“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 bury a body
there—unless—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!”