Collection 2: "Sorry, Wrong Number" by Lucille Fletcher

Mrs. Stevenson (a querulous, self-centered neurotic). Oh, dear!

Mrs. Stevenson (a querulous, self-centered neurotic). Oh, dear!

Spotlight picks up a figure of a heavy-set man seated at a desk with a phone on R. side of dark periphery of stage.

Mrs. Stevenson (louder and more imperious, to phone). Hello. Who’s this? What number am I calling, please?

1st and 2nd Man exit as unobtrusively as possible, in darkness.

Mrs. Stevenson (unnerved and breathless, into phone). Operator, I—I’ve just been cut off.

She bridles, adjusts herself on her pillows, reaches for a handkerchief and wipes her forehead, glancing uneasily for a moment toward the window.

Mrs. Stevenson (angrily). You didn’t try to get that wrong number at all. I asked explicitly and all you did was dial correctly.

It’s my civic duty—it’s your civic duty—to trace that call and to apprehend those dangerous killers.

Duffy, in exasperation, holds his pencil poised.

I’m an invalid, and it’s the maid’s night off, and I hate to be alone even though he says I’m perfectly safe as long as I have the telephone right beside my bed.

Duffy (stolidly). Well, we’ll look into it, Mrs. Stevenson, and see if we can check it with the telephone company.

Mrs. Stevenson sinks back against the pillows again, whimpering to herself fretfully.

Mrs. Stevenson (breathlessly, aghast, to herself.) Oh, no—

Operator (fat and lethargic). Your call, please?