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Charles Latimer was an English writer who once worked as a university lecturer. He had written a few mystery stories and gained some fame. One day, while traveling in Istanbul, he met a Turkish police officer named Colonel Haki. The colonel was a polite and intelligent man who admired Latimer’s crime books. During their conversation, Haki told him about a man named Dimitrios Makropoulos. Dimitrios had been a dangerous criminal found dead in the sea near Smyrna. His body had been recovered, and the police were sure it was him. The name sparked curiosity in Latimer, and he wanted to know more about this mysterious man.
Haki, amused by the writer’s curiosity, arranged for Latimer to see the body of Dimitrios in the morgue. When Latimer saw the lifeless man lying cold and pale, he felt a strange fascination. The idea that this man had lived a dark, dangerous life and now lay still on a metal table filled him with wonder. Who had he been? What had he done? Why had he ended up dead and alone in the sea? Latimer couldn’t stop thinking about him. That night, back in his hotel room, he decided to trace the life of Dimitrios, not as part of a book but to satisfy his own growing curiosity.
He began his search in Smyrna, where the body was found. He met local police officers, old informers, and people who had once known Dimitrios. Slowly, he discovered that Dimitrios was not just a small-time criminal. He had been involved in smuggling, political crimes, and even murder. Everywhere he went, Dimitrios had left behind people who feared or hated him. Latimer realized that the man had lived many lives under different names, always escaping the law and moving on before anyone could catch him.
As Latimer continued, he learned that Dimitrios was born in Bulgaria and had started his life as a poor man. Early on, he showed a clever mind and no sense of guilt. He began as a thief and later worked as a spy, smuggler, and even a killer-for-hire. During the First World War, he took advantage of the chaos to make money from both sides. He betrayed people, sold secrets, and created enemies across Europe. Yet he always managed to vanish before being caught. Latimer found that Dimitrios’s path led through many cities — Athens, Sofia, Belgrade, Paris, and Geneva — like the trail of a ghost.
In Athens, Latimer met an old man who had once been cheated by Dimitrios. The man told him bitterly that Dimitrios was like a disease — infecting everyone he touched and leaving misery behind. In Belgrade, he heard how Dimitrios had once worked for a criminal gang that smuggled drugs and weapons. The police had tried to catch him several times, but he was too smart. He bribed, lied, and slipped away each time. The deeper Latimer went, the more he felt both disgust and fascination. He began to understand how a man without conscience could move through life with such freedom.
Later, in Geneva, Latimer came across a banker named Mr. Peters. Peters was a nervous, tired man who seemed to know more about Dimitrios than anyone else. When Latimer mentioned the name, Peters’s eyes darkened. He invited Latimer to his room and told him stories of Dimitrios’s schemes. According to Peters, Dimitrios had once been involved in international espionage and had used people like tools. Peters confessed that he too had once worked with Dimitrios but had been betrayed by him. They had both been part of a plan involving a big bank fraud, and Dimitrios had taken all the money, leaving Peters to face trouble.
As they spoke, Peters made Latimer an offer. He said that Dimitrios had hidden a large amount of money somewhere in Paris before he disappeared. If Latimer helped him trace the money, they could both benefit. Latimer, though uneasy, agreed to learn more. His curiosity about Dimitrios had turned into an obsession. Peters and Latimer began to follow the trail together, tracing Dimitrios’s movements across Europe through letters, records, and old contacts. The deeper they went, the clearer it became that Dimitrios had not only been a criminal but a master manipulator who had used everyone who crossed his path.
One evening, Peters told Latimer something shocking. He believed that Dimitrios was not dead. The body in the morgue might have been a fake. The man had staged his own death to escape his enemies and the police. At first, Latimer laughed at the idea, but as Peters showed him bits of evidence — letters, handwriting samples, recent sightings — Latimer began to believe it might be true. The thought of Dimitrios still alive, hiding somewhere, thrilled and frightened him at the same time.
They followed a lead to Paris, where Dimitrios had last been seen under a false name. They stayed in small hotels, visited old acquaintances, and bribed clerks to check records. Bit by bit, they came closer. One night, Latimer realized that his journey had turned dangerous. Peters had become increasingly tense and secretive. He carried a gun and kept talking about how Dimitrios deserved punishment for betraying him. Latimer began to wonder if Peters was using him for revenge. But by then, it was too late to stop. He was already part of the hunt.
One evening, Peters told Latimer that he had found Dimitrios’s address. They went together to a quiet house on the edge of the city. It was dark and cold. Peters told Latimer to stay behind as he knocked on the door. Moments later, a tall man opened it — a man with sharp eyes and a thin face. Latimer recognized him at once. Though years had passed, the man looked exactly like the body he had seen in the morgue. It was Dimitrios, alive and real. For a few seconds, the two men stared at each other in silence, the hunter and the hunted, both shocked by the meeting.
Inside, Peters confronted Dimitrios, accusing him of betrayal and theft. Dimitrios remained calm, almost amused. He said that men like them could never escape their past. He tried to bribe Peters to leave him alone, offering part of the stolen money. Peters refused, shouting angrily that he wanted justice, not gold. Latimer stood frozen, watching the scene unfold. The air was thick with tension. Then, in a flash, Dimitrios drew a gun. A shot rang out, and Peters fell to the floor. Latimer, terrified, ran toward the door, but Dimitrios caught him.
Dimitrios held Latimer at gunpoint, forcing him to sit. He spoke coldly, saying that curiosity was a dangerous thing. He admitted that he had faked his death years ago to escape the police and his enemies. He said that he had lived many lives since then, always watching the world from the shadows. He looked at Latimer and told him that people like him — writers who chase other people’s lives — never understood the real darkness of men. Latimer was sure he was going to die. Then, suddenly, there was a sound outside — police sirens. Dimitrios panicked and turned toward the window.
In the confusion, Latimer grabbed the nearest object and struck Dimitrios’s hand. The gun fell, and both men struggled. Another shot rang out, and Dimitrios staggered back, clutching his chest. He fell to the floor, motionless. The police, alerted by the neighbors, broke in moments later. They found Peters dead and Dimitrios dying. Latimer stood trembling, his face pale and his heart pounding. He had seen the real Dimitrios — not just the face of evil but the soul of it. The man who had cheated death once could not do it again.
In the days that followed, Latimer gave his statement to the police and returned to his hotel. He could not sleep. The images of Dimitrios’s eyes and voice haunted him. He realized that his curiosity had nearly cost him his life. The money that Peters and Dimitrios had fought over was later found hidden in a safe. Latimer wanted nothing to do with it. He left it to the authorities and quietly left Paris. As his train moved through the countryside, he looked out of the window, feeling both relief and sorrow.
He thought about all the people who had been touched by Dimitrios’s cruelty — the victims, the traitors, the lost souls who had followed him. Dimitrios had lived by lies, greed, and fear, and yet he had been clever enough to survive longer than most. Latimer wondered if there was any part of that man that had once been human. He realized that every person carries some shadow within, but only a few let it grow until it consumes everything. Dimitrios had been one of those few.
When Latimer finally reached London, he decided to stop writing detective stories. He understood now that real crime was not just about puzzles or clues but about the darkness of the human heart. He locked away his notes about Dimitrios and never spoke of the matter again. Sometimes, when he passed by the Thames on quiet evenings, he thought of the still body in the morgue, the face of the man who had cheated the world for years and met his end in silence. The story of Dimitrios ended there, but its shadow stayed with him forever.