The Murder on the Links by Agatha Christie Page A

help feeling that, so far, Poirot had not greatly distinguished himself, and it vexed me. He seemed to be directing his attention to all sorts of silly puerile points that had nothing to do with the case. Indeed, at this juncture, he suddenly asked:
    â€œMonsieur Bex, tell me, I pray you, the meaning of this whitewashed line that extends all round the grave. Is it a device of the police?”
    â€œNo, Monsieur Poirot, it is an affair of the golf course. It shows that there is here to be a ‘bunkair,’ as you call it.”
    â€œA bunkair?” Poirot turned to me. “That is the irregular hole filled with sand and a bank at one side, is it not?”
    I concurred.
    â€œMonsieur Renauld, without doubt he played the golf?”
    â€œYes, he was a keen golfer. It’s mainly owing to him, and to his large subscriptions, that this work is being carried forward. He even had a say in the designing of it.”
    Poirot nodded thoughtfully. Then he remarked:
    â€œIt was not a very good choice they made—of a spot to bury the body? When the men began to dig up the ground, all would have been discovered.”
    â€œExactly,” cried Giraud triumphantly. “And that proves thatthey were strangers to the place. It’s an excellent piece of indirect evidence.”
    â€œYes,” said Poirot doubtfully. “No one who knew would bury a body there—unless they wanted it to be discovered. And that is clearly absurd, is it not?”
    Giraud did not even trouble to reply.
    â€œYes,” said Poirot, in a somewhat dissatisfied voice. “Yes—undoubtedly—absurd!”

Seven
T HE M YSTERIOUS M ADAME D AUBREUIL
    A s we retraced our steps to the house, M. Bex excused himself for leaving us, explaining that he must immediately acquaint the examining magistrate with the fact of Giraud’s arrival. Giraud himself had been obviously delighted when Poirot declared that he had seen all he wanted. The last thing we observed, as we left the spot, was Giraud, crawling about on all fours, with a thoroughness in his search that I could not but admire. Poirot guessed my thoughts, for as soon as we were alone he remarked ironically:
    â€œAt last you have seen the detective you admire—the human foxhound! Is it not so, my friend?”
    â€œAt any rate, he’s doing something,” I said, with asperity. “If there’s anything to find he’ll find it. Now you—”
    â€œ Eh bien! I also have found something! A piece of lead-piping.”
    â€œNonsense, Poirot. You know very well that’s got nothing to do with it. I meant little things—traces that may lead us infallibly to the murderers.”
    â€œ Mon ami, a clue of two feet long is every bit as valuable as onemeasuring two millimetres! But it is the romantic idea that all important clues must be infinitesimal. As to the piece of lead-piping having nothing to do with the crime, you say that because Giraud told you so. No”—as I was about to interpose a question—“we will say no more. Leave Giraud to his search, and me to my ideas. The case seems straightforward enough—and yet—and yet, mon ami, I am not satisfied! And do you know why? Because of the wristwatch that is two hours fast. And then there are several curious little points that do not seem to fit in. For instance, if the object of the murderers was revenge, why did they not stab Renauld in his sleep and have done with it?”
    â€œThey wanted the ‘secret,’” I reminded him.
    Poirot brushed a speck of dust from his sleeve with a dissatisfied air.
    â€œWell, where is this ‘secret?’ Presumably some distance away, since they wish him to dress himself. Yet he is found murdered close at hand, almost within earshot of the house. Then again, it is pure chance that a weapon such as the dagger should be lying about casually, ready to hand.”
    He paused, frowning, and then went