Roland DeForrest - The Erotic Quest of Dirk and Honey

“Have you located Yves?”

Dirk swiveled his head to stare out the glass doors at the man across the lobby. “Yup, he’s here, all right. How’d you know he’d be coming?”

“A little maid told me,” she giggled. “I would have followed him myself, but I’d already made contact with him. He’d know for certain I didn’t believe him. How was your flight from Cartagena?”

“Hated to leave, hate more to be here. This place is weird. Looks like it was designed for some fantasy pavilion at Disneyland.”

“The Bussaco Palace is one of the world’s best kept secrets,” she laughed. “Used to be the hunting lodge for Portuguese kings. It’s one of my favorite hideaways. Broaden your horizons, baby brother.”

He ignored her sisterly dig. “What are you doing in Paris?”

“Waiting for my darling Disa to return from Munich. I’m hoping she’ll be able to help. She knows absolutely everybody who’s anybody on the continent.”

“I still don’t know how I’ll learn anything new from this Yves fellow,” he sighed. “If you couldn’t get the truth out of him, how do you expect me to?”

“Use your imagination, Dirk,” she said lightly. “And, as I said before, don’t be so damned provincial you forget to broaden your horizons. Call me as soon as you make contact.”

“Are you telling me everything I should know about this fellow?”

“Dirk,” she teased, “for pete’s sake don’t be such an old fuddy-duddy. Yves is perfectly harmless, but he’s lying through his teeth.”

Dirk was about to respond when he spotted the subject under discussion rising and moving swiftly across the lobby toward the stained-glass front entrance. “Got to run, sis. Yves is on the move. I’ll call you soonest. Ciao.” He hung up, grabbed his camera bag, and exited the booth, moving rapidly after the disappearing figure.

Outside, on the broad front steps of the bizarrely designed hotel, he hesitated, looking in all directions before spotting Yves Bouscaral scurrying down a path leading into the densely wooded hills that surrounded the former royal hunting lodge. Dirk hurried after him, past the rock-lined reflecting pool graced by several white swans, and into the thick stand of trees. The sunshine of northern Portugal was diffused by the overhanging branches, and the farther Dirk progressed along the winding dirt path, the dimmer the light became. The crisp smell of pine increased as the trail wound steeply up into the hills.

For a long while Dirk followed the path, working up a fierce thirst and not catching so much as a glimpse of his prey. Then, rounding an outcropping of slate, he pulled up short. Up ahead, in a small clearing, the path was bisected by a gravel road that followed the crest of the ridge. On the road was a black Rolls touring car, looking oddly out of place in the rustic surroundings. But it was the human factor that held Dirk’s interest. Yves was meeting with a man just emerging from the rear seat of the chauffeured Rolls. Dirk ducked behind a tree trunk and quickly opened his camera case, pulling out his Nikon F3 and his 350 mm 5.6 mirror lens. Hastily he assembled the tools of his trade and, after checking the ASA of his film, began snapping a series of pictures of the two men.

Wishing he were closer so that he might hear some of the exchange, he studied the figures framed in his viewfinder. It was more than obvious that Yves was greatly agitated, for his hands and arms waved angrily in the air as he spoke. The other man, whose face was obscured partially by a gray fedora, was replying with an equal amount of Gallic exuberance, shouting back, gesticulating wildly. Yves stomped away, then whirled, hurling still more invective. The other man whipped off his gray hat and slapped his thigh with it in disgust. Seizing the moment, Dirk focused on this man’s face and snapped away, his automatic film advancer whirring softly in the still air. Whoever he was, this second man had a face that Dirk would never forget; a pencil-thin mustache made a precise black mark just below the man’s nose, giving him an evil, decadent appearance, and his eyes were mere narrow slits of anger.

Abruptly this second man spun to the Rolls and climbed in the back seat again, slamming the door. In a shower of dust and gravel the large black auto shot forward, careening out of sight at the top of the ridge. Yves stared after the departing Rolls and, with a defeated shrug, turned back to the path, heading straight down toward the unseen cameraman. Dirk plunged into the bushes and squatted, waiting for the man to pass. Yves was muttering to himself in French as he stalked by, barely three feet from where Dirk hid.

Dirk followed him back toward the hotel, wondering what could have been so secret about the meeting of the two men that it couldn’t have been held in a more public place. The hotel itself was so far from the normal tourist route that it was fairly isolated. And the nearby village of Mealhada was so small, Dirk doubted that such a rendezvous as he had just witnessed would have raised an eyebrow among the natives. Whatever the reason for the clandestine encounter in the woods, it only increased Dirk’s growing interest in Yves Bouscaral.

His quarry returned to the front of the hotel and stood with apparent uncertainty on the front steps. Dirk, still in the woods, skirted along the edge and found a suitable spot for further pictures of the man. With the afternoon sun striking the façade of the former palace, all of its intricate details were starkly lit. The many-storied structure was a humorous tangle of battlements, buttresses, towers, turrets, outside staircases, gargoyles, and arches. The ornateness diminished the lone man on the front steps and made an interesting composition for the photographs. Dirk was so intent upon his camerawork that he almost missed Yves dashing down the steps and into a waiting cab. The local taxi-a small, battered Renault-sped away toward the village.

By the time Dirk could get a cab of his own and reach the sunbaked town, Yves was nowhere to be seen. Cursing his luck, Dirk roamed the narrow streets, checking the many eating and drinking spots that catered to the hotel guests. The sun was setting behind the high hills before he found parked in front of a cafe the taxi that had whisked Yves from the hotel. The driver was a friendly fellow who responded to Dirk’s twenty-dollar bill with a desire to help. He pointed down the street toward a stone building and winked lasciviously. “He there,” the cabbie said, and winked again.

Dirk nodded his thanks and trotted to the indicated building. He opened the front door and stepped inside. Darkness greeted him, and the disturbing smells of sweat and dirty clothes hung in the heavy, moist air. At first he thought it was a laundry, but as his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he couldln’t figure out where the hell he was. A small windowed booth off to one side held a baldheaded figure who was beckoning him over. Dirk approached, conscious of how quiet the establishment was. The bald man behind the small counter, whispered, “You want locker or basket?”

“What is this joint?”

“Bathhouse. You want locker or basket?”

“Give me a locker,” Dirk replied, and pulled out some local currency to pay the entry fee. He was pointed through a side door, where he entered a long, dimly lit corridor lined with many doors. Dirk kept going and walked into a locker room. An old attendant dressed in white handed him a towel and a padlock, nodding toward a row of metal cabinets. Dirk chose one in the far corner and disrobed hurriedly, wrapping a towel around himself and stuffing his clothes inside the locker. He told himself he’d make a quick tour of the place, and if he didn’t spot Yves, he’d wait outside for the guy. Already he was feeling extremely uncomfortable.