Behind the Times
Why did Fritz Duquesne become a German spy?
Every action has its reason. In Duquesne’s case, the cause lay in his origins.
Duquesne was a Boer of Dutch descent living in South Africa. To seize the region’s resources, Britain had fought the Second Boer War from 1899 to 1902. That war was where Duquesne’s hatred of the British, his grudge, and his hunger for revenge had taken root.
“I want Britain destroyed just as much as you do—the Britain that burned your parents’ farm and raped your sister. Gott strafe England.”
Duquesne reacted. His body shuddered, then his eyes locked onto mine.
“H-how… do you… know… that…”
Even after I spoke a past no one else could have known, Duquesne never dropped the act. At this point I almost wondered if he really was paralyzed.
“I’d like to help you escape, but the situation isn’t good. If you don’t want to end up like Margaretha Geertruida Zelle, tread carefully.”
Two months earlier in France, a Dutch dancer suspected of espionage had been executed. The famous Mata Hari. Whether she had truly been a spy or not, Mata Hari had been shot by a French firing squad. Duquesne could hardly help worrying about his own fate.
“I move and act on my own. My goal is to climb all the way into the upper ranks of the Bureau of Investigation. Once I’m there, pulling you out won’t be difficult.”
So don’t doubt me. I’m your comrade.
Of course I didn’t expect Duquesne to simply take my word for it. What I wanted was a thread—something to hold onto.
During the Second World War, Duquesne would build and run a spy network inside the United States. Dozens of Nazi collaborators would eventually be arrested. If I was going to help with that, I needed contact with Duquesne first—so I could extract the necessary information and pass it to Hoover.
Besides, I intended to use Duquesne’s mouth.
“The Bureau suspects you as the mastermind behind Kaplan’s bomb plot. I know you weren’t involved—but if you keep your mouth shut like this, you’re the only one who loses.”
So feed them something. Anything.
“Kaplan is bait—meant to turn the Bureau’s eyes toward the ILA. If you want to delay your extradition to Britain even a little, just mention that an ILA officer was involved.”
It wasn’t betrayal of a comrade. It was the sort of confusion a proper spy sowed in the Bureau of Investigation. I stressed that point, then stepped away from the bedside and took my leave of Duquesne.
“Believe me or don’t—I don’t care. I want only one thing. Gott strafe England.”
I had turned to go when Duquesne echoed me.
“Gott strafe England.”
I glanced back. He was lying there perfectly sound, watching me, his mouth no longer twisted.
A change of heart? Or a test?
“What’s your code name?”
“Let’s keep each other’s secrets, Duquesne. And the war will be over within a year.”
“……What?”
“Unfortunately the German Empire will lose—but that will only be a new beginning. I’ll found a Nazi party in the new Germany.”
“Nazi?”
Duquesne’s eyes narrowed. Of course they did. The Nazi Party did not yet exist. The successor to the German Workers’ Party would be founded only in 1920. One far-right group among many, it would draw little notice at first—then steadily expand its influence.
If he didn’t forget what I’d just said, he would have no choice but to look for me.
“That’s enough, Duquesne. If you ever want to meet me, send word through Agent Hoover. He’s the only one who can reach me.”
I left him with nothing but a smile that suggested I knew more than I was saying, and knocked on the door.
The moment the guard opened it, Duquesne was a paralytic again—groaning, twisting his limbs. I left the prison infirmary with Hoover.
“Learn anything?”
“Nothing at all.”
“Then what were the two of you talking about all that time?”
“I pretended to be a German spy. Whether he bought it, I don’t know.”
“Ah—so you’re going to pose as a double agent and try to pull information out of him?”
“If it works.”
In the years to come, Hoover—once director of the FBI—would plant a double agent and smash Duquesne’s spy ring to pieces. If it was going to happen anyway, I might as well get a spoon in the pot.
If I didn’t want to die as just another mafioso, I needed every card I could hold. Hoover and Duquesne were two of those cards.
Before we left Bellevue Hospital, I asked Hoover one more thing.
“By the way—what happened with Kaplan’s hideout?”
“We raided it a few days ago. Didn’t turn up any additional evidence, but we arrested Kaplan’s men and we’re interrogating them now.”
So the place would be empty, then.
Kid Dropper Kaplan was dead, and the troop transport that had been the target had sailed safely for Europe. But the investigation was far from over.
The Bureau and the police were hauling in Kid Dropper’s subordinates for questioning, tracking the woman who had vanished from the motel, and digging into the ILA strike as well.
Separate from all of that, tonight an illegal gambling den—not a licensed casino—was opening for business.
The moment I left the hospital I headed straight for the basement of the twin building, two floors down.
Lenny the dealer, who had finished every last bit of setup, approached me carefully.
“Boss, don’t expect much on the first night. Gambling joints take time to settle in.”
I knew that. Unlike a dance hall, the only advertising available was word of mouth in the underworld. I hadn’t come in with high hopes—but a boss couldn’t afford to look like he had none.
“Shortening that settling-in time is your job. You’ve got three days. Even if we take a loss, make sure the customers get a taste for gambling.”
“Got it. Leave it to me.”
The darker the business, the more viral marketing mattered. The more customers who left happy, the faster the rumors would spread. The dealers would be crucial.
Lenny had brought four dealers with him. Three of them had worked together at an Italian gambling house until recently. I left the floor in Patrick’s hands and went looking for Corey.
“I’ve got somewhere to go with you tonight.”
“Okay. What do I need?”
I leaned in and whispered into his ear.
“The gear for cracking a safe.”
Six o’clock that evening.
The dance hall opened, and at the same time the gambling den began business. I had no desire to stand around watching an empty room, so I went home early. Besides, I still had work to do with Corey that night.
The tenement house.
I ran into Mother just as she was coming home from work, right at the entrance.
“Perfect timing, Mother. There’s something I need to tell you. Let’s go up to the roof.”
“W-what is it?”
Tension was plain on her face. Fair enough. Even after everything—even after the killings—I had never made a point of choosing a private place to talk like this.
The moment we reached the roof, she pressed me.
“It’s nothing terrible, is it? Just say it—my heart’s racing.”
“I met Uncle Larry today.”
“Did you? That’s good. But… why?”
“He said he wants everyone together for Christmas.”
Mother’s eyes went wide; she blinked hard.
“Larry… is that just him?”
“No. Apparently people have been saying it for a while. And more than that—your parents want to see us.”
Which word had struck her so hard? Her eyes reddened faster than the sunset, and tears welled almost at once. She wiped them away quickly with her hand, but her heart clearly wouldn’t settle so easily.
I couldn’t just stand there watching, so I gave her a light hug. That was my mistake.
She sobbed so hard my clothes grew damp. I had chosen the outdoors precisely because I’d feared something like this. Error.
A rooftop in midwinter is no place to linger. The cold was vicious.
Third floor of the tenement.
Over dinner, Mother made her announcement.
“This Christmas, we’re going to your grandparents’ house!”
“Ooooh—Roa finally gets to go somewhere?!”
Roa clapped and shouted, then suddenly looked up at me, worry on her face.
“Will Santa Claus come all the way there with Roa’s presents?”
Why was she asking me that?
High odds she already knew Santa was me.
“Santa will find Roa wherever she is.”
At Mother’s words, Roa let out a sigh of relief—while still looking at me.
After the meal, Roa played in the living room until she fell asleep. Late that night, when I sat up in bed to head out, a voice came from the other bed.
“Santa Claus… I don’t need anything else. Just one bag.”
“……Just ask me to buy it, you idiot. You’re too old for Santa.”
Liam pretended he had just woken up, wiping the corner of his mouth and playing innocent.
“Tsk. Was I talking in my sleep just now?”
“Clumsy. Real clumsy.”
If you’re going to act, at least reach Duquesne’s level.
I snorted and turned away.
“I’m heading out for a bit. Go back to sleep.”
“I was sleeping. It was sleep-talk.”
“Sure it was.”
I slipped out of the house and made for the twin building.
Halfway down Hester Street—
“Pumpkin’s only got events if you go at opening. At this hour Palm Garden’s way better.”
“So Palm Garden tonight?”
Two couples stood under a streetlamp, debating which dance hall to visit. I passed them, listening.
“Pumpkin, Palm Garden—same difference. I went to a place in Harlem not long ago, and the music there was something else. They were already playing Dixie Jass Band One-Step.”
“Oh—I heard that on a record recently. They’re already playing it live?”
“‘Already’? This neighborhood’s just behind the times.”
“Yeah, well. Lower East Side for you.”
Couldn’t lead the trends—and still falling behind them?
That stung. I’d even marketed the place with a pumpkin-head mask that was ahead of its time.
Speak of the devil—the pumpkin-head himself was out on Hester Street, pulling in customers. He’d been wearing the mask since before opening because it was warm in winter. I wondered if he’d manage the same once summer hit.
“Hard at work.”
“Boss? Why’re you back?”
“Business. By the way—you know the Dixieland Jazz Band?”
“Dixie? Even the name’s goddamn hick. Some bunch of southern country boys?”
During the Civil War, the states that had backed the Confederacy were called Dixie. Over time, the North had come to hear “Dixie” as southern style—in other words, as rustic and behind the times.
“It’s the fashion these days. Don’t say that kind of thing in front of customers.”
I left the pumpkin-head behind and reached the twin building. Instead of the front entrance I turned into the alley on the right—and stopped.
“Talk. Who put you up to it?”
Ida was holding a knife on a woman. Three more of our people stood around them.
I melted into cover at once.
“I—I told you, it’s not like that! I was just curious and wrote it down!”
“You think I’m a joke?”
Ida clamped a hand over the woman’s mouth and laid the tip of the blade lightly against her face.
“What should I draw here? Something so you never show that mug around again.”
The terrified woman trembled. The moment Ida took her hand away, words spilled out in a rush.
“A guy named Anthony said he’d pay me two dollars if I brought him info on the dance hall. That’s all!”
“What kind of info. Be specific.”
“Customer numbers, the band, the performance schedule, staff details… that sort of thing…”
Ida snorted and lowered the knife.
“Anyone else besides you?”
“I don’t know. Who can say how many more people this Anthony sent…”
Ida exchanged a look with the others, then sent the woman packing.
“Get lost. If I see you again, you’d better be ready.”
“I won’t come near this place again either.”
When the woman emerged from the alley, one cheek was smeared with blood. She left the street at a fast walk and put the neighborhood behind her.
By the time I stepped into the alley, Ida and the others were already in discussion.
“What’s going on?”
Ida recounted what had just happened in her usual flat tone.
“She was acting suspicious, so I watched her. She was secretly writing things down. Just as I thought—a spy from a rival dance hall.”
There was a reason she had simply let the woman go. The girl knew nothing that mattered. Even the name “Anthony” she’d given was almost certainly false. Someone had dangled two dollars in front of her and she’d taken the job without understanding a thing.
It was the sort of thing that happened all the time when dance halls competed. At first it stayed at the level of recon. Once a place’s revenue started plunging, the hall responsible for the drop became a target. But no one attacked blindly—you never knew who was standing behind the other side—so they approached carefully.
“For a while they’ll try every trick in the book to dig up information.”
Ida nodded at that.
“Poaching staff, sabotaging the band’s schedule, leaning on the liquor suppliers… things like that. We should watch for them.”
“Pass what you just said on to the staff and the band. If anything comes up, they report it right away.”
“Yes, Boss.”
I gave Ida and the others their orders, then went up to the second floor. From the secret room I took a single pistol, left the office, and set out with Corey for Kaplan’s hideout.