The Saint's torch splashed its beam into the van, framing the tableau in its circle of brilliance.
Mr Uniatz sat on a pile of cases, leaning back with his legs dangling and looking rather like a great ape on a jungle bough. In his left hand he held his Betsy, and the flashlight gripped between his knees was focused steadily on the lorry driver, who stood scowling on the opposite side of the van. One of the cases was open, and a couple of bottles rolled hollowly on the floor. A third bottle was clutched firmly in Mr Uniatz's hand, and he appeared to have been using it to beat time.
His face expanded in a smile as he screwed up his eyes against the light.
"Hi, boss," he said winningly.
"Come on out," said the Saint. "Both of you."
The lorry driver shuffled out first, and as he descended Simon caught him deftly by the wrist, twisted his arm up behind his back and waited a moment for Peter to take over the hold.
He turned round as Hoppy Uniatz lowered himself clumsily to the ground.
"How much have you soaked up?" he enquired patiently.
"I just had two-t'ree sips, boss, I t'ought I'd make sure de booze was jake. Say, dijja know I could yodel? I just loin de trick comin' along here—"
The Saint turned to Peter with a shrug.