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The brass dial
Three figures stand between you and the first drawer. He never hid them — which turns out to be its own kind of problem.
The investigator who worked the claim filed nothing for three weeks, then vanished — leaving his case file locked in the cabinet by the window. Five drawers. Five locks. He hid every answer somewhere in the room.
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The Pembroke Diamond left the Ashford Museum during three minutes of darkness, and the insurer sent a man to find out how. He was thorough. He canvassed, he traced the route, he worked out which alarms had been bypassed and in what order.
Then he filed nothing. Not for three weeks. And at the end of those three weeks he was gone, and his case file was locked inside the oak cabinet standing by the window of an office nobody has touched since.
He knew somebody would come looking. So he did not leave the drawers empty — he left them locked, and he scattered what you need to open them across the room he worked in. A bulletin on the wall. A junction box in pieces. A pad on the desk he wrote on once and pressed hard.
Everything you need is in that room. He made sure of it.
No two locks give way the same way, and none of them is a riddle you either know or don't. They're objects. You work them.
Three figures stand between you and the first drawer. He never hid them — which turns out to be its own kind of problem.
Someone wanted this case closed badly enough to tear his reconstruction of the route into pieces. The pieces are still in the drawer.
One canvass card, marked, in a tray that stopped sliding a long time ago. Nothing else in the cabinet moves until it comes free.
He left the junction box in pieces so nobody could read his desk after dark. You're going to want the light back.
He wrote the name once, bore down hard, and took the sheet with him when he went. The pad is still sitting on the desk.
Escape rooms earn their bad reputation by hiding the answer outside the room. This one doesn't.
You won't need a search engine, a wiki, or trivia you happen to have. Everything a lock asks for is somewhere in the office, written down, waiting to be read.
Nothing runs out and nothing punishes you for trying. Sit with a drawer as long as you like — the case has waited this long already.
It remembers which drawers you've opened. Close the tab in the middle of the card tray and come back to it tomorrow exactly where you left off.
Every puzzle works on a phone and every one has a keyboard route to its solution. Sound is on by default and you can turn it off.
Five drawers stand between you and the name he wouldn't write down. Nothing to install, nothing to sign up for, and it's waiting where he left it.
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