You fall to your knees beside the body, making a great show of loosening his collar, propping him up, and pounding him on the back. It does no good of course, save in getting your hands close to his pockets.

You slip your fingers into his waistcoat, from whence he drew your invitation, and extract a small notebook, secreting it discreetly on your person.

When the police inevitably arrive and inevitably declare Ibrahim dead, you retreat into the washroom.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

You don't have much time. You will be searched and the notebook will be found, it will have to go down the drain before you leave the room. You flip through the pages. Much of the writing is, regrettably, in Arabic but on a page near the back you find your own name in a list.

There are four names above yours, all other guests at the salon, all, presumably, carriers of the crimson tickets. Any one of them could have killed Ibrahim in an attempt to stop you from getting your ticket.

A pounding on the door. A thickly-accented voice calling urgently for your presence. You flush the notebook down the lavatory.

What's your next move?