Pickpocketing in Paris is out of control.

Or rather, the pickpockets in Paris are in control. The police arrest them regularly then see the same faces on the streets and in the Metro a day later. Frustrated, the police soldier on.

Bob Arno and I ran across a just-arrested pickpocket at Gare de Lyon, a huge train and subway station in Paris—one of the biggest and busiest stations in Europe.

The pickpocket, a seasoned pro, knew just what to say to the arresting officers: sorry, yes, I did it, but it was my first time! The police can’t prove otherwise, because the perp can decline to give a mugshot and may give a false name. Not only that, he can refuse to give fingerprints! If he does refuse to give his fingerprints, he must pay a fine of several thousand euros and/or do jail time. No problem on either count. Fines are just a cost of doing business for pickpockets everywhere, and jail time is certain to be short. Very short.

Pickpockets in Paris

We got the usual sob story from the victim, a 70-ish French woman who had just flown in from Washington D.C. and was waiting for her train to Lyon. She was tired, she was reading, and her purse was beside her on the floor. [Yikes! Better read Purseology 101!]

The pickpocket had snuck up from behind, took the wallet from her bag on the floor, and departed—all under the observant eye of an undercover police officer (hero!).

Lucky victim!

Late the next day, Bob and I were heading back to our hotel with a feast of cheeses, wine, baguette, and fruit. Changing trains at Chatelet station, we fast-walked along the platform when Bob suddenly caught his breath. He stopped short, plopped down on a bench, and launched into an urgent monologue to a glum-looking man. It took me a moment to recognize him. It was yesterday’s pickpocket!

I was speechless. In all of Paris, how did our paths happen to cross? How did Bob notice him, slumped there on a platform bench? How did Bob recognize him? Amazing!

The pickpocket shook his head no, no, no, but Bob blabbed on and on like a high-pressure salesman. The pickpocket had just gotten out of jail. Twenty-four, maybe 26 hours of punishment. Bob told him “you’re going to have dinner with us, you’re going to talk to us, and you’re going to have a good time, you’ll see.” The thief could not refrain.

No, we did not bring him back to our hotel room to share our hand-picked bounty. We got a back corner table at a moules joint where, after a hearty steak dinner, the thief began to relax. Smiling, leaning back, the man spoke easily to us in very good English which he said he learned while “working” in Switzerland.

Bob Arno, master manipulator, cannot be refused. After first convincing the nervous thief to go with us, he had now expertly calmed him with casual talk as if he were a confederate. After wolfing down the steak, the thief got up and went out for a smoke, leaving his backpack with us. He returned, relaxed and unhurried. Bob showed him video of other pickpockets.

The pickpocket must have been seriously grateful for the grub—apparently, jail cuisine is not what we think of as “French food.” He hadn’t eaten. He was so grateful that he agreed to talk to us on camera. We pulled out a naked little GoPro video camera—toy-like, unthreatening.

Forty years old, “Dennis,” the easy name he said he uses, is from Kosovo, where he did military service. He spent a long time in Barcelona, another pickpocket paradise, and has a Romanian wife and a child there. He gave us his real name and email address. Or did he? When we tried to email him later, the address failed.

By the time we began the interview on camera, the Bosnian had gradually become twitchy. He couldn’t sit still in his chair. He fidgeted, scratched himself all over, threw glances over his shoulders. Must be a tweeker. But he still smiled, laughed, and talked openly about his profession and yesterday’s arrest.

He usually works with a partner, but his partner was in jail. His specialty is stealing from women’s purses. [Of course—they’re the easiest, having no nerve endings.]

His favored venues are train stations (but not on trains), airports, and hotel lobbies. He does not do anything with credit cards. I asked if he sells them to anyone. He said he doesn’t. Does he just throw them in the trash? No, he leaves them somewhere to be found. [By another thief? I didn’t ask.]

Well, if he doesn’t abuse credit cards, he wants cash. Who carries the most cash? Travelers. Hence his venues, right? The wallet of his victim yesterday contained over 400 euros. [His own wallet, though empty of cash, is an elegant black Montblanc, certainly from the breast pocket of some unfortunate gentleman.]

The plainclothes police officer who arrested him yesterday had tried to get him on the floor for handcuffing, the standard method. The Bosnian chuckled. “I’m so much bigger and stronger than he is, I just gave him my wrists and said please, it isn’t necessary to put me on the floor.”

After fifteen minutes on camera, the pickpocket was squirming in his seat. Bob tried to get him to agree to meet tomorrow, but he wouldn’t commit. He just wanted to go home, he said, he just wanted a shower. I’m pretty sure he needed a hit of something.

We did not hear from him again. Not even for another hearty dinner.

In the style of Financial Times’  “Lunch with the FT” column, I’ll close with the details of our dinner:

[infobox subtitle=”

1 Moules Mariniere
1 Moules Madras curry
1 Steak
Fries all around
2 Creme Brulee
1 Belgian chocolate fondant
1 Perrier
1 espresso

€70

” bg=”pink” color=”black” opacity=”on” space=”10″ link=”no link”]Dinner with a pickpocket[/infobox]

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