At the Caretaker’s Cottage
Judy found the caretaker’s cottage cold in more ways than one. They had
approached it eagerly. It did seem the logical place to inquire about
the mysterious Mr. Paul Riker.
“We’ll question the caretaker,” Horace declared. “He’ll tell us plenty.”
But would he? At first the wizened little old man who came to the door
of the cottage refused to admit them.
“I’ve had enough people here,” he barked. “Go away!”
“I’m Paul Riker,” little Paul piped up unexpectedly. “You have to let us
in.”
“Well, I’ll be hanged,” the caretaker said, “if you don’t sound just
like your uncle Paul. So I have to let you in, eh?”
“Paul! Be quiet,” Mrs. Riker admonished the boy. “I am Mrs. Philip
Riker,” she told the caretaker. “Do you know where I can reach Mr. Paul
Riker?”
“I’m Abner Post,” the caretaker said, and added reluctantly, “Come in,
Mrs. Riker.”
Judy and Horace introduced themselves and got a cold stare for their
trouble. Abner Post led them into his kitchen which was at the front of
the house, and they were offered straight-backed chairs.
The kitchen, Judy noticed, was a little like her own. It had a fireplace
in it, but there was no fire. The house seemed without warmth or
comfort.
“So you’ve come to find out what’s become of Mr. Riker, have you?” the
caretaker said to Mrs. Riker after she had told him about seeing the
vault. “Well, there’s plenty would like to know. Some of the neighbors
hereabouts say he’s dead and his ghost walks up and down them steps at
midnight. But I ain’t seen it.”
“Just how long has Mr. Riker been away, Mr. Post?” Horace asked.
“Now look here, young feller,” the caretaker turned on Horace
belligerently, “I’ve done nothing but answer questions all day—police,
insurance men, fire department—they all got nothing better to do than
come and bother me. So don’t you start in.”
“But Mr. Post, please,” Mrs. Riker said pleadingly. “I wrote to Mr.
Riker over two weeks ago, telling him I was driving here with the
children. I even told him the route we were taking. Surely, when he was
expecting us, he wouldn’t just disappear. Something must have happened.”
The caretaker shrugged. “I dunno, ma’am,” he said, and added grudgingly,
“All I know is, a couple of weeks ago he suddenly got rid of all the
help in the house, closed it up, and told me he was off on a trip to
India. He said I was to stay on to look after things, and he’d be back
when he got back. Some folks say,” he lowered his voice, “Paul Riker’s
locked himself up in that vault.”
“But the door was open and the vault is empty,” Judy protested. “What
did he build it for, anyway?”
“He had it built about two years ago,” Abner Post replied. “Said he
might as well get some good out of all the money he made when he sold
the business.”
“What was his business?”
Judy had asked the question simply out of curiosity. She was quite
unprepared for the answer.
“This’ll tell you,” Abner Post replied shortly, handing her a card.
Judy stared at it. Then she passed it around. The room buzzed with
comments. It was startling, to say the least. On the card was lettered:
RIKER MEMORIALS
Monuments, Mausoleums
Designers and Builders for Four Generations
Underneath was the name, Paul Riker, an address and phone number, as
well as a notation in very small print: “Exhibit Open Every Day.”
“An exhibit!” exclaimed Honey, handing the card back to Judy, who asked
if she might keep it. “So that’s what it was.”
“This is his own monument on the card, the very same statue and
everything,” observed Horace.
“And there were four generations of them,” Judy added. “But you say he
sold the business?”
“Talk did it,” the caretaker explained. “All those heathen statues and
pictures he filled the house with. Folks began calling him a heathen
too. It got even worse after he put up that monument. I told him he was
making a big mistake. ‘What good is a big tombstone to a man after he’s
dead?’ I asked him. ‘Let others build it if they think you’re worth it.’
And would you believe it, he told me he had no friends or kinfolks who
thought he was worth a visit, let alone a monument. He and his nephew
had quarreled over the business, and the rest of the family let him
pretty much alone.”
He turned to Helen Riker. “If you’re Philip’s wife, why didn’t you ever
come to visit?”
“I have come,” Mrs. Riker said, very low.
“Well, you’ve come too late. I keep bachelor’s quarters. It’s no fit
place for a woman, and you can see for yourself the big house is burned
down.”
“When did the fire start?” Judy asked.
“Last night,” Abner Post answered shortly. “And I _don’t_ know how it
started,” he added defensively.
“Could that be because you weren’t here?” Judy asked sweetly.
“Certainly I was here,” the caretaker exclaimed. “I’m always here.”
“You couldn’t have been here when the house was looted Thursday night,”
Judy pointed out reasonably. “From what the paper said, the thieves must
have had to bring a van to remove all those art treasures, and you would
have seen it.”
“Now look here, miss,” the caretaker exclaimed furiously. “Are you
trying to say I was mixed up in the robbery?”
“Robbery!” Mrs. Riker gasped. “Uncle Paul’s beautiful treasures were
stolen? Oh, how dreadful!” Suddenly her eyes filled with tears. “I
suppose his jade collection was stolen too. Yes,” she added in a
whisper, “I have come too late.”
Judy’s hand closed around the tiny object in her pocket.
“I wouldn’t be too sure of that, Mrs. Riker,” she said mysteriously.