“Door-pushers” are a problem in some cities. These thieves saunter down the long corridors of giant hotels with their arms outstretched, methodically pushing on every door on each side of the hall. Some doors open. In one city I won’t name, police get 300 to 400 reports of theft due to door-pushers every month.
“But we know there are more,” a police officer told me. “Some hotels prefer not to report them to us, but door-pushers we catch tell us they work there.” These are huge, famous hotels that don’t want negative publicity.
The risk is completely preventable. Just make certain your door closes tightly when you leave your room, and when you enter it. Why wouldn’t the door close tightly? Air pressure in hermetically sealed hotels is one possible reason; alignment of door latches or frames is another. Bob and I stayed in one hotel, a phenomenal one in Spokane, where the doors to suites took almost a full minute to close, due to hydraulic systems. We couldn’t pull the doors closed or hurry them along in any way. Patience was the only option. (Ours always closed properly, eventually.)
[dropcap letter=”W”]as it instinct or anger that made Bob chase my bag snatcher? He rocketed down the street brandishing the famous umbrella weapon that was so ineffectual in Naples. I had managed nothing more than “Hey!,” but my weak protestation was like the starting gun at the Monaco Grand Prix. Two grown men went from zero to sixty in an instant.
Bag snatch!
I can’t say I was caught unaware when the bag snatcher stepped up to meet me, face to face. He calmly looked me in the eyes, seized the strap of my purse with both hands, and yanked it hard enough to break the leather against my shoulder. It happened much faster than you can read that sentence.
I gave my little shout and the creep was off and running, Bob on his tail. It took me several seconds to realize that I still had the purse clutched tightly in my hands. I could have laughed, but for the fact that my husband was in pursuit of a potentially dangerous criminal in a decidedly unsafe neighborhood.
The street we had walked was full of the necessities of life in this non-touristy part of Barcelona, lined with tiny hardware, shoe repair, and paint shops. We had been directed there, without any specific warning, in search of a few pieces of wood. Peeking through doorways seeking the lumberyard, we revealed ourselves as obvious outsiders. As we strayed ever further from the relative safety of La Rambla, we sensed a vague but growing threat of danger.
My antennas were out way before the interloper trespassed so suddenly into my aura. I didn’t see his approach, but I had already assumed a protective posture. Both my hands held the small purse I wore diagonally crossed over my chest.
Bob was a few steps ahead of me and didn’t see the confrontation. It only lasted two seconds. It’s astonishing what analysis and conclusions the brain can manage in those instants. I thought the man looked ordinary but grave. He stood uncomfortably close and made uncommon eye contact. I thought he would speak. I thought he would ask a question, or offer advice. Against my will, I slipped into the trusting attitude of a traveler in a foreign land. And that was my mistake.
Perhaps I’d have reacted quicker or with more suspicion if the bag snatcher had looked sleazy, mean, or desperate. But he didn’t, and I gave him the benefit of any doubt. In those two seconds, the gentleman had all the opportunity he needed to seize the strap of my bag and yank.
My feeble objection was enough to get Bob’s attention. He whirled around and leapt into pursuit, his long stride a clear advantage. When the perp dashed into a crowded alley, I thought it was all over. Bob bellowed “Policia!” at a volume that would fill an amphitheater. I, far behind, expected to see the escaping sprinter blocked or tripped by the local loiterers.
On the contrary. The sea of people opened for his getaway, then closed up again to watch the tall guy run. They didn’t exactly block Bob’s path, but seemed to plant themselves firmly as obstacles. Bob had to give up.
For me, the humiliation suffered by the would-be thief was almost enough. Like a cat with a mouthful of feathers, he ran with nothing more than twelve inches of torn leather strap in his fist. Yet, I was shaken and weak-kneed immediately following the experience, and the after effects lingered for months. Despite the fact that I wasn’t hurt, I lost nothing of value, and Bob hadn’t been tripped in the chase, I felt victimized.
A dozen boys swarmed around Gary Ferrari in front of the Sheraton Hotel in Lima. At least it seemed like a dozen—they’d appeared out of nowhere and were gone in just a few seconds. In that cyclone of baby-faces and a hundred probing fingers, they got his wallet and the gold chain from his neck.
Pickpockets in Lima
“We call them pirañas,” said Dora Pinedo, concierge at the Sheraton. “They are everywhere.”
“I don’t know how they got my chain,” said Gary, rubbing the red welt on his neck. “It was under my shirt.” He didn’t realize that the boys had learned to recognize the telltale ridge of fabric that covers any chain worth stealing.
“They’re usually seven-, eight-, nine-year-old boys,” Dora told us, “and they mob their victim in groups of six to ten. There is nothing one can do with so many little hands all over.”
We interviewed Petter Infante, 28, and Wilmer Sulca, 17, both grown-up pirañas. We found them at Lima’s University Park, where a comedy presentation was taking place in an entertainment pit, rather like a small amphitheater. Hundreds of people surrounded the pit, transfixed. Others loitered around the audience, more sat on cement benches, and many were asleep in the grass. Petter and Wilmer looked at us skeptically but agreed to talk to us after Gori, our interpreter, paid off a policeman patrolling the park.
Wilmer, a pickpocket in Lima
“But not here,” Wilmer said.
“Anywhere you want,” said Bob. Right, let’s enter their lair, and let’s take our fancy equipment in with us. The five of us piled into a taxi and Wilmer instructed the driver in staccato Spanish. Where were they taking us? I looked at Gori for assurance but our fine-boned archeology-student interpreter was not a bodyguard.
Wilmer led us into a garage-like cantina, dark, deserted, music blaring, disco lights flashing. The boys ordered huge bottles of Cristal beer. Bob wired Petter with a microphone and I set up our video camera, hyper-conscious of our vulnerability—read that: scared. My eyes were glued to Petter’s left arm, a mass of parallel scars, layer upon layer of them. A cut on his wrist was gaping open, infected. I used the gash to focus the camera.
Petter’s arm.
“The first thing I ever stole was a chicken,” Petter said. “I was twelve years old, alone, and hungry. I had small brothers to take care of.” Petter’s expressive face told a many-chaptered tale of violence: his snaggle teeth were edged with gold, his cheeks crosshatched with scars.
“I’m best at stealing watches. I just grab it off someone walking, then run. I’m a very fast runner. The victim could never catch me. We call this arreba tar. It means run-steal.”
He stood to demonstrate his expertise. Bob stood to be victim. “You can see there’s nothing in his front pocket, it’s flat,” Petter said. Then he did a lightning fast dip and grab into Bob’s back pocket. The wallet flew upward with a grand flourish, like the follow-through of a tennis stroke.
“We’ll steal anything,” Wilmer said, “nothing in particular. It’s all easy. It’s like a game.” Wilmer then showed the same method from Bob’s front pocket, finishing with the same exuberant flourish. “Cocagado—I’m already gone. By the time the victim realizes, we’re cocagado.”
The knife scars on Petter’s arm are like stripes on an officer’s shoulders: you have to respect him. You see he’s tough and dangerous. He started cutting himself a few years ago.
“If the police catch you, you cut yourself and they release you. They don’t want you if you’re cut and bleeding.”
“I’m on the street nine years and I never cut myself,” Wilmer said. “I don’t like to do that. We don’t have the same philosophy, Petter and I. He likes to cut himself, I do not. We think differently.”
(A police officer explained that an injured arrestee must be taken to a hospital, which requires hours of paperwork. If an arresting officer is near the end of his shift, he may not want to pursue such lengthy formalities.)
Petter and Wilmer, pickpockets in Lima, are opportunists, pirañas grown into hardened thieves. Petter thinks nothing of threatening his victims with a knife. I don’t know if he ever has or would use it. The boys’ main operative is speed.
Petter’s cuts
“We wait at the bus stops and look for someone with a good watch, or something else to take. We wait until the bus doors are ready to close then grab it and run. And sometimes we grab things through the open windows of the bus. We reach inside and grab cellphones, watches, glasses, purses, anything.”
Opportunists look for sure bets, for temptations, for the fat wallet protruding from a back pocket “like a gift,” as a pickpocket in Prague told me. “We call it …˜the other man’s pocket,'” a Russian thief revealed; “the sucker pocket,” said another. “Tourists make it too easy,” complained a man in Prague whose family members were admitted thieves.
Purses and backpacks go missing at the worst times. Like, when they’re filled with cash, passports, cameras, medications, travel documents, and laptops. Like, when you’re far from home.
Last month, Ron and Sharon Dasil were renting a car in Barcelona. Very experienced savvy travelers, they took all the precautions. Sharon sat with their four suitcases and two backpacks while Ron stood at the counter in the tiny Hertz office near Sants train station. After resisting up-selling efforts by persistent employees, Ron finished the paperwork and asked for driving directions. To make notes, Sharon joined him at the counter for three minutes, max. When she returned to her chair, her backpack was gone.
The office was only about a 12-foot square; the two employees faced out toward the door. When Sharon exclaimed that her bag was gone, one of the employees took a few steps to the door and closed it, pointing to a sign that the Dasils had not seen: “guard your stuff, thieves are around,” or something to that effect.
Had someone been watching from outside, waiting for the office’s only customers to turn their backs? Was it pure flukey timing? In such a small space, why hadn’t the employees noticed the arrival of a new person? Wouldn’t they greet a potential customer? If thieves are around, why was the door propped open?
These are questions the couple is asking the police and the Hertz headquarters. They also wonder if there was some complicity or collusion between the Hertz agents and the thief. “One of them bent under the counter for a while. He could have been texting someone,” Sharon worried.
The four men who own the luggage at left are far out of sight at the front desk.
At about the same time, Paul Hines was checking into the Holiday Inn Kensington Forum Hotel on Cromwell Road in London. He and his wife piled their luggage next to some chairs in the lobby, with their backpack on top. Mrs. Hines sat with the bags while Mr. Hines checked in. Mrs. Hines was briefly distracted when she noticed a man in the lobby with his fly open. That was all it took. The backpack was gone.
This gaping open purse was ignored for more than ten minutes while its owner checked in.
Who was the man with the open fly? An intentional distraction? Or just a staff member or hapless guest? Holiday Inn staff claimed to have the theft on video, but wouldn’t reveal much else to the Hines’s. Neither were they very helpful after the incident. They marked the location of the police station on a map, but didn’t get a taxi for Mr. Hines, who had no cash for a cab. He walked there and back again in the rain.
Both the Dasils and the Hines’s lost a lot in their backpacks. Both couples spent considerable holiday time filing reports, canceling credit cards, replacing passports, etc. While the Dasils, frequent travelers, took care of the theft business then got back to their adventure, Mr. Hines still seemed angry and frustrated several days later, when I spoke with him.
He could have put his bag anywhere. He put it behind his chair; not only out of his sight, but out of his companions' sight, too.
Now you see it, now you don’t. We all know to guard our stuff, but it’s worth remembering how quickly these thefts happen, and how frequently. The opportunist thief is lurking, waiting for you to drop your guard. The strategist thief turns your head himself, with some devious distraction or other.
Lobby employees don’t know whose luggage is whose. They don’t know every guest or customer. They are not luggage guards—not even the doormen are.
How exactly are purses and backpacks stolen, right out in the open? The technique usually involves a sport coat or jacket. We know some thieves who use an empty garment bag. The thief simply drapes the cover over the object of his desire and walks off with the goodies hidden underneath—often barely breaking stride. Bob Arno has done this many times on television.
I’ve heard about a hundred too many stories like these. Now I’m calling on you, readers, to help put an end to lobby theft. Watch your stuff. Keep a hand on the heap, or some other body contact with your bags.
A tour of the muti market, where witchdoctors sell traditional medicine.
South Africa—It was somewhat of a shock to find nothing but white lines on asphalt in the place we knew we left a van. We couldn’t help but wonder whether our minds were slipping and the van stood undisturbed in a forgotten location. But there it wasn’t, high noon and sixty feet from the entrance of Rustenburg’s busiest supermarket. We stood two and a half hours, groceries dripping and spoiling, staring morosely at our empty parking space as we waited for the South African Police. They never bothered to show up.
So the van was stolen; we shouldn’t have been surprised. We’d read in the local papers how often these vehicles disappear into the taxi trade, and our own experience had provided us with enough warnings. Once we’d returned from an hour in a Johannesburg mall to find the ignition busted by a would-be thief who’d easily entered the vehicle but couldn’t get it started, presumably due to the special electronic safety key system with which the van was equipped. Weeks later in the same parking lot a less-skilled perpetrator was foiled, ruining only the door lock. Then, the week before Christmas, we were jabbed by the foul fingers of crime in a more personal manner.
Winding up a long stay in South Africa, we had packed a few boxes to mail home. The year had seen a natural accumulation of files, notes, photos, and clothing purchased to shield us from a winter for which we were ill-prepared. Though we weren’t sending anything of major value, we were distressed to learn that it wasn’t possible to insure any mail to the U.S. We never completely trust international mail, especially in nations rife with poverty. In addition to sloppy and careless handling, we worry about stamp-stealing, prevalent in many parts of Africa. Postal workers are known to steam stamps off envelopes, discard the letters, and earn pennies for the stamps. But as we couldn’t justify sending everything air cargo, we packed up four twenty-pound boxes of a year’s slough.
In Rustenburg, an hour’s drive from where we lived, we rushed to the post office, as we knew it closed for lunch at one. We parked at the busy entrance, directly in front of the public telephones. I waited in the van with the parcels while Bob went to buy tape for a final touch on the labels. I was engrossed in Newsweek when a sullen man materialized at my open window. He asked where some street or shop was; I couldn’t quite understand, as he spoke in the submissive, barely audible mumble so many South Africans used. I asked him several times to repeat himself—we were always so sensitive about being friendly and courteous to everyone there.
A couple of (former?) thieves describe the powers of the bark and animal-part medicines.
Meanwhile, a second man appeared at the open driver’s side window and asked another unintelligible question. With a stranger on either side of me, open windows, keys dangling in the ignition, I felt frighteningly vulnerable. I casually lowered a hand to my bag and shoved my watch wrist down and out of sight, trying to look at both men at once while politely saying I don’t know, sorry, no. I was definitely nervous.
Both the lost souls wandered innocently away in seemingly separate directions and Bob returned with his purchase. Being an unpredictable land, the post office closed at 12:30, not 1:00 that day, so we missed it after all, and only by two minutes. While we taped labels, I told Bob what had happened, and we discussed how close we’d come to being ripped off.
We locked and left the van, and walked to our usual lunch place two blocks away, grumbling about what a shame it was that we had to suspect people who are most likely decent and honest. We did feel certain we were almost robbed, even though the gentlemen merely asked for directions. Did they appear shady? By our cultural standards, yes. But in South Africa, the downcast eyes, low mumbled speech, and meek stance seem to be the product of generations of oppression and domination, if not their own aboriginal behavior. As we analyzed the origin of the character traits, we felt guilty. Were we prejudiced, or merely wise?
Bathe with this stuff and you'll become invisible to police, we're told.
Not wise. We returned forty minutes later to find only one of our four boxes left in the locked-tight van. Yes, in retrospect, leaving the boxes in the unattended van was stupid. We should have known. But in broad daylight, on a crowded street, right in front of a government building—who would think they’d have the nerve? We half-expected to lose a box or two in the mailing, but not before the mailing.
Of course none of the people at the telephones or waiting for the post office to reopen saw anything. Off we went to the police station, where officers assured us we’d never see our things again. Our clothing would be put to good use and our files, photos, and books would most likely fuel an evening’s cooking fire.
We’d had the privilege of using a borrowed van for weekly treks into town from where we lived in the bush. Careful and conscientious, we treated the van as if it were our own; that is, we parked it in the busiest, closest, and best-lit places, and always ensured it was locked securely. Despite this, the statistics were shocking. In 45 weeks we borrowed the van about 40 times, almost once a week. With our four occurrences, we were victimized ten percent of the times we drove. This would translate to 36 times a year, an intolerable figure, if we had driven every day, as we do at home.
We were not virginal victims. In California, our house had been robbed, our car stereo stolen, and an illegal alien once tried to get into my bedroom window while I was home alone. In the latter case, the police arrived swiftly, apprehended the creep and, before my eyes, dispossessed him of a knife, a screwdriver, and a few hundred pornographic pictures. But these three affronts were spread over seven years and, until South Africa, comprised our entire experience as victims of crime.
With the frequency of our South African incidents, it became difficult to give the benefit of the doubt to the average man on the street, the man who wouldn’t meet our gaze and mumbled incoherently into the ground. Of course it could be argued that our logic was flawed, that there was no proof who our thieves were. True. But aren’t we all susceptible to hunches and assumptions that grow from experience? We tend to generalize, to the detriment of many, and judge a whole by its most visible parts. The people who indulge in violence and crime poison our perception of the group.
Johannesburg children
Bob and I left that country with a unique South African souvenir tucked safely away, an unfortunate byproduct of the chronic crime we experienced there. Not rare but valuable, we took away a useful and lasting kernel of cynicism, planted by thieves. As we continue living the lives of expatriates, and even in our own country, we’re more suspicious of and aloof to everyone who approaches us.
It’s a tricky business, filming thieves—you can’t shove a giant television camera in their faces and expect cooperation. Bob and I know this from many years of experience, but Kun’s history of criminal interviews included just one hour off-camera with a pre-buttered “friend.” Kun’s priority was getting the high sound and video quality required by our (still secret) investor-distributor, whose standards are ultimate. Bob and I just wanted the meeting; we wanted Pierre and his friend to demonstrate how they pick pockets, and tell us about their work; and we wanted to film it if possible. Kun wanted the same, but only if he could record audio and video at the required standards. Otherwise, none of it was of any use to him—he couldn’t put it in the film.
This little conflict was settled by way of two compromises. First, Kun would shoot video on an unobtrusive camera himself, without an additional cameraman. He thought his Canon EOS 5D Mark II would do. Second, he’d keep his soundman and assistant at a distance and only call them in at the last moment, so as not to present a large, offensive front that would overwhelm the casual atmosphere we hoped to maintain.
The crew was booked. The time and place were set.
Meanwhile, my skepticism had not been dissipated by our clandestine rendezvous. What skepticism? Well, why should I believe that “Pickpocket from Paris since 13 year old” is who he says he is? He could be any old leg-puller with a sense of humor. Pierre’s second letter admitted “yes i also speak english , litle just for my job ( rires [laughs] ),” though most subsequent letters were in French. In his third letter, Pierre claimed to work in a car factory during the week, pickpocketing only on weekends and holidays.
If true, he’s a man on the grid, with a reputation and a job to protect. He’d be much cagier than a full-blooded thief who owns up to his livelihood. More careful. More fearful of entrapment, with more to lose.
On the other hand, he’d described some pretty sophisticated M.O.s in his letters and at our cafe meeting. The man definitely knows what he’s talking about. We were all three eager to see his demonstrations, and how he works with his partner.
Kun arrived early at our hotel. He’d slept little, he said, excited by yesterday’s meeting with his first pickpocket. He’d carefully packed his equipment and was ready for the first shoot on the project. We were ready to go when Kun’s phone buzzed.
Pierre sent a text message. Sorry, something’s come up. Have to cancel today.
Oh, what disappointment! We scared him off, we said to ourselves. No, he’s just busy, we tried to convince each other; he told us his parents were visiting from abroad. Why so vague then? Should we call him? Email him? No, let’s wait.
“It’s funny to say, but I actually trust this guy,” Kun said. “He’s emailed for months, he phoned twice to confirm our meeting yesterday, then he showed up 45 minutes early. He bailed today, but I think he’ll come through.”
“My take’s different,” Bob countered. “They’re nervous that they’ll be recognized on television. They have regular jobs, and their work will be in jeopardy.”
Later, Pierre called. “My friend wants money to talk.” We can’t do that, Kun insisted. Then it’s over, Pierre said. Kun consulted our producer, who approved small consulting fees for Pierre and his friend. Negotiations began and tensions rose. Pierre, we sensed, was being pressured by his partner, who had no relationship with us, no reason to cooperate. The partner, too, was on the grid—he drove a bus, Pierre had said.
Eventually, an agreement was reached. We thought. That’s what Pierre and his friend said. We had a deal. Then they canceled. Pierre didn’t return our phone calls. Our email bounced.
Pierre was history. Welcome to the world of thieves.
“Dear Bob,
My name is Pierre. I’m 33 years old and I have worked as a pickpocket in Paris since the age of 13.”
We received this intriguing email (in French) in October 2009. It ended with an invitation to meet in Paris in order to exchange stories and anecdotes.
Over the course of 44 additional emails, “Pierre” told us about himself and his work. He claimed to have a graveyard factory job. Pickpocketing was a sideline, he said, but one he took seriously. He used to do his thieving in the Paris Metro, but now works strictly out of town. The laws changed recently, he explained, making it easier for police to pick up and hold known offenders.
In November, Pierre wrote that he and a partner would be going to a huge farming expo in Brussels. Neither Pierre nor his partner are involved in farming, of course.
A souvenir; proof of prowess; a trophy.
In December, he attached a photo to his email, captioned “a memory from Brussels.” Fingers grasping a wallet.
Eventually Bob and Pierre spoke at length on Skype (without video). We decided to visit Paris. Not just to meet Pierre, of course; but the rendezvous would be a bonus.
Coincidentally, we are in the beginning of a documentary film project. Not the beginning, really, as the idea germinated exactly four years ago this month. But we have finally begun shooting. We have a first-rate film director, Kun Chang (the driving force behind the project); a mighty production house; and the world’s best-regarded multimedia company as primary investor and distributor. (We’ll formally announce the project soon.) Our film director spent the week in Paris with us.
Pierre picked the place for our meeting: a brasserie called Au Canon de la Nation. We walked over early for a quick lunch. Could this part-time-Parisien-pickpocket possibly know that canon is criminal parlance for pickpocket in the U.S.? The in-joke gave us a little laugh as we took chilly terrace seats on our first day in the City of Light-fingers, wondering if our thief would show up.
He was 45 minutes early! Is that eager, or what? Tall and elegant in a black blazer, briefcase in hand, Pierre wouldn’t raise an eyebrow in any situation. He is what I call a “gentleman thief:” one who can insinuate himself among people of means without looking out of place.
He arrived with a gift: a copy of the book Pickpockets!, by François Abjean. The author was a formidable pickpocket cop in Paris, who arrested Pierre in 1993. The book was stolen from a library, of course. [Update 6/28/10: Pierre wrote today, offended by this reference to the book being stolen. He bought it on the internet, he explained.]
We talked for an hour over a thimble-sized espresso—proving the frivolity of the bottomless American coffee mug. Kun, our director, translated—proving the deficiency of Google translations and Bob’s schoolboy French.
The Parisian pickpocket allowed himself to be photographed from behind.
We all planned to meet again the next day. Pierre would bring his partner, who had already agreed to meet us. Kun hinted to the possibility of filming the thieves, and handed over a bag of disguises from which the two could build new looks. Pierre smirked at the plastic glasses and fake mustaches, but thought it was feasible, as long as his and his friend’s identities were protected.
This was a good beginning for our week in Paris and a promising start of our film project. Bob, Kun, and I left Au Canon de la Nation on a high. Was it just the coffee?
Ms. Shopper’s in the store when her kid has to pee. While she’s helping the little one, her purse is stolen from the store restroom. She put it on the floor, hung it from the hook, left it on the stroller, whatever. Now it’s gone. She reports it to the store manager and goes home, distraught.
At home she gets a phone call. It’s the store. They’ve got her purse. She packs the little one into the car and drives back to the store with relief and apprehension. What will be missing from her bag?
Dragging the kid, she marches into the store, finds a manager, and expresses her gratitude, relief, and apprehension, all at once.
“We didn’t find it,” the manager says.
“But you phoned!”
“We didn’t.”
Ms. Shopper goes home, rattled.
Yep. Her house has been burglarized.
When we interviewed Luciano in Naples, Italy, our translator, a Napolitano, explained how Rolexes are stolen off the wrists of drivers in the summer.
The team targets expensive cars and scopes out the drivers’ watches from the vantage point of a motorcycle. It’s hot. The windows are up and the air-conditioner is on. Traffic is heavy, as always in Naples, and there are no such things as lanes. Cars squeeze into whatever interstices exist.
There’s a Mercedes that fits the bill. A scooter slips alongside it; the scooter driver folds down the Mercedes’ side mirror in order to pass, and winds away through the gridlock. The Mercedes driver opens her window and readjusts the side mirror with her left hand. That’s the moment another scooter zooms up, rips the Rolex or Cartier or Piaget right off the extended wrist, follows the first scooter between stagnant cars, and disappears into an alley.
[dropcap letter=”N”]o thanks, I’ll carry that bag myself,” Marianne Crossley said to the porter as she stepped out of the London black cab, “it’s too valuable.” She handed a fistful of pound sterling to the driver, hefted her designer tote, and followed the porter into the cool marble lobby of the Langham Hilton Hotel.
Elegance embraced her. Marianne straightened her posture. The Langham was exclusive. She was privileged. She imagined herself belonging to the “UC,” as she thought of it, English Upper Class. Her entire European vacation would be the height of luxury; the black cab and Langham lobby were just the beginning.
Marianne chatted brightly with the reception staff as she checked in, a fresh veneer of energy covering the exhaustion and jetlag of her journey. Emotionally, she had already slipped into something comfortable, something contrived, perhaps a bit pretentious. Cloistered within the confines of the lobby, she felt protected, shielded from the rudenesses of the real world.
You know what’s coming. Marianne took her room key in one hand and reached for her tote with the other. It was gone.
The Langham’s two lobby cameras caught the crook, but the video was not monitored by security officers and was only viewed after the fact. When the larceny was discovered and the tapes reviewed, an interloper could be seen in Marianne’s proximity; but the front desk blocked the camera’s view of the tote. Neither the hotel, nor the police, recognized the suspect as a known thief.
Hotel lobbies are common sites of bag theft. To the guest they offer a false sense of security, with doormen in their guard-like uniforms, desk clerks facing outward, and bellmen looking after luggage. In reality, most anyone can enter a lobby, and who’s to say whether or not they have legitimate business in the hotel? At peak hours, reception staff are harried and the lobby swirls with the incoming, the outgoing, guests of guests, and lookyloos.
Some small hotels keep their entrances locked and visitors must be buzzed in, but many of these have no security staff or video surveillance. Large hotels, with shops and restaurants open to the public, may have guards and cameras but are as exclusive as a post office: anyone can come and go without suspicion. Which are safer?
There is no answer to that question. The responsibility for personal belongings is the traveler’s—period. We may give our luggage to bellmen and that is fine; but if we don’t, or if we have a carry-on, a roll-aboard, a purse, or anything we prefer to handle ourselves, its safekeeping is our responsibility. Hotel staff don’t know whose is whose or who belongs to whom. Perhaps a Langham employee saw a man take Marianne’s bag. Perhaps he assumed the man was Marianne’s husband.
The Langham is not particularly prone to lobby lifts, and neither did it suffer a rash of them. Perhaps an opportunist overheard Marianne’s general announcement in the portico that her bag was “too valuable” to entrust to a hotel employee. Perhaps not.
Marianne was luckier than most victims. Her bag was found intact by a London businessman who went to the trouble of phoning her home in America. Relatives there told him where she was staying and he personally delivered the bag to her, refusing a reward or reimbursement for the international phone call. Only cash had been taken from Marianne’s bag. Yet, in the interim days, she’d had to replace her passport and airline tickets, cancel her credit cards, arrange to get cash, and file a police report.
If the Langham were on busy Oxford Street, this lobby lift would make more sense. But it’s not; the Langham is on a relatively quiet street several blocks off Oxford. Hotels smack on a main tourist drag have many more lobby thefts; those on La Rambla, in Barcelona, come first to my mind. But if it can happen at the Langham, it can happen anywhere.
And if it can happen in seemingly-safe Scandinavia, it can happen anywhere. Certain frequent visitors during Stockholm’s summer season have been dubbed “breakfast thieves.” They don’t steal breakfast; they lurk on the fringes of sumptuous buffets at upscale hotels, waiting for a moment of inattention.
“They lie in wait for a businessman to fetch a second glass of orange juice,” said Anders Fogelberg, head of the Stockholm police department’s tiny pickpocket detail, “and in that instant of opportunity, they and the businessman’s laptop, briefcase, or mini-computer skip out the door.”
