I did so and Sammy slumped down into his chair. "How should I know," I went on, "why either one of you would bolix up the extension ladder or turn on the gas jets right here in the kitchen while I was dozing?" "What?" Sue gasped. "What did you say?" "You heard right, mom," Sammy said, staring at me as if I'd just escaped from the twentieth century equivalent of bedlam. "Frank, you've been working too hard," Sue said. "Why don't you take a vacation? We could go off to--" "Oh, to hell with a vacation," I said, but I was simmering down. They both looked so completely innocent, it kind of stopped me. Add to that fact that my family had no reason in the world for trying to kill me, and I was almost inclined to believe them. Except that you couldn't change the facts. You couldn't change what had happened. I turned around without saying anything and headed for the door. "Why don't you drop in on Doc Mundin on the way to work?" Sue suggested. I slammed the door and went out to the wife's car and got in and drove downtown. All the way down, you could have threaded a needle with the line my lips made. * * * * * There was one customer in my waiting room when I reached the office. I offered him a curt nod and went by the inner door. "Be right with you," I mumbled. He didn't respond. He was a short, chunky man with hips as wide as his shoulders and a flabby, loose-jowled face but a chest like a barrel. I gave him a double take when he failed to respond. I said, "Well, do you want to see a private detective or don't you?" "I want to see you," he said. Somehow, I didn't like the way he said it, but let it ride. "Be right with you," I told him as I unlocked the inner door and moved through the sanctum sanctorum, such as it is. I smoked a cigarette halfway down before I pressed the buzzer to admit him. He came in with the bouncy stride to which chunky fat men are prone. He looked straight at me and smiled as if he had known me for years. "I'm glad to see you're still alive, Mr. Foley," he said. I stood up. "Would you say that again please?" I asked him. "I'm glad to see you're still alive." "Just what the hell is that supposed to mean?" "Well, let me see. By this time your wife and son would have tried three times to kill you. That being the--" I was around the desk before he could finish. I grabbed him much harder than I had grabbed Sammy. Something--probably the lining of his jacket--ripped. "You'd better explain that," I suggested. "There's hardly anything to explain. Your wife tried to kill you by almost cutting through the pulley rope of your extension ladder, but you got off with a strained ankle. She tried to kill again by leaving the gas jets on one night in the kitchen. But you awoke in time. Your son tried to kill you this morning by draining the brake fluid from your car. There now. Does that bring us up to date?"