Modern Screen (Jan-Dec 1960)

This is the drawing room where Sophia, her husband and her staff sat leisurely talking and enjoying a nightcap, never dreaming that all the while a clever thief lurked upstairs. The heartbreak had already begun when Scotland Yard man Eric Shepherd was roused from a sound sleep, at 12:21 a.m., Sunday, May 29th. "This is Sophia Loren," said the voice on the telephone. "Yes?" Shepherd's eyebrows went up a fraction. "My jewels . . . stolen. . . ." Her words came fast and frantically. The voice was filled with grief — and something else. Fright. At the Norwegian Barn, Sophia Loren was standing in a dark upstairs corridor, clutching the telephone. The cord of the bedroom extension was taut, strained to capacity, as she pulled the instrument as far as she could into the hallway. She could hear her husband Carlo and her manager, Bascilio Francina, as they searched the loft. She wanted to be as near as possible to their voices and, at the same time, become invisible in the corner of the hall. She was afraid "he," the thief, would return, armed and in panic. She was afraid he would shoot her. She'd dialed 999, Police Emergency. "What number are you calling from?" an operator had asked. Somehow, she'd managed to remember it. Moments later, she was through to the nearest police station with a Scotland Yard office, telling the details, trying to be coherent. When her call had been transferred to Shepherd, an automatic alert went out from the Golders Green switchboard — to radio cars, ports of embarkation, police stations throughout the country. The men who handled the police dogs were awakened at their homes, instructed to proceed to the estate. Assuring Sophia that help would arrive soon, Shepherd dressed and started for the scene of the crime. He arrived at 1:00 a.m. Policemen with their dogs were already at work, searching the grounds. Officers in uniform stood in front of the doorway. Ponti and Francina were in the drawing room, speaking in bursts of rapid Italian. Their search had been futile. Shepherd introduced himself, expressed his sympathy, then asked, "Now, tell me where it happened." "It was upstairs. . . ." "Let's go up and look around. . . ." They were met by the blue-jean clad figure of Sophia. Her eyes were red from weeping. She showed them into the bedroom. It was a small room, with a little alcove at the far end. A blue and gilt Italian chest of drawers stood beneath the only window, a few feet from the door. The top drawer was open. It was evident that the lock had been forced. The window was open, too. Looking out, the superintendent saw a light. "What's that?" he asked them. "A little house. A gardener uses it. He comes and goes in the daytime," Francina answered. "But no one lives there." They went downstairs, through the kitchen door and over to the cottage behind a hedge a few steps away. An officer with a dog entered first. The place was empty, except for a few gardening tools. The dog, sniffing the concrete floor, led the way into the largest of three rooms — a room with a window They're gone, these jewels, these and all her precious mementoes of her brilliant rise from poverty. that looked directly up into Sophia's bedroom, a room from which a thief might have watched, where an accomplice might have waited, possibly to signal, with a light, the arrival of a car in the driveway. They returned to the main house. "Now, tell me what happened," the superintendent asked them. "How was the theft discovered? Tell me everything you remember. Everything. . . ." Saturday had been a sterling example of good English weather. The cast of "The Millionairess" could especially enjoy it. There was no shooting that day. For Sophia, herself, it was a very special day: Carlo Ponti was arriving from Rome. Around 10:30 a.m., the members of the household — Francina; Franca, the maid; Maria, the hairdresser — gathered in Sophia's room to discuss housekeeping matters. In the midst of the conversation, Sophia started. "What's that?" They listened in silence. "I'm certain I heard a noise downstairs." Francina went to the door. "Who is it?" he called. There was no answer. "Franca, would you go and see?" But Franca found no one. Sophia shrugged. "I must have been mistaken. Perhaps it was the wind." A little later, while Franca was preparing lunch, Sophia went over her lines with Francina, who was her artistic advisor as well as manager. Maria sat listening. Shortly after noon, they went down to the dining room. They were there for over an hour. Then, returning upstairs, they (Continued on page 65)