The Copper Frame by Ellery Queen Page B

to Saxon. The paper read: Alton Zek, Fenimore Hotel, Room 203 .
    â€œThe guy’s a junkie,” Spijak said. “Also a stoolie who plays both sides. But he knows everything that goes on in the vice and narcotics rackets. I don’t want you to tell him I sent you, because he’ll probably run tell Morrison you were nosing around the minute you leave, and I don’t want a guy like Harry Morrison down on me.”
    â€œHow will I get him to talk, then?” Saxon asked.
    â€œShow him a twenty-dollar bill. He won’t give a hoot in hell who you are. He’d sell out his mother for a twenty.”
    â€œThanks, Tony.”

chapter 13
    The Fenimore Hotel was on lower Main Street in the area where Main abruptly turns from a district of sleek modern stores, theaters, and cocktail lounges to one of dives and flophouses. It was a ramshackle frame building of three stories that advertised rooms at a dollar and up.
    There was an elderly man with a dirty shirt behind a desk in the lobby. He eyed Saxon warily. It was the sort of place where a seedily dressed stranger would automatically be stopped for questioning about his business to make sure one of the tenants wasn’t allowing a friend to bunk in without paying rent. But Saxon’s dress passed him, because it was also the sort of place periodically visited by the police. Saxon’s clothing was hardly expensive, but it was of a good, solid quality worn by only one type of visitor to the Fenimore. The desk man probably assumed he was a local cop.
    There was no elevator. Saxon climbed rickety stairs to the second floor and found room 203.
    When he knocked on the door, a hoarse voice from inside said, “Yeah?”
    Saxon tried the knob, found the door unlocked and pushed it open. There was an unmade iron bed with dirty sheets, a battered dresser with a washbasin and pitcher on it, a single straight-back chair before a small table, and a soiled and sagging overstuffed chair near the window facing the door. A thin, shriveled man of indeterminate age sat in the overstuffed chair. He wore stained denim pants and a wrinkled O.D. army shirt. He looked up at Saxon’s height dully, one cheek twitching.
    Closing the door behind him, Saxon said, “Are you Alton Zek?”
    â€œYeah. But if you’re a cop, I ain’t done nothing.” He dropped his eyes, which were beginning to water with the strain of gazing upward.
    â€œYou look as if you need a pop,” Saxon said. Taking out his wallet, he removed a twenty-dollar bill, replaced the wallet, and let the bill dangle from his thumb and forefinger.
    Alton Zek licked his lips, his eyes on the bill. His cheek gave another twitch.
    â€œI don’t know what you’re talking about, mister.”
    â€œSure you do,” Saxon said. “You’ve got a monkey riding you so hard you’re shaking apart.”
    Zek said cautiously, “If you’re from Narcotics, you’re wasting your time. I don’t even know what horse means.”
    â€œI’m not from Narcotics and I’m not after your pusher. I’m after a different kind of information.”
    â€œYeah? What?”
    â€œYou know a Sergeant Harry Morrison?”
    The man’s watery eyes remained fixed on the dangling bill. “I know of him.”
    â€œHe has a call girl working for him whose first name is Ann. I want her full name and where to find her.”
    Alton Zek’s gaze climbed to Saxon’s face. “You guys finally got wind of that, huh? The damn fool, risking his job over a hustler. You from Internal Affairs?”
    â€œI’m not any kind of cop,” Saxon said. “I just want the information.”
    â€œWhy? Who are you?”
    â€œDo you really care?” Saxon asked. “You can make twenty bucks by answering the question. If you’re not interested, I’ll go ask somewhere else.”
    Thrusting the money into his overcoat pocket, he turned and