"What ho," said Peter Quentin.
"Ho kay," said the Saint. "The operation went off without a hitch, and one of the patients has a bent spire. Keep that light steady a minute, will you?"
Actually it was not a minute but only a few seconds before the lock surrendered its share of the unequal contest with a set of deft fingers that could have disposed of the latest type of burglar-proof safe in rather less time than an amateur would have taken to empty a can of asparagus with a patent tin opener. Simon pocketed the instrument he had been using, swung the doors wide and hauled himself nimbly up into the interior of the van.
"What have we won this time?" Peter asked interestedly.
The Saint's torch was sweeping over the rows of cases stacked up inside.
"Looks like a good night's work, soaks," he answered. "There's quite a load of Bisquit Dubouche, and a spot of Otard… a whole raft of Clicquof Veuve… Romanee-Conti… Chambertin… Here's a case of Chateau Yquem—"
"Is dey any scotch?" inquired Mr Uniatz practically.
"No, I don't think so… Oh yes, there are a few cases in the corner. We don't seem to have done too badly."
He switched off his flashlight and returned to spring lightly down to the road and shut the doors again. For a moment he stood gleefully rubbing his hands.
"Bisquit Dubouche," he said. "Clicquot Veuve. Chambertin. Romanee-Conti. Chateau Yquem. Even Hoppy's scotch. Think of it, my perishing pirates. Cases and cases of 'em. Hundreds of quids worth of bee-yutiful drinks. And not one blinkin' bottle of it has paid a penny of duty. Smuggled in under the noses of the blear-eyed coastguards and potbellied excise men. Yoicks! And all for our benefit. Do we smuggle? Do we defraud the revenue? No, no — a thousand times no. We just step in and grab the loot. Have a drink with me, you thugs."