Doris Payne, or “Diamond Doris,” was an international jewel thief for decades. Here, she recounts a daring jewel heist in Monte Carlo in 1974.
I had facial recognition in the United States. At first I thought that was a limitation. Once I got to planning how I was going to get back into things, common sense kicked in. Shorten it up and go where diamonds make their first stop on the black market—Europe.....MORE
From my studies during my West Virginia childhood, I knew some of the history of Monte Carlo. Monaco had royalty, and the country was home to some of the richest people in the world. I read about the royal wedding of movie icon Grace Kelly to Prince Rainier. Etched into my memory were the photos in magazines of the ornamental buildings that looked like royal palaces. I knew if I was going to begin stealing in Europe, Monte Carlo was the place to go. To prepare myself, I stayed at the Hilton in New York, where Babe and I had stayed on numerous occasions. The staff remembered me and gave me the princess treatment.
I knew if I was going to begin stealing in Europe, Monte Carlo was the place to go. For three weeks I watched the women in Saks Fifth Avenue like a hawk, read the New York Times every day, and studied Vogue to mimic the fashions and memorize the most valuable jewels.
I entered Monte Carlo in late summer of 1974, the same day Nixon resigned, and the same day the first Black model, Beverly Johnson, appeared on the cover of Vogue. When I got off the airplane in Nice, France, I knew I didn’t have to worry about the police at the airport because of the news focus that day. I was the only Black person in sight other than that Vogue cover, but my attention wasn’t on that.
I took a cab to Monaco. It was so gorgeous to drive through the spaces of wide-open skies above valleys, rows of hills, and evergreen trees like back home in West Virginia. For the short thirty-minute ride I experienced mountains that descended to the sea. As we entered Monaco, there were yachts with their masts sticking up like pins out of one of Mom’s pincushions. To my left, the high cliffs of chalky limestone looked no different from the limestone cliffs and mountain passes of West Virginia. I thought, Chile, you have come a long way from taking the bus to Pittsburgh. We drove through a small tunnel, and there it was: the wealth of terra-cotta-tile roofs piled on the hillside right down to the Mediterranean Sea.
The driver asked, “Destination, madame?”
I said without hesitation, “Place du Casino.” It was in the fine shopping district. The narrow, steep streets had shops on both sides, reminiscent of San Francisco. Except the signs were in French and the streets were much narrower. I knew just enough French to get by. Mom had been raised Catholic. Without a place to worship in Slab Fork, she had recited the priest’s part and the congregation’s part of the Catholic Mass while doing the dishes. Those Latin roots had given me just enough. On the streets, I didn’t see one Black person, but I was all right holding things down for my people in Monte Carlo....
