“You already checked it,” the man says and starts coughing. “It’s pointless.”
You feel the hammer pressing in your back pocket, begging to be put to use.
The little wooden chest is open, the lid hinged on polished brass.
The inside is green felt cloth, and you trace your fingers along the surface. You can’t find any other opening.
Lifting the box up, you look at the base. There are no markings or signature on its bottom. You place it back on the table and shake your head.
“Told you, you’d find nothing.”