Ira Berkow - The Man Who Robbed the Pierre. The Story of Bobby Comfort and the Biggest Hotel Robbery Ever

November 14, 1971, Rochester, New York

To a casual eye Bobby Comfort seemed the conventional suburban dweller. He lived with his wife, baby daughter, and mother-in-law in a split-level house on a quiet cul-de-sac in Fair-port, New York, twenty miles southeast of Rochester: two cars were in his garage, and he had a spacious front lawn and a backyard complete with a stone barbecue pit and a swimming pool.

The lone discordant note in the neat, shrub-lined backyard was the clothesline that extended between two sycamore trees. Comforts mother-in-law insisted that her granddaughters clothes be sun-dried, to insure freshness.

Behind the home were thirty acres of woods that afforded relative privacythat is, except for an occasional unexpected visitor. Sometimes, Comfort would turn from his cup of coffee in the breakfast room and come face-to-face with a deer staring at him through the window.

The Comforts were private peoplecordial, but not overly friendly to the neighbors, and the neighbors respected their privacy and understood that they had their own set of friends. Because Comfort was away a lot, the neighbors assumed he was a traveling salesman of some kind. He was quiet but never failed to wave hello when coming out of the driveway. The last thing they would have imagined was that Mr. Comfort was the most widely sought jewel thief in the country.

The weather had been unusually mild for late autumn and the soft, hilly land, with leaves still clinging to the trees, was dappled various shades of red and brown. Although close to industrial Rochester, the Fairport area was extensively cultivated. Just beyond the community of suburban homes were farmhouses and silos; cornfields and apple orchards dotted the landscape, dairy cows grazed, and mounds of new-mown hay were spread out on the vista Bobby Comfort sawbut didnt really noticeas he wheeled his black Thunderbird along his street and onto Pittsford Road. He had something other than scenery on his mind.

It was mid-morning, the air was nippy, but the sun felt good and strong as it came through the car window and reflected on his sunglasses.

He snapped on the radio to the news. More American bombing raids on North Vietnam; an early-season snowstorm had hit the upper Midwest and might be headed toward Rochester. In the local news a police captain had been indicted on charges of corruption and was turning informant against several colleagues. As if to retreat from thoughts of the police, Comfort pressed another button and heard music.

Thats better, he mused.

Shortly, he arrived at the shopping-center parking lot, whisked into the supermarket, picked up two cartons of cigarettes, hurried back to the car, and pulled back onto the road.

The morning traffic noises seemed distant and dreamy. His thoughts returned to the problem.

It was exactly one year ago that he and his partner had pulled their last hotel heist. The robberies they had committed in Manhattan since then were at Sophia Lorens penthouse and an apartment at One Sutton Place, and, although not hotels, the attendant publicity forced them to semiretire for a period of time. But he was determined to pull one last job that would net him at least a couple of million dollarsthe amount he decided could set him up for life. One more job was all he needed. He knew what it would be.

Absently, he turned onto the expressway, heading in the opposite direction from home. He saw himself in the hotel, the safe-deposit boxes being emptied. A roomful of diamonds. It was beautiful to contemplate. Hed have to balance the odds of the haul with that of being caught and, as a multiple offender, sent back to prisonpossibly for the rest of his life.

Plymouth Avenue, read a sign on the highway. Jeezus, Im in Rochester; he muttered. He had missed one cutoff. Softly cursing, he swung around onto the next cloverleaf to head back home, nearly a half-hour away.

When he walked into the house, his wife, in low-cut housecoat, was at the kitchen table sipping coffee. A strand of her black hair had fallen across her forehead, and she looked up, eyes large and questioning.

What happened to you? she asked.

He kissed her. I just got carried away with an idea I had, and wound up in Rochester, he said.

I couldnt imagine

He placed one carton of cigarettes on the counter, walked into the living room with a lively step, picked up the phone, and dialed a number in New York.

A mans voice answered. Hello?

Can you meet me at the fountain tomorrow at noon? Comfort asked.

Ill be there.

Click.

November 15, 1971, New York City

At the Pulitzer Fountain in the Grand Army Plaza at Fifty-ninth Street and Fifth Avenue, which marks the southernmost entrance to Central Park, Bobby Comfort sat and waited on one of the benches. He checked his watch: ten minutes past noon. Sammy was late. It wasnt like him. Comfort stood up and looked around.

The sunlight on this warm day revealed him to be a man of medium build, with broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. He was a man in his late thirties with dark hair and fashionably long sideburns. His face had solid features, high cheekbones, a strong chin. He looked out at the scene around him through lightly tinted, metal-framed sunglasses.

Except for his casual attire, he could have been a successful business executive. Today, however, in a honey-colored leather jacket over a beige sport shirt, open at the neck, and a brown cashmere sweater, tailored cord slacks and burgundy Bally loafers, he epitomized the sporty New Yorker.

Upon closer scrutiny, however, a noticeable scar around his mouth and another etched above his right eyebrow signaled yet another occupation, more turbulent and unrefined than anything his appearance portrayed.

Comfort glanced around the plaza, and his eyes came to rest on the activity at the outer edge of the Central Park entrance. Lining the curb were several hansom cabs, the symbol of romance in the big city. Comfort noticed a young couple step into the first open-top carriage. The coachman, in his worn, dented black opera hat, accepted his fee from the young man as the couple settled down for their ride through the park. The driver tugged at the reins and the chestnut horse began its familiar journey through the park, a funny red plume bobbing on its aged head.

Comfort looked toward the Plaza Hotel and saw Sammy the Arab, his partner, walking rapidly toward him. Although he looked serious and determined, his wobbly stride made him appear slightly comical to Comfort.

Sammy Nalo, five feet four, and conscious of his short stature, attempted to overcome what he considered a physical deficiency by wearing elevator shoes. This made him appear taller, but it also made walking quickly troublesome. As usual, he was dressed meticulously, in a gray topcoat, blue pin-striped suit, and what to Comfort appeared to be a new black hairpiece covering Sammys bald head.