This is the kind of story Brian Cooper has been telling for years -- an amplified melodrama against an Indian background just after the sun has set. Here in the '40's at the time of Gandhi's assassination. Briefly, it follows -- through various separate but interconnecting accounts, diaries, and a closing tape -- the attempt of one Deputy Supt. of Police Harrington to find the murderer of a seedy Armenian, staying in a hotel and disappearing (later found shot) after a landslide. The answer lies in the elusive, Eurasian woman in a sari who had visited him in his room, a girl who had originally taken refuge in a convent after her sexual exploitation, her later quasi-daughterly devotion to a missionary who had been crucified by the natives, her love affair with an artist, her ultimate escape into anonymity. . . . It's old-fashioned, to be sure, and sometimes reverts into rose-gold romanticism, but it's a change of welcome pace after the din of current foreign intrigue affording, as it does, slowly evolving, involving, pukka pleasures.