Not Just a Witch by Eva Ibbotson Page B

and had sent messengers to all the furriers in Europe and he had not found what he was looking for.
    This sheikh wanted to see every one of his wives dressed in a coat made of snow leopards.
    Tigers are beautiful and exciting, so are jaguars and ocelots, and people who like fur coats swear by sable or mink. But in all the world, there is nothing like a coat made of snow leopards.
    Snow leopards live in the highest mountains in the world – on the slopes of the Himalayas and the Karakoram, where there are no people, only ice and eagles and the sighing of the wind. They are so graceful and so fearless – and above all so rare – that to look at one is to feel a lump come into your throat. There are so few left now that to shoot or trap one is to risk being sent to prison and only a person with no soul would dream of trying it. To kill one snow leopard and make his skin into a fur coat would be almost impossible. To find three hundred (because at least two leopards are needed for a single coat) . . . well, no one but a mad, rich sheikh would even dream of it.
    But the sheikh Abdul el Hammed did dream of it. The more he couldn’t have what he wanted, the more he was determined to have it. He had offered a thousand pounds for a snow leopard skin and then fifteen hundred, and at last two thousand and more just for one skin. But there simply weren’t any snow leopards to be had. Not even the greediest people were willing to break the law which protected these marvellous and unusual beasts.
    And then came the day when Mr Flitchbody, a skin trader who operated in London, but had a network of trappers and hunters all over the world, got a telephone call.
    ‘Hello. Is that you, Flitchbody?’ a throaty voice said.
    ‘Yes, Flitchbody speaking. Who is that?’
    ‘It’s Knacksap here. Lionel Knacksap from Wellbridge. Tell me, is that sheikh of yours still after snow leopard pelts?’
    ‘You bet he is. Three hundred, he wants, and he’ll sell his soul to get them – and I can’t find one.’
    ‘Well, I can,’ said Mr Knacksap. ‘I can get him the full quantity. If the price is right.’
    ‘The price is two thousand eight hundred per skin and I take ten per cent. But I don’t believe you for a moment.’
    ‘Well, you’d better believe me. I’ve found someone who’s been breeding them in secret. I can send you the bodies, but you’ll have to get them skinned down in London and no questions asked. Can you fix that?’
    ‘I can fix it. But I still think you’re bluffing.’
    ‘Well, I’m not. I’ll want the money in cash. Three-quarters of a million in notes, can you do that?’
    ‘If you can get me three hundred snow leopards, there’s nothing I can’t do.’
    ‘I’ll keep you posted,’ said Mr Knacksap, and put down the phone.

Chapter Seventeen
    Mr Knacksap and Heckie were sitting side by side on Heckie’s sofa and being romantic. Mr Knacksap was holding Heckie’s hand – the one that didn’t have the Knuckle of Power – and they were looking into the gas fire and dreaming dreams.
    Or rather, Mr Knacksap was dreaming dreams. Heckie’s foot had gone to sleep which sometimes happens when you are being romantic, but she didn’t like to say so.
    ‘I was thinking, my dear,’ said Mr Knacksap, ‘about when we are married and living in our cottage in the hills. Paradise Cottage.’
    ‘Yes, dear?’ said Heckie. ‘What were you thinking about it?’
    ‘I was thinking how beautiful the mountains are up there. Beautiful, but bare. Terribly bare.’
    ‘Well, yes. Of course there is the heather, isn’t there?’ said Heckie. ‘That’s very pretty when it flowers.’
    ‘But it only flowers in August. I would like to be able to look up at the hills and see them covered with something really wonderful. With animals that are happy in high places and that are graceful and lovely and a joy to gaze at all the year round. Heather is all right for ladies,’ said Mr Knacksap, ‘but gentlemen like something a