Leading the pair to a small eatery which, judging by its proportionate proportion of locals, was reasonably authentic, the man removed his copper-framed spectacles, deeming them no longer necessary, and ordered a sampling of indigenous dishes. Returning from the counter, he slammed dully into a side table which staff had carelessly left out in the hope of customers sitting at it and re-affixed his spectacles. Ben and Hugh giggled.
“I know why you’re here,” the man said, finally seating himself beside them at the table and nursing his left leg under it.
“I should hope so, you brought us here,” said Ben, becoming faintly pleased with himself afterwards. “Although you did get my name wrong.”
“Hm?” The man blinked.
“Ben Surname. An easy mistake to make given the context, but there you go.”
“Well then I must beg your pardon.”
“You have it, my good man.”
“May I continue?”
Ben thought for a moment before assenting.
“Thank you.” The man scoped the room briefly then continued. “This is about Kurt Muskens, no?”
Ben looked at Hugh before Hugh could look at Ben.
“Um... No?” ventured Hugh.
“Please, I’m C.I.A.”
“We surrender,” said both.
“Or Charles Isidro Abendalak, if you prefer, Suriname’s finest private detective. There’s not a lot that goes down around here that I don’t know about.”
“Yes, you almost knew our names,” said Ben, nudging himself in the ribs when he noticed Hugh wasn’t going to.
“And what if this is about Kurt Muskens?” asked Hugh.
“Then it would be my regrettable duty to inform you that you have wasted a 20-hour plane journey.”
“How so?”
Charles put his hands together patronisingly. “He’s not here.”
“He’s not?”
“No. He was -- your intel was not entirely wrong. But no longer.”
“Good thing we’re not looking for him then,” said Ben. “But supposing we were, where is the little bleeder?”
“He has returned home, or to somewhere even further from Suriname.”
At this point an assortment of plates arrived at their table, assisted ably by the person bringing them. Hugh surveyed the meat-based dishes dismally before honing in on a safe-looking pepper pot.
“So you’ll be leaving then?” said Charles, strangely not participating in the meal.
“Oh I don’t know,” said Ben. “I’ve heard Suriname in the spring is magical.”
“You’ve heard wrong. Spring in Suriname is a living nightmare of cyclones and poison rain.”
“But with charming scenery. I think we’ll stay,” decided Ben.
“I didn’t want it to get to this point, chaps, but I’m afraid I will have to insist upon your departure.”
“And how will you do that?” said Hugh.
“By lacing the food you have just imbibed with poison.”
The pair nodded in unison.
“Can I take you up on two points there?” said Ben.
“By all means.”
“Well, firstly you used ‘imbibed’ incorrectly, and secondly, you said, ‘I didn’t want it to get to this point’, when you quite clearly would have had to pre-poison our food prior to this conversation.”
“Shouldn’t you have collapsed by now?”
“Yes,” said Ben, collapsing.
Hugh looked at the body of his companion slumped over the table, nodded once then joined him.
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