At any rate, it explained his ill temper that Sunday afternoon. He had only agreed to standby duty because Inspector Rath was gadding about in East Prussia and A Division were short of men, which, come to think of it, was also the reason he’d taken on Rath’s latest case. Someone had to do the work around here. To cap it all, he’d been called out straight after lunch, just when he’d laid his head down for a nap.
He still didn’t know exactly what had happened, only that a police officer had died during his shift in the traffic tower. Probably a heart attack, he thought, as he hauled his heavy frame up the narrow ladder, and being no steeplejack here I am running the same risk.
It was no use. When a policeman died in the line of duty you were obliged to investigate.
A helping hand met him as he gained the hatch. Superintendent Kronberg from ED. Böhm pulled himself up and looked around. The narrow room was busier than its architect would have intended. Aside from Kronberg and Dr Karthaus, a uniform cop, wearing the white gloves and sleeves of the Traffic Police, stared nervously out of the window as he operated the lights. On the floor lay a dead man, likewise a traffic cop, though somewhat older and heavier than his colleague. He looked as though he wouldn’t have had long to wait for retirement; just his luck to keel over on duty.
A horn beeped, and the cop at the controls started cursing. ‘They’re still going crazy on Stresemannstrasse, but I can’t keep ’em on green just ’cause they’ve been stuck on red for the last half-hour.’
He appeared helpless, as if awaiting instructions. Böhm felt he was agitated by the traffic chaos, rather than his dead colleague.
Kronberg handed him an identification. ‘Wengler, Siegbert,’ he said. ‘Sergeant Major. Born 1880 in Danzig.’
Böhm took the identification and nodded. ‘Anything else?’
‘Still waiting for reinforcements.’
‘That’ll make things even cosier.’ He climbed over Dr Karthaus, who was leaning over the corpse, and approached the traffic officer.
‘Was it you who found the corpse?’ The man nodded. Operating the lights and answering questions was evidently too much. ‘Did you know the dead man?’ Böhm continued. A shrug. ‘Damn it, man, make your report,’ the DCI barked without warning. ‘Name and rank.’
The cop stood to attention, clicked his heels in fright. ‘Eckert. Constable Eckert, Inspector, Sir.’
‘Detective Chief Inspector.’
‘Detective Chief Inspector. Yes, Sir.’
‘There we go!’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Are you Herr Wengler’s relief?’
‘Beg to report: no, Sir.’
‘Do I have to drag it out of you?’
‘Yes, Sir. I mean: no, Detective Chief Inspector, Sir!’ The cop halted the traffic on Leipziger Strasse and switched the lights on Stresemannstrasse to green. Beads of sweat had formed on his brow. He turned to face Böhm once more. ‘Beg to report: I am not the relief, the shift change was over two hours ago. It should be Constable Scholz on duty, but instead I find Sergeant Major Wengler. Dead.’
‘So you did know the dead man?’
‘Not personally, Sir. I knew his name and rank. Bit of a lone wolf.’
‘Where is Scholz?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know, Sir. Headquarters reported issues at Potsdamer Platz and I was sent to investigate. That’s when I found Sergeant Major Wengler.’
‘And then?’
‘I submitted my report to headquarters, Sir. Then I set things in order.’
‘I hope you didn’t touch anything!’
‘Beg to report, no, Sir. I mean: order on the roads. I didn’t touch anything. Apart from the switch for the traffic light signal…’
‘Well, at least you’re wearing gloves.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
The hatch opened and a prehistoric-looking camera appeared, followed by the head of Andreas Lange. The assistant detective had great difficulty in fitting the camera and tripod stand through the gap.
‘Get someone to take over here,’ Böhm said to the cop. ‘I need to talk to you. Downstairs in the murder wagon.’
‘With respect, Sir, you’ll have to request relief for me.’
‘Can’t you call someone yourself?’
‘Beg to report: I am not permitted to leave my post to make telephone calls.’
‘You don’t have to.’ Böhm gestured towards the telephone attached to the control panel. ‘What do you think that is, an iron?’
‘It’s a telephone, Sir!’
‘Then why don’t you use it, Constable?’ Böhm was about to lose his temper.
‘I had to telephone from Café Josty just now, Sir.’ Constable Eckert pointed at the device. ‘That thing’s as dead as Sergeant Major Wengler.’
It took less than ten minutes for the relief to arrive, and now five officers stood at the intersection regulating traffic the old-fashioned way – by using their arms. Böhm didn’t want anyone touching the controls until further notice.
The murder wagon’s soft leather bench had been designed for heavyweights like Ernst Gennat. Böhm felt decidedly more at ease than in the cramped confines of the traffic tower. Constable Eckert sat opposite and explained what had happened again for the record. Next to Böhm, Christel Temme eagerly noted each word, including at least twenty ‘beg to reports’ and even more ‘Yes, Sirs!’
According to Eckert, it was around half past three when someone noticed that the traffic lights for Stresemannstrasse and Friedrich-Ebert-Strasse had been flashing a continuous red. Traffic Police Headquarters in Magazinstrasse had been informed, and from there they had tried to make contact with the traffic tower. By that stage, however, the line was already dead. Forensics had since confirmed that someone had severed the connection. Headquarters had sent a traffic officer, already on duty in the vicinity, to check that everything was in order – the same Constable Eckert who now sat opposite from Böhm, shako wedged under his arm.
‘I climbed back down to call it in, Sir. After that I began dispersing the traffic on Stresemannstrasse.’
Böhm nodded. ‘Did you mention that your colleague Scholz had failed to appear for duty.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Did headquarters offer an explanation? Is Scholz sick?’
Eckert shook his head. ‘No, Sir. Constable Scholz’s shift began at two. He’s usually very reliable.’
Böhm scratched his chin. ‘Albeit he failed to show today…’
‘Or came and went.’
‘You’re saying that Constable Scholz killed his fellow officer?’
‘Absolutely not!’ Eckert shrugged. ‘Perhaps he made a run for it when he saw the body. Lost his nerve.’ The constable paused. ‘That said…’
‘What do you mean “that said”?’
‘The shift change was at two… but it wasn’t until an hour and a half later that anyone noticed the traffic tower was unmanned. That’s strange.’
‘Strange, indeed.’ Böhm scratched his chin. ‘What happens if the relief doesn’t show? You hold position?’
‘Yes, Sir. Of course.’
‘So it could be that Wengler continued directing traffic after his shift was over.’
‘Beg to report: he’d have contacted headquarters to request relief.’
‘Not if the telephone line was down.’ Böhm looked at Eckert. ‘What would you have done if you were on duty and the relief failed to show? Imagine the line is dead, forget about why.’
The constable hunched his shoulders. ‘The same as just now. I’d have gone across to Josty, or found a telephone booth and informed headquarters from there. Then held position.’