CHAPTER XI

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.