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police lieutenant, after a quick investigation, was convinced that two plus two equaled four and had Don Memè promptly arrested. That very same day, however, ten individuals, all above suspicion, from the town of Varo some thirty miles from Montelusa, had come running to testify that on the day of the double murder Don Memè was in their town celebrating the feast of San Calogero. Among those furnishing the alibi were the postmaster Ugo Bordin, from the Veneto; the
dottor
Carlo Alberto Pautasso, Esq., of Asti, director of the tax office; and the
ragioniere
Ilio Ginnanneschi, of Prato, an employee at the land registry.
    â€œAh, how splendid our unified Italy is!” Don Memè had exclaimed with a smile more cordial than usual, as the prison doors opened up to let him out.

    Having completed his bow, Emanuele Ferraguto approached the broad prefectorial desk with some difficulty. In his right hand he was holding his English-wool cap and a packet, and in his left, a large parcel.
    â€œCome in, come in, my good man,” the prefect said jovially.
    Having closed the door behind him with his shoe, Don Memè continued to walk with a slight limp in his right leg.
    â€œDid you hurt yourself?” His Excellency inquired solicitously.
    Don Memè managed to gesture “no” with his right forefinger without dropping his cap or the parcel.
    â€œIt’s the roll,” he whispered mysteriously, looking around himself as he said it. He set the package on the desk. “These are cannoli from Sfiacca, the kind your wife likes so much.”
    Then it was the big, heavy parcel’s turn.
    â€œThis, on the other hand, is a big surprise for you, Excellency.”
    The prefect looked at the parcel with eyes suddenly bright and hopeful.
    â€œYou don’t say!” he said with a quaver in his voice.
    â€œOh, yes, indeed I do say!” Ferraguto said triumphantly.
    â€œIs it
The Archaeological History of Sicily
, by the Duke of Serradifalco?”
    â€œYou’re right on the money, sir. The books you’ve been looking for.”
    â€œAnd how did you ever find them?”
    â€œI noticed that Scimè, the notary, owned a copy, so I politely asked him for them, and he gave them to me free of charge, as a gift to you.”
    â€œReally? I must send him a note of thanks.”
    â€œBetter not, Your Excellency.”
    â€œAnd why not?”
    â€œThat might be rubbing salt into the wound. It took some doing to persuade him, you know. The notary was rather fond of these books. I had to, well, to force him a little, to show him what was in his best interests.”
    â€œAh,” said His Excellency, running a loving hand over the parcel. “You know, Ferraguto, I’m going to tell you something. Books with dense writing bore me.They honfuse me. I understand images much better. And fortunately, Serradifalco’s books are full of images.”
    Don Memè put an end to their cultural interlude.
    â€œYou must excuse me, Your Excellency, sir,” he said as he started to unbutton his suspenders. In a single bound the prefect stood up, ran to the door, turned the lock twice, and put the key in his pocket. Ferraguto, meanwhile, extracted a long roll from his right trouser leg and set it down on the table, before buttoning himself back up in haste.
    â€œThat’s what was making me walk all lopsided,” he said. “I was worried the paper might wrinkle. It’s a problem you don’t have if you’ve gota
lupara
hidden in your trousers.”
    He laughed long and hard, alone, as His Excellency was opening the roll. It was the printer’s proof of a placard announcing the forthcoming performance of the opera
The Brewer of Preston
to inaugurate Vigàta’s new theatre. After reading it carefully and finding no mistakes, the prefect handed the roll back to Ferraguto, who slipped it back into his trouser leg.
    â€œWe’re at the gates with stones in our