dina8830 Dina
This business of criminality is much like a Lay’s potato chip.
One simply won’t do.
A single achievement, no matter the take, will not satiate the appetite of greed or the need to turn on the faucet of those so addictive endorphins that activate in burglar’s risk-taking, searching for treasure, and realizing the successful get.
The subject matter becomes topical when turning the pages of The King of Diamonds, author Rena Pederson’s captivating whodunit on the search for Dallas’ brazen and clever thief who roamed the streets of the city’s affluent neighborhoods in search of the valuable jewels in the late 1950s and early ’60s.
Actually, our man carried out his last break-and-enter in the late 1960s, though his heists became very sporadic after 1964.
Dallas Police never made an arrest in the case, though detectives believe they knew the culprit. Only the obstruction of the Highland Park Police Department, more concierge service than crime-fighting organization, kept detectives from making a move on the person of interest.
Nonetheless, Pederson channels her inner Sherlock Holmes to try to solve the mystery.
And I think she does through this carefully crafted literary maze.
The book is skillfully researched. Pederson uses notes of Dallas Police detectives and conducts interviews of surviving victims or their survivors, as well as a surviving detective — quite the character in his own right. She analyzes human behavior and even has a psychological profile conducted of the would-be break-in artist, who likely was part of Dallas’ high society. He knew its schedule of annual galas, balls, fashion shows, operas, exclusive dinner parties, and any other of the black-tie things.
He also knew jewelry. The thief was very selective on what he took. In one incident, he sat at the kitchen table and sorted through a drawer of jewelry — all while the family slept peacefully in their bedrooms.
The culprit ultimately got away with jewels valued at more than $1 million in today’s money.
The thief also threw a number of change-ups, which baffled police. One occurred in 1963: He crossed into Fort Worth.
His victims included oilman Jim McCurdy; T. Fred Hodge, president of Talco; and businessman Andrew T. Brown. All lived in Westover Hills.
McCurdy and his family were watching TV after supper on New Year’s Day. Margaret McCurdy heard a noise on the roof. A squirrel, she thought. The next day, the McCurdys discovered that a thief had climbed a tree and vaulted over a railing to the roof. He used a glass cutter to make a small opening in the glass door to a sunroom.
So, he was athletic, too.
“In response to the officers’ questions, Mrs. McCurdy acknowledged that she had numerous friends in Dallas, including Josephine Herbert Graf and her daughter, Joanne Stroud.”
Graf and her daughter were both victims. In fact, the Graf home was hit on the night she and her husband were at the Jewel Charity Ball at Ridglea Country Club.
McCurdy “had attended a party at the Dallas Sheraton the month before that was hosted by Nancy Ann Smith.”
The book is a great primer on Dallas aristocracy. You would certainly recognize the names Bankston, Graf, Murchison, and Hunt. Oh, and, yes, Herman Lay, he of the habit-forming Lay’s potato chips. The biographical sketches alone are worth the price of the book. The Dallas underworld makes a prominent appearance, too. Hello, Jack Ruby.
Also making an appearance is Sid Richardson, who unwittingly got mixed up in the thefts. Richardson had two sisters: Anne Richardson Bass, the mother of Perry Bass, and Fayrene Richardson, the mother of Nancy Ann Smith, a Dallas debutante blessed with charms as far as the eye could see. Nancy Ann was the daughter of Howell Smith, Richardson’s partner in a cattle operation. When you were related to Sid Richardson, you apparently could always count on a good job.
Nancy Ann was, according to the book, the apple of Sid Richardson’s eye, too.
Her marriage at age 33 was said to be one of the most glamorous weddings of the era in Dallas. The guest list to celebrate the nuptials included 1,000 names.
“As far as fairy-tale moments went, Nancy Ann Smith’s wedding was the tops,” Pederson writes.
But that night was the highlight of this tale of lovers. Rumors began to swirl that her new husband, Jim Kirksmith, a ne’er-do-well playboy with two brothers just like him, was involved in the jewel thefts. Her father even went so far as to publicly accuse his brother, which led to fisticuffs at the Cipango Club.
Yikes. That’s gotta make for an awkward Thanksgiving dinner.
Suffice it to say, a divorce judge sooner rather than later took a flame thrower to that state-issued marriage license.
Don’t feel so bad, Ms. Smith, you’re hardly the first or last to board that ship of fools.
