Will you put down that receiver, Granno? You’re telling London you’re afraid. (Pause.) Come and sit down.
[Granillo puts down receiver and goes over to window and peers out again. Then to door, which he opens. HE creeps out into passage. Suddenly a click is heard. He has put on the light in passage, which filters through the door. Brandon remains motionless. The light goes out again and Granillo re-enters the room, shutting the door. He takes his seat again. Slight pause.
Granillo. Well, go on.
Brandon. There are then Kenneth Ragland and Leila Arden. They have been asked for their youth, innocence, and good spirits alone. Also, in Raglan, who went to the same school and is at the same University as ourselves, you have about the most perfect specimen of ordinary humanity obtainable, and therefore a suitable witness to this so extraordinary scene. Unintellectual humanity is represented. The same applies to Leila, his female counterpart. . . . We then come to Rupert. . . . Now in Rupert, Granno, we have a very intriguing pro- position. Rupert, in fact, is about the one man alive who might have seen this thing from our angle, that is, the artistic one. You will recall that we even con- templated, at one time, of inviting him to share our dangers, and we eventually turned the notion down, not necessarily because it would have been too much for him to swallow intellectually, but simply because he would not have had the nerve. Rupert is a damnably brilliant poet, but perhaps a little too fastidious. . . . He could have invented and admired, but he could not have acted. So he is in the same blissless ignorance as the rest. Never- theless he is intellect’s representative, and valued at that. (Pause.) Granno . . .
[No answer.
Granno.
Granillo. Yes.
Brandon. What’s the time?
Granillo (going up to the clock with a lighted match). Ten to.
Brandon. Sabot will be here in five minutes.
Granillo. I know.
Brandon. May I put on the light?
Granillo. Must you? Can’t you go on talking?
Brandon. No, I can’t, I’m afraid.
Granillo (pause). Go on. I’m all right. Put it on. I’m better now.
The little lamp is lit. Brandon is tall, finely and athletically built, and blonde. He is quietly and expensively dressed, with a double-breasted waistcoat, which shows his sturdiness off to the best advantage, and perfectly creased trousers, not turned up at the end, and about nineteen inches in width. His hands are large, and his build is that of the boxer—not the football player or the runner. He has clear blue eyes, a fine mouth and nose, and a rich, competent and really easy voice. He is plainly very well off, and he seems to have used his money in making a fine specimen of himself instead of running to seed. He is almost paternal with everyone he addresses, and this seems to arise from an instinctive knowledge of his own good health, good looks, success and natural calm, as opposed to the harassed frailty of the ordinary human being. This, however, brings him at moments to an air of vague priggishness and self-approbation, and is the one reason why you cannot altogether like him.
Granillo is slim, not so tall as Brandon, expensively and rather ornately dressed in a dark blue suit. He wears a diamond ring. He is dark. A Spaniard. He is enormously courteous—something between a dancing-master and a stage villain. He speaks English perfectly. To those who know him fairly well, and are not subject to Anglo-Saxon prejudices, he seems a thoroughly good sort.
Brandon, seated in armchair, looks into the light of the lamp, employing himself by fiddling with the shade. Granillo walks over to mirror over mantelpiece, looks at himself and adjusts his collar. He takes a cigarette from a box on the mantelpiece. Meanwhile Brandon has also risen and come over. He does exactly the same, and is just in time to have his cigarette lit from Granillo’s match. He puts his arm round Granillo as he does this.
Brandon (puffs). Thank you. I thought you we going to lose your nerve for a moment, Granno.
Granillo. So did I. But I wasn’t.
Brandon. May I put on the light proper?
Granillo. Yes.
[Brandon, humming with a rather strained nonchalance, switches on light by door, and goes out without a word. He can be heard switching on light in hall. Granillo remains looking into fire for about thirty seconds, then goes over to sideboard and takes a drink. Suddenly Brandon returns. His eyes are blazing, and he is pale with rage.
Brandon. God, you fool! Didn’t I tell you to check up in there!
Granillo. What?
Brandon (holding a slip of blue paper in front of the other). Look at this! The boy’s Coliseum ticket. It was on the floor. We could hang on that! What in Heaven’s name———
Granillo (with a shrug of the shoulders characteristic of his race). But, my dear Brandon, you are as much to blame as myself.
Brandon. That’s nothing to do with it! It’s your business to see what I don’t see. How in Heaven’s name it got there I don’t know.
[A bell rings.
Damnation! That’s Sabot. Now for God’s sake quiet yourself and sit down. All right. I’ll go.
[Brandon exits. Granillo slips blue ticket into his top waistcoat pocket, rushes over to finish drink, seizes book from table, and settles down in armchair R., pretending to read. Pause. Voices from outside, mounting stairs. They arrive outside door.
Sabot (off). In here, sair?
Brandon (off). Yes, in here.
Sabot. Very good, sair.
[Brandon re-enters, closing door behind him. He is just settling down in armchair L., when there is a knock upon the door. He rises quickly and opens it. Sabot, in overcoat, is at door, with a newspaper in hand. He is an alert, very dark little Frenchman, with a long nose and a blueness of cheek which no amount of shaving will eradicate. He is an almost perfect servant—intelligent, alert and obedient, but not, perhaps, completely impersonal—his employers being in the habit of making occasional advances to him. Whoever he is with he has an air of being breathlessly anxious to apologise for something or anything. He is married, quietly ambitious, industrious, and will have a restaurant of his own one of these days.
Sabot. Ze evening paper, sair?
Brandon. Oh—thank you very much, Sabot.
Sabot. I thought you might like to look at it, sair. (Smiles shyly.)
Brandon. Very welcome, Sabot. Many thanks.
Sabot. Not at all, sair.
[Brandon closes the door in Sabot’s face, and comes down to armchair L. He catches Granillo’s eye but looks away again. Opens paper.
Brandon (his eyes fixed on paper). Sorry for my little outburst, Granno. But it rather upset me.
Granillo (eyes fixed on book). Not at all. You’re Quite correct. I should have seen it. How it got there I don’t know.
Brandon. Neither do I. What’s the time?
Granillo (comparing wrist-watch with clock). About five to.
Brandon. Then we can expect our first guest.
Granillo. Yes.
[Sabot enters, carrying large tray. He comes over and deposits it on sideboard. He comes into centre of room and looks first at Granillo and then at Brandon. He addresses Brandon.
Sabot. Ze table, sair?
Brandon (eyes on paper). Yes. That’s all right. Lay it there, will you? We’re using the table for books.
Sabot. But I can bring ze table from upstairs, sair?
Brandon. Oh, no. That’s all right, Sabot. Lay it there.
Sabot. No, sair, it will be no trouble to bring from upstairs.
Brandon (suavely). Nevertheless, Sabot, lay it there, will you?
Sabot (a little shamefaced at snub, under his breath). Very good, sair. (Goes to sideboard and commences laying cloth, etc., upon chest. There is a long pause.)
Brandon (reading from paper). Hullo—Hammond at it again. (Turns over paper to Stop Press.) 106 Not. . . . How many’s that, Sabot?
Sabot. The tenth, sair. (Pause.) He was missed at twenty-one, sair.
Brandon (again reading). I’m getting rather tired of Inquests on London Girls. . . . Also of Plucky London Typists’ Brave Attempts. . . . Also of Mrs. Meyrick. . . .
[Bell rings.
Ah—here we are. He’s early, whoever he is.
Sabot. To bring in here, sair?
Brandon, Yes—in here. [Sabot exits.
[Granillo rises, goes over to piano, and commences to play “Dance Little Lady” with a rather unpleasant brilliance. He looks significantly at Brandon while playing. He finishes tune, leaves off, and takes a drink at sideboard. He is now looking quite at ease and pleased with himself. Door opens. Sabot holds it back and Kenneth Raglan enters. He is young, fair, simple, good-looking, shy, foolish, and good. He has no ideas whatever. He still thinks that nightclubs are dens of delight, but that there is probably one girl in the world for him whom he will one day find. His pathetic ideal, in his bearing before the world, is sophistication. To hear him alluding to a “simply staggering binge, old boy,” when he has merely got mildly intoxicated, is to have exemplified at once his sense of humour and wickedness. In the presence of Granillo and Brandon he is merely, of course, tentative and hopeless. He is in evening dress.
Raglan (coming forward nervously). Hullo.
Brandon (taking his hand cordially). Hullo, Raglan, old man. Come right in. You know Granillo, don’t you?
Raglan. Rather.
[He shakes hands with Granillo, who has also come forward cordially.
Granillo. Quite a long time since we met, though. (Smiles.)
Raglan. Yes—isn’t it? (Looking round nervously.) I say, I’m terribly sorry. I’ve come dressed.
Brandon. My dear fellow, my fault entirely. Come and seat yourself. (Leads him affectionately to chair.) I should have explained. You know we’re going up to Oxford to-night?
Raglan. Oh, no—are you? I’m not going up till Friday.
Brandon. Now what are you going to drink? You can have Gin and Italian. . . . Or Gin and Angostura. And I can do you a very nice Gin and French.
Raglan. I should like Gin and It, I think.
Brandon. Gin and It? Right. (Goes over to sideboard, opens bottles and commences to pour carefully. Talks while doing this.) Yes, we leave to-night about twelve, and travel by (pouring deftly) automobile—in the (more pouring)—let us hope—moonlight. And of course all this place is simply covered (pouring) with books.
Raglan. Covered with books?
Brandon (coming down with drink). Yes. I’ve come into a library.
Raglan. Come into a library?
Brandon (going to sideboard to pour a drink for himself). Of course, books aren’t really in your line, are they, Kenneth? (He is opening a fresh bottle.)
Raglan. No—not really. Only Edgar Wallace.
Granillo. Oh—are you good at Edgar Wallace?
Raglan. Yes. Why? Are you?
Granillo. Yes—rather.
Raglan. Good Lord—I shouldn’t have thought you would have been.
Granillo. I am, though. Have you read his last one?
Raglan. Er—which last one?
Granillo. Oh—I can’t be as precise as all that.
Brandon (pouring again). Did you ever hear of old Gerry Wickham, Kenneth? An uncle of mine.
Raglan. Oh, yes—rather.
Brandon. Well, you know he’s died just lately.
Raglan. Oh—has he? Yes?
Brandon. Well, it’s his library (pouring) which he has very kindly (pouring) and unexpectedly (pouring) bestowed upon me.
Raglan. Good Lord!
Brandon. To the unspeakable mortification of Sir Johnstone Kentley.
Raglan. Oh, Sir Johnstone Kentley. He’s quite a famous collector, isn’t he?
Brandon. Yes. He’s coming here to-night.
Raglan. Good heavens—is he? It is the same man, isn’t it? He lives in Grosvenor Square and has a son.
Brandon (pause). Quite right, Kenneth. He lives in Grosvenor Square (pause), and has a son.
[Brandon comes down with his own drink, lights a cigarette, and sits down.
He also runs to a sister, and she’s coming too.
Raglan. Oh—really?
Brandon. Yes. A reward of ten pounds is offered to any person or persons forcing, by dynamite or other means, more than two words out of her at the same time.
Raglan. Why—is she uncommunicative?
Brandon. “Is she uncommunicative! . . .” Uncommunicative, Kenneth, is not the word.
Raglan. Really? Tell me, Sir Johnstone’s son. Isn’t that Ronald Kentley, the lad who’s so frightfully good at sports?
Brandon. That’s right. You don’t know him, do you?
Raglan. No. I’ve never met him, but he wins hurdles, and hundreds of yards, and things like that, doesn’t he?
Brandon. Yes. That’s right. As a matter of fact, he’s the living image of yourself. Isn’t he, Granno?
Granillo. Yes. He is like.
Raglan. Me? In what way?
Brandon. Oh, in every way. Same age. Same eight. Same colour. Same sweet and refreshing innocence.
Raglan. Oh, shut up. I’m not an athlete, anyway.
Brandon. No. But you’re just as much alive. In fact, more so.
Raglan (awkwardly). Am I? Then you’re having Sir Johnstone here just sort of to make him grind his teeeth with envy about the books, then?
Brandon. On the contrary, I’m going to let him have exactly what he wants—provided I don’t want it. But I’m telling you all this, Kenneth, just to excuse the terrible mess we’re in. You’ll observe that we’re having our meal off a chest.
Raglan. Oh, yes. (Looks at chest.) I thought it looked rather weird.
Brandon. Good Lord, Kenneth. You’re getting positively fat.
Raglan. Am I?
Brandon. Nothing like the little boy who used to fag for me at school.
Raglan. Lord! That’s a long while ago.
Brandon. Oh, it doesn’t seem so very long.
Raglan. Of course, I used to think you an absolute hero in those days, Brandon.
Brandon. Did you? Well, as a matter of fact I was always more or less popular amongst the juniors.
Granillo. It was I who was the unpopular one.
Brandon. Were you unpopular, Granno?
Raglan. Oh, yes, I remember I used to loathe you in those days.
Granillo. There you are.
Brandon. Why did you loathe him?
Raglan. Oh, I don’t know. I suppose games were the only things that ever counted in those days. I’m sure it was most unreasonable.
Granillo. It was, I assure you. I’m very harmless.
[Bell rings.
Brandon. Here we are. I wonder if that’s Rupert. Did you ever meet Rupert, Kenneth? Rupert Cadell?
Raglan. No—I can’t say I have.
Brandon. No—he was before your time, wasn’t he? (He rises, goes to the door, and opens it.) Ah-ha, the ravishing Leila! Come along, my dear, this way.
[Enter Leila Arden. She, like Raglan, is young, good-looking, and has no ideas. She also has the same tendency to conceal that deficiency with a show of sophistication. In this she is perhaps more successful than Raglan. She has a fairly good stock of many-syllabled and rather outré words which she brings out with a rather comic emphasis, rolling her eyes the while, as though she doesn’t really mean what she is saying. In this way she never actually commits herself to any emotion or feeling, and might even be thought deep. But she is not.
Brandon. How are you, Leila? You know Granno, don’t you?
Leila. Hullo. (Shakes hands with Granillo.)
Brandon. And this is Kenneth. Mr. Raglan—Miss Arden.
Leila. Hullo.
Raglan. Hullo.
[They shake hands. Brandon indicates chair. Leila sits down.
Brandon. Now what are you going to have, Leila? Kenneth’s having a Gin and It.
Leila. I’d adore one.
(Brandon goes to sideboard. There is a rather awkward silence.
(To Granillo) And how are you getting on?
Granillo. Very well, thanks. And how are you?
Leila. Oh, I’m all right.
[She is between Raglan and Granillo, and turns and grins at Raglan, who is only too willing to grin at her.
Of course, I simply know—that I’ve seen you somewhere before.
Raglan (looking foolish). Really?
Leila. You’re not a Frinton-on-Sea expert, are you?
Raglan. No. I just go there occasionally, that’s all.
Leila. How weird! Because I could simply swear that I’ve seen you somewhere before.
Raglan (grinning). Oh—how weird!
Brandon (coming down with drink for Leila). Previous incarnation, I expect. Here you are, Leila. Excuse mess. We’re in a horrible mess here altogether. Kenneth’ll tell you about it. I’ve come into a library.
Leila. Come into a library, my dear? My dear, how weird!
Brandon. Yes, And I hope you don’t think you’re going to get anything to eat, because all the servants are away and we’re very humble.
Leila. No—you told me that, and I had a simply gluttonous high tea. Gorged, my dear!
Brandon. Oh, well, that’s all right. I really wouldn’t have asked you—only this is the last chance of seeing you before we go.
Leila. Are you going up to-night, then?
Brandon. Yes.
Raglan. Of course, I’m feeling absolutely ghastly—coming dressed like this.
Leila. Why? I’m sure I ought to be dressed too. (Turning to Brandon.) Of course you must admit, my dear, this is a most mysterious and weird meal.
Granillo (a little too heavily). Why mysterious and weird?
Leila (sensing his heaviness, which causes a faintly embarrassed little pause). Oh—I don’t know. Just mysterious. And weird. (Pause. To Raglan.) Don’t you think it’s mysterious and weird? Such a queer time, to begin with.
[Bell rings.
Brandon (cutting in rather loudly). Here we are. I’ll bet you that’s old Kentley. Forgive me a moment, I must go and usher him in.
[Goes out, leaving door open. Voices from below.
Leila (softly, rolling her eyes). Who’s the new-comer?
Granillo (rising and putting his cigarette out on table). The new-comer, Leila, is the revered Sir Johnstone Kentley, who has come here to look at books.
Leila. My dear!
Granillo. Unless it’s Rupert—which it may be, of course.
[Goes to door as Brandon, Sir Johnstone Kentley, and Mrs. Debenham enter.
Sir Johnstone is a decidedly pleasant old gentleman, slightly bent, old for his years, with clear grey eyes—slow-moving, utterly harmless, gentle and a little listless. His listlessness and gentleness, however, derive not alone from a natural kindliness, but also from the fact that he has been in a position of total authority throughout the greater part of his life, and has had no need to assert himself. But he has only too plainly never abused that authority, and the whole effect of him is completely captivating.
Mrs. Debenham is the sister of Sir Johnstone. She is tallish, plainly dressed, has been widowed long, is very plain, about fifty. She hardly ever opens her mouth, her sole means of expression being a sudden, broad, affable smirk. This she switches on, in a terrifying way, every now and again, but immediately relapses into the lost, miserable, absent-minded gloom which characterises her. She is, indeed, so completely a nonentity as to acquire considerable personality and distinction from the very fact.
Sir Johnstone (talking as he enters). . . . which, of course, can never be done. Ah, how do you do, Granillo? How are you getting on?
[They shake hands.
You know my sister, don’t you?
Mrs. Debenham. Yes! (Smirks.)
[They shake hands.
[Raglan is standing sheepishly and Leila does not quite know what to do with herself.
Brandon (taking stage). Now let me introduce you all. . . . This, Mrs. Debenham, is Miss Leila Arden. . . . Miss Arden—Sir Johnstone Kentley.
Leila. Howdyoudo.
Sir Johnstone. Howdyoudo.
Brandon. And this is Mr. Kenneth Raglan.
Raglan. Howdyoudo, sir.
Sir Johnstone. Howdyoudo.
[Mrs. Debenham smirks.
[Embarrassed pause. Sabot has come in after Kenley, etc., and is quietly going on with the laying of the chest.
Brandon. And there we are. And here, Sir Johnstone, is an armchair which I think is more or less in your line. (Leads him down to it.) And here is a chest, from which we’re going to feed, the table having been commandeered for books.
Sir Johnstone (peering at chest). That’s not a Cassone, is it?
Brandon. No, sir. It’s not genuine, it’s a reproduction. But it’s rather a nice piece. I got it in Italy.
[Granillo has seen that all are seated, and is now standing at mantelpiece. Sabot is moving about, laying plates, knives, sandwiches, etc. on chest.
(To Sir Johnstone) Now will you have a cocktail, sir?
Sir Johnstone. Good heavens, no, my boy. (He looks vaguely about the room.)
Brandon. And you, Mrs. Debenham? (She merely smirks.)
You won’t?
Mrs. Debenham. Oh, yes, please.
Brandon. Ah. Good. Now what will you have? Will you have a Gin and Angostura, or a Gin and French, or a Gin and Italian?
Mrs. Debenham. Yes, please.
Sir Johnstone. These books I’m going to see—where are they, Brandon?
Brandon (going to sideboard again). Oh, the books. They’re in the other room. The dining-room. I laid them out as well as I could, and there’s more space in there.
Sir Johnstone. I shall be interested to see them—most interested. . . . I seem to remember that Wickham had a really remarkable little lot of Shakesperana . . .
Brandon. Yes. But I’m afraid the folios were sold before he died. But there’s a run of the quartos, and a really amazing lot of Baconian stuff. At least, I’m told it’s very fine.
[Bell rings. Sabot quickly leaves room.
Sir Johnstone. Ah-ha. Bacon, my boy. That’s a special favourite of mine.
Leila. Of course, all this is too technical and peculiar!
Raglan. Yes—isn’t it?
Brandon. I expect Mrs. Debenham has learnt to put with this sort of thing, hasn’t she?
Mrs. Debenham. (Pause. She wakes up, and suddenly realises she is being addressed.) Oh, yes!
Leila. Of course, I’m too Philistine for words. Do go on. What about Bacon?
Sir Johnstone. I think we’d better try and restrain ourselves, my boy.
Leila. Oh no. Do go on. You must tell us about Bacon. Isn’t he the person who dashes round being Shakespeare, or something like that?
[Enter Rupert Cadell in doorway. He is of medium height and about twenty-nine. He is a little foppish in dress and appearance, and this impression is increased by the very exquisite walking-stick which he carries indoors as well as out. He is lame in the right leg. He is enormously affected in speech and carriage. He brings his words out not only as though he is infinitely weary of all things, but also as though articulation is causing him some definite physical pain which he is trying to circumvent by keeping his head and body perfectly still. His sentences are often involved, but nearly always syntactically complete. His affectation almost verges on effeminacy, and can be very irritating, but he has a very disarming habit, every now and again, of retrieving the whole thing with an extraordinarily frank, open and genial smile.
Brandon. Ah, here he is, here he is! The last, as usual. Come along in, Rupert.
[Rupert comes down a little.
(Introducing) Mr. Cadell—Mrs. Debenham.
[Mrs. Debenham smirks.
Rupert. Howdyoudo.
Brandon. Miss Leila Arden.
Rupert. Howdyoudo.
Leila. Howdyoudo.
Brandon. Mr. Cadell—Sir Johnstone Kentley.
Rupert (a little more solemnly). Howdyoudo, sir. (There is no smile on his face.)
Sir Johnstone. Howdyoudo.
Brandon. Mr. Raglan—Mr. Cadell.
Raglan. Howdyoudo. [Rupert bows,
Rupert. But tell me. I don’t quite follow. Have I come dressed, or have others come undressed? I telephoned an inquiry, but could not obtain—er—an answer.
Brandon. Now contain yourself, Rupert, and sit down. (Indicates chair.)
[Rupert looks at chair, and then espies chest. Stops affectedly, bends down to look at it, and prods it with stick. Pauses.
Rupert. What in heaven? . . .
Brandon. There you are, Rupert, we’re going have our meal off a chest.
Rupert. Oh—are we?
Brandon. Yes.
Rupert (still prodding). Why are we going to have our meal off a chest?
Brandon. Because it’s a very nice chest, and because all the tables are covered with books.
Leila. Yes. Haven’t you heard? The entire place is covered with library.
Rupert. Oh! (Looks round, limps to chair, and sits down.)
Brandon. Now, Rupert, are you going to have a cocktail?
Rupert. No. Thank you. I have had four already.
Raglan and Leila. Four!
Rupert. Yes. Why? Aren’t I carrying my drink?
Leila. Oh yes—you’re carrying it all right. It’s just rather a mean advantage, that’s all.
Brandon (to Sabot). That’s all right, Sabot. I’ll ring when we’re through. Then you can clear and get away.
Sabot. Thank you, sair. [Exits.
Rupert. When do we begin to have our meal off a chest? Because I’m personally rather peckish.
Brandon. We’re starting right away, Rupert. (Coming down to chest.) Now look here, you people, there are a lot of plates and knives and things here—and lots of sandwiches and things—pâté, caviare, and salmon and cucumber, and what-not. . . . All you’ve got to do is tally round and gather what you want. . . .
[They all rise and gather garrulously around chest, offering each other different dishes, etc. Eventually, and still talking, they resume their places.
Sir Johnstone (to Rupert). Are you the great Cadell, then?
Rupert. The great Cadell, sir?
(Leila, having her first gulp at her champagne, gives a long, satisfied sigh, “Ahhhhhhhh!” Rupert stops to look at her, in his own fashion, and then looks at Sir Johnstone again.
Why, do you know anything about me?
Sir Johnstone. Oh—I’ve read your poems—that’s all. Or at least a lot of them.
Rupert. Dear me. I hope you’re not confusing me with the other Cadell, sir.
Sir Johnstone. No. I don’t think so. You write poems, don’t you?
Rupert. I am told so, sir. But then so does the other Cadell. A devastating creature who spells it with two d’s.
Sir Johnstone. Oh no. There’s no confusion.
Granillo. I never knew you could spell Cadell with two d’s.
Leila. Same here.
Raglan. Yes, same here. I knew a Cadell once, and she used to spell it with only one d. Louisa Cadell Horrible old hag she was, too. She lived in Bayswater.
Rupert. Dear Heaven. The young man is alluding to my aunt.
Raglan. Oh, I say. I’m terribly sorry. Have I dropped a brick?
Rupert. No. You have said a mouthful. (Getting up.) Can I have another sandwich? (He takes another sandwich, sits down, all at once spills some wine, and commences violently wiping trousers with handkerchief.) I say, must we have our meal off a chest?
Brandon. Here you are. (Comes forward, gets him another glass of wine, and generally puts him right.)
Rupert. Thank you.
[Brandon goes over and fills Sir Johnstone’s glass with wine.
Brandon. Is Lady Kentley any better, sir?
Sir Johnstone. No. I’m afraid not. I’m afraid she’s still in bed.
Brandon. Oh. I’m sorry. And how’s Ronald getting on?
Sir Johnstone. Oh, Ronald? He’s getting on all right. He’s merely idling, of course, now, like you two.
Granillo. Does he like it, or does he want to get back?
Sir Johnstone. Oh no. He doesn’t want to get back. He has a great time.
Leila. Who’s Ronald?
Sir Johnstone. Ronald? He’s my son and heir. Twenty years of age.
Rupert. Oh, I know Ronald. He was in the papers the other day for winning the high jump at the Varsity sports.
Sir Johnstone. That’s right.
Rupert. Yes. I remember it well. There was a picture of me next door to it.
Sir Johnstone, Oh—was there?
Rupert. Yes. Not—though—for winning the high jump. Oh yes, quite an old friend.
Brandon. Yes, he’s a sprightly lad, is Ronald.
[There is a slight pause.
Raglan. Brandon says he’s like me. Is that true, sir?
Sir Johnstone. Why, yes, he is rather like you, hen you come to think of it. Quite like, really.
Raglan (to Leila). I’ve a double apparently.
Leila. My dear! How excruciating!
Raglan (to Sir Johnstone). In what way is he like me, sir?
Sir Johnstone. Oh, I don’t know. Just in general youthfulness . . .
Brandon. And innocence, and freshness, and. . . .
Raglan. Oh, shut up, Brandon.
Brandon. He’s so afraid they won’t think him a man, isn’t he?
Sir Johnstone, That’s like Ronald, too. I’m afraid they won’t feel like that for long, though.
Brandon. No. They won’t, poor dears.
Sir Johnstone. Of course, my boy is the most infantile thing in the world. I honestly believe his only passion in holiday time is the movies. When I saw him at lunch he was just rushing off to the Coliseum.
[Granillo makes movement at mantelpiece.
Brandon. But that’s not the movies, is it? I thought it was a music-hall. Not that I know. I’ve never been there in my life.
Leila. Never been to the Coliseum?
Rupert. Why—should he have been to the Coliseum?
Leila, Oh—lI thought everybody had been.
Brandon, Well—I haven’t.
Granillo. Neither have I. Is that the place in the Haymarket?
Leila. My dear! You’re mixing it up with Capitol! What abysmal ignorance!
[Granillo is standing with his back to the mantelpiece, his coat open and the blue ticket protuberant in his pocket.
Sir Johnstone. You’d have been a sad dog as an ancient Roman, Granillo.
Rupert. Yes. He would. Indeed, in the days of the Cæsars, the results of confusing the Coliseum with the Capitol would have been, I should imagine, almost fatal. Certainly you’d have been taken up.
Leila. What was the Capitol, then? Wasn’t it where they all got up and held forth?
Rupert. The Capitol, I am told, was the Roman temple to Jupiter on the Tarpeian hill.
Leila. Oh, my dear !—weren’t they sweet!
Rupert. Wherein—exactly—were the Ancient Romans “sweet”?
Leila. My dear—such awful fools! Going in for Jupiter, and temples, and all that. Such a terrible lot of bother about nothing!
Sir Johnstone. Well, that’s one way of looking at it.
Leila. Well, anyway, you must———
Rupert (interrupting). But to return to the twentieth century for just one moment. . . . Do you mean to tell me, Granillo, that you have never been to the Coliseum?
Granillo. No. Of course I haven’t. Never. Why?
Rupert (looking at him). Is that so? Dear, dear. . . .
Granillo. Yes. Why?
Rupert (slowly. Everybody quite still.) You mean to say you can stand there—and puff out your chest—and tell me you have never been to the Coliseum?
Granillo. Yes. Why? Why should you think that I had?
Rupert. Merely the hawk-like sharpness of my vision.
Sir Johnstone. Why? Is it a crime never to have been to the Coliseum?
Rupert. No, sir, I don’t expect it’s a crime.
Sir Johnstone. For in that case I am afraid I myself am guilty.
Rupert. Oh no, sir, I merely thought that Granillo—by the mere look of him, standing there in his beautiful dark blue suit—was not the sort of person who had never been to the Coliseum.
Granillo, Well—I haven’t.
Brandon (coming down from sideboard). But young Ronald has been to the Coliseum, anyway, sir?
Sir Johnstone. That’s right.
[There is a slight pause. Leila gets up for another sandwich, and Raglan comes forward to help her.
Rupert (coming forward and getting in further muddles with plates, etc.). You know, I’m coming to the conclusion that there’s some ulterior motive about this chest picnic.
Granillo (again a trifle too heavily). What do you mean? Ulterior motive?
[Rupert looks at him without replying. He is obviously a little surprised at the other’s tone.
Brandon. You mean it’s done purely to make poor Rupert spill things over his trousers?
Rupert. I think it’s more than likely.
Leila. Oh, I suspect much worse than that. I think they’ve committed murder, and it’s simply chock-full of rotting bones. It’s just the sort of thing for rotting bones, isn’t it?
Raglan. Yes—it is, isn’t it?
Leila. Yes, it is.
Brandon. My dear—you’re right. I wouldn’t let you see the inside of that chest for worlds.
Leila. I’m sure you wouldn’t.
[Granillo, again noticeably, walks back to his seat, R.
And it’s all very well to try and bluff me out and pretend you’re willing to let me see———
Brandon. But, my dear—that’s just what I said I wouldn’t do.
Leila. I have my suspicions.
Sir Johnstone. But surely your murderer, having chopped up and concealed his victim in a chest—wouldn’t ask all his friends round to come and eat off it.
Rupert (slowly). Not unless he was a very stupid, and very conceited murderer.
Sir Johnstone. Very stupid, and very conceited.
Rupert. Which, of course, he might be.
Leila. In fact, it’s exactly what all criminals are!
Brandon. Oh no, I don’t think so. . . .
[There is another pause.
Leila. Talking of murderers—have you seen that new thing on at the New Gallery?
Raglan. Yes, I saw that. Isn’t it good?
Leila. Yes. Isn’t it good? I didn’t like her, though, much—the woman—I didn’t think she was much good.
Raglan. No, she wasn’t much good. That other film was good, though, wasn’t it?
Leila. Yes. Wasn’t it good?
Raglan. Yes, it was good, wasn’t it?
Rupert. The Lord look down upon us. We have fallen amongst fans.
Leila. Of course, the man I’ve got a passion for is Jack Holt.
Rupert. Is he good?
Leila. My dear, absolutely marvellous! You know, my dear—strong silent. In fact, I think I like him better than John Gilbert now.
Rupert. John Gilbert who?
Raglan. Oh, do you like John Gilbert?
Leila, Oh—rather. I think he’s terribly good.
Raglan. Yes—he is good. Not as good as Ronald Colman, though.
(Rupert is looking sardonically at each speaker in turn.
Leila. Oh—don’t you think so? Did you see him in “The Merry Widow”?
Raglan. Yes, he was good in that. Of course, he had a moustache in that, didn’t he?
Rupert. I expect that improved him, didn’t it?
Leila. But then John Gilbert always had a moustache, didn’t he?
Raglan. Oh no. Rather not. I’ve seen him in thousands of ones without. All the early ones.
Rupert (despairingly) The early ones!
Leila. By the way, did you see Ronald Colman in that thing with Vilma Banky? I’ve forgotten what it was called—the Wonderful Something—or something—you know—it was all sort of—you know. . . .
Rupert. I, for one, at the moment of speaking, do not.
Raglan. Yes, I know what you mean. The Wonderful—I’ve forgotten what—it was jolly good, wasn’t it? What do you think of her—Vilma Banky?
Leila (disparagingly). Oh—I don’t know. . . . Like all these, you know.
Raglan. Oh—I think she’s rather good.
Rupert. I once went to the pictures and saw Mary Pickford.
Raglan. Oh—how did you like her?
Rupert. Oh, I don’t know. Like all these, you know. . . .
Leila. What was she in, anyway?
Rupert. I can’t quite recall. The Something Something, I think. Or something like that. (Pause) Something very like it, anyway.
Leila. I don’t believe you ever went.
Brandon. I never knew you were a fan like this Leila. I simply abhor the things myself.
Leila. What—on moral grounds?
Brandon. Oh, no. They simply make me go to sleep. And all those places are so infernally stuffy. Tell me, what do you think about films, Mrs. Debenham?
[Pause.
Mrs. Debenham (waking up and smirking). No—I don’t. . . .
[Silence. Everybody looking at each other and inclined to giggle.
Leila. Well, if you’d seen———
Rupert (cutting in). Pardon me. I cannot quite ascertain Mrs. Debenham’s opinion. She says she doesn’t. Does she mean that she does not think about films, or merely that she does not think at all?
[Pause.
Mrs. Debenham. Oh yes. Decidedly.
Rupert. Ah. I see.
Brandon (rising and placing his plate upon chest with an air of finality). Well, anyway, who says Books?
Sir Johnstone. Aye. (Rising.)
Leila, Yes, that’s a very good idea.
Brandon (looking at Leila). I have a gramophone for the very young, if they care to make use of it.
Leila. But I thought you said the room was all covered with books.
Brandon. Oh no—there’s room to dance.
Raglan (looking at wireless cabinet). Hullo, you’ve got a wireless.
Brandon. Yes. So we have. (Goes over to wireless.) Let’s see what they’re doing. They won’t be dancing yet. (He touches the apparatus.)
Leila. Oh no. Not till eleven. [Pause.
Brandon. Hullo—it’s not doing anything.
Rupert. Then take it off. (He rises, goes down to fire, takes a cigarette and lights it.)
Brandon (taking Sir Johnstone by the arm and leading him off). This way, Sir Johnstone. (He frees his arm at the doorway, and turns to Mrs. Debenham.) Will you come along, too, Mrs. Debenham? You dance, don’t you?
Mrs. Debenham. Oh, I really couldn’t say!
Rupert. We never know until we try, do we?
Mrs. Debenham. I beg your pardon.
Rupert. Granted—utterly.
Brandon. Well, come along, the rest of you—if you want to, that is. I’ve dozens of records in here.
[They go out, Raglan rather ostentatiously holding back the door for Leila, who smiles up at him and says “Thank you.” Granillo and Rupert are left alone. Granillo comes over to him at mantelpiece and takes another cigarette.
Granillo (slapping him affectionately upon shoulder). Well, Rupert?
Rupert. Well? You look rather fagged out.
Granillo. Do I? I don’t feel it.
Rupert. What have you been doing with yourself?
Granillo (yet again too heavily). Doing with myself? Nothing Why do you ask?
Rupert. For no reason whatever, my dear Granno. You seem rather touchy.
Granillo. Yes. I’m a bit liverish. I’ve been sleeping most of the afternoon, and that always puts me out for the rest of the day.
Rupert. Ah, that’s what I do. . . .
[In the room across the passage the gramophone begins.
Granillo. Writing anything lately?
Rupert (reflectively). Yes. . . . A little thing about Doves . . . and a little thing about Rain. . . . Both good. Very good, in fact. . . . And then, of course, I’m getting ahead with the big work. . . .
Granillo. That going well?
Rupert. Yes. Very. Indeed, it promises to be not only the best thing I have ever written, but the best thing I have ever read. (Nodding his head to gramophone.) This is rather nice, isn’t it? . . .
[Granillo suddenly yawns, sticking out his chest and lifting his hands. He is above Rupert, who is leaning against mantelpiece. The blue Coliseum slip it prominent in his waistcoat. He resumes normal position, leaning against mantelpiece. Rupert now also leans against mantelpiece, close to him, and looking at him.
Rupert. So you and Brandon leave to-night for Oxford?
Granillo (looking into fire). That’s right.
Rupert. What time are you going?
Granillo. We’re aiming to start about 10.30.
Rupert. Arriving there about when?
Granillo, Oh. About three. Why?
Rupert. Peculiar form of enjoyment, Granno. But, then, that’s like you.
Granillo, Why? Lovely moonlight night.
Rupert. It’s not. It’s raining already.
Granillo. It’s not.
Rupert. Yes, it is. Listen.
[The rain can be heard pouring gently down. The gramophone has stopped in the next room, and there is a sudden great quiet over everything. Rupert has put up his hand when telling Granillo to listen. Granillo listens, first by putting his head slightly sideways, and then by suddenly turning his head to look at the window. In this instant, Rupert makes a deft snatch at the little ticket in Granillo’s waistcoat pocket. Granillo turns his head back in time to see Rupert holding his hand behind his back rather awkwardly. But Rupert puts his hand in his pocket in quite an easy fashion, and Granillo passes it over. But there has been a queer little pause.
Granillo (looking into fireplace again). Yes, it is coming down, isn’t it?
Rupert (spotting book on mantelpiece and reaching for it). What have we here? . . . Ah-ha! . . . Conrad. Dear me. . . . Dear me. . . . (Turns pages interestedly.)
[The gramophone has started again. Suddenly the door across the passage opens and the sound of it comes loudly through. Also laughter and voices. Then the voice of Brandon.
Brandon (off). Granno! You’re wanted!
Granillo. Hullo!
Brandon. Granno! You’re wanted!
Granillo. Coming! (To Rupert) Coming along?
Rupert. No, I’m all right. [Granillo exits.
Rupert, left alone, goes on reading book for a little. Then, still standing and holding book, he fishes in his left-hand pocket for spectacle case. Is taking spectacles out and looking at book at the same time. Then he strolls towards armchair. He sits down, adjusts spectacles on face, still reading; puts case absently on table, and fishes in other pocket for blue ticket. He holds this out, straightening it on his knee as he goes on reading. Then he closes book with one hand, places it on table, leans back and gives his whole attention to ticket. Turns it over each side. Then he screws it up in his hand, which he drops over side of armchair, and looks thoughtfully—not suspiciously—ahead of him. The noise of the gramophone comes through from the other room. He stays like this for nearly half a minute. Then he takes up book again and is just about to read when Sabot enters.
Rupert (looking up). Ah—good evening, Sabot.
Sabot (commencing to clear meal away). Good evening, sair.
Rupert (reading). How are you getting on?
Sabot. Very well, thank you, sair.
[Sabot continues with his clearing. Rain is heard a little louder.
Rupert (after a pause. Quietly.) It’s going to be a dirty night.
Sabot. Yes, sair. It’s set in now, sair.
Rupert. I suppose Mr. Brandon’ll still be going, though.
Sabot. Pardon, sair?
Rupert. I suppose Mr. Brandon’ll still be going though—to Oxford?
Sabot. Oh—yes, sair. I suppose so, sair.
[Sabot busies himself with clearing. Rupert all at once puts down book and looks at little ticket again.
Rupert. Have you any idea of the date, Sabot?
Sabot. Ze date, sair? Yes, sair. It ees zee—er (screwing up eyes, just as he is about to remove a large bundle of plates)—er—sixteenth, sair.
Rupert. The———? (He is about to repeat “the sixteenth” in surprise.)
Sabot (quickly). No, sair! No, sair! It ees not, sair! It ees the seventeenth, sair!
Rupert (looking quite openly at ticket). Yes. I thought so. The seventeenth.
[Pause.
Rupert. Have you been getting into trouble lately, Sabot?
Sabot. Trouble, sair?
Rupert. Yes. Trouble.
Sabot. Er—trouble, sair?
Rupert. Uncanny as it may seem, the word I employed, Sabot, was trouble.
Sabot. Er—what kind of trouble, sair?
Rupert. Why—have you a selection?
Sabot. Ah, sair. Life. She is full of trouble.
Rupert. She certainly is. Indeed she is almost unintermittently troublesome. I was wondering, though, whether you had been getting into any trouble with your employers.
Sabot. Me, sair? No, sair. What should make you think so, sair?
Rupert. Well, I telephoned this house at a quarter to eight and heard the most hysterical noises.
Sabot. Hysterical noises, sair?
Rupert. Hysterical—Sabot—noises. Somebody had evidently lost their nerve. I was wondering whether you were the cause of it.
Sabot. Me, sair? No, sair. Not me, sair. I was not here till five to nine.
[Long pause. Sabot still clearing.
Rupert. Then are you the one that frequents the Coliseum, Sabot?
Sabot (not having heard, or understood, and merely being polite). Yes, sair.
Rupert (seeing that this is the wrong reply, and looking up). I said, are you the one that frequents the Coliseum?
Sabot (pulling himself together). Oh, sair! I did not hear, sair! Pardon, sair. The Coliseum, sair? No, sair.
Rupert. You don’t?
Sabot. Zee—er—zee music-hall, sair?
Rupert. Yes.
Sabot (in a puzzled fashion, as though accused, and quite innocently). No, sair. . . . No, sair. I have been there once, sair. . . . Many years ago, sair.
Rupert. But not lately?
Sabot. No, sair.
[Another pause, as Sabot goes on clearing.
Rupert. Then is it Mr. Granillo who frequents the Coliseum?
Sabot. Mr. Granillo, sair?
Rupert. Or is it Mr. Brandon who frequents the place?
Sabot. Mr. Brandon, sair?
[On this the door opens and Brandon walks in. He is quite bright and cheerful, and goes straight over to sideboard, plainly to fetch drinks. As he goes over he speaks rallyingly.
Brandon. Hullo! Hullo! “Mr. Brandon”? What’s all this about Mr. Brandon?
Rupert (quickly). I was asking the good Sabot, Brandon, whether Mr. Brandon would still travel to Oxford in all this rain. Wasn’t I, Sabot?
Sabot (looking up quickly from one to another, in a puzzled way). Er. Yes, sair. Yes, sair.
Brandon (bending down to fish in cupboard in sideboard for bottles). Well—I hope he told you that we are. What’s a little rain, anyway? (Has produced whisky bottle and is looking at it. Walks across room to door.) Besides, we’ve got nobody to look after us here. One moment, I’ll be back in a minute. (Suddenly turns down stage to look over Rupert’s shoulder to see what he is reading.) What’s he reading? “The Rover.” I’ll be back in a minute. Why don’t you come in? (Turning to Sabot.) That’s all right, Sabot. You can go straight away now—now that’s cleared.
Sabot. Thank you, sair.
Brandon (to Rupert). Back in a minute.
[He goes out. There is another pause as Sabot puts the final touch to his clearing.
Rupert. That, Sabot, was what we call a White One.
Sabot (again uncomprehending). A White One, sair? (Seeing.) Oh, sair! Yes, sair. . . . A white one, sair. (Draws air in through his teeth rather nervously.)
[Rupert goes on reading. Sabot goes to door and opens it, comes back and fetches tray containing everything cleared, and goes out with it into the passage, leaving door open. He can be heard putting down tray outside, comes back to close door, but pauses in doorway. He bows.
Bon soir, monsieur.
Rupert (looking up from book). Good night, Sabot.
[Sabot goes out. There is a pause. The rain comes down. Rupert abruptly closes book and gets up. Moves towards the window. He pauses at chest and gives it a kick—not very suspiciously, but curiously, in passing—goes on to window and looks out. Rain. He comes down and helps himself to a drink. Goes back to the same chair and resumes book. Suddenly closes it and looks in front of him. After about ten seconds he is about to resume book, when a chorus of voices is heard from the next room and Brandon re-enters.
Brandon (looking at chest and at Rupert). Hullo, Sabot gone?
Rupert. Yes, Sabot gone. (Puts book on table.) Brandon.
[Brandon closes door and comes down to mantelpiece for a cigarette. Lights it. Pause. Rupert settles himself in armchair.
Brandon. Um? (Begins to poke the fire.)
Rupert. I have just thought of something rather queer.
Brandon (still at fire). Something queer, What’s that?
Rupert. All this talk about rotting bones in chests. . . .
[Brandon stands up, poker in hand, and looks at Rupert who is gazing lethargically into the distance. The gramophone is suddenly heard again, together with a great guffaw of general laughter.
CURTAIN.