The End Game by Michael Gilbert

explain in your own good time.”
    “I am doing my best,” said David with dignity. “It has not escaped me that I am not the most popular of your employees. I derived from that the further thought that the time might come when you would wish our ways to part.”
    “It has come.”
    “Exactly,” said David, in the tones of one who has scored a valuable debating point. “Exactly. And when that time did come, I wished to be certain that our parting would be without acrimony. In short, that you would give me a glowing testimonial, recommending me to my next employer and a modest sum of money—I had in mind no more than five hundred pounds—to soothe our mutual sorrow at my departure.”
    Mr Lyon stared at him for a moment, seeming to sense a threat that had not been uttered. Then he said, “And what makes you think that I should do either of these improbable things?”
    “It would be very much in your interests. An Industrial Tribunal can offer me ten times that amount for unfair dismissal.”
    “Unfair? You’ve brought it on yourself three times over.”
    “I’m entitled, I think, to proper warning. Two warnings at least, I understand. In writing.”
    Mr Lyon said, contemptuously, “Try it on, if you like. Tribunals aren’t fools.”
    “Indeed not. They have enough sense, I don’t doubt, to understand me when I say that the real reason you are getting rid of me is because I was not prepared to co-operate in some of your more doubtful practices.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “As a law-abiding citizen and a taxpayer, it pained me to see the Inland Revenue being defrauded.”
    Mr Lyon said, in a choked voice, “Would you kindly explain this nonsense and then get out.”
    “For instance, in a letter to our mutual acquaintance, Mr Porteous, on”—David whisked a notebook out of his inner pocket—“on March twentieth last you said, ‘I see no point in going out of your way to draw the attention of the Revenue to that particular payment. If they challenge it, we shall have to deal with it.’ Was that not a little underhand? Then, in another letter, to Mrs Porteous, you said, ‘We may be asked to prove strictly that your husband was employing you as his secretary. I don’t suppose any salary passed, but you should arrange for entries in your bank accounts.’ Was that quite honest?”
    The silence that followed was painful.
    David said helpfully, “I have copies of these letters. And of several others in which little devices are suggested to our clients.”
    “You filthy little blackmailer!” The words were forced out of Mr Lyon’s mouth. They tumbled out, chasing and tripping over each other. “You filthy Welsh spy.”
    “Insults are charged at fifty pounds a time,” said David, making a note in his book. “My price has now gone up to six hundred.”
    “I didn’t know that”—he was going to say “scum,” but seeing David’s eye on his book he changed his mind at the last moment. “I didn’t know that people like you existed.”
    “We learn a new fact every day of our lives, boyo. I am quite prepared to go ahead with this if you wish. I can give you two minutes to make up your mind.”
    There was a further bursting silence. Then Mr Lyon said,
    “How can I possibly recommend you to one of our clients?”
    It was capitulation.
    “Six hundred of the best,” David said to Gerald. “A month’s salary in lieu of notice and a glowing reference designed to secure me a post with Rayhome Tours Limited.”
    “Wasn’t that the place Moule went to?”
    “Was it, indeed? I seem to be following him downhill.”
    “You won’t meet him there. I believe he ran into a bit of trouble and got booted out.”
    “Poor Moule,” said David. “Perhaps he was one of those people who are destined to descend. Like me.”
    “You? You go round asking for trouble.”
    “True,” said David with a sigh. “And trouble rarely refuses the invitation. However, we must not be downhearted. I am