The Secret of Suriname: Chapter XIII

Hugh Hamilton

Though they had just been spared a particularly inglorious demise, there was a mounting excitement among the pair as they ascended towards the canopy. The ingenuous, even whimsical construction of the lift promised an elaborate Swiss Family Robinson-style setup in the treetops above, and Ben and Hugh could not help but grin idiotically at the prospect. The impeccably dressed man, meanwhile, held an aspect of handsome boredom, the journey having long ceased being novel. When the lift finally came to a halt, somewhat inelegantly, they were deep within the highest branches of the tallest trees and it was no longer possible to see the ground or the decaying Germans thereon. Ben and Hugh’s anticipatory smiles so dominated their faces at this point that the effect was more than a little off-putting. Of course, they had not yet looked around.
“Mind the faeces,” said the man, stepping adroitly onto an unsullied section of a platform that was otherwise covered in the stuff.
Remaining in the lift, their expressions now violently inverted, Ben and Hugh were horrified to discover that the elaborate arboreal fortress of their imaginations amounted to little more than a haphazard configuration of sticks, planks and torn fabric, which extended only a short distance beyond the platform before nature resumed unmolested. The overwhelming stench that accompanied this discovery would have gone some way towards identifying the substance that was smeared across almost every surface, had their host not already resolved that particular mystery.
“Why... Why…” Ben found himself saying.
“Why what?” said the man, his handsomeness strangely undiminished by the setting.
“Why the faeces, I guess?”
The man chortled condescendingly.
“This is a hideout.”
A few moments of silence passed before Ben and Hugh realised that the man must have considered this explanation satisfactory and was not going to elaborate further without prompting.
“This would scarcely constitute a hideout,” said the man, having been prompted, “if I were reckless with my waste and simply let it fall and gather in the clearing below. I might as well erect a neon sign specifying my exact location.”
“But… But…” Hugh found himself saying.
“But what?”
“But couldn’t you, I don’t know, bury it?”
“Preposterous. You mean to say I should journey all the way to the ground and dig a hole before I go about my business? Leaving alone the impracticality of such an arrangement, I should be spotted in no time.”
“But you could just use a bucket or something up here and then you'd only need to travel down when it gets full,” said Ben. "Or whatever the Robinsons do."
The man turned away and gazed reflectively over the treetops.
“An excellent idea," he announced suddenly, returning to the duo. "I could use you on staff. Please join me in the living room and we can discuss matters further.”
Not seeing anywhere that would even remotely fit the label, Ben and Hugh stepped forward uncertainly before deducing that the collection of poorly arranged planks the man had progressed to was the room in question. Though they took extreme care in making their way over, they did not, regrettably, succeed in remaining unsoiled.
“Can I interest you in some nourishment?” The man held out a tray of very peculiar-looking meat-stuffs.
“No,” said everyone else present.
“Suit yourselves. I suppose you must be wondering who I am?”
Ben and Hugh indicated as much.
“I—,” began the man. “Wait, can I trust you?”
“Yes,” said Ben.
“Yes,” said Hugh.
“Oh, that’s a relief. You can’t be too careful, you know.” The man messily devoured an unspecified meat object before continuing. “My name is Mosgrave.”
The revelation did not have the effect he had anticipated. He cocked his head curiously, some combination of saliva and meat juice dripping down onto his collar as he did so.
“Wait, no, it’s Muskens. Kurt Muskens. Mosgrave is my cover. And before you ask, yes, I am that Muskens.”
“What are you doing out here?” asked Ben, hoping to progress things as rapidly as possible. The novelty of being in a place where more or less every surface bore some trace of human excrement was wearing thin.
“I am searching for the secret of Suriname.”
“What’s the secret of Suriname?” Ben did not bother to disguise the impatience in his voice.
“If I knew that, I wouldn’t be searching for it, would I?”
“But do you know what it relates to?”
“Suriname.”
Ben winced. “How do you propose to find it?”
“If I knew that, I would have found it, wouldn’t I?”
“So you just expect it to reveal itself if you shit up a tree long enough?”
“Excuse me?”
“So you just expect it to reveal itself if you sit up a tree long enough?”
“Certainly not. I have people working on it. I’m here so they don’t find me.”
“Who?” barked Hugh, feeling a little left out.
“The board of directors from my former company. They keep sending two-bit detectives after me.”
Ben and Hugh exchanged a glance.
“And of course I have no choice but to dispose of the poor fellows in the most gruesome of fashions if they succeed in locating me. Very wasteful business.” Muskens looked genuinely sombre for a moment. “Still,” he continued, licking his lips, “It’s not all wasteful.”
Ben and Hugh exchanged another glance.
“I just wish they’d get on with things and leave me be. A man should not be condemned to a lifetime in the tempered glass and custard game just because he was astonishingly successful at deriving profits from it. Peter understands.”
“Who’s Peter?” asked Hugh.
“Peter Ogtrop, of Ogtrop's Glustard. He’s thinking of going straight as well. We were the fiercest of rivals back in the day but we’ve become fast friends since I left the industry. He’s been awfully helpful, too. Got me that fancy lift and installed the security system that did a job on your friends down there. He even found someone to bring me a regular supply of fresh clothes, the considerate cad. If it weren't for him and his cherished ex-militia sons, I don’t know where I’d be.”
“Dutch fellow, I suppose?” said Ben, too exhausted from the exposition dump to be scared anymore.
“Naturally. Oh, it’s time for my pills. Do excuse me.” Muskens fished a small container from one of his pockets.
“Pills?” said Hugh, straining to make out the text on the container.
“Yes, Peter swears by them. Must keep the vitals on the level, you know. Care to try one? They’re apple-flavoured.”
“My favourite artificial flavour!”
“We’re fine,” said Ben, impeding Hugh's approach.
“Righto.” Muskens located a canteen that had seen better days — that is to say, days in which it did not have shit smeared on it — and was just about to take a pill when something occurred to him.
“Say, you haven't seen any detectives about, have you?”
“Detectives? No, I can’t say I have. Have you, Hugh?”
“I wish! It would be very exciting to see fellow detectives. I mean detective fellows! But no, absolutely not.”
Ben decided against inflicting a measure of pain on his companion, realising it would only draw further suspicion. In fact it was he who had committed the greater blunder, as Muskens’ next remark made plain.
“Did you say Hugh?”