Collision Course by Gordon Korman Read Free Book Online

closed door of stateroom A-17.
    That door appeared before him, and he knocked lightly.
    “Enter,” came a gruff voice. “What took you so long? You had a more pressing engagement?”
    Alfie stepped inside, making sure to leave the stateroom door open. “How may I help you, sir?”
    Masterson sat in an overstuffed armchair, his crutch close at hand. He looked up defiantly. “I require your assistance to get on with my day.”
    The wave of relief nearly knocked Alfie flat. For some reason, this disagreeable old beast did not intend to turn him in for his rudeness earlier on. There was only one thing that didn’t make sense.
    “Steward Tryhorn is assigned to you, sir. He is more than capable of seeing to your needs.”
    “That ninnyhammer?” the old man scoffed. “He can barely see to his own needs. I want you.”
    Alfie swallowed hard. “I had the impression that you found my service unsatisfactory.”
    “You’re not paid to form impressions,” Masterson growled. “Still, you’re the only person on this gilded barge with any backbone. I like that.”
    Alfie shut his eyes for a brief dizzy moment. To be liked by Jack the Ripper! Oh, what would Mum say?
    “Thank you, sir. I’m happy to be able to be of assistance.”
    The old man laughed. “No, you’re not. You’d like to take my crutch and beat me over the head with it. Admit it. You think I don’t know I’m a cantankerous old louse? You try dragging yourself around on two gammy legs and see how sunny your disposition is.”
    Alfie began tidying the nightstand, straightening pill bottles and laying out fresh handkerchiefs. It helped not to be looking at Masterson directly. It was hard to carry on a conversation while gazing into those hooded cobra eyes.
    “Might I ask you, sir,” Alfie ventured, “how long you’ve had this regrettable condition? Have you always been thus?”
    “No, not always, more’s the pity. Many years ago,I was a strapping young lad going about my business. I don’t even remember what spooked that horse — some say lightning. The passengers in the carriage were both killed. They were the lucky ones. I was crushed under the wheels. Spinal damage.”
    “
You
were the lucky one,” Alfie said seriously. “You have your life.”
    “You call this a life, boy?” Masterson spat. “Twenty-four years ago, I was doing important work! Accomplishing something! Without it, I’m less than a man.”
    Important work! The words chilled Alfie to his core. Could Jack the Ripper have looked upon his killing spree as a mission? If it hadn’t been for that carriage accident, the grisly Whitechapel murders might have continued!
    “I’m very sorry, sir,” he managed at last. “But you do have your visit to America to look forward to. That should be pleasant.”
    “This is no pleasure trip, boy,” Masterson barked. “I’ve been in correspondence with a doctor in New York who thinks he can cure me!”
    Silent horror whispered over Alfie. “Cure you?” he echoed faintly.
    “I have hopes,” Masterson admitted. “Of course, I am no longer young. But to be
me
again, to be free ofthis prison of my own body! If America could give me this gift, there is nothing I would not offer in return!”
    Alfie’s mind raced. What would it mean if Mr. Masterson were to be cured and suddenly turned loose upon the city of New York? Would he resume the “important work” that had ceased twenty-four years ago because of his accident? Would America begin to have its own Whitechapel murders?
    “In fact,” the old man went on, “I have a message for my American doctor for you to take to the Marconi room.” He handed Alfie a folded note. “See that this is sent immediately.”
    As Alfie ascended into the brilliant sunshine of the boat deck, he cradled the paper in his trembling hands as if it were an explosive device.
    A message from Jack the Ripper!
    Barely daring to breathe, he opened the page and peered at the contents.
    Arriving
Titanic
Wednesday.