Open Locker 0911

Long past midnight, the phone rang in a motel room near Miami. The caller spoke swiftly. Minutes later, a New York City detective named Richard Maline stood before Locker 0911 at the Trailways bus station in downtown Miami and opened it. Inside, he found two small, waterlogged leather bags containing several tissues. Wrapped in the tissues were a couple of handfuls of gems, including the golfball-sized, 563.35-carat Star of India sapphire. Thus were recovered nine of the 24 sapphires, diamonds, rubies and emeralds that had been taken from New York City's American Museum of Natural History (TIME, Nov. 6) in one of the most imaginative jewel robberies ever perpetrated offscreen.

If this predawn denouement seemed melodramatic, it was nothing compared with the events that preceded it.

Wise in the Ways. Within 48 hours after the robbery. New York police had got a tip and picked up three suspects: Roger Clark, 29. Allan Kuhn, 26, and Jack ("Murph the Surf") Murphy, 27, all habitues of Miami Beach spas. They were lean, tanned fun lovers who apparently made their living as beach boys and instructors in swimming, surfing and undersea diving. All were members of a loose fraternity of similarly inclined young men who earn untidy amounts of money entertaining lonely middle-aged ladies.

The police could not hold the trio after the museum robbery without evidence, and so let them go back to Miami on bail. Nevertheless, Murph the Surf and his two friends were tailed constantly. Police suspected that the boys, wise in the ways of Gulf Stream currents and coral reefs, might be stashing their loot beneath the sea.

Sweat It Out. Their new-found notoriety brought them some further attention. A Manhattan hotel clerk identified Murph the Surf as one of the men who held him up and pistol-whipped him last summer; Actress Eva Gabor accused Murphy of having beaten and robbed her; and Murph's 22-year-old mistress, Bonnie Lou Sutera, committed suicide, leaving a cryptic note that said, "I guess this is what you want."

To keep the boys safe while sorting out their complex affairs, the cops hauled them back to New York, in creased their bail ($190,000), and when they could not pay, tossed them in jail to sweat things out. Sure enough, they sweated. At length, Kuhn sent word to Assistant District Attorney Maurice Nadjari: perhaps it might be possible to locate some of the gems.

Said Kuhn, according to one report, "I'll get back 15 jewels for you. The rest of the white stuff has already been sold to pay lawyers and bondsmen. Nine are gone forever. Of that I'm sure."

Blabbing Hackie. With the understanding that the accused men would get reduced sentences for their cooperation, Kuhn was permitted to return to Miami with Nadjari and four detectives. It was to be a secret mission --but it turned into a public and fantastic chase.

Newsmen got wind of the deal, and wherever Kuhn & Co. went in their efforts to locate informants and fences who knew the whereabouts of the jewels, the reporters followed. From motel to motel the gem seekers fled. From motel to motel followed the reporters, some of them keeping contact by walkie-talkies. Twice, Kuhn and his police escorts leaped 20 ft. from the window of a motel room to evade their pursuers. Another time, Nadjari and Kuhn tried to get away from the press in a cab, paid the driver an extra $20 to keep his mouth shut; the hackie promptly appeared on a local TV show, blabbing his story.

All the while, Kuhn was trying, through a series of 50 telephone calls, to persuade or cajole some mysterious, disembodied voices to come up with the jewels. Whether those voices belonged to accomplices, fences, intermediaries--or maybe even talking porpoises--only Kuhn knew. Still, nothing seemed to jell. Nadjari once got a tip that sent him racing to a boat yard, where he struggled into swim trunks, mask and fins for a session of skin-diving. He found nothing but sea cockles, mussels and seaweed.

By this time, Nadjari was beginning to get a little disgusted with Kuhn's failure to turn up the gems. Kuhn, moreover, seemed to be enjoying himself a little too much. When the cops had to hire a car, for example, Kuhn insisted on riding in nothing less than a red convertible, and that's what he got.

Gulped Note. Toward the end, Nadjari ceased to rely on Kuhn, had him locked for hours at a time in motel bathrooms or kept him in a room where Kuhn entertained himself watching the Mickey Mouse Club and Romper Room on television.

At last, Kuhn's contacts began telephoning. "Everything's O.K. Things are moving," said one. "Isn't this fun, fellows?" Finally came the key phone call. An intermediary--a sometime jeweler apparently helping the police--picked up Detective Maline and drove him to a luncheonette. They parked and got out of the car. When they returned, they found a key in the car, with a note directing Maline to the Trailways bus station and locker 0911. Then, in the finest traditions of cloak-and-dagger-manship, the driver reportedly stuffed the note into his mouth and swallowed it.

Though it was clear by week's end that most of the still-missing gems might never be recovered, the district attorney's office was still hopefully hunting. As for the accused three, New York D.A. Frank Hogan planned to recommend light sentences if they pleaded guilty. It is conceivable that they will serve less than one year apiece. After that, Kuhn, Clark and Murph the Surf will be able to return to their Miami haunts and regale their friends with stories of their escapades. Perhaps they will even resume the joys of skindiving among all those coral reefs. Who knows? There might be something down there besides cockles, mussels and seaweed.

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