She helped him with his coat.
He said: "Go on quoting me as just another drunken sailor, Pat. You don't even have to bring me into this finale. The witnesses won't talk. So Tom Simons woke up, and was drunk and sore and scared, and scrammed the hell out. He went back to his ship, and nobody cares about him anyway. Let him go. Because I am going anyway, while you take the phone and start calling your squads to take care of the bodies."
"What about Miss Dexter?" Hogan asked practically.
"She was scared too, and she scrammed independently. You know about her and how they were trying to use her. Leave her out of it if you can; but if you need her we've got her address in New York. I'll steal one of the cars and take her back with me. Hamilton will okay it. The police in New York were warned long ago, it seems — when Zellermann tried to frame me at 21, they went through a performance to make Zellermann think he'd gotten me out of the way, but they turned me loose at once."
"Okay, Saint. When you call that Imperative exchange in Washington, I say Uncle anyhow. But I can look after this. And — thank you."
They shook hands around. Hogan stayed seated in his chair. He could keep going. He was still full of questions, but he was too well trained to ask them.
"Let's get together one day," said the Saint, and meant it just like that.
He went out with Avalon.
They talked very ordinarily and quietly on the drive back, as if they had known each other for a long while, which they had, while the dawn lightened slowly around them and drew out the cool sweetness of the dew on the peaceful fields. The red-gold casque of her hair was pillowed on his shoulder as they slipped into the rousing murmur of Manhattan in the bright sunlight of another day.