‘No, Monsieur Poirot, it is an affair of the golf course. It shows that there is here to be a “bunkair”, as you call it.’
‘A bunker?’ Poirot turned to me. ‘That is the irregular hole filled with sand and a bank at one side is it not?’
I concurred.
‘Monsieur 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 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.
‘Yes,’ said Poirot, in a somewhat dissatisfied voice. ‘Yes undoubtedly—absurd!’
CHAPTER 7
THE MYSTERIOUS MADAME DAUBREUIL
As 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: ‘At last you have seen the detective you admire—the human foxhound! Is it not so, my friend?’
‘At any rate, he’s doing something,’ I said, with asperity. ‘If there’s anything to find he’ll find it. Now you—’
‘Eh bien! I also have found something! A piece of lead-piping.’
‘Nonsense, 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.’
‘Mon ami, a clue of two feet long is every bit as valuable as one measuring 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?’
‘They wanted the “secret”,’ I reminded him.
Poirot brushed a speck of dust from his sleeve with a dissatisfied air.
‘Well, 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 on: ‘Why did the servants hear nothing? Were they drugged? Was there an accomplice, and did that accomplice see to it that the front door should remain open? I wonder if—’
He stopped abruptly. We had reached the drive in front of the house. Suddenly he turned to me.
‘My friend, I am about to surprise you—to please you! I have taken your reproaches to heart! We will examine some footprints!’
‘Where?’
‘In that right-hand bed yonder. Monsieur Bex says that they are the footmarks of the gardener. Let us see if this is so. See, he approaches with his wheelbarrow.’
Indeed an elderly man was just crossing the drive with a barrowful of seedlings. Poirot called to him, and he set down the barrow and came hobbling towards us.