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Baltimore, Maryland -- March 2004For Palm Beach attorney Harold Gray, it was quite a sight: There, spotlighted on a tabletop in a dimly lit and well-guarded room in Baltimore, lay the glittering coin he'd been chasing for almost 37 years -- an 1866 silver dollar, one of only two such "no motto" coins ever struck by the U.S. Mint. The experts who summoned Gray to reclaim his client's property valued the coin at $1.5 million. But Gray thought the figure was low. "More like $2.5 million or $3 million," was his own guess, especially reunited with its companion pieces, a matching quarter and half-dollar, also lacking the legend "In God We Trust." The set's status among numismatists became legendary once it disappeared in the most famous coin heist in U.S. history.
Though there remained more loot to be recovered, for Gray, then 77, it was a major triumph. "Yes, Mr. duPont wanted this one back," he said. Given all the history involved, it was classic understatement.
Miami, Florida -- October 1967
For Willis H. duPont, heir to one of the most fabulous fortunes in America, his new five-acre estate in Miami's exclusive Coconut Grove was intended as both pleasure dome and safe haven, where he could enjoy the tropics in cherished privacy. The youngest of ten children born to Lammot duPont, former head of General Motors and E. I. duPont de Nemours and Company, Willis had left the family business in Delaware at an early age, following the footsteps of his maverick forebear, Alfred I., to Florida.
Soon, Willis had established significant interests in cattle, citrus and aviation, and would earn a place among the Forbes 400. He met and married a Spanish beauty, Miren de Amezola de Balboa, and built for them a 27,000-square-foot, 33-room mansion on the shores of Biscayne Bay. There were nine bedrooms and ten baths in the three-story structure, an observatory with a retractable roof, vast swimming and wading pools, a putting green, tennis court, and six-car garage with a helicopter in one of the berths.
Though the home was perfect for lavish entertaining, Willis and Miren did little of that. Willis disliked the fishbowl atmosphere surrounding the rich and famous and, in an era still mindful of the Lindbergh kidnapping, was almost obsessively fearful that his two sons, Victor, four, and Lammot, one, could be kidnapped. To buttress the 10-foot walls surrounding the property and extending 100 feet out into the sea, duPont replaced the security guard he had employed with a state-of-the-art alarm system, including a network of closed-circuit cameras.
With all that in place, the duPonts settled in to enjoy their enclave in relative solitude, sometimes taking a quiet night out with friends. On the rainy evening of October 4, 1967, they enjoyed such an occasion, returning early to check with the maid and butler -- who had worked there only two weeks -- to be sure all was well with the children before going off to bed.
Shortly after midnight, they were awakened as their bedroom door splintered open and five armed men stormed in. If duPont thought they were kidnappers, he might have been relieved when the leader snapped, "We want your money. Tell us where it is, or we'll blow your brains out." In moments, the thieves herded the maid, butler and little Victor into the bedroom, where they were bound with neckties. (Young Lammot was left in the nursery to sleep through the ordeal.) A frightened Miren, flanked by a pair of robbers, frantically twisted the dials of the bedroom safe, while Willis was escorted downstairs.
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