thing! What a man! Undoubtedly Giraud is the greatest detective alive today.”
Although I disliked the detective heartily, I nevertheless was secretly impressed. Efficiency seemed to radiate from the man. I could not 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, “M. 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?”
“No, M. Poirot, it is an affair of the golf course. It shows that there is here to be a ‘bunkair,’ as you call it.”
“A bunkair?” Poirot turned to me. “That is the irregular hole filled with sand and a bank at one side, is it not?”
I concurred.
“You do not play the golf, M. Poirot?"” inquired Bex.
“I? Never! What a game!” He became excited. “Figure to yourself, each hole it is of a different length. The obstacles, they are not arranged mathematically. Even the greens are frequently up one side! There is only one pleasing thing—the how do you call them?—tee boxes! They, at least, are symmetrical.”
I could not refrain from a laugh at the way the game appeared to Poirot, and my little friend smiled at me affectionately, bearing no malice. Then he asked, “But M. Renauld, without doubt he played the golf?”
“Yes, 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, “It 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.”
“Exactly,” cried Giraud triumphantly. “And that proves that they were strangers to the place. It's an excellent piece of indirect evidence.”
“Yes,” said Poirot doubtfully. “No one who knew would
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