Scanlan smiled happily.
“There’s nothing I can do,” he said. “Grantham is of age, and it’s his money.”
“Right,” I agreed, “and I’m in the same fix. All I can do is poke around, find out what he’s up to, try to save his dough if he’s being gypped. Can’t you give me even a guess at the answer? Three million dollars—what could he put it into?”
“I don’t know.” The chargé d’affaires fidgeted uncomfortably. “There’s no business here that amounts to anything. It’s purely an agricultural country, split up among small landowners—ten, fifteen, twenty acre farms. There’s his association with Einarson and Mahmoud, though. They’d certainly rob him if they got the chance. I’m positive they’re robbing him. But I don’t think they would. Perhaps he isn’t acquainted with them. It’s probably a woman.”
“Well, whom should I see? I’m handicapped by not knowing the country, not knowing the language. To whom can I take my story and get help?”
“I don’t know,” he said gloomily. Then his face brightened. “Go to Vasilije Djudakovich. He is Minister of Police. He is the man for you! He can help you, and you may trust him. He has a digestion instead of a brain. He’ll not understand a thing you tell him. Yes, Djudakovich is your man!”
“Thanks,” I said, and staggered out into the muddy street.