by Norbert Davis

G-men take over Doan's life and complications ensue - a search for unique ore in the demented desert town of Heliotrope, mistaken identity, spies, and general chaos.

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excerpt from Chapter 1:

THIS WILL PROBABLY STRIKE YOU AS HIGHLY improbable if you know your Hollywood, but the lobby of the Orna Apartment Hotel, off Rossmore south of Melrose, is done in very nice taste. It is neat and narrow and dignified, with a conservative blue carpet on the floor and a small black reception desk on a line straight back from the unadorned plate glass door.

At this particular moment its only occupant was the desk clerk. He was small and very young-looking, and he had dark curly hair and a snub nose with freckles across the bridge. His blue eyes were staring with a look of fierce, crosshatched concentration at the pictured diagram of a radio hookup he had spread out on the desk.

The plate glass door opened, and a man came into the lobby with a quietly purposeful air. He was blond and a little better than medium height, and he was wearing an inconspicuous blue business suit. He looked so much like an attorney or an accountant or the better class of insurance broker that it was perfectly obvious what he really was.

He walked up to the desk and said, 'Have you a party by the name of Pocus staying here?'

The desk clerk was following the whirligig line that indicated a coil on his diagram with the point of a well-chewed pencil. The pencil point hesitated for a split second and then moved on again.

'No,' he said. He didn't have to bother about being courteous because he intended to quit the apartment hotel any minute now and get a job at a fabulous salary in a war plant installing radios in fighter planes.

The blond man took a leather folder from his pocket, opened it, and spread it out on the radio diagram. 'Take a look at this.'

The clerk studied the big gold badge for a second and then looked up slowly. 'You're a G-man.'

The blond man winced slightly. 'I'm a special agent of the Department of Justice. Let's start over again. What's your name?'

'Edmund.'

'All right, Edmund. Have you got a party by the name of Pocus staying here? H. Pocus or Hocus Pocus?'

'No,' said Edmund. He cleared his throat. 'Will you excuse me for a second? I've got to call and wake up one of our tenants. He works on the swing shift, and he has to get waked up and eat before--'

The blond man punched him suddenly and expertly in the chest with a stiffened forefinger. 'Get away from the switchboard. You're not tipping anybody off.' He whistled shrilly through his teeth.

Another man came in the front door. He was short and stocky, and he had sleepy brown eyes and a scar on his nose. A third man came in from the hall that led to the back door. He was very tall and thin, stooped a little. He wore a light topcoat, and he kept his hands in its pockets.

'They're here,' said the blond man. 'Come on, Edmund. Give. Which apartment are they in?'

Edmund stood mute.

The blond man watched him curiously. 'Are you scared of them?'

'Yes,' said Edmund.

'Listen, son,' said the blond man. 'This is the government you're talking to now. If either one of them even made a pass at you, we'd put them away in Alcatraz.'

'How do I know they'd stay there?' Edmund asked.

'All right,' said the blond man. 'Come on out from behind that desk. Sit down in that chair and rest your feet. Look up the tenant index, Curtis.'

The stocky man went behind the desk, found the file of register cards, and ran through them expertly.

'In two-two-nine,' he said. He looked under the desk. 'Here's the pass key.' He flipped it to the blond man.