A good day to plan a theft, Pipino thought

Pipino: Gentleman Thief

Magicians, Mafiosos, a Missing Painting, and the Heist of a Lifetime

Venice was built to confuse. The floating Italian city has few straight lines: Each cobblestoned footpath veers and twists, the buildings lean, and small bridges vault sideways. For tourists, it’s like entering a labyrinth. Locals have tried to help, scrawling arrows on the walls. They are supposed to point to San Marco Square, the city’s most prominent attraction, but sometimes the arrows point in opposite directions.

The beauty is that it doesn’t really matter. Somehow, everybody ends up in San Marco anyway, as if by magic. Befuddled tourists emerge from narrow alleys and abruptly find themselves standing on the edge of a grand square with a towering 323-foot-tall bell tower. To get some perspective on the mystery, many visitors ride the elevator to the top of the tower. On the observation platform, they can use coin-operated telescopes to scan the vast medieval tangle of waterways, churches, and tiny, hidden piazzas.

But on an afternoon in the spring of 1991, a well-dressed Italian man was monopolizing the single west-facing telescope, preventing anyone else from getting a good look at Dorsoduro, Santa Croce, and San Polo, the wealthy neighborhoods on the far side of the Grand Canal. Vincenzo Pipino was attractive in a classic Italian way, which is to say he wasn’t good looking at all. He had prominent moles, a high forehead, and slicked back hair, but he radiated a sense of confidence, as if he owned the entire city. In a way, he did. He had robbed many of the buildings he was looking at, and had cased most of the others.

To the southwest, there was the Palazzo Barozzi, a charming, five-story Baroque building at the entrance to the Grand Canal. Count Barozzi had hired Pipino to steal art from his fellow aristocrats and, as a result, had an attractive collection of masterworks. Further up the canal stood the Ca’ Dario, a fifteenth-century marble-fronted palazzo leaning slightly to one side. Periodically, a new owner bought the place and filled it with fine art, apparently unaware that the building was cursed. Many of its owners over the centuries have been murdered, driven insane, or gone bankrupt after buying the place.

Finally, Pipino’s view through the telescope came to rest on a centuries-old palazzo on the far side of the Grand Canal. It had an enclosed garden, a sign of extraordinary wealth in a city where every inch of dry land is worth a fortune. He scrutinized a skylight. It looked to be about forty feet above a secluded alley. The brick façade was crumbling, and the roof tiles would be brittle. A dangerous climb, but worth it: The building was owned by Raul Gardini, one of the richest men in Italy.

A few days later, Pipino wended his way through an increasingly narrow series of alleys. He had a bold sense of style, often pairing a red velvet suit with white shoes or a white-checkered jacket with a thin black tie. He aimed to look like an eccentric gentleman, not a thief.

He turned down an alley that was barely wider than his shoulders, passing tall lacquered doors. Minutely detailed bronze figurines of African women served as door handles. The lane dead-ended in a black door: the back entrance to the Gardini Palazzo. He rang the doorbell. Nobody answered. He rang again — still nothing.

Pipino glanced over his shoulder. Claudio*, a longtime friend, trailed behind him and now stood guard at the alley entrance. Claudio was sharp-eyed and reliable, but, as a lookout, he had a shortcoming: He was hard of hearing. At times (like now), it seemed silly to rely on a nearly deaf watchman, but it was hard to find trustworthy accomplices. Pipino waved a few times before catching Claudio’s attention. Claudio gave the thumbs up.

Pipino started climbing. Over the years, salt-water from the Adriatic had corroded the surface of Venice’s ancient buildings, leaving the bricks pockmarked and brittle. It was easy to avoid the most damaged masonry, but sometimes even solid-looking stonework was unreliable. As he neared the roofline forty feet up, the pressure from his foot disintegrated a brick almost instantly. He fumbled for a moment — a fall at this height would be deadly. Brick shards plummeted to the cobblestones below and echoed in the alley.

But Pipino had been scaling the sides of Venice’s palazzos for more than three decades. He’d hung from rusted rainspouts and rotted wooden shutters. By now, he was accustomed to the risk. He took a breath, regained his balance, looked up, and started climbing again.

“The pen is hideous,” Pipino said flatly. He had standards.

Cashmere was his weakness. It was a common sight on other burglaries to see Pipino climb into the getaway boat with an armful of clothing. Upstairs, he conscientiously worked his way through drawers and closets. He found naked pictures of Gardini’s wife and respectfully tucked them back in the drawer. Over the years, Pipino had developed a code of conduct for himself and the few people he was willing to work with. No violence. No blackmail, either. He wasn’t interested in embarrassing anyone. And the work had to be neat. He detested a mess. He carefully perused a wardrobe and was pleased to find a beautiful blue cashmere sweater. He tried it on. It fit well.

Just then, Claudio barreled into the bedroom ready to grab anything that shined. He reached for an ornate, golden Mont Blanc pen.

“No, no,” Pipino said, stopping him.

“What?”

“It’s ugly.”

“But it’s gold.”

“The pen is hideous,” Pipino said flatly. He had standards.

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