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.
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.
When we arrived in the shopping district, I realized we had traveled away from the hotel and come back to the same area. I could have walked. But I couldn’t get into that kind of cheap thinking. Going on foot the few blocks would not have been becoming for a woman of my stature.
I strode the few yards across the sidewalk. A store jutted out at the corner with wrought-iron and decorative elements.
Cartier made the statement that it was the finest jewelry store in the world. Just before I reached the door, I noticed the same poorly dressed American hippie I had seen at the hotel walking up the street. We caught each other’s eye for a second. I wondered, Who are you?
A female shopkeeper stepped out of the store to lock it for her tea break just as I was about to approach. Break time was the best time to switch things up and take what I needed.
“Oh my. You are closing?”
She turned to me, and I saw that her eyes didn’t question.
She registered that I must be famous.
She couldn’t resist a potential sale and smiled. “Come right in, madame.”
A young male server came to the door to welcome me off the sunny street and into the chandelier light. The place had Belle Époque décor. There were velvety black displays of diamond necklaces and glass cases with black velvet tubes of diamond bracelets. I saw what I had come for. Glass cases with big-ass rocks. The only problem: I was the only customer. This might make things complicated. I’ll look today and take tomorrow.
The female shopkeeper made me comfortable. She motioned for the young male server to bring out a selection of rings. There was one glass coffee table, where we sat, and another taller table to my right. The server placed the tray between the woman and me, then went off for a second tray, which he held like he was a butler or something. He knew the rules and knew not to put it down until he could swap it for the other tray.
That’s when the American hippie entered the shop. Something about that dude made me nervous. But that’s when the server placed the other tray with five pieces on the taller table to go and greet him. Big mistake.
I engaged the lady. “Oh, my husband’s sister has a piece like this. It is so beautiful.”
She did not realize that the server had placed the tray there. I watched every move she made and every move he made, waiting for the gap when neither of their eyes were on me or on the tray, then I reached forward and put the largest rock on.
When the server returned, he was aware that there was a piece missing, a ten-and-a-half-carat, $550,000 round diamond ring—that’s a $2.5 million diamond today. He looked at me and smiled warmly. I pointed at the shopkeeper to indicate that she was still working with me. She clearly had taken one of the rings to show to me. He was not about to ask for it while his superior was doing her job.
Now I had to go. I couldn’t run out the door, but as long as he didn’t say anything to her, I knew I was cool.
“Oh, my driver is here, and there is more shopping to be done. I’ll come for a piece tomorrow.” I knew I had a small window of time before they would recognize they had been robbed. I quickly walked right out the same door I had come in.
At that time Cartier was the premier jeweler in the world. They had been in operation as a family business in France since the 1800s. They are known for having made jeweled tiaras for King Edward VII and for receiving the appointment of half a dozen royal courts in Europe. For the first time in their history, a woman walked into the store, was shown a selection of jewels, and had the nerve to walk out the door to go about her shopping day. All the while wearing one of the most valuable pieces in the world. I did not take a cab. I walked the short distance back to the hotel, packed, and headed by cab to the Nice airport.
My first mistake was to make my move in the store when there was only one other person shopping. The second mistake was that I didn’t change my clothes before heading to the airport. I left a visual trail for anyone who came in contact with me. The airport was still abustle with the news of Nixon’s resignation. I was able to catch my breath. I checked my ticket. I had a long wait. This is when I made my third mistake. I chose to wait. This was not a Greyhound bus station where I could get my shit together and leave when I felt ready. I had a half-million- dollar ring on my finger.
I learned the most important thing that day: an international jewel thief has to get into the air, off the ground, out of the jurisdiction of where she stole. Get anywhere as long as it’s a flight out of the country where she took the damned thing.
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