Tracy snorted. "Then shoot back, of course. But just don't you start it.
I shouldn't have to tell you these things."
"Got it," one of the others said. He shifted his shoulders to loosen the
.38 Recoilless in its holster.
At the ornate doorway, the cars, which had been moving fast, a foot or
so off the ground, came to a quick halt, settled, and the men disgorged,
guns in hand.
Tracy called to the occupants of the other vehicle, "On the double.
Surround the house. Don't let anybody leave. Come on, boys."
They scurried down the flagstone walk, banged on the door. It was opened
by a houseman who stared at them uncomprehendingly.
"The occupants of this establishment are under arrest," Tracy snapped.
He flashed a gold badge. "Take me to Adam Moncure." He turned to his men
and gestured with his head. "Take over, boys. Jerry, you come with me."
The houseman was terrified, but not to the point of being unable to
lead them to a gigantic former living room, now converted to offices.
There was an older man, and four assistants. All in shirt sleeves in
concession to the mid-western summer, none armed from all Tracy could
see. They looked up in surprise, rather than dismay. The older man
snapped, "What is the meaning of this intrusion?"
Jerry chuckled sourly.
Frank Tracy said, "You're all under arrest. Jerry, herd these clerks, or
whatever they are, into some other room. Get any other occupants of the
house together, too. And watch them carefully, confound it. Don't
underestimate these people. And make a search for secret rooms, cellars,
that sort of thing."
"Right," Jerry growled.
The older of the five Freer Enterprises men was on his feet now. He was
a thin, angry faced type, gray of hair and somewhere in his sixties. "I
want to know the meaning of this!" he roared.
"Adam Moncure?" Tracy said crisply.
"That is correct. And to what do I owe this cavalier intrusion into my
home and place of business?"
Jerry, at pistol point, was herding the four assistants from the room,
taking the houseman along with them.
Tracy looked at Moncure, speculatively, then dipped into his pockets for
pipe and tobacco. He gestured to a chair with his head. "Sit down, Mr.
Moncure. The jig is up."
"The _jig_?" the other blurted in a fine rage. "I insist--"
"O.K., O.K., you'll get your explanation." Tracy sat down on a couch
himself and sized up the older man, even as he lit his pipe.
Moncure, still breathing heavily in his indignation, took control of
himself well enough to be seated. "Well, sir?" he bit out.