Through a glass, darkly

As soon as he got outside, Brunetti opened the file. He had no idea what he had expected to find, but certainly something more than three sheets of paper with numbers on them. At the top of the first were the letters VR and DC, the second an obvious reference to De Cal. Lower down were two numbers: 200973962, and 100982915: amounts of money written without the commas? Bank codes of some sort? Phone numbers? The second sheet bore four numbers: the first part of each was written in Roman numerals, separated by a slash from a number written in Arabic numbers. At first he thought they might be dates, the month and then the day, but one of the second numbers was greater than thirty-one, eliminating that possibility. The third page had six pairs of numbers. The first pair read 45° 27.60, and 12° 20.90; the other pairs were almost the same, with slightly different final numbers. His first thought, because of the degree sign, was that this was a way to list the high and low temperatures of one of the furnaces, or perhaps each of them, but surely the temperatures were far too low.

Brunetti had never been good at crossword puzzles; quizzes and mental teasers had always bored him. He walked back towards the Questura and stopped at the bottom of Ponte dei Grechi, suddenly aware that he was lost in time. He saw that it was half-past twelve and called Paola to explain that he would not be home before the everting. She reacted to his tone more than to his message and told him only to eat something and to try to get home at a reasonable hour.

He went into the bar, where he had a panino and a glass of mineral water, then another panino when his body discovered how hungry he was. When he was finished—not satisfied but finished—he went down the riva and into the Questura. Foa's boat was moored in front, but there was no-sign of the pilot.

Inside, the officer at the door told him that Vianello was still not back. Brunetti left word for the Inspector to come up when he returned and went to find Bocchese in his lab.

The technician looked up when he saw Brunetti come in, then returned his attention to the table in front of him. At the end of his long work table was the iron rod, raised ten centimetres above the surface on a pair of wooden blocks, one beneath either end.

'Anything?' Brunetti asked, gesturing with his chin towards the rod.

Bocchese looked up from the pair of scissors he was sharpening and said, 'The dead man's prints were all up and down the near end. There are partials under his, but he was using it for so long that his prints smeared or covered anything else.'

Brunetti looked at the rod, as if he might be able to discern some sign with his naked eye. The end near them held a blob of material that could have been a turtle: flat on the bottom, rounded at the top. 'What might have happened?' Brunetti asked, wise enough not to ask Bocchese what he thought had happened. Bocchese never answered questions like that: perhaps he refused to think in such terms.

Bocchese pointed to the turtle with the scissors and said, 'He might have been trying to make something out of glass. The furnace he was in front of was much hotter than the others: it was preparing glass for the next day. He was alone in the place, so he might have tried to make something. If he dropped the rod, the molten glass would be flattened on the bottom like this.'

'Could something have happened to him?' Brunetti repeated.

Bocchese looked up from the scissors and said, 'Guido, I can tell you what the evidence looks like. You have to figure out how it got to be that way.'

Ignoring this, Brunetti asked, 'You have a chance to look at the body?'

'There was a mark on his head. It could have happened when he fell. Hit his head against the door, maybe.'

'Any sign on the door?'

Bocchese took a sheet of the Gazzettino that covered his table, held it up in the air, and cut it in half with six sudden clips of the scissors. As one piece fluttered onto the table, he said, 'The temperature in the heart of the furnace was almost 1,400 all night, at the door a bit less. No physical evidence can survive that temperature.'

'On the floor?' Brunetti asked. 'On him?'

Bocchese shook his head. 'Nothing. The place had been swept clean.' He took another swipe at the remaining piece of Gazzettino. 'Part of his job, I'm told: sweeping.'

'You don't like it, do you?' Brunetti asked.

Bocchese shrugged. ‘I measure and I tabulate. You do the liking, Guido.'

Brunetti held up a hand in acknowledgement, thanked him, and turned to go. From behind him, he heard Bocchese say, 'But no, I don't like it.'

Back in his office, Brunetti spread the three sheets of paper on his desk, propped his chin in his hands, and stared at the numbers. Twenty minutes later, he got to his feet and went to the window, but the change in position brought him no closer to understanding.

He cast his memory back to his meeting with Tassini. The more he thought about it, the stranger Tassini's behaviour seemed. He had been both secretive and protective about what he knew, yet his behaviour had suggested that his information was of great import. He had said he read a lot and kept a record of his conclusions and that great men had helped him understand, but he had not explained what it was he understood. Nor had he made clear why De Cal so strongly wanted to keep his son-in-law from the fornace.

Tassini had said he was close to finding the final proof, but Brunetti had no idea what he had meant by that. What happened was that Tassini died, and his wife said he had been afraid of something.

Brunetti went back to his desk and stared at the numbers again.

Signorina Elettra found him like that some time later when she came in with a single sheet of paper in her hand. 'Commissario,' she said when he looked at her with troubled eyes, 'what's the matter?' When he failed to answer, she said, her voice softer, 'I heard about that poor man. I'm sorry.'

'He was too young,' Brunetti surprised himself by saying. After a moment, he said, 'I'm trying to puzzle something out.' Seeing her confused glance, he redirected his attention back to her and asked, 'What is it?'

'I've been looking around, and I thought you might be interested to see what I've found: it's the Carabinieri report.' Seeing his momentary confusion, she added, 'Of a visit Tassini made.'

Brunetti asked her to take a seat. She sat down, placed the sheet of paper on his desk, and said, 'This is a copy of their report, though there's little enough to tell. Then there are some things I learned by speaking to people.'

'All right’ Brunetti said. 'Tell me.'

She pointed towards the sheet of paper. 'A friend of mine sent me a copy of their file. Tassini went in there a year ago to file a denuncia against his employer for operating an unsafe workplace. The record shows that the maresciallo there—over by Riva degli Schiavoni—told him he didn't have enough evidence and suggested he go and see a lawyer and try to bring a civil suit. That is, if Tassini wanted to persist in the complaint. They refused to let him file it officially'

'Did he do that?' Brunetti asked: 'find a lawyer?'

'I don't know. There's nothing else in their records, and he never came to us. I don't know whether I should check further.'

Brunetti shook his head at this. Tassini was beyond lawyers now. 'Anything else?' he asked.

'The De Cal factory, sir. I asked around and the word is he's very close to selling it.'

'Who did you ask?'

'A friend,' she answered, and that was that, Elettra as reluctant as he to reveal a source when it was not necessary to do so.

'Is there talk about who might want to buy it?'

'Since the Chinese haven't discovered glass yet,' she began, using the ironic tone she usually reserved for the acquisitive habits of Venice's Chinese, 'at least not Venetian glass, the only name that's been mentioned is Gianluca Fasano's. He owns the factory next door. My friend said De Cal's furnaces are much newer than his are.'

'He wants to continue running a glass factory?' Brunetti asked, thinking of the rumours about Fasano's political aspirations.