by Kenneth B. Pritchard
My friend, Frederick Brown, and I are lawyers. Lawyers often come up
against strange cases; but the case that Brown had a while ago, was the
oddest and by far the most weird I have ever heard of.
Brown and I were lunching together one noon, when the subject was
broached of the peculiar things that one sometimes meets up with.
"James," said Fred, "You never had anything happen to you that can
compare with a certain case of mine; I'll wager on it."
"Shoot," I said. "Let's have an earful. What's it all about?"
"I had a legacy," he began without hesitation, "a few weeks ago,
that was void to all concerned unless it was signed by one man. All
others involved had attached their signatures to the documents. But,
Ogleman's--that was his name--was missing."
"You mean the Ogleman that died a short time ago?" I broke in.
"The same," Brown admonished. "I must hasten to add," he went on, "that
a time limit was set, on this certain day, in which the signatures must
be obtained. Ogleman was not in town.
"The final limit was set for 8 P. M. For days, before the last one
arrived, my client had me sending out feelers in all directions trying
to contact this one man. The evening before the final day, I at last
got in touch with him, and he promised to come without delay. He wired
back that he would leave in the morning as he was situated in a place
where transportation facilities were not the best. All I could do then,
was wait.
"Ten o'clock the next morning I received a telegram. Ogleman had been
struck by a speeding auto. But as I read further, I realized that the
man would arrive anyway. His condition I did not know, as the message
had imparted no more than the two facts I've already given.
"It was half past seven that evening that the missing man showed up at
my client's home. He was quite a sight, I can assure you."
My friend paused as though to reflect upon the unusual scene. His eyes
widened for a moment in sudden horror, and then he continued in his
regular manner.
"I found myself looking at him as I shook his one good hand. The other
arm was in a sling that had been hastily made. His head had a bandage
around it, and his face was white; almost the color of several patches
adhering to it.
"My client shook hands with him also. 'Glad you came, Ogleman,' he
said, 'Everything depends on you, you know.'
"'Yes,' said Ogleman as he relinquished his hand, 'I know that the
legacy must be signed.'
"His voice seemed strangely hollow and unnatural, and there was an
unreal appearance about the man.
"He turned to me. I shuddered somewhat at the bits of blood that had
caked on the bandages. 'We must hurry,' he said, 'The time is short.
Have you the papers ready?' he asked eagerly.
"'Yes,' I replied, 'everything is ready. Come over to the table with
me. There is a chair there, and you can sit down and sign.'
"I felt that he would collapse if he did not be seated soon.
"I handed him the pen, and gave him the papers, showing him where to
sign. Being hurt as he was, it was very difficult for him to write.
However, he managed to scrawl his name on the last sheet. All was
legal, then.
"I took the pen from his hand and said, 'Now it is done. There won't be
any more trouble over it.' I somehow forced a smile.
"My client beamed approvingly. But Ogleman never stirred. I looked
at him. He pitched forward on the table. I was greatly alarmed and
hastened my client to summon a doctor.
"Ogleman was dead!"
"I've heard of tales like that before," I remarked dryly.
"Maybe," rejoined Brown, "But the doctor said that Ogleman had been
dead for ten hours!"