The little man with the European accent in apartment 211 seemed harmless enough to Richard Outing, a computer technician who lives in apartment 311, directly overhead in the three-story building at 357 West Johnson St. in Mt. Airy.

"He was very friendly," Outing says of the man. "I knew him very briefly. My being a bachelor, and living on top of him, I went downstairs to introduce myself to find out if I was being too loud. He was very friendly in that sense."

Friendly, perhaps, but Alexandru Dinulescu wasn’t gushing with self-referential banter.

"The only thing I can tell you about him is that he lived here for about three months, then suddenly moved," says Outing.

The 68-year-old former president of Bankcoop -- one of Romania’s largest banks -- allegedly used his position to mastermind a major Romanian bank fraud scheme that, according to the Romanian press, bilked millions of people out of millions of dollars. Bankcoop and many other lenders went under.

Alexandru Dinulescu was living on West Johnson Street not because he dug the richly diverse, historic Mt. Airy vibe. He was Romania’s most wanted, on the lam from authorities in that country as well as Interpol and the FBI.

"My goodness," says Outing with a chuckle. "This is a shock. Very much so. He was living downstairs with his son and wife. They seemed really nice. Oh my goodness."

Dinulescu was arrested by Romanian authorities on Feb. 19, 1997, and charged with bribery. According to U.S. court records, Dinulescu, president of the Cooperative Credit Bank (Bankcoop) in Bucharest, was receiving tens of thousands of dollars in kickbacks for loans.

But that, according to Lavinia Tudoran, a reporter for the Romanian newspaper Jurnalul, was just the tip of the iceberg. Dinulescu was responsible for the loss of millions of dollars, "huge by Romanian standards," says Tudoran, adding that Dinulescu was also being investigated for his role in a number of other shady deals.

But in October 1997, five months after being released on bail, he fled Romania. In December 1998, he was convicted in absentia and sentenced to 10 years in prison.

He spent time in Israel, apparently recuperating from diabetes and heart problems. Then he rented an apartment in Atlanta, according to Tudoran, before moving to Albany, New York, in March 1999, where he lived until last October, when he and his wife took off yet again.

According to the Albany Times Union, which alerted the local FBI office of Dinulescu’s status as a fugitive wanted by Interpol, Dinulescu and his wife suddenly bolted from their apartment, hastily packing their belongings into a moving van while the FBI was awaiting authorization from Romanian officials to pick him up. Given that it is likely Romanian officials were recipients of Dinulescu’s largess when he was milking that nation’s banking system, Tudoran surmises that it was not beyond the realm of reality that someone from the old country gave him a heads up.

The Dinulescus disappeared from the radar screen until June 17, when the FBI picked him up here in Philly.

On June 24, in Courtroom 5A of the U.S. District Court on Market Street, the little man with the European accent stands out among the multi-kilo-dealing heroin peddlers and the other thugs awaiting disposition of whatever legal miseries they face.

Except for the olive green prison jumper and accompanying wrist and ankle jewelry sported by federal prisoners, Dinulescu seems every bit the quiet grandpapa.

Prosecutor Ron Cole tells me that, interestingly enough, Dinulescu was in this country because he proved to the INS that he had a million bucks to invest in a U.S. business.

Cole -- who in a few minutes would argue before magistrate Sandra Moore Wells that Dinulescu deserves neither bail nor any further stay in this country -- says that Dinulescu likely invested his money in the ammunition exporting business, though he could not offer details.

Liviu-Lee Roth, here to translate the proceedings for Dinulescu, tells me that the defendant was involved in something called "The Romanian Octopus."

When pressed later for details, Roth just smiles and tells me to "check the Internet," which comes up with bupkes. Dinulescu, through his son, refuses to answer my questions.

In an e-mail, journalist Tudoran tells me that the "Romanian Octopus" was "tied to the greatest illegal affairs of Romanian mafia during 1990-1995.

"Many banks are involved," she writes. "Bancorex, Credit-Bank, Dacia Felix and, surprise, Bankcoop. All gone nowadays. As executive of Bankcoop, Dinulescu is one of the people tied to this Octopus, with all of its tentacles."

Any chance to grab hold of the octopus might have ended with magistrate Wells’ decision.

She rules that Dinulescu must go back to Romania and serve his time as soon as possible, but only if Romania agrees not try him for any crimes other than those for which he was convicted.

"This is one of the most important captures after the Revolution in 1989… " Tudoran writes, explaining the Romanian take. "On the other hand, Dinulescu’s capture after so many years of hiding appears to be very odd. … It’s still not clear how Dinulescu was able to find safe harbor in the U.S. despite his criminal status."

One thing is for certain. No matter how humble, 357 West Johnson looks like a palace compared to where Dinulescu is now.