Broad Daylight at the Museum
“It’s important to be chic,” the 15-year-old Louvre detective informed the Times in an interview, once again dressed like the noir potato from our collective hallucination Between the Lions. His dapper presence on the heist scene was passed off as a hilarious coincidence, but we all know he’s a Boxcar sleuth skirting child labor laws. And with his middle-school diploma and skewed work-fashion balance, he’s still somehow the museum’s smartest employee. (I’m over the password being “Louvre.” I just wanna know how they got away with an unbastardized proper noun. Not “L0uvr3!!!”? Not “Mon@L!sa”? What is this, Windows ’95?)
Admittedly, the thieves themselves were not much savvier, with their matching hats, getaway scooters, and Fergie-rivaling clumsiness (hey king, you dropped this 👑). On the French criminal spectrum, these guys leaned less Monte Cristo, more Thénardier (picking up their knick-knacks when they can’t see straight, fr).
For a story that could’ve been a collab between Vin Diesel and Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler — that legitimately just happened in real life — the Louvre heist situation is positively devoid of je ne sais quoi. Luckily for the French, just like Coca-Cola, Disneyland, and the Revolution, we did it first — and with way more swag.
By October 29, 1964, Jack Roland “Murf the Surf” Murphy had already made a name for himself (literally). The 27-year-old Murf of all trades had grown up an alleged violin, tennis, and (you’ll never guess) surfing prodigy, winning scholarships, championships, and symphony seats that everyone who ever interviewed him unanimously accused him of making up. And you can’t really blame them — it’s hard to trust a guy who racked up a Wikipedia résumé like “American burglar, athlete, surfing champion, musician, author, artist, minister, and convicted murderer.” Almost well-rounded enough for a college essay — too bad he fled Pitt on his first snow day freshman year. Standing frozen in the slush, surrounded by swirling flakes indistinguishable from steel-mill smog, he reenacted that scene when the Madagascar penguins complete their quest to Antarctica and stand in silence before declaring “Well, this sucks” (the first-ever joke I can remember pissing my pants at, age six).
“‘I thought, I’m going to die here,’” Murf told Vanity Fair of Pittsburgh’s sinister winter wonderland. So he decided it was time to put the “Surf” back in his self-given moniker and took the midnight train going specifically to Miami. There, he could support his alleged surfing-champion career with the day job of Beach and, of course, the obvious side hustle of “diving stunts in hotel aquatic shows.” He could also get married and divorced twice, father two sons, open a surf shop in a suburb, explode it for insurance money, and return to Miami Beach — all within six years. Productive!
At the same time, circa 1962, the Allan to Murf’s Ken was arriving on the scene. Literally named Allan, he was a poor kid from Missouri known to rob neighbors’ houses for foreshadowing. Fresh off a Navy submarine tour and somehow still eager to scuba, he docked in Key West and beelined for a hotel-pool instructor gig.
His third career (crime) began one fateful weekend when, scouted at random by a bartender, he was discreetly pulled into the local dive’s back room. There, naturally, sat a jewel thief nursing a gunshot wound.
Between rounds of first aid, the bandit “dared” Allan (Rumpelstiltskin-troll-riddle style) to go find a hole he’d cut in the roof of a nearby coin store (looked it up — literally a store that sells coins 🤷). From there Allan could fireman-slide down a rope, finish off the crook’s cop-thwarted robbery, and keep the change. Hauling sacks of state quarters down the beach like a cartoon villain, Allan knew he’d found his passion.
Turns out, in the ’60s, jewel thieves weren’t quite the international-news-level spectacle they are today. Smithsonian claims that in 1963 alone, a U.S. gem heist occurred, on average, every 32 seconds. So in this much more civilized version of Florida, cliques of button-down Beach Boys pistol-whipping tourists for their wedding rings (with an implied “Barbara Ann” or “Kokomo” soundtrack) were all part of the everyday scenery — more a public-nuisance hobby, like craft beer or marathons, than a charge to press. So when Murf and Allan had their meet-cute on the getaway boat from a group-mansion robbery, $15k each in hand, the protocol wasn’t so much high-speed chase as high-five, beer, and chorus of “Easy Street.”
Their collab felonies started out modest and polite — valuables plucked from vacant hotel rooms after bellhop tip-offs, art swiped from waterfront homes. Allan even vowed not to carry weapons, saying of his serial pacifist burglaries, “I just didn’t think it was necessary to take something forcibly from someone else.” Murf, on the other hand, (1) understood the concept of burglary and (2) was down to clown in the violence department — which made for a killer dynamic. Showing off the newspapers detailing their crimes at the bars each weekend, they recruited fellow Navy vet/Connecticut rando Roger as their professional lookout/wingman.
But after a year or two of public bragging and mysterious car and boat purchases, the FBI finally got a hunch. As the feds closed in, the trio was suddenly inspired to pack up the Cadillac and book it to the Big Apple.
Allan claims they came museum-hungry after watching the heist film Topkapi, which neglected to include a “Don’t try this at home,” so that’s on them. Murf claims they were on their way to rob some Hamptons house. Roger has no thoughts on the matter to this day.
The Three Musketeers checked into the now-defunct Stanhope Hotel, conveniently located across from the Met, which is famously filled with priceless art so easy to steal it has its own “Top 10 heists” listicle. But the Met would’ve been amateur hour for our prodigies and, besides, they found the Stanhope too fancy for their raunchy bachelor lifestyles. So after a fun New York montage (taking in the World’s Fair, hitting jazz clubs, robbing a few apartments), they moved on to the much more reasonable penthouse suite at the also-defunct Cambridge House on 86th and Riverside — perfect for staking out the Museum of Natural History, which is famously filled with reptile bones and a bunch of dioramas.
Since 1869, the Museum of Natural History has been the tri-state area’s crowning field trip and Ben Stiller’s house. It’s got a hundred dinosaurs, 80 species of live butterflies, and a planetarium that’s always closed. (Sometimes one just needs an IMAX existential crisis after 4:30; is that too much to ask? Did you guys know Pedro Pascal narrates Encounters in the Milky Way? Whatever, I don’t even care.) Taxidermied woolly mammoths and physics-defying floating whale aside, our boys had their sights set on an unsuspecting room on the museum’s fourth floor: the J.P. Morgan Hall of Gems (also the title of your Hinge Standouts).
Any jewel thief’s final boss, the room was home to Murf and Allan’s four targets: the Star of India (the world’s biggest sapphire), the Midnight Star (the world’s biggest black sapphire), the DeLong Star Ruby (the world’s most perfect ruby), and the Eagle Diamond (a pretty big diamond a Wisconsin farmer found in his backyard). Per Murf, the decision to cop the precious stones “‘really was no big deal…the same as saying, ‘Let’s go bowling.’”
They really milked the stakeout for a few weeks, lurking suspiciously around the museum in their Florida brights by day and hosting “drug parties” in their penthouse by night. They threw money around like crazy in advance, tipping with Benjamins, buying giant cases of soda just to play drinking games with the bottle caps (freak behavior). They waited around so long Allan started dating a Staten Island secretary who accompanied them to the museum and did their laundry (go off, Janet). On one particularly hand-rubbing, mustache-twirling visit, they clocked an open window, and so it was time.
That brings us to the historic night of October 29, 1964, when the squad pulled up to the museum grounds in their getaway Cadillac. They dressed “sharp” on purpose, in case they ended up in mugshots or on the news — because it’s important to be chic. Murf and Allan jumped out, ordered Roger to circle the block, and hopped the fence. In their turtlenecks and corduroys, they casually scaled the 125-foot exterior wall (half fire-escape climb, half free solo) and — lo and behold — the same window was still cracked. Securing a bit of rope to a nearby pillar, they ripped a little Tarzan swing, and they were in.
The pair waited in silence for a moment, tempting an alarm or Ben Stiller to shut them down, but no such obstacle appeared — apparently, the only guard dog on duty was the menacing giant squid (he’s haunted me since my own 2008 field trip). The museum director would later describe this security system as “not good.”
So Murf and Allan whipped out a glass cutter and went nuts on the display cases. To sound-proof (just in case), they synchronized each whack with the hum of a plane flying overhead, then made sure to sweep the floor after themselves like gentlemen. The coast still clear, they raked in their four jewels, plus twenty more (yolo), using a squeegee (why?). It couldn’t possibly have been that easy (no laser limbo?), so they decided a silent alarm must be summoning the authorities and hustled back out the window. Sure enough, a crowd of cops waited in the park below — not for a heist bust, but for a routine shift change.
Our well-researched robbers knew the drill, so sack of precious jewels and coil of Tarzan rope in hand, they acted casual, chatting up a stranger walking his dog. Men: walking dogs in the middle of the night, befriending criminals, and getting home safe since 1964. When the fuzz inevitably passed by, Murf recalled to the Times, “‘I just said ‘good evening, officers,’ and they gave me a nod and kept walking.’”
As an extra precaution, the swindlers then split the jewels and dove into separate getaway cabs, directing their drivers to the obvious next stop: yet another jazz club. Said Murf, “‘I figured, if I wind up going to jail for this…I might as well party a little.’” Clinking martinis, the Star of India at the coat check, they capped off a culturally rich evening — leaving Roger doing pointless Cadillac laps.
The next morning, a guard unlocked the gates, stood in silence for eighteen seconds, and was like, “Well, this sucks.” The museum director was extracted from a dentist appointment and hurled into a press conference where, nicotined-up, he admitted that the gems were not even insured. If I acquired something called the DeLong Star Ruby, Geico would be my first call, but that’s just me.
Meanwhile, Murf, Allan, and Janet had already boarded a flight to Miami under false names, the loot stashed in Janet’s makeup bag, which she insists was news to her. Sure, Jan.
It didn’t take long for the po-po to get wind of the boys’ very public plan (they’d told so many people even Murf got cold feet) and flashy spending habits. Detectives got a warrant and searched the penthouse suite, where they found several totally unsuspicious books about precious stones, an innocent floor plan of the museum, and a ton of weed. It was almost like the trio had never left — and in a way, they hadn’t, because Roger was very much still there. Mid-search, he arrived home “disheveled” from his NASCAR race with no one, and — when questioned — immediately caved.
Hiding out at Allan’s in the 305, strapped for activities, the rest of the gang had taken to closing the curtains “real tight,” shining flashlights, and rolling the gems around on the floor to make “shooting stars.” A situation that would baffle psychologists, sure, but haven’t we all gotten crafty when the planetarium was closed? Thankfully, when the FBI kicked the door in, the felons had taken an intermission to send Allan for groceries and stashed the jewels in the trash can. The agents tore the place apart and found nothing. The FBI did not check the trash can.
Under arrest anyway, the Wet Bandits spent a few nights in the slammer, but as they say: no jewels, no crime — the case was technically shaky and the bail low. They emerged from their cells proto-Luigis, swarmed by adoring fans, smoldering in handcuffs, and dropping smartass remarks wherever the cameras and mics would follow. (Puffing a cigar in one interview outside their mob lawyer’s office, Murf complained, “I was supposed to be on my way to Hawaii to surf. Now all this inconvenience has fouled things up.”) Cars nationwide legitimately sported “Save Murf the Surf” bumper stickers, as if Murf were a Chicago teen feigning illness and not a coiffed danger to society.
The story was the biggest front-page break a strapping 23-year-old Post writer could ask for — all it took was one willing to sneak onto the penthouse party scene in the name of research. One such scribe, named Nora Ephron (yes, that Nora Ephron), was happy to, later calling the boys’ enemies-to-enemies affair with the law “delicious.”
Meanwhile, Janet was set free and became the first person ever to flee Miami and beeline to Staten Island. There, she was greeted with an immediate “psych!” from the Feds and held captive in a hotel room for three months. Surprisingly not a fan of the Zack-and-Cody lifestyle, she finally agreed to testify in court (damn it, Janet), then promptly pulled an “opposite day” and claimed her entire tale was a lie told under duress. An insane strategy under normal circumstances, but I’m convinced I’m hallucinating this story and I wasn’t even there.
Janet’s Uno Reverse left Murf’s Javert — Assistant DA Maurice Nadjari — robbed of his only witness. Time was ticking, and Ferris and Cameron (once again played by an Allan) had already sold or (literally) buried most of the treasure. Nadjari and the prosecution gang started grasping at straws, sniffing desperately for any dirt that could herd the boys back to jail, asking random hotel receptionists if Murf had ever robbed them (they were all like, “Probably”). The public vibe was rapidly shifting from “Murf hot” to “Pack it up, Maurice.” Maybe J.P. Morgan would just have to (gasp) share.
But just then, a ghost of burglaries past came to bite the Pair of Thieves in the ass. On a regular Tuesday months before, Murf and Allan had clocked into their pistol-whipping shift at the Miami Racquet Club and left with a $25,000 diamond ring. The couple they’d concussed? Stockbroker Richard Brown and his wife, Eva Gabor.
Eva happened to be in Manhattan when Maurice called, easily picked the rascals out of a lineup, and became the first person ever invited on Johnny Carson for being pistol-whipped. She later dropped the charges, too busy with a Green Acres shoot to care — naughty Maurice admits he never believed her anyway. But it was enough to jack up the boys’ bail to $150k, which was enough to land them (and poor Roger) in the Tombs — a former Manhattan municipal jail off Baxter St. (rude).
Surprisingly not a fan of living in a place called “the Tombs,” Allan immediately approached Maurice and offered to show him to the jewels in exchange for leniency. Maurice and his ragtag band of detectives took the bait and flew to Florida — not bothering to wait for the Feds’ stamp of approval. Upon touchdown, Allan promptly demanded they rent him a red convertible, the ideal fugitive-mobile. (Hey, plenty of fugitives got the job done in 1964 convertibles. Just ask Mon@L!sa Vito.)
Technically, even Maurice and the detectives were now on the run from the FBI and, tbh, they were way better at it than Allan. Afraid of heights, Allan refused to jump out of windows whenever it was time to hop to the next motel. When Maurice threatened to push him, he remarked, “‘I wish we’d met earlier — you would’ve made a great jewel thief.’” And it was true — Maurice had gone off the deep end, literally. He’d resorted to snorkeling around Allan’s boat, desperate to discover just a little pirate booty while Allan stalled and negotiated with the jewels’ buyers. Finally, two of the detectives took a fence out to dinner themselves.
It worked — the guy called their motel at 3 a.m. the same night and invited one of them to a root-beer stand (you know what, hell yeah). After a bonding experience over Barq’s, the two emerged to find a key on the convertible’s hood, along with a note directing them to a bus-station locker. Mr. Fence let the detective memorize the locker number before deadass stuffing the note in his mouth and eating it.
The detective returned to the motel room (where Allan sat “glued to the TV”) with two damp paper bags containing the Star of India, the Midnight Star, five emeralds, two aquamarines, and a sapphire. (The Eagle Diamond had already been sliced up, and the DeLong Star Ruby was lost to time [for now…ooooh]. Allan suspected that after he buried it in his friend Dickie’s backyard, Dickie dug it up and stole it — fair, since when word got out that the gem was somewhere on his property, Dickie had been robbed and pistol-whipped to no end.)
No one brought a jewel case or box of any kind (men: not knowing how to pack since 1964). So the crew emptied a package of maxi pads (again, why), stuffed the gems inside, and made a break for it (it’s not a good story without an eleventh-hour race to the airport).
Unfortunately, there was one last Judas in these runaways’ midst — say it with me — the red convertible. The diva broke down, leaving Maurice, Allan, three detectives, and the pad sack stranded on the side of the road. After a harrowing journey to find a payphone, they summoned a local detective buddy’s wife, who high-tailed them straight onto the tarmac (queen).
All three boys pled guilty and were sentenced to three years (they served less than two) at Rikers, publicly pissed at Dickie for not coughing up the ruby to shave some extra time off. Later that year, when a freelance journalist tracked Dickie down, he would, in fact, hand over the stone — but only in exchange for immunity and $25,000 in ransom (a tab MacArthur, of the genius grants, agreed to pick up — a patron of the criminal arts). Caught carrying the ransom cash — same serial numbers and all — while he robbed a whole other jewelry store (rookie move), Dickie was locked up for a decade — more than the trio’s sentences combined. Poor Richard.
So where are they now? Janet, 19 at the time, went off the grid, embarrassed by her teenaged high jinks. Roger became a golf pro/bartender in Vermont, whose boss claimed that in his later years “‘he wouldn’t jaywalk,’” and drove so slow she couldn’t fathom him as a getaway chauffeur. Murf and Allan were back on their bullshit for a while, until a close call with the cops scared Allan and his swimming-student wife off to LA. There, Allan lived happily ever after as a ponytailed UFO enthusiast with a backyard medical-marijuana farm.
In 1969, Murf was convicted for his involvement in the murder of two young women who’d gotten mixed up in the Miami thief circle. Back in prison, he became a born-again evangelist, running a popular ministry for fellow inmates — whom he didn’t let ask him too many questions. Out on parole in 1986, Murf continued to preach at prisons and published a memoir, Jewels for the Journey. Called a “pamphlet” in a disgruntled Amazon review, the tiny book chronicling the life and times of this “American burglar, athlete, surfing champion, musician, author, artist, minister, and convicted murderer” sits at a modest 96 pages — including an introduction by a prison chaplain who calls Murf “an ideal role model.”
Sixty-one years — almost to the day — after the three little hodads’ night at the museum, the French launched into their tired routine of copying us. (What came first, the pyramids or the dinosaurs?) Louvre thieves, all I’ve gotta say is: you’d better have some titillating lore up your sleeves. For every classy crime you carb-scarfing mimes can dream up, New York has an unhinged Florida transplant who’d be thrilled to top it.
And France — as you grieve your priceless gems at large — take comfort in joining the club. C’est la vie. Someday, they’ll write beautiful pamphlets about it.
