Serial Sunday: The Renaissance Man and the Strange New World, Part VI
- 5 hours ago
- 6 min read
By Ryan Fleming.
On the steps outside the Main Branch of the New York Public Library, a quiet man with his right arm in a sling drew with his left hand a revolver from the pocket of his raincoat. His unfamiliar aim drew at a pair walking down those steps having recently exited the library. The pair were Reginald Cullen and Annie Thomas, two members of the Renaissance. Seeing the drawn weapon, Cullen raised his arm in front of Annie and reached for his own concealed weapon.
It was already too late.
The quiet man fired his first shot, which entered Cullen’s shoulder and exited out his back. Had the assassin the use of his dominant right hand, it might have struck the former Army Sergeant in heart instead.
The few passersby outside the library at that time of night turned towards the sound of the gunshot. Some ran, others began calling for help, a group of young men gathered around a brazier began to head up the steps, bourbon driving their every step.
As he fell backwards onto the steps, Cullen’s outstretched arm drew the smaller woman down with him. Seeing the group heading up the steps, the assassin knew he had to be quick. He might have time for two shots. One to finish off the butler, the other for the secretary.
He took aim at Annie, but to his surprise saw she already had a weapon of her own trained on him. She had reached for her own concealed derringer the same as Cullen had, even as she had been pulled to the ground, she had been able to withdraw it from her coat.
In the moment the quiet man hesitated, the time for at least one of his two shots had evaporated. There would only be time for one, but which one…
“Just go,” Annie told him.
Another moment of hesitation, and the half-drunk students were so much nearer. If they tried to stop him, he might have to fight them off with one arm. Instead, he took Annie’s advice and tore back down the stairs, crossing the street and disappearing into the night as he had outside their brownstone earlier.
Annie watched him retreat for only a second before she looked at Cullen’s wound. The bullet had passed right through him, but even with his constitution a gunshot wound was nothing to be shrugged off.
Not that he would not try, and he did try to rise after Annie had seen off their would-be assassin, but the pain forced him back down.
“Don’t move,” Annie bade him.
She had removed her scarf and used it to staunch the bleeding. Already the marble steps of the Library were stained red with Cullen’s blood, trickling down to the street.
The students, not realising what they were walking toward, stopped in their tracks when they saw the blood.
“Please.”
Some of the less intoxicated ones took notice of her.
“We need a doctor, a medic, an ambulance, something, please.”
Those that took notice just stared, one looked as though he objected to a request from someone of Annie’s colour.
Knowing the routine, Annie recited the lines she had used before in similar situations.
“We work for the Renaissance Man.”
Recited them through gritted teeth.
***
Across town, in a small office aboard a docked ship, the Renaissance Man himself sat amicably arranging a ship for his passage to the strange new world that had appeared in the Pacific. Passage for he and those the world knew as his entourage. Alastair Elliott, known to the world as his ward, accompanied him on this effort.
“Mummies can be tricky,” Charles Chance, the Renaissance Man, continued.
Across a desk, Ferd Curtis, the ship’s captain he hoped would take them to the Pacific, nodded intently to the recounting of a recent adventure.
“However, at the end of the day they are little more than dried flesh and bandages. Walking piles of kindling, to be blunt. One swipe with a torch and they’re walking bonfires. You just have to make sure they don’t get a hold of you before they crumble to ash.”
Alastair did his best to look interested, but he always felt colder towards Chance in his Renaissance Man persona than he did towards Chuck, his friend.
Sensing his disinterest, Curtis turned towards Alastair.
“Dispatching living mummies might seem an everyday occurrence to you, my young friend, but I assure you, to me it is still the stuff of sensational literature.”
“It was our first time too,” Alastair forced a smile. “Next time we head to Egypt or the Yucatan we’ll be sure to pack a flamethrower.”
The captain of the Visigoth gave a hearty laugh, one that Chance quickly echoed whilst Elliott still smiled slightly.
“You’ll forgive me, Captain,” Chance said, “if we turn back towards business. You agree to take my party and I to the South Pacific, to this new continent?”
Curtis glanced at the cheque on his desk, smiled satisfactorily, and nodded.
“I do indeed. Wouldn’t mind getting a look at this place myself. The world might have changed in the biggest way since 1492 in the past few days.”
“Excellent!”
“When do you wish to leave?”
“As soon as possible, my mechanic and batman are arranging other supplies. I will have them delivered to the Visigoth.”
“Batman? Didn’t realise you had served in the British Army.”
“I haven’t, US Army. Started the War a Private, ended it a Captain.”
In truth he had ended it a Sergeant, direct appointment to Lieutenant, brevet to Captain, back down to Sergeant so that the Army did not have to pay him an officer’s salary, bonus, or pension. That was not what people liked to hear, and not what the Renaissance Man would have said of his exploits.
“And you?”
He hoped it was not an indelicate question. Ferdinand Curtis seemingly bore a German forename and English surname; his accent was British, his ship named for a Germanic tribe.
“Too German for the Brits, too English for Jerry. US Navy, would have made Chief but peace broke out.”
“You say that like it was a bad thing.”
Alastair had said it before he realised what he was doing. Still a child when the War ended, hearing about it had grown even more tedious than listening to Chuck in his full Renaissance Man persona.
Curtis did not seem to take offense.
“Opportunities for men like us,” he pointed at Alastair. “Get fewer and farther between the more time goes on. Used to be a young man with a taste of adventure, a bit of guile and a spot of courage could set out for some corner of the world, seek and find fortune and glory, then set themselves up there or return home with it.”
He now regarded both Alastair and Chance.
“I envy you both, your adventures. We are the last of a dying breed.”
Chance nodded.
“I can see this will be a mutually beneficial relationship.”
His thoughts did not match his words. Doubts had formed in his mind about the suitability of Curtis for this job. It was too late to arrange an alternative, so Chance settled for keeping an eye on Curtis whilst they were at sea.
They stood to shake hands, when Benjamin Williams and Eileen Wong burst into the room.
“Mr. Chance,” Williams began, addressing his friend as he did in public as the Renaissance Man’s batman. “It’s Mr. Cullen, he’s been shot.”
Chance froze, expecting the worst as he was prone to do when things did not go to plan.
It was finally Alastair who broke the silence.
“Is Annie okay?”
“She called the Stevedore union office, knew we’d be there sooner or later. Ben and I had just escaped some thugs in near there and had returned when the call came through.”
“Did…” Chance began. “Did she say about Cullen’s condition?”
“Only that he had lost a lot of blood and were taking him to a hospital.”
Chance cleared his throat, gathering his thoughts as he received confirmation his mentor was not dead.
“We shall go there immediately,”
Confidence was returning to his voice.
“He has served me faithfully for years, I owe him that much.”
They made to leave.
“Captain Curtis,” Chance extended his hand. “I expect your ship to be ready as soon as possible. Supplies will be delivered by the Stevedores presently.”
They shook hands and the Renaissance Man departed with his entourage.
“Oh yes,” Curtis smiled. “Herr Tschantz. We’ll be ready.”
***
On the opposite side of the island of Manhattan, overlooking the Hudson River, the quiet assassin gave his report to his employer. The hulking Ironstone received it, feigned satisfaction at his wounding of the Renaissance Man’s butler, despite that not being the agreed upon assassination of the Renaissance Man himself.
Ironstone handed over a thick envelope and bid the assassin farewell.
The assassin quietly turned towards the lights from the overhead lamp and opened the envelope.
Inside was a small bundle of newspaper cut into the shape of dollar bills.
He registered confusion for the briefest of moments before Ironstone, having returned with a stealth many would not believe possible from a man of his size, broke the assassin’s neck with a single chop.
Ironstone threw the body into the Hudson.
The newspaper scraps floated around his body.
Ryan Fleming is the author of SLP's Reid in Braid and various short stories for the anthologies, as well as editing The Scottish Anthology.