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?"